by Isaac Asimov
It was one of the new kind, its sound waves suppressed, its smooth surface absorbing, rather than reflecting, radar beams. Its popular name was the "hushicopter."
Morrison's heart sank. If they were using a hushicopter, which were extremely expensive and quite rare, then he was being treated as no ordinary prey. He was being treated as a big fish.
But I'm not a big fish, he thought desperately.
The automobile stopped and the headlights went out. There was still the faint purr and a few dim violet lights, hardly visible, marked the spot where the hushicopter sat.
The large man at Morrison's right threw open the car door and, again with a grunt, lowered his head and forced his way out. His large hand reached in for Morrison.
Morrison tried to shrink away. "Where are you taking me?"
The large man seized his upper arm. "Come out. Enough talking."
Morrison felt himself half-lifted, half-pulled out of the car. His shoulder hurt as it might be expected to do, considering that it had been nearly yanked out of its socket.
But he disregarded the pain. It was the first time he had heard the large man speak. The words were in English, but the accent was thickly Russian.
Morrison felt cold. These were not Americans who had him.
10.
Morrison had entered the hushicopter - though that is not an accurate description of what took place. To enter implies a voluntary action and he had been much more nearly pushed into the vehicle.
It had pulsed its way through the darkness as he sat between the same two men between whom he had sat in the car. It was almost as though nothing had changed, although the whisper of the rotors was distinctly more hypnotic than the purr of the automobile engine had been.
After an hour - or possibly less - they came out of the darkness of the air and drifted downward toward the darkness of the ocean. Morrison could tell it was the ocean because he could smell it, was vaguely aware of the fog of droplets in the air, and because he could make out, very dimly, the dark bulk of a ship - dark on dark.
How could the hushicopter make its way out to the ocean and pinpoint a ship? - the right ship, he was sure. Even in his half-stupor of despair, Morrison's mind could not help searching for solutions. Undoubtedly, the hushicopter pilot had followed a shielded and pseudorandomized radio beam. The beam seemed random but, given the key, it could be found to have order and its source could be identified. Properly done, the pseudorandomness could not be penetrated even by quite an advanced computer.
Nor was the ship more than a temporary stopping place. He was allowed to use the head, given time for a hurried meal of bread and thick soup (which he found most welcome), and was then ushered - with the unceremonious hustle he had begun to accept as a fact of life - into a medium-sized airplane. It was a ten-seater (he counted automatically), but except for the two pilots and, sitting in the rear, the two men who had been on either side of him in the car and in the hushicopter, he was alone in the plane.
Morrison looked back at his guards, whom he just made out in the very dim light that filled the plane's interior. There was enough room in the plane so that they were not forced to hem him in. Nor did they need to do so out of fear that he might break and run for it. Here, he could break out only onto the deck of the ship. Once the plane took off, he could break out only into the open air with nothing beneath him but water of indefinite depth.
He wondered numbly why they were not taking off and then the door opened to admit another passenger. Despite the dimness, he recognized her at once.
He had met her for the first time only twelve hours before, but how could he have progressed from that first moment of meeting to the present moment in only twelve hours?
Boranova sat down in the seat next to his and said in a low voice, "I am sorry, Dr. Morrison." She was speaking in Russian.
And, as though that were the signal, the sound of the airplane's engines deepened and he felt himself pressed against his seat as the plane moved steeply upward.
Morrison stared at Natalya Boranova, trying to collect his thoughts. Dimly, he felt a desire to say something to her in a suave, imperturbable way, but there was no chance of that.
His voice was a creak and even after he cleared his throat, all he could say was "I've been kidnapped."
"That could not be helped, Dr. Morrison. I regret this. I really do. I have my duty, you understand. I had to bring you back by persuasion if I could. Otherwise -" She let the last word hang.
"But you can't behave in this fashion. This is not the twentieth century." He choked a little in his earnest attempt to stifle his sense of indignation to the point where he could speak sensibly. "I am not a recluse. I am not a derelict. I will be missed and American intelligence is perfectly aware that we spoke and they know that you wanted me to come to the Soviet Union. They will know I have been kidnapped - they may know it already - and your government will find itself in the middle of a kind of international incident it will want no part of."
"Not so," said Boranova earnestly, her dark eyes gazing levelly into his. "Not so. Of course your people know what has happened, but they have no objections. Dr. Morrison, the Soviet Union's intelligence operations are marked both by advanced technology and by over a century of close study of American psychology. I have no doubt that American intelligence is just as advanced. It is this equality of expertise, which is shared by several of the other geographical units of the planet, that helps to keep us in cooperation. Each of us is firmly convinced that no one else is far ahead on a road of its own."
"I don't know what you're driving at," said Morrison. The planet was arrowing through the night, speeding toward the eastern dawn.
"What concerns American intelligence most right now is our attempt at miniaturization."
"Attempt!" Morrison said with a note of sardonic amusement.
"Successful attempt. - The Americans don't know that it is successful. They don't know if the miniaturization project may not be a mask behind which something altogether different is going on. They know we're doing something. I'm sure they have a detailed map of the area in the Soviet Union where the experiments are proceeding - every building, every truck convoy. They undoubtedly have agents who are doing their best to penetrate the project.
"Naturally, we're doing our best to counter all this. We are not indignant. We know a great deal about the American experiments in antigravity and it would be naive to take the attitude that we can probe and that the Americans can't; that we can have our successes, but the American mustn't."
Morrison rubbed his eyes. Boranova's quiet, even voice was making him realize that his ordinary bedtime was past and that he was sleepy. He said, "What has this to do with the fact that my country will bitterly resent my kidnapping?"
"Listen to me, Dr. Morrison. Understand me. Why should they? We need you, but they can't be certain why. They have no reason to suppose there is anything of value in your neurophysical notions. They must think we are following a false trail and will get nothing out of you, but they can have no objection to getting an American into the miniaturization project. If this American finds out what it is all about, the information will prove valuable to them. - Don't you think they might reason in this fashion, Dr. Morrison?"
"I don't know how they would reason," said Morrison carefully. "It is not a matter of interest to me."
"But you spoke to a Francis Rodano after you left me so suddenly. - You see, we know even that. Would you care to tell me that he did not suggest that you play along with us and go to the Soviet Union in order to find out what you might find out?"
"You mean he wants me to play the spy?"
"Doesn't he? Didn't he make that suggestion?"
Again Morrison ignored the question. He said, "And since you are convinced I am to be a spy, you will have me executed after I do whatever it is you want me to do. Isn't that what happens to spies?"
"You've been viewing too many old-fashioned movies, Dr. Morrison. In the first place, we will see to i
t that you don't find out anything important - anything at all. In the second place, spies are too valuable a commodity to destroy. They are useful as trading units for any agents of ours that may be in American hands - or in foreign hands generally. I believe that the United States takes much the same attitude."
Morrison said, "To begin with, then, I am not a spy, madame. I am not going to be a spy. I know nothing about American intelligence operations. Also, I'm not going to do anything for you."
"I'm not at all sure about that, Dr. Morrison. I think you'll decide to work with us."
"What do you have in mind? Will you starve me till I agree? Beat me? Keep me in solitary confinement? Put me in a work camp?"
Boranova frowned and shook her head slowly in what seemed to be genuine shock. "Really, Doctor, what are these things you suggest? Are we back in the days when you were loudly proclaiming us to be an evil empire and inventing horror stories about us? I don't say that we might not be tempted to use strong measures if you intransigeantly refuse. Necessity drives sometimes, you know. - But we won't have to. I'm convinced of that."
"What convinces you?" Morrison asked wearily.
"You're a scientist. You're a brave man."
"I? Brave? Lady, lady, what do you know about me?"
"That you have a peculiar viewpoint. That you have upheld it all this time. That you have watched your career go downhill. That you have convinced nobody. And that, despite all this, you cling to your view and do not budge from what you are certain is right. Is not this the act of a brave man?"
Morrison nodded. "Yes. Yes. It is a kind of bravery. Still, there are a thousand crackpots in the history of science who clung all their lives to some ridiculous view against logic, against evidence, against their own self-interest. I may be just another one of them."
"In that case, you might be wrong, but you would still be brave. Do you think bravery is entirely a matter of physical daring?"
"I know it is not. There are all kinds of bravery and perhaps," he said bitterly, "every one of those kinds of bravery is a mark of insanity or, at any rate, folly."
"Surely you do not consider yourself a coward?"
"Why not? In some ways, I flatter myself by saying that I am sane."
"But mad in your stubborn views concerning neurophysics?"
"I would not be surprised."
"But surely you think your views are correct."
"Certainly, Dr. Boranova. That would be part of my madness, would it not?"
Boranova shook her head. "You are not a serious man. I've said that before. My countryman Shapirov thinks you're right - or, if not right, at least a genius."
"Next best thing, certainly. Part of his madness, too."
"Shapirov's opinion is very special."
"To you, I'm sure. - Look, lady, I am tired. I am so groggy, I don't know what I'm saying. I'm not sure all this is real. I hope it isn't. Let me just - just rest a little."
Boranova sighed and a look of concern entered her eyes. "Yes, of course, my poor friend. We wish you no harm. Please believe that."
Morrison let his head bow down on his chest. His eyes closed. Dimly, he felt himself pushed gently to one side and a pillow placed under his head.
Time passed. A dreamless time.
When he opened his eyes, he was still on the plane. There were no lights, but he knew without any doubt whatever that he was still on the plane.
He said, "Dr. Boranova?"
She replied instantly, "Yes, Dr. Morrison?"
"We're not being pursued?"
"Not at all. There are several of our own planes flying distant interference, but they have had nothing to do. Come, my friend, we want you and your government wants us to have you."
"And you still insist that you have miniaturization? That it is not madness? Or a hoax?"
"You will see for yourself. And you will see what a wonder it is, so that you will want to be part of it. You will demand to be part of it."
"And what will you be doing with it," asked Morrison thoughtfully, "assuming this is not an elaborate joke you are playing on me? Do you plan to make a weapon of it? Transport an army in a plane like this? Infiltrate each land with an invisible host? That sort of thing?"
"How revolting!" She cleared her throat as though she were tempted to spit with disgust. "Have we not enough land? Enough people? Enough resources? Have we not our large share of space? Are there not more important things to do with miniaturization? Can it be that you are so twisted and distorted that you do not see what it will mean as a research tool? Imagine the study of living systems that it will make possible; the study of crystal chemistry and solid-state systems; the construction of ultraminiaturized computers and devices of all sorts. Think further of what we might learn of physics if we can alter Planck's constant to suit ourselves. What might we not learn of cosmology?"
Morrison struggled to sit upright. He was still woozy, but there was an incipient dawn outside the plane windows and he could see Boranova very dimly.
He said, "Is that what you wish to do with it, then? Noble scientific endeavors?"
"What would your government do with it if you had it? Try to achieve a sudden military superiority and restore the bad old days?"
"No. Of course not."
"So that only you are noble and only we are terribly evil? Do you honestly believe that? - It may be, of course, that if miniaturization becomes sufficiently successful, the Soviet Union may achieve a lead in the development of a space-centered society. Think of transporting miniaturized material from one world to another, of sending a million colonists in a spaceship that would house only two or three human beings of normal size. Space will acquire a Soviet coloring, a Soviet tinge - not because the Soviet people will dominate and be masters, but because Soviet thought will have won in the battle of ideas. And what is wrong with that?"
Morrison shook his head in the dimness. "Then I certainly won't help you. Why should you expect me to? I won't fasten Soviet thought on the Universe. I prefer American thought and tradition."
"You think you do and I don't blame you for it. But we will persuade you. You will see."
"You won't."
Boranova said, "My dear friend Albert - if I may call you that. I have said that we will be admired for our progress. Do you think you will be immune? - But let us leave such discussions for another time."
She pointed out the plane window at the gray sea beneath, which was just becoming visible.
"We are now over the Mediterranean," she said, "and soon we will be over the Black Sea and then across the Volga to Malenkigrad - Smalltown, in English, eh? - and the sun will have risen when we land. That will be symbolic. A new day. New light. I predict you will be eager to help us establish this new day and I would not be surprised if you never wish to leave the Soviet Union again."
"Without your forcing me to stay?"
"We will fly you home freely if you ask us to - once you have helped us."
"I won't help you."
"You will."
"And I demand now that I be returned."
"Now doesn't count," said Boranova cheerfully.
And they flew the last several hundred kilometers to Malenkigrad.
Chapter 3. Malenkigrad
A pawn is the most important piece on the chessboard - to a pawn.
— Dezhnev Senior
Francis Rodano was at his office early the next morning, which was Monday and the beginning of the week. That he had worked on Sunday was common enough not to surprise him. That he had slept at all during the night just completed did.
When he arrived, half an hour before the official start of the day, Jonathan Winthrop was already there. That did not surprise Rodano, either.
Winthrop walked into Rodano's office within two minutes of the latter's arrival. He leaned against the wall, the palms of his large hands hugging his elbows, his left leg crossing his right, so that the toe of his left shoe was digging into the carpet.
"You look worn-out, Frank," he sa
id, his eyebrows hunching low over his dark eyes.
Rodano looked up at the other's shock of coarse gray hair, which routinely deprived him of any claim of his own to splendor of appearance, and said, "I feel worn-out, but I was hoping it didn't show." Rodano was very aware of having gone through the morning's rituals thoroughly and carefully and of having dressed with considerable judgment.
"It shows, though. Your face is the mirror of your soul. Some agent in the field you'd have made."
Rodano said, "We're not all made for the field."
"I know. And we're not all made for desk work, either." Winthrop rubbed his bulbous nose as though he were anxious to file it down to normal size. "I take it you're worried about your scientist, what's his name?"
"His name is Albert Jonas Morrison," said Rodano wearily. There was this pretense at the Department of not knowing Morrison's name, as though everyone was anxious to emphasize that the project wasn't theirs.
"Okay. I have no objection to your mentioning his name. I take it you're worried about him."
"Yes, I'm worried about him, along with a lot of other things. I wish I could see things more clearly."
"Who doesn't?" Winthrop sat down. "Look, there's no use worrying. You've handled this from the start, and I've been willing to let you do so because you're a good man. I'm perfectly satisfied you've done all you could to make this work because one thing about you is that you understand the Russkies."
Rodano winced. "Don't call them that. You've been watching too many twentieth-century movies. They're not all Russians, any more than we're all Anglo-Saxons. They're Soviets. If you want to understand them, try to understand how they think of themselves."
"Sure. Anything you say. Have you figured out what's so important about your scientist?"
"Nothing, as far as I know. No one takes him seriously except the Soviets."
"Do you think the Soviets know something we don't?"
"A few things, I'm sure, but I haven't any notion of what they see in Morrison. It's not the Soviets, either. It's one Soviet scientist - a theoretical physicist named Shapirov. It's possible that he's the guy who worked out the method of miniaturization - if the method has really been worked out at all. Scientists outside the Soviet Union are ambivalent about Shapirov. He's erratic and, to put it kindly, eccentric. The Soviets are all gung-ho on him, however, and he's all gung-ho on Morrison, though that may just be another sign of his eccentricity. Then the interest in Morrison recently graduated from curiosity to desperation."
