The Programmed Man

by Jean Sutton

  "And if we can't trap him, August?" Clender's voice was pleading. "What then?"

  "We'll annihilate Grydo." Karsh's voice rose to a harsh pitch. "We'll destroy it completely, Clender, blot it from the face of the universe. The Cetus has orders to that effect already."

  "Nova its sun?" breathed Clender.

  "That won't be necessary." The faint smile touched Karsh's lips once again. "A few cobalt bombs, nuclear bolts -- it's just a small planet, Clender."

  He was tall, gaunt-faced, thirtyish, and he walked with a slight limp as he came from the spaceport in Nahoo, a small city that nonetheless was the largest on Grydo, third of the green-white sun Geddes. He really wasn't lame; the limp affected his walk and stance and thus his personality, at least as viewed by others. His battered bag and weary countenance gave him the appearance of a man who had traveled long and hard, as indeed he had. He'd bought the bag new on the star liner to replace the one he'd abandoned in Rhonda but since had scuffed it to give a battered appearance he believed less eye-catching.

  Reaching the street, he paused to look at Nahoo's green and yellow buildings, mostly single-story; he noted the simple, sturdy lines that bespoke utility rather than beauty. Typical of the agricultural planets, he thought. So small was the city that he could see across it from the slight eminence on which the spaceport stood, a cluster of brightly colored structures filling a saucerlike depression; beyond, the farm hills appeared a pale green under the Geddes sun. The antiquated vehicles crawling along the street were surprisingly few in number, considering that the terminal lay adjacent to the town's business district. Sighing, he glanced around.

  Nahoo Inn. A gate unlocked in his mind and the name came into his consciousness, just as other names and facts had come to him during his hurried journey back and forth through the galaxy. Names and facts and directives. Just now the name Nahoo Inn pushed insistently at his mind, urging him to action.

  He didn't question why, yet instinctively knew that he was near the end of his ordained path. And then? He didn't know; the future was blotted out as effectively as the past. For the moment he existed in a narrow corridor of time in which past and future held the nothingness of gray. But still be had things to do. What things? He struggled with his thoughts, desperately trying to break through a barrier that he suspected rather than knew. If he could only...If he could only...Finally he gave up; he was weary, and the attempt was too much.

  There were no rental aircars on Grydo. He discovered that immediately. Nothing but the ancient vehicles that crept along the narrow streets with such appalling slowness. Finally he saw a public conveyance and flagged it down.

  "The Nahoo Inn," he ordered.

  "Yes, sir." The driver put the car in motion and asked, "New in the city?"

  "First visit," he acknowledged. Piqued by curiosity, he asked, "Why?"

  "The inn's just half a block away; in fact, we're there now," the driver replied cheerfully. He pulled to the curb and stopped in front of a low building. "That'll be five ducals, please."

  He paid the bill but watched the vehicle chug off before turning toward the entrance. So the programming hadn't been perfect after all. The driver would remember a man who paid five ducals to travel half a block. The thought disturbed him.

  A wizened desk clerk looked up with a toothy smile as he entered the musty lobby. He dropped his bag to the floor and sighed again. "A single, please. Not too expensive."

  The desk clerk bobbed his head, his pencil poised. "Name?"

  "Dana Smithson. Of Marta," he added.

  The clerk scribbled in his ledger before looking up. "Be staying long?"

  "Just overnight."

  The room was small and shabby, but it held the essentials. Smithson dropped his bag to the floor and sprawled across the bed, relaxing, letting the small gates of his mind open so that the directives flowed into his consciousness. Do this and this and that. Occasionally, as if through a haze, he caught a vision of Dr. G's round face and mild blue eyes, caught the sound of his lulling voice as it came from behind the harsh light that shone down on his couch. Everything depends on you, Myron. Well, he wouldn't fail.

  After a while he slept.

  He was Dana Smithson of Marta, fourth of the sun Coulson; now he was on Grydo, third of the green-white sun Geddes. Hunted! He was being hunted! The dragnet thrown across the galaxy was closing in on Grydo -- on him! Karsh! August Karsh was his enemy! Karsh! Karsh! Run, run, run, run.

  He awoke, sweating, shaking, bewildered at his strange surroundings until he remembered: he was Dana Smithson, and he had a job to do. Now, now, now...The word screamed in his mind. And he knew what he had to do.

  Crossing the room, he switched on the old-fashioned video and pushed the news button. He watched until the agricultural news came on.

  Tusk berries were wholesaling for five ducals a crate; a scene showed a truckload of them being unloaded at a local market. The conabar orchards were plagued with swarms of circ bugs; dallup milk was up one ducal per half barga; the glop melon crop was coming in late, leaving a shortage of glupa pickers in the Logo Valley. When the item ended, he got up and snapped off the screen. His future was becoming clearer.

  The Nahoo Public Library, like most buildings in the city, was green with a yellow trim, a small structure that sat back from the main street in a pleasant wooded glen. Entering, he consulted the old-fashioned card file before going to the bookracks. It took him but a moment to find what he wanted.

  Returning to one of the tables, he sat down to read. Glu pa: an edible fruit of the family glupule, which forms a main staple of diet...He read quickly, absorbing the words at fantastic speed, then for a while rested, closing his eyes.

  On his way back from the library, Smithson stopped to buy some special items of clothes and cosmetics and eat a hearty meal before going to his room. Bathing and shaving, he went to bed, hoping that the gates wouldn't open; he needed a good night's rest.

  Next morning he rose early, applied the cosmetics and donned the clothing he had purchased the previous day. Finished, he studied himself in the mirror. The pants and shirt were coarse and baggy, the boots heavy on his feet, and he looked much older than his years. With the new flop-brimmed hat, he looked older yet. Satisfied with his appearance, he gathered up his bag and left the inn by a side door.

  A block away, he withdrew the passport from his pocket, shredded it into small pieces and dropped them into a public receptacle. Dana Smithson was dead. Now he was Oak Carter, an itinerant, and he couldn't answer many questions; Oak Carter was not a smart man.

  Two hours later he got off the public bus in the Logo Valley and looked around. Aside from endless fields and the dirt roads that crossed where he had been put off, there wasn't much to see. But it was a pleasant world. Pleasant and quiet.

  As the bus disappeared in a cloud of dust, he pulled the brim of his hat lower to shut out the green-white sun and started walking down the dirt road.

  "So Myron's on Grydo," Golem Gregor observed. "He's right on schedule, Zed."

  "Yes, but August Karsh knows he's there!" Zarakov exclaimed worriedly.

  "I expected that."

  "You did?" Zarakov sucked his long underlip vexedly.

  "August is a difficult man to fool, Zed."

  "Did you know that the Admiral of the Galactic Seas has ordered the Cetus to Grydo?" asked Zarakov.

  "More like August," answered Gregor. "I expected he would. The admiral's a pawn in this game, Zed."

  "I don't know what to say, Golem. Terle's in trouble, deep trouble. He can't escape Karsh for long, not on a small planet like Grydo. We've put him into a trap."

  "He'll do all right," Gregor said complacently.

  "All right? Do you know what Karsh contemplates if he can't trap Terle? He's going to destroy the planet, Golem, blast it from the skies."

  "Did Gilmore say that?"

  "He did." Zarakov nodded vigorously. "An order to that effect already has been dispatche
d to the Cetus."

  "You have to consider that as a last desperate measure, Zed. August will make every attempt to catch Myron first. He'd give ten planets to have him in his therapy room," he said confidently. "I'd stake my reputation on that. That gives us time, and time is what we need -- the coin that buys the bomb."

  "Karsh knows that, Golem. He'll destroy the planet before he'll risk losing the bomb. I feel certain of that."

  "It's in Myron's hands, Zed."

  "In Myron's hands? What can he do?" demanded Zarakov. "He can't even escape. Grydo's been sealed off completely."

  "Then how could we help him?" Gregor asked softly.

  "How? I don't know." Zarakov looked at his superior perplexedly. "There must be some way."

  "None at all, Zed."

  "But what about his mission?"

  "He has to complete it."

  "How? He's on a doomed planet, Golem." Zarakov shook his head in bewilderment. "I don't understand this."

  Gregor's voice was mild. "We agreed before that you didn't know the whole story, Zed. I realize your feelings, but I wouldn't worry. Myron's extremely resourceful."

  "How can you be resourceful on a planet that's doomed to annihilation?" asked Zarakov bitterly.

  "That's quite a problem," admitted Gregor. "I wonder how he will solve it?"

  "You wonder?" blurted Zarakov.

  "No one has all the answers, Zed. But you have to admit, this certainly changes the picture."

  "What picture?"

  "The Cetus being withdrawn from the Gelhart system. That means Karsh has to depend on the Draco and on York. That's exactly what we want."

  "You haven't told me that part of the story," Zarakov replied stiffly.

  "No, I haven't." Gregor stared thoughtfully at the violet light streaming through the window. He knew exactly how Zarakov felt. Normally his assistant controlled every mission, subject to his own orders, of course. But not this time. He couldn't take the slightest chance of the wrong word being dropped. Karsh had too many double agents to risk that, and too many spies. Witness how Daniel York had penetrated their defenses in the role of a maintenance worker. How many Yorks were there? More than one, he'd wager.

  Finally he stirred. "This brings Daniel York face-to-face with Prince Li-Hu's men, Zed. If Li-Hu got the bomb, he'd wipe us out as his first order of business. Make no mistake about that. And we couldn't stop him, but York can. York's the best agent in the business -- next to Myron, of course. As I see it, this is a guarantee that Li-Hu won't get the bomb. You can't use what you haven't got, Zed."

  "That part makes sense," Zarakov grudgingly admitted, "but it doesn't give us the bomb. What is this mission of Terle's all about, if not the bomb? It seems to me we've sacrificed him. I can't follow your reasoning, can't follow it at all."

  "It's really not complicated," replied Gregor. "Not when you know the facts."

  "Facts? The only fact I know is that we've doomed Terle. Even if he escapes -- and I don't know how he can -- he couldn't get the bomb secret. You've practically admitted that."

  "Practically? There's a lot of latitude in that word, Zed. I've admitted nothing, and we will get the bomb secret. I have the utmost confidence in Myron." Gregor gazed toward the violet light again, letting his body relax. "I grow more certain with every report."

  "If only I knew," Zarakov murmured despairingly.

  "Patience," he counseled. "Everything will be all right."

  "I hope so, Golem."

  "So do I, Zed. I really do."

  9

  DANIEL YORK was gazing at the blue-white suns of Ophiucus through the Draco's star window when Lieutenant Tregaski came to the bridge. "The captain would like to speak with you in his stateroom," he announced.

  "Thank you." York caught the deference in the lieutenant's voice and thought it a good omen; Tregaski was a certain barometer of the captain's moods. He found Hull sitting at his desk under the familiar blue light, his square face as stern and set as ever, but with something else in it which he couldn't define. Uncertainty? Perhaps, and a touch of bitterness, he decided. It was there in the lines of his jaw.

  "Myron Terle has shown up in the Geddes system," said Hull bluntly. "We just received word."

  "Grydo, eh?"

  "You know the planet?" Hull's eyes narrowed.

  "Suspected he might be there," York acknowledged. "It's the nearest inhabited world. What's the admiral doing about it?"

  Hull said reluctantly, "He's dispatched the Cetus to the scene."

  "Isolating the planet? That's a good move."

  "You seem to know more about this than I do," Hull answered bitterly.

  "Only by deduction," he countered. "There's a certain predictability that springs from almost any situation. The trick is to see it."

  "You've been right on most counts." Hull raised his head. "Myron Terle is trapped, York. For all his false trails and clues, he's gotten himself into a situation from which he can't extricate himself. Grydo is sealed off. At least that part of the plot has failed. It's just a matter of finding him."

  "That could be quite a job," York observed.

  A faint worry nagged at Hull's face. "He can't teleport from a planet, can he?"

  "Definitely not between worlds," York assured him.

  "Could he teleport to one of the blockading ships and hide away? If he could do that, he could prove quite troublesome."

  York shook his head. "He definitely can't. A teleport has to know his target in an exact space-time continuum. You can't do that with a ship hurtling through orbit. But he could teleport from an orbiting ship to a planetary surface. That makes a good-sized target."

  "But if he can't get aboard a ship?"

  "Then you have no worries."

  "It's a relief to know that," admitted Hull, "although I'm certain the admiral is aware of the fact."

  York nodded. "Karsh would have told him."

  "And Karsh got it from you," murmured Hull. "Everything stems back to you."

  "That's all an agent is, an information gatherer."

  "I wouldn't quite reduce it to that level."

  York added sardonically, "We also make good targets."

  "We're trying to prevent that," Hull answered stiffly. He looked away, oddly hesitant, before he brought back his gaze. When he did, his set face was totally devoid of expression, his mud-blue eyes blank. "I've also received instructions from the admiral to place my ship at your disposal," he said.

  York returned his gaze. "I won't abuse the privilege."

  "I'm certain of that. I am also instructed to give you a free hand in the investigation, once we locate the Rigel."

  "I'll be largely dependent on you."

  "Anything I can do, of course." Hull appeared relieved. "If you have any suggestions -- ?"

  "Only that I'd like to have the landing party screened." He smiled. "No Alphans."

  "I'm very much aware of what we might find," returned Hull.

  "I'd also like to have Doc Benbow along."

  "Certainly."

  "And Les Osborn."

  "Osborn?"

  "I had a good chance to observe him while he was escorting me," explained York. "He's tough and smart, the kind of a man who'd be handy in a pinch. I'm really surprised that he's just a deckhand."

  "I'll bear that in mind," answered Hull.

  "I'd also like to suggest not letting the survivors know we suspect anything."

  "If there are survivors."

  "There will be," he said, "perhaps a number of innocent ones."

  "I don't want guilty men roaming my ship," Hull protested.

  "You can provide covert safeguards," he suggested. "It should be just for a few hours -- a day or two at most."

  "You believe that necessary?"

  "Absolutely, if we're to find out just how Li-Hu did manage this stunt," he declared. "It's also essential if we're to find the Alphan link in your own crew."

  "That
point worries me, York. Do you have any specific suspicions?"

  "None whatsoever."

  "I suppose that makes it more difficult." Hull glanced away, his face thoughtful. "It's damnable to suspect a member of my own crew, York."

  "You've seen some of the evidence."

  "Yes, and it's weighed heavily." Hull's face hardened. "I'll correct that situation, at least with regard to the Draco."

  York said, "I'd also like to suggest keeping the Grydo story secret, at least for the time being."

  "From the Rigel survivors?"

  "From everyone."

  Hull sighed. "I don't pretend to understand the ramifications of your work, but I respect the admiral's opinion. I'm certain he knows many things that we don't."

  "In essence, we're both extensions of his thinking."

  "A captain always realizes that, York."

  "So does an agent." York grinned. "A useful tool, but highly expendable."

  "We'll try not to expend you," Hull replied drily.

  "Thank you," he answered. "I'm all in favor of that."

  The Draco was two days out of Bonoplane when a distress signal was received from the planet. Alerted by Tregaski, York hurried to the bridge, finding the captain huddled with Galton.

  Hull turned, briefly explaining the situation. "The message was terse but clear, repeated three times," he said. "No details were given, only the fact that they were down."

  "Did you acknowledge it?" asked York.

  "Not yet." Hull hesitated. "I thought you might like to know first."

  "I wouldn't answer it," he advised.

  "But why the message?" Hull eyed him quizzically. "I can't exactly see them welcoming us."

  "How else could they get off Bonoplane?"

  "You've mentioned that before." Hull's face grew pensive. "If you're right, it's all the more reason for not letting them roam my ship, York. I should clap them all under lock. Let First Level determine the guilt."

  York said succinctly, "That could cost you the Draco, to say nothing of the bomb secret."