The ride back to the house was a quiet one. But when they were once more ensconced in the loggia, sipping coffee, Eli spoke—a little bitterly, and as much to himself as to Hassan.
"And I thought I was getting away from all of this," he said, looking out over the sea.
"You know better than that, Eli," said Hassan. Eli turned his head to look at him; and saw that the other man was coldly serious. "People like us must always know it. For, instance I've heard ground rumors already, just since your resignation, that something or other is being hatched against you."
Eli continued to look at Hassan for a long moment. And then slowly, wearily, he nodded. "It would be," he said.
3
They dropped down out of the bright sky toward the blue water.
"That's the spot, then," said Eli, peering out the window on his side of the ship.
"Yes," said Poby.
Poby was handling the air-sub as if he loved it, bringing it in a wide sweep, gently, gently, yet swiftly into the ocean. Below them Eli picked out a glinting dot on the azure expanse of the Florida waters around the tiny sterile sandspit of Calayo Banks Cay, lost and lonely in the sea. Like a tiny bright coin dancing on the waves when he saw it first, it steadied and swelled to the transparent hemisphere of a solar roof over the top of an underwater station. Then they were landing in a fume of spray and it swelled bubblelike above them, with the brown sea-resistant concrete of the jetty pushing out from it, lifting toward them over the chop of the waves as they taxied up to it.
When they bumped the magnetic mooring rim of the jetty and locked there, Eli stood up. Poby, reaching over him, threw back the hatch and stepped past him to turn and give him a hand from heaving air-sub to the immobile jetty. Eli had one quick glimpse down through the clear water as he stepped across, a momentary picture of sixty feet of station reaching away and down through the fantastic clearness of the water to the white sand far below. Then he found his feet on the jetty; and turned back to Poby.
"Well, that's that, Poby," he said.
"Yes, Eli," the young courier looked at him rather helplessly. Eli rubbed his narrow jaw thoughtfully.
"What's your home Dome?" he asked. "You told me once, but I've forgotten."
"Number Three, Pacific," said Poby.
"That's right," said Eli. "Well, I want you to go there for the next few weeks; or at least until Kurt makes public my resignation. If he does that, go directly to him and put yourself under his orders. You understand why I'm doing this, Poby?"
"I think so," Poby answered.
"I've had this planned for a long time. I've set things up so I can step out quickly and without fuss. But for the general public it can't be that sudden. Kurt is going to announce that I've gone into a surgical hospital to have my knee worked on. Only he or you know that I'm actually, as of now, no longer spokesman. I trust you to keep the information to yourself."
"Yes, Eli."
"All right. Get me an order blank for the ship and I'll write you a predated order for a month's leave."
Poby dived back into the air-sub and produced a small pad of order blanks on which Eli scribbled the instructions he had just given, signed it and pressed his thumb on the sensitized signature area. He tore off the order and handed it back to Poby.
"There you are," he said and held out his hand. Something in the other's eyes made him add, "Look me up in about a year if you still feel like it."
"I will. I'll find you," said Poby.
They shook hands, and slowly Poby re-entered the air-sub, pulling the hatch closed behind him. The airboat sparked as its motors thrust it away from the magnetic pull of the mooring ring. Then it had surged away from the jetty and was gone, leaping into the air. Eli stood looking after it a little sadly. Nostalgia was not one of his usual indulgences, but he let it touch him now, momentarily.
The sound of footsteps on the jetty behind him brought him around. A girl in her early twenties and a young man scarcely older were coming from the solar deck of the station, through a watertight, stormtight door flung wide, to meet him. He turned a little awkwardly, favoring his one bad leg and took them in at a glance, the tall dark man and the small, blond girl.
The man was big-boned and young, with a large nose set a little crooked, which, however, did not spoil the general effect of his good looks. There was scarcely half a dozen years difference in age between him and Poby, but this one could almost have passed as Poby's father. He did not so much look old, as mature; and he had probably looked mature since he was sixteen, with rectangular, solid jaw and a stiff bristle that required shaving twice a day. But his eyes were the clear, uncynical eyes of his proper age, and a little wondering and a little kind.
With the girl it was different. About the same chronological age, probably as old as the young man, she had an ageless quality about her. Small and light-boned, with hair so light and fluffy of texture that it seemed she had despaired of bringing it to any discipline of form, so that it floated like a loose cloud about her head. Her face was pointed and fragile, with such a clearness of skin, that although she was not conventionally pretty, she struck at any moment a memorable picture for any man to carry with him afterwards. Her lips and eyes molded the visible expression of everything she said; so that from that first moment on until a long time afterward, until he knew her very well (and even then) Eli was to find himself watching one of these two features of hers, as she spoke.
She spoke now, half-running forward to keep up with the long steps of the man beside her.
"Eli! You were quick! I'm Tammy Wina."
"Hello, Tammy," he said, smiling, and taking the hand she gave him. She held it and turned him toward the man. "And this is Dr. Mel Bruger."
In a period in which first names were almost universally used, even on first acquaintances, Eli caught the hint of an inferiority complex in the tall man and responded accordingly.
"Hello, Doctor," he said, and was rewarded by a smile flashed by Tammy from behind Mel Bruger's back.
"Hello," answered Mel, shaking hands. His voice was slow and deep. "Arthur Howell and Ntoane are downstairs."
"Both doctors also," said Tammy—and the slyness of the remark, Eli could see, was lost on Mel.
They turned and went into the station, dogging the weather door shut behind them. The still air of the solar under the brilliant sun was hothouse warm. They walked across the plastic floor like polished white marble between tables and deck chairs, and entered an elevator capsule whose tube projected like a transparent sleeve up through the floor of the solar deck to about eight feet. The capsule held them easily and they dropped with a rush of released air to the fifth level of the station, a scant dozen feet above the ocean bed.
Down the hall was the lab and the two men in it looked up as they entered. One was Arthur Howell, a thin, angular man in his fifties. The other was a sensitive-featured, black-skinned man who at first glance appeared to loom beside Howell like a giant.
"Dr. Ntoane," said Tammy, as they came up. "And you know Arthur Howell."
At second glance, as he shook hands with the dark man with the Basuto name, Eli perceived that appearances had deceived him, for Ntoane was scarcely taller than himself. A trick of ideal body proportioning, however, made him appear much larger, so that he was in fact, like a giant in miniature, with a calm face and intelligent, but rather unhappy eyes.
"Happy to meet you, Eli," he said, in a soft, slow voice. His hand, as it grasped Eli's in handshake, was soft also, but with strong, sudden pressure behind it.
"Don't embarrass me," said Eli, with a smile. He turned to Howell. "Well, Arthur!" he said, extending his hand.
"Hello," said Howell, giving Eli's hand one quick pump and then dropping it. "You made good time. That's good. What do you think of the station?"
"I think it looks excellent," said Eli.
"Yes. I do too," said Howell. "Well, now that you've met everybody, come on back to my office with me. I want to talk to you. You can finish up here, Ntoane?"
"Of course, Arthur."
"Fine. This way, Eli." And, without waiting for any further parleying, Howell turned and began to lead the way back between the cluttered benches, sinks, and equipment of the lab. Eli, with a humorously apologetic smile at the rest, followed him.
Howell led him to an office opening off the far end of the lab. A little square cubicle fitted with deck, chair, and filing cabinet. Howell, himself, perched on the edge of the desk and waved Eli to the chair.
The man who had sent Eli the message cubes and now sat opposite him, with one toe of one narrow foot on the ground and that of the other beating nervous time back and forth in the air, was well into his fifties. Howell was skinny. His elbows were knobby, his hair was badly gone, and his bony face cut with lines, but the violent energy of the undergraduate was still with him. That he was abrupt and intolerant was natural; it was part of him.
"How much time have you got?" he demanded without preamble as Eli sat down.
"As much as you need," said Eli. "I've resigned the spokesmanship."
"Fine. Excellent," said Howell, rubbing his hands together pleasantly, as if it was no more than commendable that a man should throw up one of the world's leading executive positions in order to provide him with more time in which to work. "Well, I'm pretty sure we can do it."
"No more than pretty sure?" asked Eli.
"There are no hundred percents in medicine," said Howell, didactically. "You came to me five years ago with a question as to whether the human body could not be rebuilt with new parts in pretty much the way an engine is. I'm now prepared to try and answer that question."
"On me," said Eli wryly.
"Precisely," replied Howell, utterly unconscious of any irony. "However, that needn't concern you. There were some other things I wanted to talk to you about. First, you asked me to look into the matter of your lame knee. I have. There's nothing wrong with it."
In spite of himself, Eli was nettled.
"I happen to know there is," he retorted.
"Well, you're wrong," said Howell. "If it bothers you, it must be psychosomatic. See Mel. He's got his degree—"
"Is that why he's here?" demanded Eli.
"No. I need him for the operating. I'm a research man, pure and simple. I don't operate myself."
"That's good," said Eli. "Because I don't intend to see anyone in that line professionally, now or ever."
"Why not?" Howell was looking at him curiously.
"Because it's a waste of time," said Eli.
"Well," Howell shrugged. "It's not my department. Suit yourself. Now the first thing we need are some tests on you."
"You've had nothing but tests!" said Eli.
"Certain data has to be brought up to date. Nothing extensive." Howell glanced at the watch on his wrist. "When did you eat last?"
Eli had to stop and think.
"This morning."
"All right," said Howell. "I'll give you a short, timed dose to put you under. From there you should go into a natural sleep and we can start taking checks on you. Come along."
He led the way out through the lab, stopping on the way to take a tiny green capsule from a refrigerator and pass it over to Eli. The three other people in the station had gone about their business and were nowhere to be seen. Howell led Eli out of the lab and up a level and down a hallway to a spacious room dim-lit by the sunlight filtering down through thirty-odd feet of water and the two-foot thick pane of window glass. A wide, white bed sat on the polished floor, surrounded by banked instruments. But the rest of the room, with its couch, viewing screen, table and chairs, was like any good hotel room. Eli took the green capsule Howell had given him; and, after the other man had gone, lay down on the bed and let sleep claim him.
At some indeterminate time later, he awoke in the darkness. For a moment he though that only a matter of minutes had passed and he was still alone, waiting for the drugged sleep to pull him under the surface of consciousness. Then, a soft, all-pervasive humming and the shielded glow of little signal lights from the now-operating machines about his bed disillusioned him. He lifted his head and caught a shadowy glimpse of a figure clad in a white tunic that moved about the machines.
"Doctor?" he said uncertainly.
The white-clad figure approached him. A cool hand touched his forehead.
"Lie back," said Tammy's voice. "Sleep, Eli."
He lay back, drowsily becoming aware of soft hands encircling wrist, bicep, thigh and throat. There was something strangely familiar and pleasant about Tammy's voice that he could not be troubled to investigate right now but which made him want to hear it again.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Analyzing you," her soft tones came back to him. "Pulse pressure, metabolic rate, and a lot of other things. Don't talk. Just lie back and close your eyes. And try to sleep."
He closed his eyes and mouth. The bed was warm and he was aware of a reaching, all-encompassing comfort in the knowledge of her presence moving about him.
"Will you take care of everything?" he asked dreamily, out of the once-more encroaching billows of slumber.
"I'll take care of everything," she whispered. "Just leave everything to me. And sleep, Eli, sleep."
Reassured, he lost his troubled hold on consciousness. The darkness closed about him and he slept.
4
Eli dreamed that he ran through a huge and empty city. The buildings were tall and gray and empty; and the streets were at first deserted and gray. But finally the people who lived there came in a group and surrounded him.
"You'll have to go to the city hall at once," said a man with an earnest, weary face.
"Why me?" Eli asked.
"Because you've got a mark upon you," said the man. And they all crowded about Eli, insisting that he go.
"All right, I'll go," he said. And he started walking off by himself in the direction of the city hall. But when he was a safe distance away from them, he shouted back, "I've changed my mind!" and took to his heels again.
He lost them in the maze of streets and descended to the vehicle levels. On these he continued to wander until he came to the edge of the city. And there, on the gray, open plain, he saw that there was a camp set up, like the camp of a Roman legion on the march. But when he wandered into it, he discovered that the soldiers were all a strange alien species, neither animal nor human. And as he walked through their camp one of the officers came up to him.
"Get back to your post, soldier," the officer said.
"Oh, I'm not one of you," said Eli. "See, I'm just like your enemies, the people in the city. I even have a mark on me."
"That mark does not matter," said the officer. "It is merely the surface manifestation of a mark that makes you one of us. Look at it."
"I don't believe in marks," said Eli and he began to walk off swiftly. As he went he expected every minute to feel the officer's hand on his shoulder; but when he looked back, he saw the other still standing, staring after him. He started to run and ran until he came out the other side of the camp into open country which was wide and gray and covered with mist. He ran through this for a while until he realized he was lost. He sat down for a moment to rest, but then it struck him that he must keep going and find some kind of shelter. He got up and continued on through the mist until suddenly he came face to face with Mel Bruger.
"What are you doing here?" Mel asked.
"I'm looking for something," answered Eli.
"That's a common type of evasion that we often run into in psychiatry," said Mel. "What you really mean is that you're running away from something. Now, what are you running from?"
And then Eli woke up. For a moment he lay still, remembering the dream and blinking. The bedroom was still about him, once more dimlit with sunlight through the water beyond the window, the machines pushed back from his bed and the tapes gone from arms and legs. He groped for the headboard of the bed and with his finger set the artificial illumination of the room up to daylight. I ought to remember th
at dream, he thought. But already the gray insubstantial substance of it was evaporating like morning fog in the day's brightness.
He rose and dressed in the fresh tunic and kilt that somebody—probably Tammy—had laid out for him, popping the sealed, transparent packaging with an active pleasure, and shoving his discarded outfit down the incinerator slot in the far wall of the room. The colors were the new combination, rust and gold, which made it almost certain that Tammy was responsible. Another male would never have presumed on so bright a choice for a man whose tastes they did not know. However Eli did not mind. He was feeling a new and cheerful sense of freedom from the obligations that had held him these past years; and he went out to breakfast in the rust-shot gold of his tunic and the gold-flecked rust of his kilt without any sartorial qualms.
Howell caught him at the entrance to the automat and had coffee with him while he breakfasted. They had the little room to themselves, everybody else having eaten several hours previously; and while Eli dug into his chicken pie, Howell outlined the procedures for the morning, which was to consist of some more tests of Eli in the lab.
"And what about the afternoon?" asked Eli with a grin. "Or do I have that to myself?"
"More or less," said Howell, looking a trifle sour, for what reasons Eli could not at that moment understand.
He found out just before lunch, when the last of the prodding, picture taking, sticking, and slicing was finally finished up.
"All through?" said Howell, popping into the lab, where Ntoane and Tammy had been doing most of the work. "I suppose you can see him now, then."
"See who?" asked Eli, putting his tunic back on.
"I don't know," said Howell somewhat brusquely. "He flew in this morning in his own private flyer. His name's Seth Maguin."
Eli froze suddenly. Then, conscious that his reaction was noticeable to the rest, went on mechanically, putting on his tunic.
"Oh, yes," he said. "Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I didn't want anything interrupting the rest of the work, either," he added significantly.
Time To Teleport Page 3
