Fantastic Voyage II: Destination Brain fv-2

by Isaac Asimov

  Rodano sighed, half-shrugged, half-smiled, and rose slowly to his feet. "That's it, then. We can't force you to serve your country if you don't wish to."

  He moved toward the door, his feet dragging a little, and then, even with his hand reaching for the doorknob, he turned and said, "Still, it upsets me a little. I'm afraid I was wrong and I hate to be wrong."

  "Wrong? What did you do? Bet someone five bucks I'd jump at the chance to give my life for my country?"

  "No, I thought you would jump at the chance to advance your career. After all, you're not getting anywhere as things are. Your ideas are not listened to; your papers are no longer published. Your appointment at your university is not likely to be renewed. Tenure? Forget it. Government grants? Never. Not after you have refused our request. After this year, you will have no income and no status. And yet you will not go to the Soviet Union, as I was sure you would as the one way of salvaging your career. Failing that, what will you do?"

  "My problem."

  "No. Our problem. The name of the game in this good new world of ours is technological advance: the prestige, the influence, the abilities that come with being able to do what other powers cannot. The game is between the two chief contestants and their respective allies; we and they, the U.S. and the S.U. For all our circumspect friendship, we still compete. The counters in the game are scientists and engineers and any disgruntled counter might conceivably be used by the other side. You are a disgruntled counter, Dr. Morrison. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  "I understand that you're about to be offensive."

  "We have your statement that Dr. Boranova invited you to visit the Soviet Union. Did she, really? May she not have invited you to stay in the United States and work for the Soviet Union in return for support for your ideas?"

  "I was right. You are offensive."

  "It's my job to be so - if I must. What if I'm right after all and you would jump at the chance of advancing your career. Only this is the way you intend to do it - stay here and accept Soviet money or backing in return for giving them whatever information you can."

  "That is wrong. You have no evidence suggesting that and you cannot prove it."

  "But I can suspect it and so can others. We will then make it our business to keep you under constant surveillance. You will not be able to do science. Your professional life will be over - entirely. - And you can avoid all that, simply by doing as we ask and going to the Soviet Union."

  Morrison's lips tightened and he said, out of a dry throat, "You're threatening me in a crude attempt at blackmail and I won't capitulate. I'll take my chances. My theories on the brain's thinking center are correct and that will someday be recognized - whatever you or anyone does."

  "You can't live on 'someday.'"

  "Then I'll die. I may be a physical coward, but I'm not a moral one. Good-bye."

  Rodano, with one last look, half-commiserating, left.

  And Morrison, shaking in a spasm of fear and hopelessness, felt the spirit of defiance leak away, leaving nothing behind but despair.

  Chapter 2. Taken

  If asking politely is useless, take.

  — Dezhnev Senior

  7.

  Then I'll die, thought Morrison.

  He hadn't even bothered double-locking the door after Rodano left. He sat in the chair, lost in thought, face vacant. The westering sun slanted in through the window and he didn't bother to push the contact that would opacify the glass. He simply let it slant in. In fact, he found a distant hypnotic fascination in watching the dust motes dance.

  He had fled from the Russian woman in fright, but he had stood up to the American agent, stood up with the courage of - of despair.

  And desperation - minus the courage - was all he felt now. What Rodano had said was, after all, true. His appointment would not be renewed for the coming year and none of the feelers he had sent out had twitched. He was poison at the academic box office and he lacked the kind of experience (or, more important, the kind of contacts) that would get him a job in the private sector, even if the quiet countervailing effort of an offended government were not taken into account.

  What would he do? Go to Canada?

  There was Janvier at McGill University. He had once expressed an interest in Morrison's ideas. Once! Morrison had not tried McGill, since he hadn't planned to leave the country. Now his plans were of no account. He might have to.

  There was Latin America, where a dozen universities might welcome a Northerner who could speak Spanish or Portuguese - at least after a fashion. Morrison's Spanish was poor; his Portuguese was nil.

  What had he to lose? There were no family ties. Even his daughters were distant now, fading at the edges, somehow, like old photographs. He had no friends to speak of - at least none that had survived the disasters of his research.

  There was his program, of course, specially designed by himself. It had been built, in the first place, by a small firm according to his specifications. Since then he had modified it endlessly on his own. Perhaps he should patent it, except that no one but he was ever likely to use it. He would take it with him, of course, wherever he went. He had it with him now, in his left inner jacket pocket, within which it bulged like an oversize wallet.

  Morrison could hear the roughness of his own breathing and he realized that he was escaping from the purposeless merry-go-round of his thoughts by falling asleep over them. How could he interest others in anything, he thought bitterly, when he bored even himself?

  He was aware that the sun no longer struck his window and that a gathering twilight encompassed his room. So much the better.

  He became conscious of a polite buzz. It was the room telephone, he realized, but he didn't budge. Morrison let his eyes remain closed. It was probably this man, this Rodano, calling to make a final try. Let him ring.

  Sleep closed in and Morrison's head lolled to one side in so uncomfortable a position that he didn't stay asleep long.

  It was perhaps fifteen minutes later that he started awake. The sky was still blue, but the twilight in his room had darkened and he thought, with some guilt, that he had missed all the papers given in the afternoon. And then, rebelliously, he thought: Good! Why should I want to hear them?

  Rebellion grew. What was he doing at the convention anyway? In three days he had not heard one paper that had interested him, nor had he met anyone who could do his sinking career one bit of good. What would he do the remaining three days except try to avoid the two people he had met whom he desperately did not want to meet again - Boranova and Rodano.

  He was hungry. He hadn't had a proper lunch and it was almost dinnertime. The trouble was that he was in no mood to eat alone in the hotel's plush restaurant and in less of a mood to pay its inflated prices. The thought of waiting in line for a stool at the coffee shop was even less appetizing.

  That decided everything. He'd had enough. He might as well check out and walk to the train station. (It was not a long walk and the cool evening air would, perhaps, help clear the miseries out of his mind.) It would take him little more than five minutes to pack; he'd be on his way in ten.

  He went about the, task grimly. At least he would save half the hotel bill and he would get away from a place that, he was convinced, would bring him only misery if he stayed.

  He was quite right, of course, but no prescient bell in his mind rang to inform him that he had already stayed too long.

  8.

  After quickly checking out at the desk downstairs, Morrison stepped out of the large glass doors of the hotel, glad to be free, but still ill at ease. He had carefully investigated the lobby to make sure that neither Boranova nor Rodano was in sight and now he looked up and down the line of taxis and studied the knots of people moving in and out of the hotel.

  All clear - it seemed.

  All clear, except for an angry government, nothing accomplished, and endless trouble ahead. McGill University seemed more attractive every moment - if he could get in.

  He swung d
own the sidewalk in the darkening evening toward the train station, which was just too far away to be in sight. He would get home, he calculated, well past midnight and he would have no chance at all of sleeping on the train. He had a book of crossword puzzles that might occupy him - if the light were good enough. Or -

  Morrison wheeled around at the sound of his name. He did this automatically, though by rights, under the conditions that prevailed, he should have hurried onward. There was no one here he wanted to speak to.

  "Al! Al Morrison! Good heavens!" The voice was high-pitched and Morrison didn't recognize it.

  Nor did he recognize the face. It was round, middle-aged, smooth-shaven, and decorated with steel-framed glasses. The person it belonged to was welldressed.

  Morrison at once felt the usual agony of trying to remember a person who clearly remembered him and who behaved as though they were good friends. His mouth fell open with the effort of riffling through his mind's card catalog.

  The other man seemed to be aware of what was troubling Morrison and it didn't seem to bother him. He said, "You don't remember me, I see. No reason you should. I'm Charlie Norbert. We met at a Gordon Research Conference - oh, years ago. You were questioning one of the speakers on brain function and did a good job. Very incisive. So it's no wonder I remember you, you see."

  "Ah yes," mumbled Morrison, trying to remember when he had last been at a Gordon Research Conference. About seven years ago, wasn't it? "That's very flattering of you."

  "We had a long talk about it that evening, Dr. Morrison. I remember because I was so impressed by you. No reason for you to remember, though. There's nothing impressive about me. Listen, I came across your name on the list of attendees. Your middle name, Jonas, brought you right back. I wanted to talk to you. I called your room about half an hour ago, but there was no answer."

  Norbert seemed to be aware of Morrison's suitcase for the first time and said in obvious dismay, "Are you leaving?"

  "Actually, I'm trying to catch a train. Sorry."

  "Please give me a few minutes. I've been reading about your - notions."

  Morrison stepped back a little. Even expressed interest in his ideas was not enough at the moment. Besides, the other's after shave lotion was strong and invaded his personal space, as did the man himself. Nothing the other said brought back any memory of him.

  Morrison said, "I'm sorry, but if you've been reading about my notions, you're probably the only one. I hope you don't mind, but -"

  "But I do mind." Norbert's face grew serious. "It strikes me the field isn't properly appreciative of you."

  "That fact struck me a long time ago, Mr. Norbert."

  "Call me Charlie. We were on a first-name basis long ago. - You don't have to go unappreciated, you know?"

  "There's no compulsion about it. I just am and that's it. Well -" Morrison turned as if to leave.

  "Wait, Al. What if I told you I could get you a new job with people who are sympathetic to your way of thinking?"

  Morrison paused again. "I would say you were dreaming."

  "I'm not. Al, listen to me - boy, am I glad I bumped into you - I want to introduce you to someone. Look, we're starting a new company, Genetic Mentalics. We've got lots of money behind us and big plans. The trick is to improve the human mind by means of genetic engineering. We've been improving computers every year, so why not our personal computer as well?" He tapped his forehead earnestly. "Where is he? I left him in the car when I saw you walk out of the hotel. You know, you haven't changed much in the years since I last saw you."

  Morrison was untouched by that. "Does this new company want me?"

  "Of course it wants you. We want to change the mind, make it more intelligent, more creative. But what is it we change in order to accomplish that? You can tell us."

  "I'm afraid I haven't gotten that far."

  "We don't expect offhand answers. We simply want you to work toward it. - Listen, whatever your salary is now, we'll double it. You just tell us your present figure and we'll go to the small trouble of multiplying it by two. Fair enough? And you'll be your own boss."

  Morrison frowned. "This is the first time I've ever met Santa Claus in a business suit. Smooth-shaven, too. What's the gag?"

  "No gag. - Where is he? - Ah, he moved the car to get it out of the line of traffic. - Look, he's my boss, Craig Levinson. We're not doing you a favor, Al. You'll be doing us a favor. Come with me."

  Morrison hesitated only momentarily. It's always darkest before the dawn. When you're down, there's no direction but up. Lightning does strike sometimes. - He was suddenly full of old saws.

  He let himself be led by the other, hanging back only slightly.

  Norbert waved and called out, "I found him! This is the fellow I told you about. Al Morrison. He's the one we need."

  A grave middle-aged face looked out from behind the steering wheel of a late-model automobile, whose color was something uncertain in the gathering darkness. The face smiled, teeth gleaming whitely, and the voice that belonged to it said, "Great!"

  The trunk door lifted upward as they approached and Charlie Norbert took Morrison's suitcase. "Here, let me unload you." He swung it into the trunk and closed the door.

  "Wait," said Morrison, rather surprised.

  "Don't worry, Al. If you miss this train, there's another. If you want, we'll hire a limousine to take you home - eventually. Get in."

  "Into the car?"

  "Certainly." The back door had swung open invitingly.

  "Where will we be going?"

  "Look," said Norbert, his voice dropping half an octave and getting much softer. "Let's not waste time. Get in."

  Morrison felt something hard against his side and twisted in order to see what it was.

  He felt it - whatever it was - push against him. Norbert's voice was a whisper now. "Let's be very quiet, Al. Let's not make a fuss."

  Morrison got into the car and was suddenly very frightened. He knew that Norbert was holding a gun.

  9.

  Morrison pushed himself across the back seat, wondering if he could reach the other door and get out again. Even if Norbert had a gun, would he want to use it in a hotel parking lot with a hundred people within thirty meters? After all, even if the gun were silenced, his sudden collapse would surely draw attention.

  The possibility vanished quickly, however, when a third man got into the other door, a large one who grunted as he bent himself into the car and who looked at Morrison, if not malevolently, then certainly with an expression that was free of any trace of friendship.

  Morrison found himself squeezed between a man on either side and was incapable of stirring. The car moved forward smoothly and picked up speed once it moved onto the highway.

  Morrison said in a choked voice, "What is this all about? Where are we going? What are you going to do?"

  Norbert's voice, without the falsetto and without the synthetic bonhomie, was grim. "No need to worry, Dr. Morrison. We have no intention of harming you. We just want you with us."

  "I was with you back there." (He tried to point "back there," but the man on his right leaned against him and he could not free his right hand to do so.)

  "But we want you to be with us - somewhere else."

  Morrison tried to sound threatening. "See here, you're kidnapping me. That's a serious offense."

  "No, Dr. Morrison, let's not call it kidnapping. Let's call it being friendly in a rather forcible way."

  "Whatever you call it, this is illegal. Or are you the police? If so, identify yourself and tell me what I've done and what this is all about."

  "We are not charging you with anything. I told you. We just want you with us. I'd advise you to keep quiet, Doctor, and remain calm. It will be better for you."

  "I can't remain calm if I don't know what's going on."

  "Force yourself," said Norbert unsympathetically.

  Morrison couldn't think of anything further to say that would help matters and, without actually becoming calm, fell s
ilent.

  The stars were out now. The night was as clear as the day had been. The automobile moved through traffic consisting of a thousand cars, each of which had someone behind the wheel who was going quietly about his or her ordinary business without any awareness that in a nearby car a crime was being committed.

  Morrison's heart continued working overtime and his lips trembled. He couldn't help but be nervous. They said they meant him no harm, but how far could he trust them? So far, everything that this man on his left had told him had been a lie.

  He tried to be calm, but to what organ of his body did he speak in order to achieve calmness? He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply and slowly - and to think rationally. He was a scientist. He had to think rationally.

  These must be Rodano's colleagues. They were taking him to headquarters, where the pressure to force him to undertake the mission would be increased. However, they couldn't succeed. He was an American and that meant he could be treated only according to certain established rules, certain legal procedures, and certain customary modes of action. There could be nothing arbitrary, nothing improvised.

  He drew another deep breath. He merely had to keep saying no and they would be helpless.

  There was a small lurch and his eyes flew open.

  The car had turned off the highway onto a narrow dirt road.

  Automatically, he said, "Where are we going?"

  There was no answer.

  The automobile bumped along for a considerable distance and then turned into a field, obscure and dark. In the glow of the car's headlights, Morrison made out a helicopter, its rotors turning slowly and its motor making only the slightest purr.