by Isaac Asimov
“What!” The outraged exclamation was neatly triple.
Shekt raised his voice. “He’s got to lead us out of here. We can’t get out otherwise, can we? And how can it look less suspicious than to allow him to be obviously armed?”
“But I couldn’t hold him. I tell you I couldn’t.” Schwartz was flexing his arms, slapping them, trying to get back into the feel of normality. “I don’t care what your theories are, Dr. Shekt. You don’t know what goes on. It’s a slippery, painful thing, and it’s not easy.”
“I know, but it’s the chance we take. Try it now, Schwartz. Have him move his arm when he comes to.” Shekt’s voice was pleading.
The Secretary moaned as he lay there, and Schwartz felt the reviving Mind Touch. Silently, almost fearfully, he let it gather strength—then spoke to it. It was a speech that included no words; it was the silent speech you send to your arm when you want it to move, a speech so silent you are not yourself aware of it.
And Schwartz’s arm did not move; it was the Secretary’s that did. The Earthman from the past looked up with a wild smile, but the others had eyes only for Balkis—Balkis, that recumbent figure, with a lifting head, with eyes from which the glaze of unconsciousness was vanishing, and an arm which peculiarly and incongruously jerked outward at a ninety-degree angle.
Schwartz bent to his task.
The Secretary lifted himself up in angular fashion; nearly, but not quite, overbalancing himself. And then, in a queer and involuntary way, he danced.
It lacked rhythm; it lacked beauty; but to the three who watched the body, and to Schwartz, who watched body and mind, it was a thing of indescribable awe. For in those moments the Secretary’s body was under the control of a mind not materially connected with it.
Slowly, cautiously, Shekt approached the robotlike Secretary and, not without a qualm, extended his hand. In the open palm thereof lay the blaster, butt first.
“Let him take it, Schwartz,” said Shekt.
Balkis’s hand reached out and grasped the weapon clumsily. For a moment there was a sharp, devouring glitter in his eyes, and then it all faded. Slowly, slowly, the blaster was put into its place in the belt, and the hand fell away.
Schwartz’s laugh was high-pitched. “He almost got away, there.” But his face was white as he spoke.
“Well? Can you hold him?”
“He’s fighting like the devil. But it’s not as bad as before.”
“That’s because you know what you’re doing,” said Shekt, with an encouragement he did not entirely feel. “Transmit, now. Don’t try to hold him; just pretend you’re doing it yourself.”
Arvardan broke in. “Can you make him talk?”
There was a pause, then a low, rasping growl from the Secretary. Another pause; another rasp.
“That’s all,” panted Schwartz.
“But why won’t it work?” asked Pola. She looked worried.
Shekt shrugged. “Some pretty delicate and complicated muscles are involved. It’s not like yanking at the long limb muscles. Never mind, Schwartz. We may get by without.”
The memory of the next two hours was something no two of those that took part in the queer odyssey could duplicate. Dr. Shekt, for instance, had acquired a queer rigidity in which all his fears were drowned in one breathless and helpless sympathy with the inwardly struggling Schwartz. Throughout he had eyes only for that round face as it slowly furrowed and twisted with effort. For the others he had hardly time for more than a moment’s glance.
The guards immediately outside the door saluted sharply at the appearance of the Secretary, his green robe redolent of officialdom and power. The Secretary returned the salute in a fumbling, flat manner. They passed, unmolested.
It was only when they had left the great Hall that Arvardan became conscious of the madness of it all. The great, unimaginable danger to the Galaxy and the flimsy reed of safety that bridged, perhaps, the abyss. Yet even then, even then, Arvardan felt himself drowning in Pola’s eyes. Whether it was the life that was being snatched from him, the future that was being destroyed about him, the eternal unavailability of the sweetness he had tasted—whatever it was, no one had ever seemed to him to be so completely and devastatingly desirable.
In aftertime she was the sum of his memories. Only the girl—
And upon Pola the sunny brightness of the morning burned down so that Arvardan’s downturned face blurred before her. She smiled up at him and was conscious of that strong, hard arm on which her own rested so lightly. That was the memory that lingered afterward. Flat, firm muscle lightly covered by glossy-textured plastic cloth, smooth and cool under her wrist—
Schwartz was in a sweating agony. The curving drive that led away from the side entrance from which they had emerged was largely empty. For that he was hugely thankful.
Schwartz alone knew the full cost of failure. In the enemy Mind that he controlled he could sense the unbearable humiliation, the surpassing hatred, the utterly horrible resolves. He had to search that Mind for the information that guided him—the position of the official ground car, the proper route to take—And, in searching, he also experienced the galling bitterness of the determined revenge that would lash out should his control waver for but the tenth part of the second.
The secret fastnesses of the Mind in which he was forced to rummage remained his personal possession forever. In aftertimes there came the pale gray hours of many an innocent dawn during which once again he had guided the steps of a madman down the dangerous walks of an enemy stronghold.
Schwartz gasped at the words when they reached the ground car. He no longer dared relax sufficiently to utter connected sentences. He choked out quick phrases: “Can’t—drive car—can’t make—him—make drive—complicated—can’t—”
Shekt soothed him with a soft, clucking sound. He dared not touch him, dared not speak in an ordinary way, dared not distract Schwartz’s mind for a second.
He whispered, “Just get him into the back seat, Schwartz. I’ll drive. I know how. From now on just keep him still, and I’ll take the blaster away.”
The Secretary’s ground car was a special model. Because it was special, it was different. It attracted attention. Its green headlight turned to the right and left in rhythmic swings as the light dimmed and brightened in emerald flashes. Men paused to watch. Ground cars advancing in the opposite direction moved to the side in a respectful hurry.
Had the car been less noticed, had it been less obtrusive, the occasional passerby might have had time to note the pale, unmoving Ancient in the back seat—might have wondered—might have scented danger—
But they noticed only the car, so that time passed. . . .
A soldier blocked the way at the gleaming chromium gates that rose sheerly in the expansive, overwhelming way that marked all Imperial structures in sharp contrast to the squatly massive and brooding architecture of Earth. His huge force gun shot out horizontally in a barring gesture, and the car halted.
Arvardan leaned out. “I’m a citizen of the Empire, soldier. I’d like to see your commanding officer.”
“I’ll have to see your identification, sir.”
“That’s been taken from me. I am Bel Arvardan of Baronn, Sirius. I am on the Procurator’s business and I’m in a hurry.”
The soldier lifted a wrist to his mouth and spoke softly into the transmitter. There was a pause while he waited for an answer, and then he lowered his rifle and stepped aside. Slowly the gate swung open.
19
The Deadline That Approached
The hours that followed saw turmoil within and without Fort Dibburn. More so, perhaps, in Chica itself.
It was at noon that the High Minister at Washenn inquired via Communi-wave after his Secretary, and a search for the latter failed. The High Minister was displeased; the minor officials at the Hall of Correction were perturbed.
Questioning followed, and the guards outside the assembly room were definite that the Secretary had left with the prisoners at ten-thirt
y in the morning. . . . No, he had left no instructions. They could not say where he was going; it was, of course, not their place to ask.
Another set of guards was equally uninformed and uninformative. A general air of anxiety mounted and swirled.
At 2 p.m. the first report arrived that the Secretary’s ground car had been seen that morning—no one had seen if the Secretary was within—some thought he had been driving, but had only assumed it, it turned out—
By two-thirty it had been ascertained that the car had entered Fort Dibburn.
At not quite three, it was finally decided to put in a call to the commander of the fort. A lieutenant had answered.
It was impossible at that time, they learned, for information on the subject to be given. However, His Imperial Majesty’s officers requested that order be maintained for the present. It was further requested that news of the absence of a member of the Society of Ancients be not generally distributed until further notice.
But that was enough to achieve the direct opposite of the Imperial desires.
Men engaged in treason cannot take chances when one of the prime members of a conspiracy is in the hands of the enemy forty-eight hours before trigger time. It can mean only discovery or betrayal, and these are but the reverse sides of a single coin. Either alternative would mean death.
So word went out—
And the population of Chica stirred—
The professional demagogues were on the street corners. The secret arsenals were broken open and the hands that reached withdrew with weapons. There was a twisting drift toward the fort, and at 6 p.m. a new message was sent to the commandant, this time by personal envoy.
Meanwhile, this activity was matched in a smaller way by events within the fort. It had begun dramatically when the young officer meeting the entering ground car reached out a hand for the Secretary’s blaster.
“I’ll take that,” he said curtly.
Shekt said, “Let him take it, Schwartz.”
The Secretary’s hand lifted the blaster and stretched out; the blaster left it, was carried away—and Schwartz, with a heaving sob of breaking tension, let go.
Arvardan was ready. When the Secretary lashed out like an insane steel coil released from compression, the archaeologist pounced upon him, fists pumping down hard.
The officer snapped out orders. Soldiers were running up. When rough hands laid hold of Arvardan’s shirt collar and dragged him up, the Secretary was limp upon the seat. Dark blood was flowing feebly from the corner of his mouth. Arvardan’s own already bruised cheek was open and bleeding.
He straightened his hair shakily. Then, pointing a rigid finger, said firmly, “I accuse that man of conspiring to overthrow the Imperial Government. I must have an immediate interview with the commanding officer.”
“We’ll have to see about that, sir,” said the officer civilly. “If you don’t mind, you will have to follow me—all of you.”
And there, for hours, it rested. Their quarters were private, and reasonably clean. For the first time in twelve hours they had a chance to eat, which they did, despite considerations, with dispatch and efficiency. They even had the opportunity of that further necessity of civilization, a bath.
Yet the room was guarded, and as the hours passed, Arvardan finally lost his temper and cried, “But we’ve simply exchanged prisons.”
The dull, meaningless routine of an army camp drifted about them, ignoring them. Schwartz was sleeping and Arvardan’s eyes went to him. Shekt shook his head.
“We can’t,” he said. “It’s humanly impossible. The man is exhausted. Let him sleep.”
“But there are only thirty-nine hours left.”
“I know—but wait.”
A cool and faintly sardonic voice sounded. “Which of you claims to be a citizen of the Empire?”
Arvardan sprang forward. “I am. I—”
And his voice failed as he recognized the speaker. The latter smiled rigidly. His left arm he held a bit stiffly as a remaining memento of their last meeting.
Pola’s voice was faint behind him. “Bel, it’s the officer—the one of the department store.”
“The one whose arm he broke,” came the sharp addition. “My name is Lieutenant Claudy and yes, you are the same man. So you are a member of the Sirian worlds, are you? And yet you consort with these. Galaxy, the depths a man can sink to! And you’ve still got the girl with you.” He waited and then said slowly and deliberately, “The Earthie-squaw!”
Arvardan bristled, then subsided. He couldn’t—not yet—
He forced humbleness into his voice. “May I see the colonel, Lieutenant?”
“The colonel, I am afraid, is not on duty now.”
“You mean he’s not in the city?”
“I didn’t say that. He can be reached—if the matter is sufficiently urgent.”
“It is. . . . May I see the officer of the day?”
“At the moment I am the officer of the day.”
“Then call the colonel.”
And slowly the lieutenant shook his head. “I could scarcely do so without being convinced of the gravity of the situation.”
Arvardan was shaking with impatience. “By the Galaxy, stop fencing with me! It’s life and death.”
“Really?” Lieutenant Claudy swung a little swagger stick with an air of affected dandyism. “You might crave an audience with me.”
“All right. . . . Well, I’m waiting.”
“I said—you might crave one.”
“May I have an audience, Lieutenant?”
But there was no smile on the lieutenant’s face. “I said, crave one—before the girl. Humbly.”
Arvardan swallowed and drew back. Pola’s hand was on his sleeve. “Please, Bel. You mustn’t get him angry.”
The archaeologist growled huskily, “Bel Arvardan of Sirius humbly craves audience with the officer of the day.”
Lieutenant Claudy said, “That depends.”
He took a step toward Arvardan and quickly and viciously brought the flat of his palm down hard upon the bandage that dressed Arvardan’s open cheek.
Arvardan gasped and stifled a shriek.
The lieutenant said, “You resented that once. Don’t you this time?”
Arvardan said nothing.
The lieutenant said, “Audience granted.”
Four soldiers fell in before and behind Arvardan. Lieutenant Claudy led the way.
Shekt and Pola were alone with the sleeping Schwartz, and Shekt said, “I don’t hear him any more, do you?”
Pola shook her head. “I haven’t either, for quite a while. But, Father, do you suppose he’ll do anything to Bel?”
“How can he?” said the old man gently. “You forget that he’s not really one of us. He’s a citizen of the Empire and cannot be easily molested. . . . You are in love with him, I suppose?”
“Oh, terribly, Father. It’s silly, I know.”
“Of course it is.” Shekt smiled bitterly. “He is honest. I do not say he isn’t. But what can he do? Can he live here with us on this world? Can he take you home? Introduce an Earthgirl to his friends? His family?”
She was crying. “I know. But maybe there won’t be any afterwards.”
And Shekt was on his feet again, as though the last phrase had reminded him. He said again, “I don’t hear him.”
It was the Secretary he did not hear. Balkis had been placed in an adjoining room, where his caged-lion steps had been clearly and ominously audible. Except that now they weren’t.
It was a little point, but in the single mind and body of the Secretary there had somehow become centered and symboled all the sinister forces of disease and destruction that were being loosed on the giant network of living stars. Shekt jarred Schwartz gently. “Wake up,” he said.
Schwartz stirred. “What is it?” He felt scarcely rested. His tiredness went in and in, so deep as to come out at the other side, projecting in jagged streaks.
“Where’s Balkis?” urged Shekt.
>
“Oh—oh yes.” Schwartz looked about wildly, then remembered that it was not with his eyes that he looked and saw most clearly. He sent out the tendrils of his mind and they circled, sensing tensely for the Mind they knew so well.
He found it, and avoided touching it. His long immersion in it had not increased his fondness for the clinging of its diseased wretchedness.
Schwartz muttered, “He’s on another floor. He’s talking to someone.”
“To whom?”
“No one whose mind I’ve even Touched before. Wait—let me listen. Maybe the Secretary will—Yes, he calls him Colonel.”
Shekt and Pola looked quickly at one another.
“It can’t be treason, can it?” whispered Pola. “I mean, surely an officer of the Empire wouldn’t deal with an Earthman against the Emperor, would he?”
“I don’t know,” said Shekt miserably. “I am ready to believe anything.”
Lieutenant Claudy was smiling. He was behind a desk, with a blaster at his finger tips and the four soldiers behind him. He spoke with the authority that such a situation would lend one.
“I don’t like Earthies,” he said. “I never liked them. They’re the scum of the Galaxy. They’re diseased, superstitious, and lazy. They’re degenerate and stupid. But, by the Stars, most of them know their place.
“In a way, I can understand them. That’s the way they were born, and they can’t help it. Of course I wouldn’t endure what the Emperor endures from them—I mean their blasted customs and traditions—if I were the Emperor. But that’s all right. Someday we’ll learn—”
Arvardan exploded. “Now look here. I didn’t come to listen—”
“You’ll listen, because I’m not finished. I was about to say that what I can’t understand is the workings of the mind of an Earthie-lover. When a man—a real man, supposedly—can get so low in filth as to crawl in among them and go nosing after their womenfolk, I have no respect for him. He’s worse than they are—”
