“Well,” Elisabeth said gently—she happened to be there when he started thinking seriously about this odd practice he’d developed—“the doctor said that, aside from more obvious physical damage, your nervous system got quite a bad jolt from that gun charge. But you are recovering, Harold.”
So he was recovering. He decided to be satisfied with that. “How long has it been?” he asked.
“Not quite four weeks,” said Elisabeth. She smiled. “You’re really doing very well, Harold. What would you like me to show you today?”
“Let’s look at some more of the things they’re doing downstairs,” Harold said.
Professor Derek Alston’s asteroid also remained something of an enigma. In Mars Underground, and in the SP Academy’s navigation school, the private asteroids had been regarded much as they were on Earthplanet, as individually owned pleasure resorts of the very rich which maintained no more contact with the rest of humanity than was necessary. Evidently they preferred to have that reputation. Elisabeth had told him it wasn’t until she’d been a Solar U student for a few years that she’d learned gradually that the asteroids performed some of the functions of monasteries and castles in Earth’s Middle Ages, built to preserve life, knowledge and culture through the turbulence of wars and other disasters. They were storehouses of what had become, or was becoming, now lost on Earth, and their defenses made them very secure citadels. The plants and animals of the surface levels were living museums. Below the surface was a great deal more than that. In many respects they acted as individual extensions of Solar U, though they remained independent of it.
All of which seemed true, from what he had seen so far. But the thought came occasionally that it still mightn’t be the complete picture. There were the projects, for one thing. This miniature planet, for all that it was an insignificant speck of cosmic debris, had, on the human scale, enormous quantities of cubic space. Very little of the space was in practical use, and that was used in an oddly diffused manner. There were several central areas which in their arrangement might have been part of a residential section of Mars Underground. Having lived mainly on an interstellar ship for the past eight years, Harold found himself reflecting on the fact that if the asteroid’s population had been around a hundred times its apparent size, it would not have been unduly crowded. Elsewhere were the storerooms; and here Elisabeth loved to browse, and Harold browsed with her, though treasures of art and literature and the like were of less interest to him. Beautiful things perhaps, but dead.
And then the projects—Step into a capsule, a raindrop-shaped shell, glide through a system of curving tunnels, checking here and there to be fed through automatic locks; and you came to a project. Two or three or at most four people would be conducting it; they already knew who you were, but you were introduced, and they showed you politely around. Elisabeth’s interest in what they had to show was moderate. Harold’s kept growing.
“You’re running some rather dangerous experiments here,” he remarked eventually to Derek Alston. This was on another day. There’d been only a scattered few of those blank periods lately.
Derek shook his head. “I don’t run them,” he said. “They’re Solar U and SP projects. The asteroid merely provides facilities.”
“Why do you let them set themselves up here?”
Derek Alston shrugged. “They have to be set up somewhere. If there should be some disastrous miscalculation, our defensive system will contain the damage and reduce the probable loss in human lives.”
And the asteroid had, to be sure, a remarkable defensive system. For any ordinary purpose it seemed almost excessive. Harold had studied it and wondered again.
“In Eleven,” he said, “they’re working around with something on the order of a solar cannon. If they slip up on that one, you might find your defensive system strained.”
Derek looked over at him.
“I believe you weren’t supposed to know the purpose of that device,” he said idly.
“They were a little misleading about that, as a matter of fact,” said Harold. “But I came across something similar in the outsystems once.”
“Yes, I imagine you’ve learned a great deal more there than they ever taught in navigation school.” Derek scratched his head and looked owlish. “If you were to make a guess, what would you say was the real purpose of maintaining such projects on our asteroid? After all, I have to admit that the System Police and Solar U are capable of providing equally suitable protective settings for them.”
“The impression I’ve had,” Harold told him, “is that they’re being kept a secret from somebody. They’re not the sort of thing likely to be associated with a private asteroid.”
“No, not at all. Your guess is a good one. There are men, and there is mankind. Not quite the same thing. Mankind lost a major round on Earthplanet in this century and exists there only in fragments. And though men go to the outsystems, mankind hasn’t reached them yet.”
“You think it’s here?”
“Here in Solar U, in the System Police, in major centers like Mars Underground. And on the private asteroids. Various shapes of the same thing. Yes, mankind is here, what’s left of it at the moment. It has regrouped in Earthsystem and is building up.”
Harold considered that. “Why make it a conspiracy?” he asked then. “Why not be open about it?”
“Because it’s dangerous to frighten men. Earthplanet regards Earthsystem as an irritation. But it looks at our lack of obvious organization and purpose, our relatively small number, and it doesn’t take alarm. It knows it would take disproportionate effort, tremendous unified effort, to wipe us out, and we don’t seem worth it. So Earth’s men continue with their grinding struggles and maneuverings which eventually are to give somebody control of the planet. By that time Earthsystem’s mankind should not be very much concerned about Earthplanet’s intentions towards it. The projects you’ve seen are minor ones. We move farther ahead of them every year, and our population grows steadily. Even now I doubt that the planet’s full resources would be sufficient to interfere seriously with that process. But for the present we must conceal the strength we have and the strength we are obtaining. We want no trouble with Earth. Men will have their way there for a time, and then, whatever their designs, mankind will begin to evolve from them again, as it always does. It is a hardy thing. We can wait . . .”
And that, Harold decided, had been upper echelon information, given him by one who might be among Earthsystem’s present leaders. Elisabeth and Sally Alston had a general understanding of the situation but did not seem to be aware of the underlying purpose. Professor Alston evidently had made him an offer.
He thought about it, and presently a feeling began to grow in him, something like loss, something like loneliness. Elisabeth appeared to sense it and was disturbed.
Then another day. A gun was in his hand again, and in his other hand were the last three of a dozen little crystal globes he’d picked up in one of the machine shops. He swung them up, and they went flying away along a massive wall of asteroid rock. As they began to drop again, the gun snaked out and, in turn, each of the globes sparkled brightly and vanished.
He’d been aware of Derek Alston coming up from behind him before he fired; and now he pocketed the gun and turned.
“Very pretty shooting, friend!” Derek remarked. “I never was able to develop much skill with a handgun myself, but I enjoy watching an expert.”
Harold shrugged. “I had the time, and the motivation, to put in a great deal of practice.”
“No doubt.” Derek held up a sheaf of papers. “Your final medical and psychological reports! It appears you’ve come all the way back. Care to look them over?”
Harold shook his head. “No. I’ve known for a couple of days that I’d come all the way back.” He patted the pocket which held the gun. “This was a test.”
They regarded each other a moment. And now, Harold wondered, how was he going to say it? The Alstons had been more than generous host
s, and Derek took pride in what Earthsystem was accomplishing—with very good reason.
But he’d moved for eight years among the stars. And in spite of all the plans that had gone sour; and the ugliness which tarnished and finally destroyed the Prideful Sue, he’d found there what he’d been looking for. Earthsystem seemed dwindled and small. He couldn’t possibly come back to it.
Make it brief, he thought.
“I’m not sure what I’ll do next,” he told Derek Alston. “But I’m shipping transsolar again.”
“Well, I should hope so!” said Derek promptly.
“I was wondering whether you’d understand . . . Elisabeth in particular.”
“Of course she understands! I do—we all do!” Derek smiled. “But before you start talking of leaving, there’s one more project I must show you. It’s one you should appreciate . . .”
They stepped, a minute later, out of a capsule deep in the bowels of the asteroid, and went along a passage with steel bulkheads. A massive lock opened at their approach, and lights came on.
“Come on in and look around,” Derek said. “This is our third control room. Not too many people know we have it.”
Harold looked around the shining place. First incredulously, then with something like growing awe. He glanced at Derek Alston. “Mind if I check these?” he asked.
“Not at all. Go ahead.”
Once, some two years before, he’d been in the control room of Earthplanet’s biggest, newest, and proudest outsystem transport. What he’d seen then was dwarfed, made trifling and clumsy, by what was here. His skin shivered with a lover’s delight. “You have power to go with it?” he asked presently.
“We have the power.”
“Where’s the asteroid going on interstellar drives?”
“I told you mankind hadn’t got to the outsystems yet,” Derek said. “But it’s ready to move there. We’ve been preparing for it. The outsystems won’t know for a while that we’re around—not till we’re ready to let them know it.”
“This asteroid is moving to the outsystems?”
“Not this one. Not for some years. We still have functions to perform here. But a few others—the first—will be ready to start within the next three months. They can use an experienced transsolar navigator. They think they can also use a fighting captain with an outsystem background. If you’re interested, I’ll take you over to one of them this afternoon.”
Harold drew in a long, deep breath.
“I’m interested,” he said.
JUST CURIOUS
Roy Litton’s apartment was on the eighteenth floor of the Torrell Arms. It was a pleasant place which cost him thirty-two thousand dollars a year. The living room had a wide veranda which served in season as a sun deck. Far below was a great park. Beyond the park, drawn back to a respectful distance from the Torrell Arms, was the rest of the city.
“May I inquire,” Roy Litton said to his visitor, “from whom you learned about me?”
The visitor’s name was Jean Merriam. She was a slender, expensive brunette, about twenty-seven. She took a card from her handbag and slid it across the table to Litton. “Will that serve as an introduction?” she asked.
Litton studied the words scribbled on the card and smiled. “Yes,” he said, “that’s quite satisfactory. I know the lady’s handwriting well. In what way can I help you?”
“I represent an organization,” Jean said, “which does discreet investigative work.”
“You’re detectives?”
She shrugged, smiled. “We don’t refer to ourselves as detectives, but that’s the general idea. Conceivably your talents could be very useful to us. I’m here to find out whether you’re willing to put them at our disposal from time to time. If you are, I have a test assignment for you. You don’t mind, do you?”
Litton rubbed his chin. “You’ve been told what my standard fee is?”
Jean Merriam opened the handbag again, took out a check, and gave it to him. Litton read it carefully, nodded. “Yes,” he said, and laid the check on the table beside him. “Ten thousand dollars. You’re in the habit of paying such sums out of your personal account?”
“The sum was put in my account yesterday for this purpose.”
“Then what do you, or your organization, want me to do?”
“I’ve been given a description of how you operate, Mr. Litton, but we don’t know how accurate the description is. Before we retain you, I’d like you to tell me exactly what you do.”
Litton smiled. “I’m willing to tell you as much as I know.”
She nodded. “Very well. I’ll decide on the basis of what you say whether or not your services might be worth ten thousand dollars to the organization. Once I offer you the assignment and you accept it, we’re committed. The check will be yours when the assignment is completed.”
“Who will judge when it has been completed?”
“You will,” said Jean. “Naturally there will be no further assignments if we’re not satisfied with the results of this one. As I said, this is a test. We’re gambling. If you’re as good as I’ve been assured you are, the gamble should pay off. Fair enough?”
Litton nodded. “Fair enough, Miss Merriam.” He leaned back in his chair. “Well, then—I sometimes call myself a ‘sensor’ because the word describes my experiences better than any other word I can think of. I’m not specifically a mind reader. I can’t predict the future. I don’t have second sight. But under certain conditions, I turn into a long-range sensing device with a limited application. I have no theoretical explanation for it. I can only say what happens.
“I work through contact objects; that is, material items which have had a direct and extensive physical connection with the persons I investigate. A frequently worn garment is the obvious example. Eyeglasses would be excellent. I once was able to use an automobile which the subject had driven daily for about ten months. Through some such object I seem to become, for a time which varies between approximately three and five minutes, the person in question.” Litton smiled. “Naturally I remain here physically, but my awareness is elsewhere.
“Let me emphasize that during this contact period I am—or seem to be—the other person. I am not conscious of Roy Litton or of what Roy Litton is doing. I have never heard of him and know nothing of his sensing ability. I am the other person, aware only of what he is aware of, doing what he is doing, thinking what he is thinking. If, meanwhile, you were to speak to the body sitting here, touch it, even cause it severe pain—which has been done experimentally—I wouldn’t know it. When the time is up, the contact fades and I am back. Then I know who I am and can recall my experience and report on it. Essentially, that’s the process.”
Jean Merriam asked, “To what extent do you control the process?”
“I can initiate it or not initiate it. I’m never drawn out of myself unless I intend to be drawn out of myself. That’s the extent of my control. Once it begins, the process continues by itself and concludes itself. I have no way of affecting its course.”
Jean said reflectively, “I don’t wish to alarm you, Mr. Litton. But mightn’t you be running the risk of remaining permanently lost in somebody else’s personality . . . unable to return to your own?”
Litton laughed. “No. I know definitely that can’t happen, though I don’t know why. The process simply can’t maintain itself for much more than five minutes. On the other hand, it’s rarely terminated in less than three.”
“You say that during the time of contact you think what the other person thinks and are aware of what he’s aware?”
“That’s correct.”
“Only that? If we employed you to investigate someone in this manner, we usually would need quite specific information. Wouldn’t we have to be extremely fortunate if the person happened to think of that particular matter in the short time you shared his mind?”
“No,” said Litton. “Conscious thoughts quite normally have thousands of ramifications and shadings the thinker doesn’t know
about. When the contact dissolves, I retain his impressions and it is primarily these ramifications and shadings I then investigate. It is something like developing a vast number of photographic prints. Usually the information my clients want can be found in those impressions in sufficient detail.”
“What if it can’t be found?”
“Then I make a second contact. On only one occasion, so far, have I been obliged to make three separate contacts with a subject to satisfy the client’s requirements. There is no fee for additional contacts.”
Jean Merriam considered a moment. “Very well,” she said. She brought a small box from the handbag, opened it, and took out a ring, which she handed to Litton. “The person in whom the organization is interested,” she said, “was wearing this ring until four weeks ago. Since then it’s been in a safe. The safe was opened yesterday and the ring taken from it and placed in this box. Would you consider it a suitable contact object?”
Litton held the ring in his palm an instant before replying. “Eminently suitable!” he said then.
“You can tell by touching such objects?”
“As a rule. If I get no impression, it’s a waste of time to proceed. If I get a negative impression, I refuse to proceed.”
“A negative impression?”
Litton shrugged. “A feeling of something that repels me. I can’t describe it more definitely.”
“Does it mean that the personality connected with the object is a repellent one?”
“Not necessarily. I’ve merged with some quite definitely repellent personalities in the course of this work. That doesn’t disturb me. The feeling I speak of is a different one.”
“It frightens you?”
“Perhaps.” He smiled. “However, in this case there is no such feeling. Have you decided to offer me the assignment?”
“Yes, I have,” Jean Merriam said. “Now then, I’ve been told nothing about the person connected with the ring. Since very few men could get it on, and very few children would wear a ring of such value, I assume the owner is a woman—but I don’t know even that. The reason I’ve been told nothing is to make sure I’ll give you no clues, inadvertently or otherwise.” She smiled. “Even if you were a mind reader, you see, you could get no significant information from me. We want to be certain of the authenticity of your talent.”
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