The Transcendent Man

by Jerry Sohl

  “Let me say again I’m sorry, Dr. Penn. I only hope I haven’t offended you. It wasn’t exactly diplomatic of me to make such an issue of it; I’ll try to behave myself from now on. Must be my nerves.”

  “Your business must be something like mine. Always on the go, always tense to some new situation. I sympathize with you. And while I think of it”—the doctor put his arms on the desk, leaned across it—”by putting you in that permanent barracks I’m making a technician out of you. That’s where they all stay, the unmarried ones, that is. It wouldn’t be polite for a guest to stay there. How would you like to stay at my house? It’s not like home on the outside, there’s no traffic in the streets in front of the house and you can’t get delivery from the corner grocery, but you’re welcome to stay. What do you say?”

  “That’s very nice of you, Doctor. I accept.” Martin felt there was more to the invitation than mere courtesy. Was the doctor afraid now to have him mingle with the technicians? Or was he, Martin, just looking for ulterior motives? Perhaps it had been out of sheer politeness. He could not be sure.

  The doctor glanced at his wrist watch. “It’s after four. Might as well take you home, then. You can meet Ethel—that’s the ‘Miss Winters’ Bobby mentioned, the housekeeper, chief cook and bottle washer—and Virginia will be home at five. Give you a chance to get moved in and settled down before dinner.”

  Building P-110 differed from P-108 and P-112 only in its occupants—the Penns. Otherwise the same windows faced the same street, the grass was trimmed the same height (Colonel Sherrington was very particular about the grass and was chauffeured around the camp periodically to inspect it), the cement walks to the front doors were all the same width. A small sign bore the message: “P-110 Dr. Eric Penn.”

  “All the houses along here have four bedrooms upstairs,” Dr. Penn explained as they stepped out of the jeep and started up the walk. “It’s a luxury not found on the outside. The army evidently expects its officers and civilian research workers to have large families. We are very comfortable in it, actually.” As an afterthought, he added, “I hope you haven’t worried that you’d be putting us out.”

  Martin wasn’t worried about where he was going to sleep. He was worried lest his staying at the doctor’s house meant the doctor wanted him under surveillance. He should get close to the doctor for National Scene, but if he were to do anything for General Deems he was going to have to get out on his own at least part of the time.

  If there was any motive other than a feeling of genuine hospitality on his part, the doctor gave no evidence of it. He was a gracious and considerate host. He introduced him to Ethel Winters, an aging but still obviously efficient maiden lady who gave him a quick glance, gauged his appetite and hurried back to the kitchen to put some more beef in the stew.

  The doctor showed him the guest room and suggested he make himself at home in it and then left him to his own devices while he ran a tubful of water down the hall and sang in an off-key voice.

  Martin put his coat and hat in the closet, looked in the dresser mirror to comb his hair, then took a look out the window. It was a view such as one might get in a suburban neighborhood. Unusual for an army camp, except this wasn’t fundamentally an army camp. The army boys were just the guards, the security people. Martin was used to an airfield with roaring planes and a big hangar and beacon lights.

  When he turned around he was surprised to see Bobby standing in the doorway, looking at him curiously. The boy turned away.

  “Hey, wait. Don’t go.”

  The boy hesitated, came back, leaned against the doorjamb, looking at him hostilely now.

  “How’s Tornado Bill?” Martin threw him a smile to let him know all was forgiven, I don’t care what you did, let’s forget it.

  “He won’t be on till tomorrow.”

  “If I’m around will you let me listen with you?”

  The eyes lighted with interest, then faded. “You wouldn’t like him. Grown people don’t like him. Even Daddy doesn’t like him.”

  “I’ll bet!” Martin laughed. “What are you going to be when you grow up? Another Tornado Bill?”

  The boy shook his head. “I’m going to have a factory. I’m going to make rocket ships and repair everything. I’ll bet I could make a rocket ship as big as this house. Bigger than Tornado Bill’s Jupiter Express.”

  “No kidding?”

  “You don’t think I could, I bet.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it,” Martin said casually. “I’ve seen you do some strange things.”

  “I will have lots of men working for me,” the boy continued without giving any sign. “I’ll have lots of money that people will give me and when we go I’ll pick all the people I want to go with me.”

  “Could I go?”

  “You’d be scared.”

  “Think so? I don’t think I would be if you piloted the ship. The man who builds the ship ought to know how to run it.”

  The boy thought this over. Before he could speak again Martin asked him, “One thing I would like to know, Bobby, is why you didn’t tell the truth in your father’s office this afternoon. You know I saw you when I was walking this afternoon.”

  “But I was telling the truth,” the boy said dismally. “How could you see me when I was in school?”

  Martin gave up. “It must have been your twin brother, then.” He made a mental note to check on the teacher.

  The boy shook his head. A door slammed downstairs.

  “That’s my sister,” he said. “You’ll like her. Everybody does. Come on.”

  The memory of the photograph stirred Martin with a desire to see the girl and he was amazed at the eagerness with which he followed the boy across the hall and down the stairs.

  “Hey, Sis!” Bobby cried. “A man’s going to stay here!”

  Martin laughed to himself as he wondered what this remark would mean to a beautiful twenty-three-year-old girl everybody liked, including Martin if the picture was a fair sample.

  The floor of the hallway gave him only a glimpse of the lower floor as he descended the stairs behind Bobby. The first thing he saw was a pair of black pumps, a set of shapely ankles and nicely turned legs. Another few steps gave proof that the picture conveyed only a flat image of what was without question the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

  Their eyes met and held. She had evidently opened a letter and was reading it before she turned her head to see what manner of man it was her brother was shouting about. Martin did not trust his feet. He stopped mid-stairs and gaped. There was something electric there in the glance, something that touched a tender place within him. Her blush was contagious.

  “I—I’m Martin Enders,” he said.

  “I’m ‘Sis,’ as Bobby said. Only my name’s Virginia.” Her voice was low, vibrant and sincere. She smiled warmly.

  “Aren’t you coming down?” Bobby asked impatiently.

  “Ah—yes.” Martin came down the rest of the stairs. “Bobby says everybody likes you, Virginia,” he said in recovery. “Any truth in that?”

  “Bobby’s sweet,” she said. “I’m afraid he sees in others only himself.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I can see why he’d say it.”

  “It’s refreshing to meet someone gallant. Is it a characteristic of writers?”

  “Not at all. I’m the only gallant one left. The others are all either happily married or turned recluse and live in caves hating all of civilization. But how did you know I was a writer?”

  “Dad mentioned you were coming to interview him. Let’s go into the living room. We can sit there.” When they were moving, she said, “I think it’s grand of National Scene to take such an interest in Dad. He’s worked hard all his life.”

  He offered her a cigarette and as he lighted it for her, her eyes met his again. Closer, they did have an ethereal look, a misty quality that enhanced them. He had never seen eyes like hers before—challenging, provocative, exciting and curious, yet somehow reserved and cool.

&n
bsp; “Tell me about your work,” she said, blowing the smoke prettily. “It must be fascinating.”

  “At moments like this I agree.”

  “The unswervable gallant.” She laughed. “But seriously, Dad did say he had been mentioned as a possible cover story. Will he be, do you think?”

  “It all depends on what I find out,” Martin answered.

  “For example.”

  “Oh, the little things in his life that have made him the man he is. The things that made the turning points, the signposts along the way. I’m counting on you to help me out.”

  “I’ll be glad to, Martin,” she said agreeably. “Dad’s apt to be pretty modest about some of the things he’s done.”

  “He said he’d be hard to talk to. Said he was pretty busy with his project.”

  “It hasn’t been going too well, frankly. He’s been working very hard and there have been some upsets.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  “Little things.” As she sat there, her eyes looked far away and Martin wondered what she was thinking.

  “How long has he been working on the project?”

  “Nearly a year. He came here upon invitation of the government. He was head of the department of biology at Billingsley before this. There he had his own laboratory and lots of endowments. I think he misses the work. Government employment is so strenuous and you always have to account for everything and there are so many records—it’s just too much for one man. It’s not at all like Billingsley when Mother was living. She was devoted to Dad.”

  She was visibly affected, paused to control herself. “When she died he just literally immersed himself in his work and wouldn’t talk to anyone. He’s come out of it now, though.”

  “He said you work in the lab, Virginia. What do you do?”

  “Some of the routine things. The records. I’m in charge of the stock and supplies.”

  “You make it sound dull.”

  She laughed. “How much do you know about science and laboratories, Martin? Perhaps you think of it as most people do—a fascinating place where four or five bearded men with thick glasses are tensely waiting the outcome of some experiment. It’s never been like that for us. It’s a grind, a slow, monotonous, checking, testing, double-checking, evaluating and re-evaluating. There seldom is a movielike dramatic moment when some result is instantly apparent. Sometimes you can have the answer for days without even knowing it.”

  “It seems to me you’re taking it too far the other way,” Martin countered. “Doesn’t anything exciting ever happen? Hasn’t anything exciting happened since you’ve been here?”

  She looked at him oddly for a moment. “Yes, something did. But it wasn’t in connection with the actual research.”

  “What was it?”

  “There was a man,” she said. “A technician named Mr. Killian. He disappeared and everybody on Park Hill spent a whole day looking for him. He was never found. That was about a month ago.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Heavens, I don’t know. One day he was here and the next day he wasn’t.”

  “Where did this man work?”

  “That is the peculiar part of it. He worked right in Dad’s laboratory and lived with the rest of the bachelor technicians in the permanent barracks. He couldn’t just have walked off the job. I mention it because you’re sure to hear about it.”

  Martin put out his cigarette. “What does your father think happened to Forrest Killian? I mean, doesn’t he have a theory or something?”

  “Dad was the last person to see him alive. He doesn’t know what happened to him either.” She looked at him sharply. “How did you know his first name?”

  “You told me, Virginia.” Suddenly he knew he’d never be an efficient CIC man. The bottom dropped out of his stomach. He hoped he didn’t show what a big error he had made.

  “I didn’t tell you his first name, Martin. I just called him Killian.”

  “But you did! Otherwise how would I know?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She looked at him in wonder.

  Ethel came in to say dinner was ready.

  Chapter 5

  Dinner at the Penn house was a one-sided affair conversationally. Martin had counted rather heavily on extracting a few facts from the doctor, but he only managed to get two questions asked, for it was Bobby who monopolized the conversation, reciting tales of his future conquests in the never-never land of rocket ships and space pirates.

  Dr. Penn did not seem to mind. He was occupied with his own thoughts as he methodically ate his meal, sometimes staring off into space as Bobby rattled on. He grunted monosyllabic answers to the child’s questions.

  Virginia smiled at Bobby’s obvious penchant for incredible invention and imagery; the lad’s enthusiasm and occasional gestures frequently made her laugh. This only led the child into even more startling adventures which he related with excited bright eyes and nonstop tongue.

  It was Ethel, her dull grey hair sweeping straight back to a bun on her neck and her slate grey eyes coolly watchful of the boy’s table manners, who kept interrupting the lad and telling him to eat.

  “What’s got into you tonight, Bobby?” Ethel said finally. “You don’t have to impress Mr. Enders. You can tell him about your space adventures some other time.”

  Martin thought it was odd that the doctor and his daughter did not enforce Ethel’s suggestion, especially when she looked at them as if seeking support for her action. When they did not return the look, she turned to Martin as if expecting him to make some comment.

  He decided to take no notice of it. Besides, he had sensed through her cool and indifferent glances that she did not relish setting an extra plate for him and he did not want to alienate her. Instead, he told her he liked the stew. He was pleased to see her brighten. She had a vulnerable spot.

  “Virginia and I have some work to do in the laboratory,” Dr. Penn said after dinner while he was filling his corncob. “The work is a bit strenuous and we’d have no time to talk to you, Martin. I suggest you go to an area movie. You can come to the lab tomorrow.”

  “We always get the films before Avon Ridge,” Virginia said. “Sometimes even months before.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t care much for movies,” Martin said truthfully. “I would prefer staying right here and waiting for you to get back.”

  “We may be quite late.” The doctor and his daughter exchanged glances. “You had better go.”

  “I’d prefer just wandering about the area, if you don’t mind.”

  “It would be dangerous to go poking around,” the doctor said. “Somebody might get the wrong idea and take a shot at you. Here’s where the movie is.” He picked up a scrap of paper and drew a diagram. “To get to it, you’ve got to go down these streets. Here we are; this is where the movie is.”

  Martin felt color rising in his neck. “I told you I don’t like movies. I go only once or twice a year. Why do you insist I do something I don’t want to do?”

  “Mr. Enders,” the doctor said, his grey eyes glittering, “you do want to stay out of trouble, don’t you?”

  “But I don’t see—”

  “Dad’s right, Martin. You don’t know the reservation very well. The movie would be the best thing to do your first night here.”

  In the end, to avoid a quarrel he could not afford, he thanked the doctor for the diagram and left the house.

  He had no intention of going to a movie.

  He found the acceptable streets were the ones with people on them. He stayed on these, passing regulation army buildings and other more bizarre structures probably built for some specific bit of research. These bore the legend: “Authorized Personnel Only.” He did not argue.

  The streets reminded him of a carnival, for every square inch of ground was brightly illuminated as at a midway. Through these avenues moved military police cars bearing armed men in uniform who were alert and efficient-looking. Every once in a while such a vehicle would
stop a group and the white-gloved MP’s would ask to see identification cards.

  “You’re out of Area One, buddy,” a sergeant who took a look at his ID card told him at one point. “Better get back where you belong.”

  Martin’s wanderings brought him at length to a singlestory structure from which was coming the sound of many voices, laughter and the blare of a jukebox. He looked in.

  It was crowded, but he saw a vacant table on the far side of the room. He pushed his way through couples on the dance floor, bought a bottle of beer at the counter and made his way to the table. He sat there for a while, wondering if all the people there worked on Penn Project, when he noticed an older man standing at the end of the counter looking at him.

  The man eventually made his way across the floor to Martin’s table.

  “Are you alone?” he asked. When Martin nodded, he said, “I saw you come in. I figured maybe you’d want company. I hate sitting at a table all by myself and thought maybe you did, too. Not expecting anybody, are you?”

  Martin told him to sit down, offered him a cigarette when the man had drawn up a chair, depositing his glass and bottle on the table.

  “Don’t smoke,” the man said. “Gave it up a couple years ago. You’re new around here, aren’t you?” The eyes were dull beneath the high forehead, the salt and pepper hair. His glasses needed cleaning and his breath smelled of something stronger than beer.

  “Just arrived today,” Martin said.

  “Hey, Cholly!” The voice came from the doorway and they both turned to see three young fellows headed their way. “Hey, we’re late, Cholly,” one of them said, coming over. “Your offer still good?”

  “You apes know I never made any offer,” Martin’s partner said. “But sit down. I’ve never been known to refuse to buy a drink.”

  “Amen,” another said as the three drew up chairs.

  “Three over here!” the third man yelled to the counterman.

  “I’d introduce you to these simpletons, but I don’t know your name.”

  “I don’t know yours either.”