Whereupon, without waiting, he gulped in a large mouthful of air. His lungs expanded. His cheeks puffed out.
And, Gosseyn Three, responding immediately, did the same thing.
There they stood. And at first the man was thinking: Well, that’s one minute or so I’ve gained before—what?
Presumably, for about sixty seconds he had headed off a contest with more serious implications: the Gosseyn extra-brain contesting again with what was, apparently, some equivalent brain power possessed by a few people (families) from wherever these people had come; one of the possessors being the boy.
With each passing second, Gosseyn became more vividly aware of how idiotic this little contest must seem to the onlooker. And yet, of course, since their emperor was involved, no one dared react adversely.
There, each person stood, frozen, like the two contestants. Of the thirty or so men, not counting the guards in the background, only three—though they also did not move—seemed to be sizing up the situation speculatively.
Gosseyn could see the Draydart and Four, and a third man to one side, all three with their faces reflecting inner scheming. Seeing him looking at them, their eyes shifted. And then the third man turned back, and, deliberately seeking eye contact with Gosseyn, moved his lips, and framed the words: “Let the emperor win.” That was a problem which Gosseyn had already started considering. What would be best for dealing with the boy? A swift glance at the young emperor showed that his eyes were bulging, his face looking strained.
It was the moment for decision. With a gasp, Gosseyn exploded his own breath in the room. And bare instants later the boy did the same. But he yelled delightedly, “I won! I won!”
Gosseyn, having a fully developed cortex—at least so he had reason to believed—had already had a series of second thoughts. Accordingly, he gulped a few mouthfuls of air, smiled his acceptance of defeat, and said, “It’s the power of being young. But I’ll bet there are games I can beat you at.”
The goodlooking child face still needed a few more quick breaths. But it was already lighting up.
“I’ll bet you can’t beat me at Scroob,” said the 12-year-old finally. “My mother doesn’t want to play with me anymore because I’m too good for her.” Gosseyn said, “I’d have to see what kind of game it is before I argue with you. But maybe we can try a game after I’ve been assigned living quarters and get a chance to eat some food.” He added, “After all, it’s time that a decision be made that I should be treated like a guest and not a prisoner; since I assure you I am quite willing to help your scientists in any way that I can.”
It was the only way he could think of to postpone an immediate challenge. And obviously, if he could win the kind of reprieve he requested, it was the best.
He was glad, then, to see that everybody looked relieved, as the boy said, “Okay, later.”
The young emperor thereupon turned to the man who had, in effect, whispered to Gosseyn to “let the emperor win”, and said in his boyish voice, but firmly, “Breemeg, find him living quarters in the—” it was one more new word; it sounded like “. . . palomar. And then—” the boy continued, “after he’s eaten, bring him to to the . . . Place.”
That was the way that final word seemed to be pronounced: The Place.
The courtier, Breemeg, was bowing. “Very well, your majesty, it shall be done immediately.”
The young emperor was turning away. “That’s where I’ll be, myself.”
Gosseyn stood quietly with the others, as the boy walked off into the alcove, and out of sight.
CHAPTER
6
The journey to . . . Palomar . . . started out on the double. As if his guide, the suave courtier, Breemeg, realized, also—as had the other guides before him—that this interlude had better be brief.
As he sped along another lengthy corridor at his fastest stride short of running, Gosseyn nevertheless took the time to glance at his companion. Breemeg’s profile, earnest, intent, had the same pointed, slightly over-sized nose as he had noticed in the others. The skin coloring was the same white as earth whites, but something was subtly different; maybe it was too white, virtually bloodless. The mop of golden hair on top of the head seemed to be a physical quality common to one of the human types among these people, the other being the brown hair of Four.
Right now, Breemeg’s was a face with a clenched jaw and eyes narrowed, as if some unpleasant thought was working through the man’s mind.
Since Gosseyn could not know what these thoughts were until they were expressed, he took the rest of the brief journey in stride, so to speak. And he was not surprised when, presently, Breemeg and he went through a door into—it had to be—
Palomar!
His first impression: an indoor garden. Small trees. Shrubs. Some equivalent of grass. Presumably—that was the immediate thought—a large greenhouse aboard this huge vessel.
He had other fleeting awarenesses—of distinctly higher ceilings, of half-hidden doorways, dozens of them, partly visible through the shrubbery. The doors were at the far end of the garden. In between, mostly to his left—he had glimpses only—was the glint of water.
A pool? He couldn’t be sure. Because, at virtually the exact moment that he and his guide stepped across the threshold of the double door Breemeg had opened, and stepped onto the garden walk, the man said:
“Well, Mr. Gosseyn, now you know the problem of the adults aboard this command vessel of the Dzan fleet. We have to spend our waking hours in sickening, miserable, outrageous subservience to a mad boy who has a special brain control of live energy.”
Unexpected remark, yes. But at some level, not totally. The earlier Gosseyns had met and observed toadies. So, now, silently, as he heard those bitter words, Gosseyn shook his head unhappily. His thought: . . . I’m about to hear an attempt to involve me in the secret politics of a resistance group—And of course the answer to that from a General Semanticist had to be—what? Obviously, something related to survival.
He thought: . . . I’m on this ship, still—I decided to stay—not because I intended to take sides, or make special friends, but to find out what happened to cause these people to arrive in the vicinity of the space capsule where I was waiting in a very special state of suspended animation—
That had to continue to be more important to him than any problem that the Dzan lesser nobility had with their monarchy. Except—
Well to remember that the captured inhabitant of the capsule—Gilbert Gosseyn—had now been given secret information: someone or group hated the imperial power so viciously that, presumably, they were revealing that hatred with the intention of using the new arrival against the young emperor.
And, if it turned out that he did not consciously intend to involve himself, then what would the plotters do?
Would they feel that they had to silence him?
That was likely, but least likely. Because, if they were capable of murder, then it would be simpler to murder the boy and throw the blame or this strange, mysterious individual who had been brought aboard against the advice of, uh, the plotters. That could be the ploy.
Gosseyn realized that he was smiling grimly. The fact was, he thought, it would take a while for this situation to develop. And so his preliminary response had to be . . . questions.
The first question he asked seemed to be far from his basic purpose in the interrogation sequence. But it had its own significance. He asked: “The young emperor’s father—what happened to him?”
They were almost at one of the doors by the time Gosseyn spoke that warding-off sentence. The words seemed to have an impact, because Breemeg stopped. Simultaneously, he reached over and placed a restraining hand on Gosseyn’s arm.
Gosseyn accepted the touch as a signal to halt. And so, he stopped also. Slowly, then, he turned to face the other man. And added to what he had already said, “I presume the boy inherited his position from a deceased parent.”
He was looking at Breemeg’s face as he spoke. And so he sa
w the thin lips tighten, and become thinner, if that were possible. And then that lip action reversed. The face twisted into a snarl, with the lips drawn back, as Breemeg said harshly, “That S.O.B.!”
It was a reply that left no doubt: The unexpected revelation of this man’s feelings would have to be dealt with—from now on.
Gosseyn stood silent, and waited for clarifying words that might explain the strong feelings against the missing father of the emperor. Without such additional information, it was not easy to bridge the gap between this hate-filled individual and the suave, alert courtier who had had the good sense to urge that Gosseyn let the emperor win the breathholding contest.
And, of course, it would be equally difficult to determine what approach, deriving from General Semantics, could be used to deal with the problem. Solutions required the person doing the solving should understand the situation.
The moments went by; and Breemeg stood there, staring. And so it seemed to Gosseyn that it was time for a practical purpose, having nothing to do with the emotional reality that held the other man rigid.
What he said had its own simpler reality: “How long have I got before I’m due at The Place?”
“Uhhh!” said Breemeg.
If it were possible, the man’s face actually seemed to turn whiter. It was as if he was coming up out of some enormous inner depth, and back to the world around him. Abruptly, his fingers on Gosseyn’s wrist tightened. And tugged.
The direction of the tug was toward the door in front of them. And, suddenly—just like that—the suaveness was back.
It was the courtier who said quietly, “We’d better get you inside, and provide you with food. His majesty doesn’t like to be kept waiting—as you should know.”
It was purpose again, which would lead to more information. Moments later, the door was opened by Breemeg’s free arm and hand reaching toward some equivalent of a latch, or automatic lock.
The door swung inward. As it did so, Gosseyn had a quick view of a carpeted floor, a green colored settee and large green chair, with some tables off to one side. And then, from that area—where the tables were—the voice of Voice Two said: “Come in, come in, Mr. Gosseyn, we’ve got everything ready for you.”
In a way it was a surprise to hear that familiar voice, though not a disturbing surprise. But, as Gosseyn walked across the threshold and so into the outer room, he had already savored Voice Two’s use of the word, “we.” Thus, as, first, he saw Voice Two, and then through a doorway that led to another, smaller room, Voice One, he deduced that he was to be kept in contact with a small number of individuals, particularly persons who were already acquainted with his background.
So he said, “Hello!” to Two, and waved vaguely at One. Throughout the tiny interchange, he was aware of Breemeg behind him. And so, it was not an unexpected comment when the courtier said in the tone of a superior talking to a subordinate:
“Mr. Onda, what have you prepared for our guest?” . . . So he was about to learn names. Or—as it turned out—only one name. But even that was welcome.
Voice Two—Onda—said in a tone that accepted the subservient role, “Sir, we have chemically tested the fluids that were used in the capsule to feed our, uh, guest. And we have prepared a soup mixture combining some of the food elements we found.”
He was the larger of the two men—except for his head, which was long, whereas Voice One had a square-built face. Onda was the older of the two men. He spoke now almost apologetically, “It will require a few hours to prepare a more substantial meal.”
Breemeg acknowledged the explanation with a curt nod that somehow conveyed imperious acceptance. Whereupon, he took Gosseyn by the arm. “Let me show you your quarters,” he said.
It was the first actual verbal confirmation that he had, indeed, arrived at the first of his destinations. And that here, presumably, he would be staying while he was aboard ship. Gosseyn decided not to consider at the moment how long he would stay aboard. That decision should be discussed with his faraway alter ego.
What followed was a quick tour to, first, a bedroom, with an adjoining bath, then to a small, combination study and dining room—at least that was his silent description of the place: what made it a study was that something resembling a TV screen and other electronic equipment was either on one wall, or extended from it; and there was a chair and a desk; and at one end a glossy table that could have been a dining table. A number of chairs were spaced at intervals.
He presumed it was normal that his identifications reflected earth ideas on such matters; but then so did the apartment, with its resemblance to living quarters available all over the solar system for human occupation. The similarity extended to the fourth room, which had the look of a kitchen, complete with something that looked like a cooking surface; and a small table, with a chair in front of it, where Voice One had already set up a steaming bowl of greenish-brown soup.
There were other objects, including shelving, and drawers. But the purpose of the soup was so obvious that, as Onda indicated for him to sit down in the chair in front of the bowl, he did so automatically, and definitely expected no unpleasant surprises.
So that the words that were spoken next came as a distinct shock.
It was a question, spoken by Onda: “Perhaps, Mr. Breemeg, before we proceed, you are not able to make a comment about the defect we mentioned earlier, in relation to Mr. Gosseyn.”
The courtier, who had been standing of! to one side, came forward. “The broken connection?” he asked. “Yes, sir.”
Pause.
“General Semantics,” thought Gosseyn, ruefully, “where are you when I need you?”
His feeling: this ship and its people continued to confront him with unanticipated situations . . . Defect! Broken connection!—there were vague, unpleasant implications; and nothing to do but wait and Find out what they were.
He saw that Breemeg had walked to the opposite side of the table, and was gazing at him. Breemeg said, “In your opinion, are you in good health? Do you have any awareness of a weakness, or of anything missing? How are you reacting physically to so much activity after years of being in a state of suspended animation?” On the surface it seemed to be a reasonable question; and Gosseyn was aware of himself relaxing. Reasonable—he thought—except for the negative meaning of “defect” and “broken connection.”
Thinking of that, he said tentatively, “I seem to be in good physical condition. Why do you ask?”
Breemeg nodded toward Onda. “You tell him.”
The larger of the two scientists—which was what Gosseyn presumed they were—also did a nodding motion with that long head of his, saying, “One of the connections from your life support system inside the capsule was broken. Examination of the two broken ends, one of which was connected to a nerve end in your neck, would indicate that the break occurred long ago.”
“So—” he shrugged—“something that someone believed was needed to keep you in good condition in that confined area, has been missing for years.”
He broke off: “You haven’t noticed anything?” Gosseyn had already done a swift, mental survey of his actions since awakening; and so General Semantics did something for him, now, when the direct question was asked: He had no need to re-examine what had already been evaluated. He simply shook his head. “I feel alert and strong.”
“Well,” said Onda, in a doubtful tone, “it’s hard to believe that the builders of such equipment would include anything that wasn’t vital to the life process. So—” He straightened his thick body—“our advice to you is, if you notice anything at all, report it at once, and maybe we can still do something to rectify the missing element.” Gosseyn nodded. “It is to my interest to do so.”
“Something electrical involved.” Voice One spoke for the first time from where he stood in the doorway. “A neural stimulant of some kind.”
Gosseyn saw that Breemeg was getting restless; and since he had already noticed that there was a half-inch wide, ten-inch-long, pl
astic straw lying beside his soup bowl, he now picked it up.
What he was presently sucking up through the straw had some of the flavor of what the earlier Gosseyns might have labeled dishwater, and a vague taste of sweetness, resembling orange juice, and an impression of fatty material in small quantities.
It turned out that his stomach was able to hold down the entire liquid mixture. At which point, as he virtually drained the bowl, he looked up and saw that Breemeg was motioning at him.
The man said, “All right, Mr. Gosseyn, let’s go! . . .” The Place was another garden-like lead-up to a somewhat more ornate door. But the emperor himself answered the bell, or whatever signal was triggered when Breemeg touched something at one side.
Gosseyn was aware of the courtier swallowing, literally—his throat moved in the gulping movement. But before the man could recover his official aplomb, the boy said, dismissingly, “You may leave, Breemeg. I’ll take over our guest, thank you.”
He thereupon beckoned Gosseyn with a hand gesture. Moments after that, it was over; Breemeg with the door closed in his face was presumably either seething outside, or relieved to be able to depart . . .
CHAPTER
7
Dutifully—in at least one meaning of the word—Gosseyn followed the boy emperor across a large, tastefully decorated room. But noticed that here, also, as in his Palomar apartment, the elegance, which was here much greater, was nevertheless modified by the requirements of space flight.
The settees, and chairs, and tables, were built-in: everything was locked in position. And, through the carpet under his feet, he could feel the no-give metallic floor below.
He was surprised that the boy seemed to be alone. There were no visible servants, no sign of the mother, and no guards. There were several closed doors; but not a sound was audible from the rooms they presumably led into.
. . . Himself and the young emperor heading in a specific direction toward what seemed to be a decorated wall. He was not too surprised when the decoration turned out to be the field of play of the game, scroob.
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