"The idea of using X-rays to preach sermons on the greatness of mankind seems absolutely ridiculous to me. Don't you think so?"
"You mean it?"
"Yes."
"Right," he said, smiling as if I had fallen in with some idea of his own, "then you're opposed to the plan?"
His expression told me that he had somehow been a step ahead of me all the time.
"Okay," he went on. "There is a second plan—to construct a Roche apparatus."
"An annihilator?"
"Yes. Sartorius has already made the preliminary calculations. It is feasible, and it won't even require any great expenditure of energy. The apparatus will generate a negative field twenty-four hours a day, and for an unlimited period."
"And its effect?"
"Simple. It will be a negative neutrino field. Ordinary matter will not be affected at all. Only the … neutrino structures will be destroyed. You see?"
Snow gave me a satisfied grin. I stood stock-still and gaping, so that he stopped smiling, looked at me with a frown, and waited a moment before speaking:
"We abandon the first plan then, the 'Brainwave' plan? Sartorius is working on the other one right now. We'll call it 'Project Liberation.'"
I had to make a quick decision. Snow was no physicist, and Sartorius's videophone was disconnected or smashed. I took the chance:
"I'd rather call the second idea 'Operation Slaughterhouse.'"
"And you ought to know! Don't tell me you haven't had some practice lately. Only there'll be a radical difference this time—no more visitors, no more Phi-creatures—they will disintegrate as soon as they appear."
I nodded, and managed what I hoped was a convincing smile:
"You haven't got the point. Morality is one thing, but self-preservation … I just don't want to get us killed, Snow."
He stared back at me suspiciously, as I showed him my scribbled equations:
"I've been working along the same lines. Don't look so surprised. The neutrino theory was my idea in the first place, remember? Look. Negative fields can be generated all right. And ordinary matter is unaffected. But what happens to the energy that maintains the neutrino structure when it disintegrates? There must be a considerable release of that energy. Assuming a kilogram of ordinary matter represents 108 ergs, for a Phi creation we get 57 multiplied by 108. That means the equivalent of a small atomic bomb exploding inside the Station."
"You mean to tell me Sartorius won't have been over all this?"
It was my turn to grin maliciously:
"Not necessarily. Sartorius follows the Frazer-Cajolla school. Their theories would indicate that the energy potential would be given off in the form of light—powerful, yes, but not destructive. But that isn't the only theory of neutrino fields. According to Cayatte, and Avalov, and Sion, the radiation-spectrum would be much broader. At its maximum, there would be a strong burst of gamma radiation. Sartorius has faith in his tutors. I don't say we can't respect that, but there are other tutors, and other theories. And another thing, Snow,"—I could see him beginning to waver—"we have to bear in mind the ocean itself! It is bound to have used the optimum means of designing its creations. It seems to me that we can't afford to back Sartorius against the ocean as well as the other theories."
"Give me that paper, Kelvin."
I passed it to him, and he poured over my equations.
"What's this?" He pointed to a line of calculations.
"That? The transformation tensor of the magnetic field."
"Give it here."
"Why?" (I already knew his reply.)
"I'll have to show Sartorius."
"If you say so," I shrugged. "You're welcome to it, naturally, provided you realize that these theories have never been tested experimentally: neutrino structures have been abstractions until now. Sartorius is relying on Frazer, and I've followed Sion's theory. He'll say I'm no physicist, or Sion either, not from his point of view, at least. He will dispute my figures, and I'm not going to get into the kind of argument where he tries to browbeat me for his own satisfaction. You, I can convince. I couldn't begin to convince Sartorius, and I have no intention of trying."
"Then what do you want to do? He's already started work…"
All his earlier animation had subsided, and he spoke in a monotone. I did not know if he trusted me, and I did not much care:
"What do I want to do? Whatever a man does when his life is in danger."
"I'll try to contact him. Maybe he can develop some kind of safety device… And then there's the first plan. Would you cooperate? Sartorius would agree, I'm sure of it. At least it's worth a try."
"You think so?"
"No," he snapped back. "But what have we got to lose?"
I was in no hurry to accept. It was time that I needed, and Snow could help me to prolong the delay:
"I'll think about it."
"Okay, I'm going." His bones creaked as he got up. "We'll have to begin with the encephalogram," he said, rubbing at his overall as if to get rid of some invisible stain.
Without a word to Rheya, he walked to the door, and after it had closed behind him I got up and crumpled the sheet of paper in my hand. I had not falsified the equations, but I doubted whether Sion would have agreed with my extensions of his theory. I started abruptly, as Rheya's hand touched my shoulder.
"Kris, who is he?"
"I told you, Dr. Snow."
"What's he like?"
"I don't know him very well … why?"
"He was giving me such a strange look."
"So you're an attractive woman…"
"No, this was a different sort of look … as if…" She trembled, looked up at me momentarily, then lowered her eyes. "Let's go back to the cabin."
The Liquid Oxygen
I have no idea how long I had been lying in the dark, staring at the luminous dial of my wristwatch. Hearing myself breathing. I felt a vague surprise, but my underlying feeling was one of profound indifference both to this ring of phosphorescent figures and to my own surprise. I told myself that the feeling was caused by fatigue. When I turned over, the bed seemed wider than usual. I held my breath; no sound broke the silence. Rheya's breathing should have been audible. I reached out, but felt nothing. I was alone.
I was about to call her name, when I heard the tread of heavy footsteps coming towards me. A numb calm descended:
"Gibarian?"
"Yes, it's me. Don't switch the light on."
"No?"
"There's no need, and it's better for us to stay in the dark."
"But you are dead…"
"Don't let that worry you. You recognize my voice, don't you?"
"Yes. Why did you kill yourself?"
"I had no choice. You arrived four days late. If you had come earlier, I would not have been forced to kill myself. Don't worry about it, though, I don't regret anything."
"You really are there? I'm not asleep?"
"Oh, you think you're dreaming about me? As you did with Rheya?"
"Where is she?"
"How should I know?"
"I have a feeling that you do."
"Keep your feelings for yourself. Let's say I'm deputizing for her."
"I want her here too!"
"Not possible."
"Why not? You know very well that it isn't the real you, just my…"
"No, I am the real Gibarian—just a new incarnation. But let's not waste time on useless chatter."
"You'll be leaving again?"
"Yes."
"And then she'll come back?"
"Why should you care about that?"
"She belongs to me."
"You are afraid of her."
"No."
"She disgusts you."
"What do you want with me?"
"Save your pity for yourself—you have a right to it—but not for her. She will always be twenty years old. You must know that."
I felt suddenly at ease again, for no apparent reason, and ready to hear him out. He seemed to have come closer
, though I could not see him in the dark.
"What do you want?"
"Sartorius has convinced Snow that you have been deceiving him. Right now they are trying to give you the same treatment. Building the X-ray beamer is a cover for constructing a magnetic field disruptor."
"Where is she?"
"Didn't you hear me? I came to warn you."
"Where is she?"
"I don't know. Be careful. You must find some kind of weapon. You can't trust anyone."
"I can trust Rheya."
He stifled a laugh: "Of course, you can trust Rheya—to some extent. And you can always follow my example, if all else fails."
"You are not Gibarian."
"No? Then who am I? A dream?"
"No, you are only a puppet. But you don't realize that you are."
"And how do you know what you are?"
I tried to stand up, but could not stir. Although Gibarian was still speaking, I could not understand his words; there was only the drone of his voice. I struggled to regain control of my body, felt a sudden wrench and … I woke up, and drew down great gulps of air. It was dark, and I had been having a nightmare. And now I heard a distant, monotonous voice: "…a dilemma that we are not equipped to solve. We are the cause of our own sufferings. The polytheres behave strictly as a kind of amplifier of our own thoughts. Any attempt to understand the motivation of these occurrences is blocked by our own anthropomorphism. Where there are no men, there cannot be motives accessible to men. Before we can proceed with our research, either our own thoughts or their materialized forms must be destroyed. It is not within our power to destroy our thoughts. As for destroying their material forms, that could be like committing murder."
I had recognized Gibarian's voice at once. When I stretched out my arm, I found myself alone. I had fallen asleep again. This was another dream. I called Gibarian's name, and the voice stopped in mid-sentence. There was the sound of a faint gasp, then a gust of air.
"Well, Gibarian," I yawned, "You seem to be following me out of one dream and into the next…"
There was a rustling sound from somewhere close, and I called his name again. The bed-springs creaked, and a voice whispered in my ear:
"Kris … it's me…"
"Rheya? Is it you? What about Gibarian?"
"But … you said he was dead, Kris."
"He can be alive in a dream," I told her dejectedly, although I was not completely sure that it had been a dream. "He spoke to me… He was here…"
My head sank back onto the pillow. Rheya said something, but I was already drifting into sleep.
In the red light of morning, the events of the previous night returned.
I had dreamt that I was talking to Gibarian, But afterwards, I could swear that I had heard his voice, although I had no clear recall of what he had said, and it had not been a conversation—more like a speech.
Rheya was splashing about in the bathroom. I looked under the bed, where I had hidden the tape-recorder a few days earlier. It was no longer there.
"Rheya!" She put her face round the door. "Did you see a tape-recorder under the bed, a little pocket one?"
"There was a pile of stuff under the bed. I put it all over there." She pointed to a shelf by the medicine cabinet, and disappeared back into the bathroom.
There was no tape-recorder on the shelf, and when Rheya emerged from the bathroom I asked her to think again. She sat combing her hair, and did not answer. It was not until now that I noticed how pale she was, and how closely she was watching me in the mirror. I returned to the attack:
"The tape-recorder is missing, Rheya."
"Is that all you have to tell me?"
"I'm sorry. You're right, it's silly to get so worked up about a tape-recorder."
Anything to avoid a quarrel.
Later, over breakfast, the change in Rheya's behavior was obvious, yet I could not define it. She did not meet my eyes, and was frequently so lost in thought that she did not hear me. Once, when she looked up, her cheeks were damp.
"Is anything the matter? You're crying."
"Leave me alone," Rheya blurted. "They aren't real tears."
Perhaps I ought not to have let her answer so, but 'straight talking' was the last thing I wanted. In any case, I had other problems on my mind; I had dreamt that Snow and -Sartorius were plotting against me, and although I was certain that it had been nothing more than a dream, I was wondering if there was anything on the Station that I might be able to use to defend myself. My thinking had not progressed to the point of deciding what to do with a weapon once I had it. I told Rheya that I had to make an inspection of the store-rooms, and she trailed behind me silently.
I ransacked packing-cases and capsules, and when we reached the lower deck I was unable to resist looking into the cold store. Not wanting Rheya to go in, I put my head inside the door and looked around. The recumbent figure was still covered by its dark shroud, but from my position in the doorway I could not make out whether the black woman was still sleeping by Gibarian's body. I had the impression that she was no longer there.
I wandered from one store-room to another, unable to locate anything that might serve as a weapon, and with a rising feeling of depression. All at once I noticed that Rheya was not with me. Then she reappeared; she had been hanging back in the corridor. In spite of the pain she suffered when she could not see me, she had been trying to keep away. I should have been astonished: instead, I went on acting as if I had been offended—but then, who had offended me?—and sulking like a child.
My head was throbbing, and I rifled the entire contents of the medicine cabinet without finding so much as an aspirin. I did not want to go back to the sick bay. I did not want to do anything. I had never been in a blacker temper. Rheya tiptoed about the cabin like a shadow. Now and then she went off somewhere. I don't know where, I was paying her no attention; then she would creep back inside.
That afternoon, in the kitchen (we had just eaten, but in fact Rheya had not touched her food, and I had not attempted to persuade her), Rheya got up and came to sit next to me. I felt her hand on my sleeve, and grunted: "What's the matter?"
I had been meaning to go up to the deck above, as the pipes were carrying the sharp crackling sound of high-voltage apparatus in use, but Rheya would have had to come with me. It had been hard enough to justify her presence in the library; among the machinery, there was a chance that Snow might drop some clumsy remark. I gave up the idea of going to investigate.
"Kris," she whispered, "what's happening to us?"
I gave an involuntary sigh of frustration with everything that had been happening since the previous night: "Everything is fine. Why?"
"I want to talk."
"All right, I'm listening."
"Not like this."
"What? You know I have a head-ache, and that's not the least of my worries…"
"You're not being fair."
I forced myself to smile; it must have been a poor imitation: "Go ahead and talk, darling, please."
"Will you tell me the truth?"
"Why should I lie?" This was an ominous beginning.
"You might have your reasons … it might be necessary… But if you want… Look, I am going to tell you something, and then it will be your turn—only no half-truths. Promise!" I could not meet her gaze. "I've already told you that I don't know how I came to be here. Perhaps you do. Wait!—perhaps you don't. But if you do know, and you can't tell me now, will you tell me one day, later on? I couldn't be any the worse for it, and you would at least be giving me a chance."
"What are you talking about, child," I stammered. "What chance?"
"Kris, whatever I may be, I'm certainly not a child. You promised me an answer."
Whatever I may be … my throat tightened, and I stared at Rheya shaking my head like an imbecile, as if forbidding myself to hear any more.
"I'm not asking for explanations. You only need to tell me that, you are not allowed to say."
"I'm not hiding anyth
ing," I croaked.
"All right."
She stood up. I wanted to say something. We could not leave it at that. But no words would come.
"Rheya…"
She was standing at the window, with her back turned. The blue-black ocean stretched out under a cloudless sky.
"Rheya, if you believe… You know very well I love you…"
"Me?"
I went to put my arms round her, but she pulled away.
"You're too kind," she said. "You say you love me? I'd rather you beat me."
"Rheya, darling!"
"No, no, don't say any more."
She went back to the table and began to clear away the plates. I gazed out at the ocean. The sun was setting, and the Station cast a lengthening shadow that danced on the waves. Rheya dropped a plate on the floor. Water splashed in the sink. A tarnished golden halo ringed the horizon. If I only knew what to do … if only… Suddenly there was silence. Rheya was standing behind me.
"No, don't turn round," she murmured. "It isn't your fault, I know. Don't torment yourself."
I reached out, but she slipped away to the far side of the room and picked up a stack of plates: "It's a shame they're unbreakable. I'd like to smash them, all of them."
I thought for a moment that she really was going to dash them to the floor, but she looked across at me and smiled: "Don't worry, I'm not going to make scenes."
In the middle of the night, I was suddenly wide awake. The room was in darkness and the door was ajar, with a faint light shining from the corridor. There was a shrill hissing noise, interspersed with heavy, muffled thudding, as if some heavy object was pounding against a wall. A meteor had pierced the shell of the Station! No, not a meteor, a shuttle, for I could hear a dreadful labored whining…
I shook myself. It was not a meteor, nor was it a shuttle. The sound was coming from somebody at the end of the corridor. I ran down to where light was pouring from the door of the little work-room, and rushed inside. A freezing vapor filled the room, my breath fell like snow, and white flakes swirled over a body covered by a dressing-gown, stirring feebly then striking the floor again. I could hardly see through the freezing mist. I snatched her up and folded her in my arms, and the dressing-gown burnt my skin. Rheya kept on making the same harsh gasping sound as I stumbled along the corridor, no longer feeling the cold, only her breath on my neck, burning like fire.
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