The Programmed Man

by Jean Sutton

  Dr. G's voice! He didn't have to see the roly-poly figure or the bland face to know that. They were alone in the chamber, all blackness except for the light that streamed down onto the table where he lay. "You will, will will..." He tossed and moaned feverishly, then abruptly awoke, covered with sweat and shaking with a strange chill. My God, the dream!

  "I am Myron Terle, Myron Terle..." The words rushed from his lips in a sobbing refrain before he could clamp them tight, cast a quick look around. "Don't mention your name except to duly authorized persons." The warning came into his mind from some obscure source; at the same time he realized that he had the names of such duly authorized persons, not in writing but indelibly engraved in his memory.

  "Commit everything to memory!" The voice behind the light had said that, also. And, "There's a reason for all this, Myron." The voice was gentler now, but Dr. G was a gentle man. Pushing himself erect, he looked at the bluish-white light streaming through the latticed windows, momentarily perplexed at its color.

  Heraska! The name formed in his mind. He was in a public lodging in the metropolis of Heraska, planet Zagar, fourth of the blue-white Vegan sun. He had come there when? Yesterday. He remembered the swift trip from Korth aboard a Zuman Intelligence blockade runner, the surreptitious landing on the city's outskirts. Everything rushed back, falling into place as neatly as the tumblers of a time lock. Heraska. He was to meet...

  He walked to the window and looked out. The sun, blue-white and strangely large, was high, and he guessed it was near noon. He must have slept the greater part of the day. The scene below was strange, yet vaguely familiar. People, stores, countless vehicles -- all worlds were the same, he concluded. All worlds, all governments, all people. The only variables were emotion, custom, gullibility, belief. His job was to maintain that pattern, assure the status quo. To do it he had to contact the agents of Prince Li-Hu. And run! Run, run, run...The word screamed in his mind. For an instant he sensed a deeper thought, a precautionary voice far back in some remote part of his mind that told him not to heed the voice, and then, like a fleeting shadow, it was gone. Run, run, run...The word pounding in his mind, he gazed over the avenue. He realized he was hungry. How long since he'd eaten? He couldn't remember. The past was lost in the glaring light which, focused on his eyes, had burned him to the core. The light and the voice. "Don't go out in public unless you have to." The admonition came unbidden, just as all his thoughts came unbidden.

  Looking around the room, he spotted a communicator and ordered breakfast. When it came he ate heartily, all the perturbations and strange feelings he had known earlier vanishing. He was Myron Terle -- the Myron Terle -- and he served Dr. G. Now he was on a mission of such utmost gravity that he was, for the time being, depersonalized, reacting only to the words that had come from behind the light. That was necessary, Dr. G said, to the success of his mission. Still, it left him with an empty feeling, as if some vital part of him were missing. A body without a soul, he thought. This is how such a body would feel.

  Finished eating, he showered and dressed, donning the odd, wide-brimmed headgear and colored sandals male Heraskans wore when the blue-white sun poured down its summer heat. Descending to the lobby, he went directly outside, turning to the left as his mind directed. He hadn't progressed a hundred yards before he came to an aircar-rental service. Turning in, he selected a model that was neither too fancy nor too old, an anonymous car, he thought. Even its color was anonymous in Heraska -- a brilliant blue.

  For a while he cruised slowly above the city's broad avenues and cluttered side streets, unhurried about the thing he had to do. He'd always enjoyed strange cities; Heraska was strange, and yet it wasn't. Although he'd never seen the planet Zagar before the preceding day, the scene below was like a haunting memory. For instance, he knew the direction of the sea without having seen it, knew the name of the mountain peak that rose off to his left -- Mt. Subi. That was right; the voice had mentioned it. When the city's geometry was embedded firmly in his mind, he cruised lower, seeking signs that identified the larger public lodgings.

  At the city's outskirts, bordering a shimmering blue sea -- the Sea of Aral; the name sang in his memory like the distant note of a flute -- he located a structure that fitted his specifications exactly. Rising more than a thousand feet above the shore, its sign identified it as the Empire Hotel, which memory told him was a well-known vacation resort.

  Returning, he surrendered the aircar and went directly to the space terminal, where he booked passage to the planet Anhaus, third from the giant sun Arcturus. He wasn't worried about his passport. It bore the name of Dorcus Antol and identified its bearer as a citizen of the small agricultural planet Varga, of the blue-white sun Regulus. Although he'd never been to Varga, he knew it well enough to answer any questions that might be asked. Just as he knew Zagar, he thought. It was odd to know and yet not know; at times it gave him a mental queasiness.

  Shortly before lift-off, he walked to a public communicator. Glancing around to make certain he wasn't observed, he draped a handkerchief over the instrument's small visiscreen and programmed the number of a man named Mather Shek, a secret agent of Prince Li-Hu. He wasn't perturbed; Shek was a double agent who'd sold his major allegiance to August Karsh, of Empire Intelligence. That, in Terle's mind, made him doubly valuable.

  Shek answered, his voice disclosing no surprise that his visiscreen showed only the white of a handkerchief. He did not identify himself by name.

  "Is this Mather Shek?" asked Terle.

  "Who is this, please?" The voice was sharp, decisive.

  "Myron Terle. I work for Golem Gregor," he answered. He heard a short exclamation and suppressed a laugh. Saying he worked for Golem Gregor was tantamount to saying he worked for Zuman Intelligence, for as the entire world of intelligence knew, Golem Gregor -- called Dr. G by both friends and enemies -- directed the violet sun's intelligence network.

  "You said Myron Terle?" Shek spoke sharply, as if he hadn't believed his ears.

  "Yes, from Dr. G."

  "This is Shek," the voice acknowledged hurriedly.

  "I'd like an appointment with you when you're free," stated Terle.

  "Yes, of course. I'm free now."

  "I'm tied up this afternoon," explained Terle. "How about tomorrow?"

  "Tonight, if you're free," Shek suggested.

  "Tomorrow," said Terle firmly. "Shall we say noon?"

  "Yes, of course." Terle caught the regret in Shek's voice. "Where are you staying, Mr. Terle?"

  "The Empire Hotel, with a friend," he informed. They chatted a few moments longer, a conversation which mainly consisted of Terle's dodging Shek's pointed questions. When finally he hung up, Terle removed the handkerchief from the visiscreen and, humming softly, walked back to the passenger ramp.

  Ten minutes later he was on his way to Arcturus.

  Ordinarily Mather Shek was a saturnine man who seldom gave vent to his emotions, even to himself. But this was an exception. Immediately upon hearing the click of Terle's communicator, he murmured a prayer that was half an expletive, and rubbing his hands gleefully, put a call through the subspace net to First Level E.I., an act which he would not have dreamed of the day before. Karsh himself would answer this one, he reflected. For a moment he was thankful that Terle hadn't agreed to an immediate appointment. The subspace communicator took time, and time was what he needed. Time to prepare a snare for Mr. Myron Terle, time to prepare a fitting report to August Karsh. He'd be rewarded handsomely for this one. Once he had Terle, he could hold him, name his own price. No! He rejected the thought with a shudder. No one played that game with August Karsh and lived. Karsh was as ruthless as Prince Li-Hu himself, and far more effective. More, his reach extended to the very end of the galaxy. No, he'd have to be content with whatever Karsh offered. But, he promised himself, it wouldn't be an inconsiderable amount. Karsh wasn't niggardly when it came to spending the Empire's money.

  Finished with his regular work, he made qu
iet arrangements with appropriate members of Heraska's police. That done, he withdrew a file containing photographs and dossiers on both E.I. and Zuman agents. He rustled through the pages until he found what he wanted.

  He studied the picture, etching the face in his mind. Tall, dark, gaunt, thirty-two years of age -- a graduate of the School of Public Information in Yuni, the administrative center of the Zuman planet of Korth. Information, he knew, meant intelligence; in short, the school was a cover for training agents. He scanned the dossier interestedly.

  Reputed teleport. The words leaped out, striking his eyes like a physical blow. Teleport! How could a man arrest a teleport? He felt a momentary panic, then forced himself to think more calmly. A stun gun, that was it; a man couldn't teleport himself if he were unconscious. And once unconscious, he'd keep him that way until he was delivered into the tender care of August Karsh. That decided, he called the police again to issue new orders.

  Shek's answer came earlier than he'd expected: Capture Terle alive at all costs. Included was the terse warning that Terle was a teleport. He was gratified to see it was signed with the initials A.K. This was his break, he thought jubilantly. This was what he'd waited for all these years. Mather Shek -- August Karsh wouldn't forget that name in a hurry. Neither would Dr. G.

  Several minutes before the appointed time, Shek strode confidently into the Empire Hotel and sat in the lobby to wait. Men, women, children -- he scrutinized them all, seeking a face to match the one engraved in his memory. Tall, gaunt, thirtyish -- a teleport! He banished the last thought, his eyes seeking and finding the plainclothed police spotted around him. To his trained eye, they were as obvious as beggars in a palace. For a moment he was gripped with the fear that they would be equally obvious to Terle, frighten him into teleporting. He let the word seep through his mind, imagining that it left a slimy wake. Shek forced himself to relax. Teleport or no teleport, once Terle entered the lobby, he was as good as caught. Each of the men around him carried a stun gun. The knowledge restored his confidence.

  When the appointed time came and passed, he began to fret. What was delaying Myron Terle? Frowning, he looked at his watch. Ten minutes sped by, then fifteen. When an hour had passed, he reasoned with dismay that Terle wouldn't appear.

  Glumly Shek ordered an immediate search of the entire hotel. When that failed, he mounted a search of all the public lodgings in the city, secure in the knowledge that August Karsh would pay for it. Sitting in his private office, he broodingly watched the reports come in. Evening Star Hotel, nothing; Seaview Hotel, nothing; Midtown Hotel...As evening drew on, he doggedly sent out a planetary alert and, at great risk to himself, had Terle's photo dispatched to cities over the world. If that ever came to Prince Li-Hu's attention...He shuddered.

  Belatedly he thought of space. Checking, he found that nine interstellar liners had departed from the Heraska terminal since Terle's call. Most of them already were in hypertime.

  As a last act, he dutifully recorded the names of all passengers and crew members, including them with a full report addressed to August Karsh, E.I. Shek felt gloomy. He knew he wouldn't be rewarded.

  Not as he had hoped.

  August Karsh, the Empire's spy-master, was tall and thin, with a narrow, austere face that gave him somewhat the expression of a saint until one saw the eyes. They were chill blue, penetrating, and disconcertingly direct. Many persons coming away from Karsh found they could remember little except the eyes, that and his mind, which was like a steel trap. Once he had laughed, and Clender, his assistant, had never forgotten it; that had been many years ago.

  Sitting in his office atop the 270-story Empire Intelligence Building, Karsh sat, his hands clasped in a steeple, staring out the window at the rays of the setting sun. These were yellow-golden rays, which fell warmly on the Northern Hemisphere of the planet called Earth, third of the Class G star Sol.

  Clender sat across from him, waiting patiently, sensing what was in the other's mind. The Myron Terle episode on Zagar didn't make sense, or did it? Mather Shek was a double agent; he had to remember that. Perhaps this was some plot on the part of Prince Li-Hu. No, that didn't make sense, either. But Myron Terle...

  Abruptly Karsh swung around. "Terle's actions have got to be connected with the Rigel coup," he declared. His voice was even and surprisingly soft, considering the hardness of his eyes. "There's no other answer."

  "But how?" Clender gestured helplessly.

  "Consider these facts, Clender. Right now Dr. G is faced with the crisis of his career -- the possibility that Prince Li-Hu will get the bomb. Do you know what would happen in that event? Li-Hu would wipe out that violet sun, and don't tell me it doesn't make sense."

  "Well..."

  "It makes good sense, Clender. The Zumans are a threat to Li-Hu as well as the Empire."

  "But this Mather Shek thing?" Clender shrugged helplessly.

  "A Zuman attempt to establish an alliance with Li-Hu," Karsh declared.

  "Zuma -- allied with Li-Hu?" asked Clender disbelievingly.

  "A marriage of necessity, Clender. I don't know what Dr. G's sales point is, but he's got one, you can rest assured of that. Look at the situation. Right in the middle of the Rigel crisis, G's agent shows up in Heraska and attempts to establish contact with Li-Hu's intelligence apparatus. His top agent, Clender. A teleport at that."

  "But why an agent? If the Zuman government's seeking an alliance, why not go through a diplomatic source?"

  "Diplomatic source?" Karsh arched his eyebrows.

  "I know the Zuman worlds are cut off," Clender said, "but Terle got through, and if they can sneak him through -- "

  "Dr. G could sneak anyone through, Clender. Let's not fool ourselves on that score." Karsh rubbed his hands thoughtfully. "G's as anxious as we are to keep that bomb out of Alphan hands. Not that Li-Hu will get it," he added.

  "He'd turn it against us, August."

  "Li-Hu? No," Karsh denied, "he would hold it as a weapon of deterrence, nullify the bomb to our use, but he wouldn't attack us. He wouldn't have to, Clender. He could fairly well hold his own in a conventional war, if it came to that. But I don't believe it would. Faced with the choice between war or peace, the Empire would grant the Alphan worlds autonomy."

  "So why would he vaporize Zuma?"

  "The people of the Zuman worlds are the big force of the future," Karsh replied slowly. He stared off into the distance, and something of sorrow tinged his voice. "Not the Empire, not the Alphan worlds, but the planets of Zuma. We might deny them, Clender, but I sense a tide rising from that violet star."

  "Not in our day," Clender whispered hoarsely.

  "Perhaps not." Karsh brought back his eyes. "But empires are transient, Clender. Even the greatest of them. We've passed our peak, perhaps long ago, and now we're decadent, and a new man is coming along. Does that frighten you?"

  "New man?" Clender cocked his head. "They're freaks, August."

  "Our flesh and blood, and for thousands of years part of the Empire until we put them out," Karsh said sadly. "Perhaps they're mutants, Clender, but not aliens."

  "They're dangerous," Clender objected.

  "Worthy successors," Karsh said musingly, as if he hadn't heard.

  "They'd better not get the bomb." Clender shook his head emphatically.

  "Why do you think Dr. G sent Myron Terle to Heraska?"

  "You appear to believe the Zumans are trying to form an alliance with the Alphan worlds before Li-Hu gets the bomb, hoping he wouldn't use it on them," Clender conjectured.

  "Not quite," Karsh corrected. "Li-Hu would use the bomb on his mother if it were to his advantage. Dr. G realizes that."

  "Yet you're talking of an alliance." Clender looked bewildered. "What could Li-Hu gain by that?"

  "It might get him the bomb."

  "How?" demanded Clender.

  "Consider the situation," Karsh suggested. "Li-Hu wouldn't have sabotaged the Rigel unless he knew he could retrieve the
bomb secret. Retrieve implies returning it to the Alphan worlds. Yet how can he? He can't get within fifty light-years of the Ophiucus Sector; our admirals guarantee that. But he might retrieve it through Myron Terle. We can't forget that the man's a teleport, Clender. And if that is so, then perhaps Li-Hu initiated the meeting between Terle and the agent Shek."

  "Why would Dr. G go along with that?" demanded Clender. "He certainly doesn't want to see the bomb in Alphan hands."

  "Dr. G's playing for the bomb, too," Karsh answered. "If Terle got the secret, Li-Hu would never see the bomb."

  "Li-Hu would know that," Clender objected.

  "It seems so, doesn't it?" Karsh stared off into space before continuing. "But Terle is limited. He can't teleport between planets or between a planet and a ship beyond orbital space. Mentally he has to know exactly where his target is. That means he could teleport between a ship and a planetary surface once he was close enough to clearly distinguish the planet."

  "In other words, he could teleport from orbit?"

  "Exactly, and while that appears to limit his power, it's still a tremendous power, Clender. But it does have limits, and that's a consideration for Prince Li-Hu. He must feel certain that Terle can't move fast enough or far enough to escape him completely. Li-Hu's fortunate, and so are we, that Terle isn't a telepath as well as a teleport."

  "Are we certain that he's not?"

  "York says no, and he observed him for several months."

  "If York said no, I'll believe it," declared Clender. "He's the best agent in the galaxy."

  "The second best," Karsh corrected. "Myron Terle is the best. I'll have to give Dr. G credit for that."

  "I wouldn't bet on it, August." Clender shook his head. "I'd like to see them clash face-to-face on the same case."

  "Isn't that what they're doing?" asked Karsh. "If my surmise is right, that's exactly what's happening."