The Programmed Man

by Jean Sutton

  Shouts came from the passageway as he scrambled to his feet, clasping the weapon. Stepping through the doorway, he saw several crewmen milling around. One of them caught sight of his blaster and stepped back, exclaiming, "It's Mr. York!"

  With scarcely a glance at them, he wheeled and raced back through the corridor. He found the crew's mess hall empty and crossed it quickly, descending the ladder that led toward the maintenance and engine compartments. Bursting through a doorway, he stopped abruptly at the sight of half a dozen crewmen gathered around a Krabacci game.

  Jona Norden, the slender maintenance chief, glanced around at his entrance and flashed a bright smile. "Ah, Mr. York. What brings you here?"

  York looked at his sallow face. The eyes above the toothy smile were small, as expressionless as polished obsidian, yet held a wariness that he was unable to decipher. He remembered that Norden was Alphan-born.

  "Visiting," he answered noncommittally. He moved his gaze to the players. Singkai, stolid and still as a statue, sat at one side of the board facing a slender younger man whose soiled clothes marked him as a member of the engine-room crew. "Game been going on long?" he asked.

  "Several hours, but Singkai will win." Norden kept his eyes riveted on York's face. "You've been hurt."

  "Scraped it," York replied, conscious for the first time that his cheek stung.

  Norden said drily, "Also scraped your leg, I see."

  He looked down, noticing that his pants leg was burned away at the calf, revealing the seared flesh. "Must have got that in the fall," he observed.

  "Life in space can be dangerous," Norden commented. York couldn't decide whether or not he sensed anything behind the words. The maintenance chief's thin face was as inscrutable as his eyes. York glanced back at the game.

  "Do you play?" Norden asked.

  "No." He shook his head.

  "It's a real game of wits."

  York smiled. "Then I'm certain it's not for me."

  "I believe you'd be very good at it," the other murmured. Singkai suddenly lifted his head, appearing to see York for the first time. Unlike Norden's eyes, his were large, slanted, with a dark, luminous quality that suggested untold depths. For some reason they reminded him of gazing through the star window at the great voids between the galaxies; they were eyes like that, utterly without message, as fathomless as bottomless pools. And yet they weren't. York had the incredible thought that they were looking right through him, probing every facet of his mind and body, looking at the atoms of which he was made.

  Abruptly Singkai looked down again, hunching his ponderous body before he settled back into immobility.

  York eyed the onlookers without appearing to, aware of their covert glances. Char Wong, the engine technician who came from the planet Pehling, second of the Alphan sun Kang; David Apgar, deckhand, born on Fengpu...He fitted the faces with the photographs in the record books and the facts they contained. Like Norden, Apgar was a half-breed, a man of scant education. Paulson, Coulter, White..

  Finished with his inspection, he turned abruptly and started back up the ladder. Four of the eight men present had been Alphan or Alphan-born. Yet why not? Krabacci was an Alphan game. And one thing of which he was certain: Lu Singkai hadn't wielded the heat gun which had almost cut him down. The Alphan could never have gotten below so quickly nor composed himself so completely. And four of the onlookers were non-Alphans; he couldn't disregard that.

  Did that exempt Lu Singkai? Only from the actual attempt, he realized. How about Char Wong or David Apgar? Or Norden? There was nothing to say that one of them couldn't have been involved. He felt his cheek and leg burning again and turned toward the hospital.

  What would Benbow have to say to this one?

  Captain Corden Hull's weathered face was set and stern. His mud-blue eyes glinted angrily as he declared, "We never had things like this happen before you came aboard, Mr. York."

  "Did you ever have an N-cruiser stolen before?"

  "I'm speaking of the Draco," Hull replied stiffly.

  "The Draco, the Rigel" -- York shrugged -- "it's the same story."

  "I fully intend to get to the bottom of this, York." Hull raised his eyes to Lieutenant Tregaski, who had taken his customary position by the door. "I want every inch of this ship searched immediately, Lieutenant. I won't countenance illegal weapons."

  "Yes, sir," replied Tregaski.

  "I'd prefer you didn't," interrupted York.

  "You prefer?" Hull flushed. "I can't see where you enter into this, Mr. York."

  York caught and held his eyes. "You either solve this case or you don't. And if you don't, it could cost you the N-bomb."

  "Explain that," Hull ordered coldly.

  "The key to the Rigel plot lies aboard the Draco," he answered calmly. "I'm convinced of that. If you search the ship, you'll undoubtedly find weapons, but you won't know who intended to use them, or how. It won't tell you who the killers are in your crew, or how they are linked with the Rigel's saboteurs."

  "And just how do you expect to find them?" demanded Hull.

  "By waiting until they get ready to use the weapons," he replied.

  "By waiting!" Hull slapped the desk. "Why not nip their opportunity before they can put it into effect? Why take that risk, York?"

  "Right now you could never prove a thing," York pointed out. "Anything less than absolute proof is failure."

  "So I'm supposed to risk my ship?"

  "If necessary, yes." York leaned back, adding, "I'm certain the Admiral of the Galactic Seas would agree with me."

  "What would the admiral say if I reported a passenger killed because I didn't take adequate precautions?" asked Hull.

  York grinned. "What would he say if Prince Li-flu turned up with the N-bomb? He'd say plenty, Captain, and so would August Karsh. We'd both be out inspecting meteors." He saw a flicker of uncertainty cross Hull's face and continued. "Believe me, everything is going along fine, just as is. But we can't shake the ship now. It isn't the time."

  Hull gritted his teeth. "I certainly wish I had your confidence, York."

  "Why shouldn't I be confident with August Karsh and the admiral backing me?"

  "Do I detect a note of sarcasm?" demanded Hull.

  "Not at all," he denied. "It's a factual statement. You might refer back to the original memo regarding me."

  "I know the memo," Hull said shortly. He looked penetratingly at York. "I understand you rushed away from the scene. Why?"

  "To see where some of your crewmen might be." York told him what he had found and who was present at the Krabacci game. "But that doesn't exempt the onlookers or even the players," he finished.

  "With six witnesses?" Hull lifted his brow incredulously.

  "One of the players could have directed the operation," York pointed out. "Or the game could have been set up to provide an alibi. I have a suspicious mind."

  "You have indeed," Hull snorted.

  "On the other hand, it could be someone quite unsuspected. Even Tregaski there." He jerked a thumb toward the lieutenant.

  "Me?" Tregaski bellowed.

  "It's possible," he murmured.

  "Enough of this nonsense," Hull cut in icily.

  "Conspiracies are born and empires toppled out of such so-called nonsense," he retorted. "Nothing is nonsense in intelligence, Captain. Nothing."

  "That may be, but I don't like these wild accusations."

  "Observation, not accusation," he corrected. "There's a difference. And the fact remains, you don't know who's running around with gas bombs and heat guns, Captain, and you can't tell me differently. Believe me, I know."

  Hull raised his eyes, weighing him. "I don't intend to let you get killed, York. Not on my ship. Henceforth your movements will be restricted to the officers' quarters and the bridge."

  "You can't do that," York protested.

  "Except when under escort," he finished.

  York considered it and said. "That
's agreeable. Only please don't give me an Alphan."

  Hull didn't smile.

  8

  AUGUST KARSH glanced up from his work as Clender burst into his office, his mouth agape so that his lower jaw hung pendulously, a certain sign of his perturbation. Karsh's own immediate reaction was one of relief; his assistant's expression told him all he wanted to know. Nevertheless he asked sharply, "What is it?"

  "We just got word," answered Clender, fighting to suppress his excitement. "A passenger named Dana Smithson of Marta -- that's fourth of the sun Coulson -- booked passage for Grydo the day before Terle contacted Opol. And sure enough, he left Anhaus within fifteen minutes of the time Terle called."

  "That's our man, Clender." Karsh slapped the desk with finality, sensing a deep satisfaction. Events were moving just as he had predicted. Myron Terle had doubled back, was racing to rendezvous with Li-Hu's agents on Grydo. The parts were falling into place. There was an alliance, all right. Well, they'd both fall, Dr. G and the prince alike. And Myron Terle. Not that it would be easy. Terle was not the easy type.

  He said musingly, "Myron Terle alias Dorcus Antol alias Dana Smithson, alias X. You won't find him under the name of Smithson, Clender. Have you checked with the Marta authorities?"

  "We have a check underway, August. It'll take time."

  "You'll find there is no Dana Smithson," Karsh predicted. "Or if there is, you'll find the passport was taken out falsely in his name."

  "He won't slip away," Clender replied confidently.

  "He'd better not," Karsh warned. "Have you notified our Grydo office?"

  "I did that immediately," Clender confirmed, "but Terle -- if it is Terle -- will get there first. We can't stop him."

  Karsh pulled thoughtfully at his chin. "We don't want to stop him. Once he touches Grydo, we have him pinned to a planet, and this time he'll stay pinned. Grydo's a trap, a planet-sized trap, Clender. Myron Terle's coming to the end of his journey."

  "I -- I can't feel that confident, August."

  "Can't you, Clender? I can guarantee it."

  "By the time we get through an order to isolate the planet, he could arrive there and be gone. Like that, August." Clender snapped his fingers. "The man's magic."

  "Nonsense, nothing's magic." Karsh leaned back, wondering at his assistant's lack of perception. And yet Clender was sharper than most. It was the teleport business, he reflected. The idea of a man making himself vanish panicked him. He continued, "The order is given; I gave it myself. No ship will be allowed to lift from any part of Grydo, not even local traffic. The blockade is already effective. Grydo's sealed off as completely as the Zuman sun, Clender."

  "So he is trapped?" murmured Clender.

  "Completely," Karsh agreed, "and on a small agricultural planet. He can't hide long in that environment. The admiral has diverted the Cetus."

  "From Gelhart?" asked Clender, startled.

  Karsh nodded. "York can take care of that end."

  "The Draco's not an N-ship," Clender reminded.

  "I don't feel we're running a risk. Not with York aboard," Karsh stated. The curious smile came again. "I've endowed him with new powers which practically give him command of the Draco."

  "Command? Great Jupiter, would the admiral buy that?"

  "He wasn't particularly happy," Karsh admitted, "but he had no choice. The Cetus can't be in two places at once, and as you say, we're dealing with the N-bomb. The admiral could see the logic of that."

  "The Draco's captain is not going to like that."

  "Corden Hull? No, he won't, but I'm certain the admiral couched his orders to lessen the sting," Karsh reflected.

  "You mentioned a blockade of outgoing traffic." Clender paused speculatively. "How about incoming ships?"

  "You're thinking of Zuman or Alphan agents going in to contact him?" Karsh shook his head. "Consider the situation, Clender. Grydo is the focal point of this plot, not the Gelhart system. Terle had no hope of getting to Bonoplane, the planet on which the saboteurs apparently landed. We know that for the simple reason that there is no commerce with Bonoplane or any planet in the Gelhart system. They are sterile worlds, little more than wastelands. Where does that leave us? The saboteurs had some plan for reaching Grydo. That's the only possible explanation."

  "The Draco," Clender breathed. "That's the only way."

  "Exactly."

  "You mean take it over, like they did the Rigel?"

  "That would be my surmise," Karsh agreed.

  "But August, suppose they succeed?"

  "It's York's job to see that they don't," he answered. "But if they do, they'll undoubtedly try to establish contact with Terle. That presupposes a landing somewhere on Grydo, Clender. That's why I'm not blockading incoming ships. We'll get them all in one net."

  "That's risky," his assistant warned. "What's to prevent them from putting the Draco into hypertime, setting a course directly for one of the Alphan worlds? It's logical, August. If they have the Draco, they don't need Terle."

  "Good reasoning," Karsh admitted, "but why didn't they put the Rigel into hypertime? They haven't the navigator, Clender. That's evident."

  "Perhaps not," he murmured.

  "Aside from that, do you believe Dr. G would have missed that possibility? He would not, and neither would Li-Hu, but it just so happens that it won't work. I saw to that."

  "Oh?" Clender cocked his head.

  "Our first move was to blockade the Alphan worlds," he explained. "Most of the Empire's Navy is there now. A one-man lander couldn't get through the net we've thrown around Li-Hu's empire. Any ship that lifts off gets caught before it can get into hypertime."

  "You're blockading commercial liners?"

  "Everything," Karsh declared. "That forces Li-Hu to rely on Terle, just as Dr. G reasoned. G's no fool, you know."

  "Far from it," admitted Clender. "How did Li-Hu react?"

  "What can he do? Nothing at this stage of the game. To protest the blockade would cause a loss of face." Karsh shook his head. "He's caught, Clender, fair and square. His little plot is finished. I have scant doubt but that he'll wash his hands of the whole affair, pretend it never happened."

  "Will we let him?"

  "Diplomacy demands it," Karsh answered. "The king is sacrosanct."

  "King?"

  "A phrase from history," he explained.

  Clender said sourly, "I suppose that holds for the Zuman government."

  "Unfortunately, yes."

  Clender leaned forward. "How could Terle hope to get through, get the secret from Grydo to Dr. G? He can't teleport between planets, let alone between star systems. He certainly must have some plan in mind for returning the information."

  "Undoubtedly."

  "But what, August? That point perturbs me."

  "This plot needn't involve mere days or weeks; it could involve years, decades," Karsh reflected. "From Dr. G's standpoint, once Terle gets the secret, he can hop from place to place on the same planet, keep hidden. Eventually, when enough time passes, we'll relieve our vigilance, or so G hopes. And that's when Terle would make his break. G could well be thinking in terms of decades, Clender. What's fifty years in the life of a government? Practically nothing."

  "Well, that's reasonable." Clender pursed his lips dubiously.

  "Or perhaps he has a second teleport under wraps. Who knows? If that were the case, he might try to maneuver him onto Grydo; a fast intelligence runner could accomplish that. If such were the case, he could establish contact with Terle, and we'd never be the wiser -- not until G sent us a little message saying, 'We've got the bomb!'"

  "By the moons of Jupiter, August, you frighten me."

  "By the idea of a second teleport?" The faint smile touched Karsh's lips again. "Do you believe that such a mutation is a one-time thing? I have scant doubt but that there is a second, and a third and a fourth. Perhaps they have clairvoyants; perhaps we're being peeped at this very instant, who knows? As I men
tioned before, that violet sun is the star of the future, Clender, and the shape of the future is being fashioned there right now. We can't allow our thinking to obscure reality."

  "I'd hate to whisper that outside these walls," breathed Clender. "The thought of those freaks is frightening."

  "Do you ever read prehistory?" asked Karsh. "Once there was a dumb brute called Neanderthal, but he owned a world. He was lord, god and master. Then one rosy dawn he came face to face with another brute, but a smarter one, Clender. He made stone weapons. This brute was Cro-Magnon, and from him we came. But we've done all we can with our genetics; we've had our little time, marched our brief step, and now the evening comes. This time we are the brute looking at our successors, only we won't acknowledge it. Prehistory tells us that the Neanderthals fought, Clender. They waged bloody battles across continents, but they lost. That was part of the plan."

  "We'll fight," whispered Clender hoarsely.

  "That's exactly what we are doing," answered Karsh. "Our job is to hold this new man down, preserve the status quo, the Empire. We don't act in justice, Clender, but from a position of power. Yet we are but monkeys in the cage of the universe, denying what our eyes see, what our senses tell us. We can't imagine what is coming out of that violet star, what shape or power is being bred there. And yet we will take our spears and hurl them against the tide."

  "Spears?" asked Clender.

  "A figure of speech."

  "If we know that and can't trap Terle, we can keep Grydo isolated forever," declared Clender. "We can make it his prison, cut it off as completely as we've sealed the Zuman sun."

  "That won't be necessary," answered Karsh.

  "You mean -- ?"

  "We'll try to trap him, yes. He must have weaknesses," Karsh said broodingly. "He can't teleport when he's unconscious; York was certain of that, and it's certainly logical that he can't. Nor can he teleport when he's dead. But we want him alive, Clender. We want a chance to put him under therapy, bleed his brain, and maybe through that we can learn something about our Dr. G and what is being spawned on the worlds of that violet star. Yes, we'll try."