The Last Master

by Gordon R. Dickson

  No, he was sure he was safe, and that this move by Cele was a probe only. So he would use it for his own purposes.

  “My own purposes,” he said to himself, out loud in the stillness of the cockpit. It sounded arrogant, when he was alone out here, skimming soundlessly through the night above the barely-visible waves of the Gulf. A few barely-sensed clouds flirted with the stars that dotted the moonless, inky blue-black night; and he realized that for the moment his fiery inner nature seemed well quenched.

  Was it the stillness and the dark? he wondered. Did great-grandfather Bruder see nights like this, wandering among those Pacific islands, and did he feel small and insignificant then?

  On the day Dr. Garranto had said that whatever had been given to Wally in place of RIV-II, had directly caused his mental disintegration and suicide, Ett had made his decision to smash the system that had brought about those things. In the night he wondered if he could, and if he was right to try. But as he thought about it, he realized once more that he had no alternative to his present course of action. It was a conclusion too simple to be denied.

  He was the only one who could be trusted to see the situation in its entirety. No one but an R-Master could hold the complete picture of it in his mind; and the only other R-Master in this matter was Lee Malone, who was unpredictable at best. That meant all the other people involved—Rico, Carwell, Maea—must be brought to act on the basis of a portion of the full facts, as if that portion was the whole story. Cele and St. Onge offered the least problem, because all Ett had to do with those two was sell them a bill of goods. And they wanted to buy. Ett had no doubt that Rico was right; in that St. Onge had been set, with Cele as his assistant, to keep a special watch over the newest R-Master.

  Rico himself would need to know the most and must therefore be the one whom Ett had to trust the most; but Ett felt a strange faith in the smaller man, one that was unusually serene. He had better be right about that, however, because it would be Rico, like Malone, who would have to operate on his own, once Ett had done his part and sent the Section Chiefs of the Earth Council on the way to their own destruction.

  Meanwhile, the first step was Cele. She would expect him to be many times her equal, mentally, now that the RIV was in him; but she would also be counting on that part of him that was unchanged, the emotional, instinctive male part, as an arena in which she could win any encounter. At that—a little touch of uneasiness troubled the surface of his mind for a second—she might be right. He was, after all, still only human, only a man.

  They went to dinner that evening in the old city of New Orleans, at a historic old restaurant called Brennan’s. Just as it had been on the first evening he had called on Malone in San Diego, the weather here was unseasonably cool. They sat at a small round table with spidery ironwork legs, exposed to the stars in a courtyard with old-fashioned radiant heaters set in the high stone walls surrounding them, so that they were half-warmed, half-chilled as they sipped their drinks.

  After the drinks, they went inside the weather shield to the terrace of the restaurant proper. There were no live waiters as there had once been, half a century and more ago; but a live maître d’ circulated among the tables in white tie and tails, and the seafood was memorable.

  Cele peered at him in the candlelight as they sat with coffee and green chartreuse after the meal.

  “You do look tired,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Ett.

  For indeed he did. The MOGOW make-up expert who had prepared him and Rico for the visit to the museum had made some very slight changes in his appearance in the few minutes available tonight before he had left the island. Some sort of liquid injected under his eyes and at their corners had loosened the skin there, and a faintly dark powder had been rubbed into the skin below the eyes as well. Other tiny changes at the corners of his mouth and nose and along his jawline had faintly aged him, so that the difference between the image he presented to the world now, and the one Wally would present, would be marked by something more than the mustache he had mentioned to Rico earlier.

  “I’m just worn down a little,” Ett said now. “It’s been kind of a tense time. We revivified my brother.”

  “Your brother?” said Cele. “Oh, yes, I remember. Did it go all right?”

  “Better than that,” said Ett. “He may come out of it better than he went in. You know, it was RIV that knocked him down. He had a bad reaction. But now he seems to be coming back with something like his original intelligence.”

  “How wonderful!”

  “Wonderful and then some,” said Ett. “It’s a miracle. Of course the physicians said that a death shock could conceivably do something like this, but the chances were one in millions. But then, long shots sometimes pay off. I’m an example of that.”

  “Was he a younger or older brother?”

  “Three years older. They say we look like twins, though.”

  “Oh?”

  He thought he caught a new note of interest in her voice.

  “Yes,” he said. “Come and see me at my island sometime, and you can decide if it’s true for yourself.”

  “Maybe,” she said thoughtfully, “I will.”

  “Of course,”—he leaned a little closer to her—“you could fly back with me tonight, come to think of it. I could take you sailing in the Pixie.”

  “The Pixie?”

  “My boat,” he said. “The one I had before I took RIV. It’s not a toy I picked up since; it’s an oceangoing sloop. It’ll be a good night for sailing tonight, at the island—the moon should have risen by then.”

  Cele laughed and shook her head.

  “I’m not dressed for getting all windblown in a sailboat,” she said. “I’m not really in the mood for it, either. But I might take a look at your island anyway.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  They flew back in Ett’s atmosphere flyer. Once they were landed, Ett led her on a general tour of the island, avoiding the route that would take them to Wally’s quarters directly. It was necessary to give Rico, Carwell, and the others plenty of time to have Wally ready for Cele to see. Also, he admitted to himself, it was pleasant strolling around in the night. The moon, low on the horizon, was almost full, as he had said, and the Caribbean night was soft. For a little while it was almost the way it had always been with him, in the days before Wally took the RIV and he himself followed in Wally’s footsteps.

  They came at last to the docks, toward which he had been aiming all along. But when they came down along the wooden surface, hollow-sounding under their feet, there was a light in the cabin of the Pixie; and through a side porthole of the cabin, when they got a little closer, Ett saw the heads of Al and Maea, laughing together at something.

  “Why are you stopping?” Cele asked. “Isn’t your boat here after all?”

  “It’s here,” Ett said flatly. “But I’d forgotten something. I gave the boat to somebody else.”

  He turned and led the way back up the dock to the soft turf and on up to the house, directly now to Wally’s quarters. Dr. Carwell was waiting for them as they came up to the entrance of the wing.

  “Who’s that?” Carwell said, moving toward them in the gloom. “Oh, Mr. Ho. Were you going to look in on your brother?”

  “Yes,” said Ett. Somehow, he had expected Carwell to be a poor liar. But the big man surprised him. Carwell’s words sounded more natural than Ett’s own planned responses.

  “Cel, this is Dr. Morgan Carwell, my personal physician—and my brother’s,” said Ett. “Dr. Carwell, Miss Cele Partner.”

  Cele and Carwell murmured acknowledgements of the introduction.

  “Wallace is asleep. He’s had quite a day,” Carwell said. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Ho, I’d prefer he wasn’t disturbed, now that he’s sleeping. These first few weeks are often crucial, particularly in a case like this where he’s regaining the mental acuity he lost earlier. We want to give him every chance to rebound as far as he can.”

  “Perhaps,” said Ett, �
��Miss Partner could just look through the observation window from the therapy room?”

  “Of course,” said Carwell. “Let me lead the way.”

  He took them in through the wing, to the therapy room, and across its padded floor to the observation window that gave a view of Wally’s bedroom.

  “I could turn on the lights without disturbing him,” Carwell said to Cele. “One-way glass. But with the glare of light on this side you wouldn’t be able to see him so well in the dark. If I leave the lights off here, the night light in there is just enough

  “I see,” said Cele, looking through the glass. Her voice was thoughtful. “You’re right, Ett; he does look a lot like you.”

  “That’s what people say,” said Ett.

  Wally lay on his side, in the position they had taught him, rather than flat on his back as he had on first being revived. The night light showed his unlined face clearly against the pillow, the mustache a black smudge on his upper lip.

  “Yes,” murmured Cele, gazing at him. “A remarkable resemblance…”

  She turned abruptly away from the window.

  “Well, Ett,” she said, suddenly energetic, “what else haven’t you shown me on this island of yours?”

  “You’ve seen it all outdoors,” Ett said. “How about indoors?”

  “Of course. You’ve got a terrace somewhere, out under the stars, haven’t you, where we can sit and have a drink? Come along and have a drink with us, Dr. Carwell, won’t you?”

  She put a hand on Carwell’s thick arm.

  “I’d enjoy it,” he told her.

  “Good—Morgan,” she said. “And you can tell me all about Ett’s brother. It fascinates me. Someone brought back from a terminal situation in better shape than he went into it.”

  They went to the terrace. Ett had thought that one drink would probably be the end of it, but Cele turned out to be as fascinated with Wally’s revival as she had said. She kept Carwell in conversation about Wally until Ett’s head began to spin achingly from fatigue plus his own new vulnerability to liquor and late hours. Finally he excused himself and went to bed, leaving them still talking.

  He dreamed, but of Maea. He woke and lay in the darkness, remembering the sight of her laughing with Al on the boat, before he finally rolled over on his other side and got to sleep without dreams.

  When he arose the next morning, Cele was gone. That evening, after dinner, Rico called Ett down to the room where he had been reconstructing the information obtained by the crystals from the 0-0 files.

  “I’ve got it,” Rico said. “Everything you asked me to find out.” There were real dark smudges under his eyes, the shadows of fatigue and strain. Ett looked at him closely.

  “How long is it since you’ve been to bed?” Ett said.

  Rico groped for an answer, and Ett cut him off.

  “I take it you were up all last night. In here?”

  “Not all the time,” Rico said. “I was monitoring the conversation on the terrace after you went to bed, just in case Dr. Carwell let something slip. But he did fine.”

  “I see,” Ett said. “Yes, that was good thinking. I was too tired to think straight just then.”

  “You still look washed out,” Rico said. “You could use a couple of days just resting quietly.”

  “I plan on it,” Ett said. “I’ve got to be in good shape before this last part starts. But let me see what you’ve got so far.”

  “First,” said Rico, “Cele Partner.” He punched buttons below a viewscreen, and a paragraph of close print leaped to their eyes on its gray surface.

  “There’s her dossier,” Rico said.

  Ett looked. It was not a short dossier, either. Cele, he learned, had been born with the name Maria Van Pelt, in Brussels, Belgium. She had evidently deduced for herself the existence and power of what Rico called the bureaucracy, and set out to join it for her own benefit. She had taken a clerical job with one of the EC subsidiaries in Rangoon and proved her worth to the Accounting Section by uncovering a number of instances there of regulations being broken. She had attracted the attention of St. Onge, and since that time had been on special duty, responsible only to him.

  “Good enough,” said Ett. “With any luck, she’ll have taken the bait; she’ll be telling St. Onge right now how convenient it’d be to have Wally in my place. What’ve they got on Lee Malone?”

  Rico punched buttons again. The dossier this time was even longer. As they blew it up to make it readable they filled the whole screen several times with successive sections of it.

  “Now that’s hitting paydirt,” said Ett.

  “I thought you’d say so,” Rico answered. “Note that Master Malone is recorded as having been treated not with RIV-II, but with something called RIV-IV. Also, there’s no mention of the laboratory in his basement. If the EC knew about it, mention of it would certainly be here.”

  “Those are two things I was reasonably sure about anyway,” said Ett. “What pleases me more is that they’ve taken him at the assessment he wanted to create—they evidently believe he’s nothing but a talker, with no real revolutionist fire in him.”

  “Can we be sure that isn’t actually all he is?” Rico looked sidelong at Ett.

  “I’m sure,” said Ett. “A man who was a talker rather than an actor wouldn’t have worked that long, that hard, and kept the secret of his laboratory that well—if he were only a talker, he’d have had to tell somebody, show somebody. No, Malone is safe for the moment—and he ought to be able to stay safe at least while he makes enough of the improved RIV for our use. You did find information here about the improved version of RIV?”

  “Yes. Here.”

  Rico punched buttons again. The image that formed on a screen off to one side looked to Ett like nothing so much as a page from an advanced chemistry text.

  “Can Malone follow that?”

  “If he can’t,” Rico answered, “I can. The chemistry at this point is simple enough. Actually what I’m showing you is the end result, essential information on a long process of research and development of the drug we know as RIV. This variation is called RIV-VII.”

  “There’s always the chance, though,” said Ett, “that it isn’t the actual, final variant. They might have found that and then thrown away the information as too dangerous.”

  “No chance of that,” said Rico. “If I know anything at all, I know the bureaucratic mind. It never throws anything away. It’s exactly in character with whatever eighteen Section Chiefs sit on the EC at any one time, to make sure that RIV was refined to the ultimate point—and then to bury the results here, where they’d never be used. Give me Malone’s equipment and properly qualified chemists, and I’ll produce the actual drug for you.”

  “All right, I’ll take your word for it,” said Ett. “Now let’s look at some more dossiers. Yours, to begin with.”

  Without a word, Rico punched buttons. The dossier that appeared on the screen was lengthy and remarkable in the skills it attributed to its subject; and there was no hint that he was considered anything but utterly loyal to the EC.

  “All right,” said Ett. “Wally.”

  Wally’s dossier was quite short, containing only a notation directing the reader to the Central Computer’s biographical files, and these words: Analysis of social contacts and expressed opinions indicated possible active member of MOGOW. This was followed by a short mention of his recent history, including the revivification, and a cross-reference to Ett himself.

  “Maea,” said Ett.

  Maea’s bio was similarly brief, except for an appendage concerning her apparent attempts to cultivate Auditors Cele Partner and Patrick St. Onge, for unknown purposes; the note ended with the phrase: possible MOGOW sympathizer?

  “Carwell,” But Carwell was not mentioned in the zero-zero files. Ett frowned.

  “Try me,” he said.

  His own entry was only slightly longer than those for Wally and Maea, becoming detailed only upon his recent transformation into an R-Mas
ter. There was a mention of his unusual connections with suspected MOGOWs such as Maea and Wally, as well as with R-Master Lee Malone. There was a note that, over Medical objection, Patrick St. Onge had been assigned to surveillance of him.

  “Why ‘over Medical objection’?” Ett asked Rico. “And why the capital M?”

  “The different Section Chiefs of the Council are always feuding,” Rico said. “In particular, Wilson of Accounting and Sorenson of Medical have always been at each other’s throats, perhaps because they’ve come to be heads of the two Sections of the EC with the most personnel and the biggest budgets. Probably there was some political nit to be picked, for Sorenson to object to you being placed under surveillance; chances are it had nothing much to do with you personally.”

  “No?” said Ett. “I’d guess it had a great deal to do with me personally.” Rico looked at him questioningly, but Ett moved on. “Let’s see the entry on Dr. Garranto y Vega.”

  “Garranto?” Rico looked surprised. “Why would you expect him to be in here? He may be the most apolitical person I’ve met.”

  “Try,” said Ett.

  Rico punched buttons, and an entry was found. It was brief. It noted Dr. Garranto y Vega as an individualist who had the bad habit of ignoring Medical Section regulations; he had apparently been secretly reprimanded for some breach of the regulations about four years earlier, but the details of the case remained a Medical Section secret.

  “I don’t understand,” said Rico, looking from the entry to Ett.

  “I see a connection,” Ett said. “Tell me, what besides the size of the membership in their sections would bring Medical and Accounting into conflict in the Council Chamber?”

  “Well, Accounting contains the Auditor Corps, the police arm of the EC,” Rico said thoughtfully. “It’s known Medical doesn’t like its physicians hassled by Field Examiners—it seems to think professional people should be above that. Of course, this is all very polite, and kept to arguments in the Council itself. No one in top position in the EC is going to rock the boat.”