He thought back, remembering George Yoritomo’s explanation.
“Take two people,” he had said. “Two people genetically identical. Damage one of them so badly that he is helpless and useless—to himself and to others. Damage him so badly that he is always only a step away from death.
“The vague telepathic bond that always links identical twins (they ‘think alike’, they say) becomes unbalanced under such conditions.
“Normally, there is a give-and-take. One mind is as strong as the other, and each preserves the sense of his own identity, since the two different sets of sense receptors give different viewpoints. But if one of the twins is damaged badly enough, then something must happen to that telepathic linkage.
“Usually it is broken.
“But the link between you and your brother was not broken. Instead, it became a one-way channel.
“What happens in such a case? The damaged brother, in order to escape the intolerable prison of his own body, becomes a receptor for the stronger brother’s thoughts. The weaker feels as the stronger feels. The experience of the one becomes the experience of the other—the thrill of running after a baseball, the pride of doing something clever with the hands, the touch of a girl’s kiss upon the lips—all these become the property of the weaker, since he is receiving the thoughts of the stronger. There is, of course, no flow in the other direction. The stronger brother has no way of knowing that his every thought is being duplicated in his brother’s mind.
“In effect, the damaged brother ceases to think. The thoughts in his mind are those of the healthy brother. The feeling of identity becomes almost complete.
“To the outside observer, the damaged brother appears to be a cataleptic schizophrenic, completely cut off from reality. And, in a sense, he is.”
Stanton walked over to the nightstand by the bed, took another cigarette from the pack, lit it, and looked at the smoke curling up from the tip.
So Martin became a cataleptic schizophrenic, he thought.
The mind of Martin had ceased to think at all. The “Bart” part of him had not wanted to be disturbed by the garbled, feeble sensory impressions that “Mart’s” body provided. Like many another schizophrenic, Martin had been living in a little world cut off from the actual physical world around his body.
The difference between Martin’s condition and that of the ordinary schizophrenic had been that Martin’s little dream world had actually existed. It had been an almost exact counterpart of the world that had existed in the perfectly sane, rational mind of his brother, Bart. It had grown and developed as Bart had, fed by the one-way telepathic flow from the stronger mind to the weaker.
There had been two Barts—and no Mart at all.
But there had been only one human being between them. Bart Stanton had been a strong, capable, intelligent, active human being. The duplicate of his mind was just a recording in the mind of a useless, radiation-blasted hulk.
And then the Neurophysical Institute had come into the picture. A new process had been developed by Dr. Farnsworth and his crew, by which a human being could be reconstructed—made, literally, into a superman. All the techniques had been worked out in careful and minute detail. But there was one major drawback. Any normal human body would resist the process—to the death, if necessary—just as a normal human body will resist a skin graft from an alien donor or the injection of an alien protein.
But the radiation-damaged body of Martin Stanton had had no resistance of that kind. It had long been known that deep-penetrating ionizing radiation had that effect on an organism. The ability to resist was weakened, almost destroyed.
With Martin Stanton’s body—perhaps—the process might work.
So Bartholomew Stanton, who had become Martin’s legal guardian after the death of their mother, had given permission for the series of operations that would rebuild his crippled brother.
The telepathic link, of course, had to be shut off—for a time, at least. If it remained intact, Martin would never be able to think for himself, no matter what was done to his body. Part of that cutting-off process could be done during the treatment of Martin—but only if Bartholomew would co-operate. He had done his part. He had submitted to deep hypnosis, and had allowed himself to be convinced that his name was Stanley Martin, to think of himself as Stanley Martin. The Martin name was one that the real Martin’s mind would reject utterly. That mind wanted nothing to do with anything named Martin.
“Stanley Martin,” then, had gone out to the asteroids. In his mind had been implanted the further instructions that he was not to return to Earth nor to attempt to investigate the Nipe under any circumstances. The simple change of name and environment had been just enough to snap the link during a time when Martin’s brain had been inactivated by cold therapy and anesthetics.
Only the sense of identity had remained. The patient was still “Bart”—but now he was being forced to think for himself.
Mannheim had used them both, naturally. Colonel Mannheim had the ability to use anyone at hand, including himself, to get a job done.
Stanton looked at his watch. It was almost time.
Mannheim had sent for “Stanley Martin” when the time had come for him to return in order to give the Nipe data that he would be sure to misinterpret. A special series of code phrases in the message had released “Stanley Martin” from the hypnotic suggestions that had held him for so long. He knew now that he was Bartholomew Stanton.
And so do I, thought the man by the window. We have a lot to straighten out, we two.
There was a knock at the door.
Stanton walked over and opened it, trying not to think.
It was like looking into a mirror.
“Hello, Bart,” he said.
“Hello, Bart,” said the other.
In that instant, complete telepathic linkage was restored. In that instant, they both knew what only one of them had known before—that, for a time, the telepathic flow had been one-way again, but this time in the opposite direction—that “Stanley Martin” had been shaken that afternoon when his own mind had become the receptor for the other’s thoughts, and he had experienced completely the entire battle with the Nipe. His release from the posthypnotic suggestion had made it possible.
There was no need for further words.
E duobus unum.
There was unity without loss of identity.
THE UNNECESSARY MAN (1959)
Lord Barrick Sorban, Colonel, H.I.M.O.G., Ret., sipped gently at his drink and looked mildly at the sheaf of newsfacsimile that he’d just bought fresh from the reproducer in the lobby of the Royal Hotel. Sorban did not look like a man of action; he certainly did not look like a retired colonel of His Imperial Majesty’s Own Guard. The most likely reason for this was that he was neither.
Not that he was incapable of action on a physical level if it became necessary; he was past forty, but his tough, hard body was in as fine a shape as it had been fifteen years before, and his reflexes had slowed only slightly. The only major change that had occurred in his body during that time had been the replacement of an irreparably damaged left hand by a prosthetic.
But Lord Barrick Sorban preferred to use his mind, to initiate action in others rather than himself, and his face showed it. His was a precision mind, capable of fast, accurate computations, and his eyes betrayed the fact, but the rest of his face looked, if anything, rather like that of a gentle, persuasive schoolteacher—the type whom children love and parents admire and both obey.
Nor was he a retired colonel of the Imperial bodyguard, except on paper. According to the official records, he had been retired for medical reasons—the missing left hand. In reality, his position in the Imperium was a great deal higher than that of an ordinary colonel, and he was still in the active service of the Emperor. It was a secret known only to a comparative few, and one that was carefully guarded.
He was a fairly tall man, as an Imperial Guardsman had to be, with a finely-shaped head and dark hair that was
shot through with a single streak of gray from an old burn wound. In an officer’s uniform, he looked impressive, but in civilian dress he looked like a competent businessman.
He held the newsfac in his prosthetic left hand, which was indistinguishable in appearance and in ordinary usage from the flesh, bone, and blood that it had replaced. Indeed, the right hand, with its stiff little finger, often appeared to be more useless than the left. The hand, holding the glass of rye-and-ginger, gave an impression of over-daintiness because of that stiff digit.
Lord Sorban paid little attention to the other customers in the bar; customers of the Green Room of the Royal Hotel weren’t the noisy kind, anyway. He kept his attention on the newsfac for the most part; only a small amount of awareness was reserved for the approach of the man he was waiting for.
The banner line on the newsfac said:
BAIRNVELL OCCUPIED BY IMPERIAL FORCES
He read through the article hurriedly, absorbing what facts he didn’t know, and then flipped over to the editorial page. If he knew the Globe, there would sure as Space be an editorial.
There was.
At 0231 Greenwich Earth Time, 3/37/229, the forces of the Imperial Government occupied the planet Bairnvell. (See article, Page One.) The ships of the Imperial Space Force landed, purportedly at the request of Obar Del Pargon, rebel leader of the anti-Presidential forces. That such an action should be condoned by the Imperial File is astounding enough; that it should be ordered by the Prime Portfolio himself is almost unbelievable.
The government of Bairnvell, under the leadership of President Alverdan, was not, by any means, up to the standards of the Empire; the standard of living is lower, and the political freedom of the people is not at all what we are used to. But that is no excuse for interfering with the lawful government of any planet. If the Imperium uses these methods for extending its rule, the time must eventually come when our own civil liberties will be in peril.
Perhaps Lord Senesin’s actions are not so surprising, at that. This is the third time during his tenure as Prime Portfolio that he has arbitrarily exercised his power to interfere in the affairs of governments outside the Empire. Each such action has precipitated a crisis in Galactic affairs, and each has brought the Empire nearer to conflict with the Gehan Federation. This one may be the final act that will bring on interstellar war.
The ...
Colonel Lord Sorban stopped reading as he noticed the approach of the man he’d been waiting for, but he didn’t look up until the voice said:
“I see you’ve been reading it, my lord.” The voice was bitter. “A real fiasco this time, eh?”
Sorban looked up. “It looks like it might mean trouble,” he said carefully. “Have you read all of it, Mr. Senesin?”
The young man nodded. The bitterness in his voice was paralleled by the bitterness reflected in his face. “Oh, yes. I read it. The other newsfacs pretty much agreed with the Globe. I’m afraid my father seems to be rather in the soup. Being Prime Portfolio in the Terran Empire isn’t the easiest way to stay out of trouble. They’ll be screaming for a Special Election next.” He sat down next to the colonel and lowered his voice just enough to keep anyone else from hearing it, but not enough to sound conspiratorial. “I think I’ve got a line on those tapes.”
Colonel Sorban raised an eyebrow. “Really? Well, I wish you luck. If you can uncover them in time, you may be able to save your father’s career,” he said, in a voice that matched Senesin’s.
“You don’t sound very concerned, my lord,” said young Senesin.
“It’s not that,” said the colonel. “I just find it difficult to believe that—” He cut his words off as another man approached.
The second newcomer was a red-faced, plumpish man with an almost offensively hearty manner. “Well, well! Good afternoon, Lord Sorban! Haven’t seen you in some time. A pleasure to see you again, my lord, a distinct pleasure! I don’t get to Honolulu often, you know. How long’s it been? Four years?”
“Two, I think,” said the colonel.
“Really? Only two? It seems longer. How’ve you been?”
“Well enough,” said the colonel. “Excuse me—Mr. Heywood, I’d like to present you to the Honorable Jon Senesin; Mr. Senesin, this is Robar Heywood, of South African Metals.”
While the two men shook hands and mouthed the usual pleasantries, Colonel Lord Sorban watched them with an amusement that didn’t show on his placid face. Young Senesin was rather angry that the tête-á-tête had been interrupted, while Heywood seemed flustered and a trifle stuffy.
“So you’re the son of our Prime Portfolio, eh?” he said. There was a trace of hostility in his voice.
Colonel Sorban saw what was coming and made no effort whatsoever to stop it. Instead, he simply sat there in straight-faced enjoyment.
“That’s correct, Mr. Heywood,” Senesin said, a little stiffly.
“I should have known,” Heywood said. “You look a great deal like him. Although I don’t know that I’ve ever seen your picture in the newsfacs or on the screens.”
“Dad prefers to keep his family out of the spotlight,” said Senesin, “unless we get publicity for something other than the accidental fact that we happen to be the family of the Prime.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I see. May I stand the three of us a drink?” Senesin and the colonel were agreeable. The drinks were brought. Heywood took a swallow of his, and remarked casually: “Do you agree with your father’s politics, sir?”
“I don’t know,” Senesin said flatly.
Heywood misunderstood completely. “Yes, I suppose it is a bit disappointing. Hard for a man’s son to divide his loyalty like that. You can’t support his actions, and yet you hesitate to condemn your own father.”
“You mistake my meaning, Mr. Heywood,” young Senesin said sharply. “I said, ‘I don’t know’ because I honestly don’t know what my father’s politics is any more.”
But Heywood only compounded his error. “Of course not. How could you? Since he became Prime, his policies have been erratic and unpredictable, not to say foolish.”
This is it, thought the colonel, wondering what young Senesin’s reaction would be. He didn’t have to wonder longer than half a second.
“Mr. Heywood,” said Senesin, his voice oddly tight under the strain of suppressed emotion, “a person should learn to know what he’s talking about before he makes any attempt to talk. If you must talk drivel about my father, I’ll thank you not to do it in my presence.” And before Heywood could formulate an answer, Senesin turned to the colonel. “If you’ll pardon me, my lord, I have another errand to perform. I’ll see you at eleven.” Then he turned and walked out.
Heywood stared at his receding back. “Well,” he said after a moment, “I guess I spoke out of turn. But he seemed ...” He turned back to his drink, shrugged. “Oh, well. Tell me, my lord, what do you think of Senesin’s policies? How long do you think he’ll last in office?”
The colonel adroitly avoided the first question by answering the second. “I dare say he won’t last long. There’ll be a great fuss in the File, and most of his own party will desert him—I think. They hardly have any choice, considering the reaction of the populace to this Bairnvell thing.”
“And I agree,” said Heywood decisively. “We’ve got no business interfering with the lawful governments of planets and systems outside the Empire. The old days of Imperial expansion are over. Why, the way Lord Senesin acts, you’d think Emperor Jerris the First was on the throne.”
“Well, not quite,” Colonel Lord Sorban said dryly. “I can’t imagine any Prime Portfolio in the time of Jerris I daring to act on his own initiative.”
“Exactly,” said Heywood, just as though the colonel had agreed with him. “That’s why we have a constitutional Empire today. One man can’t be allowed that much power without the consent of the governed. The people must have a right to depose anyone who abuses the power they give him.” He swallowed the remainder of his drink. “Can you imag
ine what it would be like if the present Emperor tried to pull that sort of stuff? Not that he would, mind you; he’s too good an Emperor for that. He sticks to his job. But these are different times. And then, too, we can’t afford to antagonize the Gehan Federation. After all, I mean, war ...” He shook his head at the thought.
Colonel Lord Sorban had listened to Heywood’s soliloquy with patience, but he felt his irritation growing. Much as he had enjoyed the play between Heywood and young Senesin, he had expected to get some information out of the boy before he left. And besides, Heywood’s clichéd monologue was beginning to pall.
Therefore, the colonel finished his own drink, uttered some polite banalities and got out.
* * * *
He walked around the corner to the restaurant, was bowed into a seat by an ultrapolite android, and quietly ordered his meal. While he waited, he spread the newsfac on the table in front of him, holding it with his right hand while his left elbow rested on the table and his left palm cradled his left jaw. In that position, there was nothing odd-looking about the fact that his left thumbtip was in contact with his larynx and his left middle finger was pressed tightly against the mastoid bone just behind his left ear. His lips began to move slightly, and anyone at a nearby table would have assumed that he was one of those readers who are habitual lip-movers.
“The Senesin boy says he has a lead on the tapes. That’s all I could get out of him just now, but I have an appointment with him at eleven tonight. How far shall I let him go, Sire?”
The sensitive microphone in the tip of his thumb picked up the nearly inaudible sounds; the speaker in his middle finger vibrated against his skull and brought him the answer to his question.
“For the moment, I’ll leave that up to you. But I wouldn’t try to stop him just yet.”
“Very well, Sire,” murmured the colonel. He had already made up his mind to let the Senesin boy go as far as he could. The lad was smart, and his attack would at least provide a test for the psycho-sociological defenses that surrounded the Emperor.
The Randall Garrett Megapack Page 92
