Don went back to the cave later that day. He was in a miserable state of confusion and doubt. Kunitz' face alternated in his mind with Francine's, and both were slyly mocking. Who was lying? Why? If he could only be sure!
He looked at the flower pots, the tarpaulins, the ladder. He closed his eyes, hoping for a flash of awareness, or something which would say, "No, that's not it." If he had been here before, when he was drugged, would he not remember it? For a second it seemed to him that he did remember ... something ... and then it was gone and Francine's gay light voice was echoing once more in his ears. He looked at the tarpaulins. They were only crumpled cloth, and he could not say whether they had ever been the wise sphinx.
He turned to go. There was no point in staying any longer. He halted. Someone was singing outside the cave.
It was a woman's voice, a rather low contralto, and the melody it sang, Don thought, seemed to have in it the sound of water flowing and the lapping of waves. There were words he could not understand—he thought they were words of some old earth language—and then more of the flowing, rippling melody. It sounded old, and yet fresh, as if it might have come out of the childhood of a world.
Who could be singing? Few people sang nowadays, and when they did it was not music like that, but the glittering artificial trills that they heard over the tri-di.
The voice halted for a moment, almost as if the singer were waiting for an answer. Then it went on, in the archaic language, "Frau Sonne ... den Helden ... das Gold ... gabe ..." Haig could make out a word distinctly now and then. He had no idea what it meant, but he liked it. He had begun to smile.
He stepped outside, still smiling. There was no one. Or—wait, yes. There was a woman, standing beside a white and yellow frangipani. She was wearing a soft white dress.
She leaned forward quickly when she saw him. Her body was stiff with hope and doubt. She sang the slashing syllables again; they were a river in the sunlight. She looked at him and waited. Don gave a silly, nervous, apologetic cough.
Her face cleared. Her body lost at once its tension and its hopefulness. She said, "Why, it's the man who has Vulcan's doll!"
Haig was startled. He said, "How did you know that?"
"Why, I suppose everybody knows it," she said, laughing. "I was in the bar, you know, when you showed it to Henry. And after you left, he told all of us about it. I think he was impressed. Everybody on Fyon must know about your having the doll by now."
"Oh."
"Don't you know me?" she continued. "I'm the girl who sells curios at the counter in the bar."
For the first time, Haig really looked at her. She was small and slender, with very dark hair and a glowing brown skin. Her eyes were blue. Martian? he thought. No, the color of her eyes was not deep enough for that. There were gardenias in her hair.
"My name's Phyllis," she said. "And you're Haig."
It was certainly not a remarkable statement, but Don felt a glow of pleasure at the way she said it. "My first name's Don," he answered. "What was that you were singing when I came outside?"
"Oh, an old song. From a play with music." She did not look at him. "I like it, don't you?"
"Yes. I never heard anything like it. It sounded like water." He hesitated. "Do you know how to swim?"
They were walking along slowly as they talked, through the masses of flowering trees. Phyllis put up a hand to push a flower-heavy branch aside. "Yes. I've learned since I came to Fyon. I never could learn weightless natation, somehow. I don't care, though. It never seemed to be much fun."
"It's too easy," Don agreed. "Like a lot of things. I suppose that's one of the reasons why Fyon isn't more popular—there aren't any weightless installations here."
"Fyon's a fine place," she replied, nodding. "Simple. I like it more all the time. But it's not quite real." A gardening robot passed them with a faint clanking. "I mean—like that. It's robots and machines."
"You can forget them if you try."
"I know."
They had reached the beach. The pink sands, the green-glinting, opalescent water lay in front of them. If Fyon, Don thought, was an artificial thing, a purely human creation, it was certainly a beautiful one. He said, "How would it be if we went swimming together? I don't know anyone else who swims."
Her small face lit up. "Oh, yes. I'd like that. As you say, hardly anybody does. But—excuse me—are you well enough? You looked so ill when I saw you with the man, the other day."
Don felt dizzy. He said, "What day was that?" His tongue felt like somebody else's tongue.
"The day before yesterday. It was you, wasn't it? It was on the path near the cave, and the man—I don't know who he was, I never saw him before—had his hand under your elbow helping you. You looked dreadfully white and sick."
Don walked a few steps toward the water and sank down on the sand. His knees would not sustain him. So Kunitz had been right!
The drugging had been deliberate. Francine had certainly been a party to it. There had been a deliberate attempt to get the doll away from him. And the SSP ...
The girl had hurried after him. "Did I say something wrong?" she asked breathlessly. "Shall I call somebody? Is something wrong?"
Don shook his head ... He ought to start running. When the SSP was after you, you ran. You ran as long as you could, and in the end they caught you. There wasn't any time to lose. He ought to go find Kunitz.
Why didn't he? Was it because, even now, he didn't quite trust the older man? There was always something ambiguous about Kunitz, for all his friendliness. Was it a deep reluctance to begin the hateful, predetermined drama of running and pursuit? Or was it, more than any of these, the silly fact that he wanted—he very much wanted—to go swimming with this girl?
She was still bending above him anxiously, her hands tight on his arm. "I'm so sorry," she said tensely. "Haven't you any medicine?"
"I'm all right." Don shook his head. "It's nothing, really." He felt a heady, half-drunken irresponsibility welling up in him. What did an hour or two matter? There was plenty of time to begin the desperate game of flight, fear, pursuit. He would decide what to do later. The SSP was powerful, but it shouldn't cheat him out of swimming with Phyllis. He had plenty of time.
He got to his feet. "It won't happen again," he said, smiling. "Really, it's all right. Do you have to get your suit before we can swim?"
She was looking at him with somewhat the expression she had worn when he first saw her—expectation confused with doubt. "But you—aren't you—why—" After a moment she frowned. "Could you let me see the doll? I was too far away, when you were in the bar. And I've heard a lot about the one in the museum. People who see it remember it."
Without a word he showed it to her. There was silence. Then Phyllis said flatly, "You didn't find her by accident."
"No. I suppose not."
"But why—aren't you—I don't understand. The doll hasn't anything ... Put her away, Don. It's enough. She makes me feel as if I'd been looking at the sun. I don't mean with my eyes, but with my mind."
He obeyed. "And now," she said, jumping up and shaking herself, "let's swim."
She swam like a fish, like an otter. She darted away from him, laughing, through the buoyant foam. He shook water from his eyes and then shot after her. He overtook her, grabbed, and was left empty-handed. She dived, wheeled, glancing like an arrow through the bright water, and came up behind him in a flurry of froth. For a moment they hung side by side. Then she was gone again, her polished shoulders gleaming in the sun.
When they were tired, they sat on the beach in the sand and rested. They could be silent with each other. There was no restless need to keep talking. Once Phyllis said, "I'd hate to have her shut up in a museum," and he answered, "I know."
The sun began to sink. The sky boiled up in waves of burning color. They watched quietly. There was a faint tinkle of sound, loud in the silence. Pits began to appear in the sand.
Phyllis gave a little cry. "An eye-beam! An eye-beam. Don, somebody's u
sing an eye-beam on us!"
He was suddenly sober and cold and awake. The intoxication that had sustained him vanished. He saw his delay for what it was—folly, recklessness, an egotistical stupidity. Do-nothing heroics! He felt the sting of self-contempt and guilt. Worst of all, he might have involved this girl.
He looked at her. Her face was white, but her mouth was faintly smiling. Even in his agitation, he was surprised at her.
He said, "You've got to go, Phyllis. You've got to get away from me." His voice came out low and harsh.
"Why? What do you mean?"
"Because I—it's not safe for you. There may be trouble. I'm sorry. That eye-beam—it means the SSP is after me."
Her face had grown radiant. "The SSP!" she cried. "I knew it! Then you are one of us!"
Chapter Ten — The Holy Fish
"Why didn't you answer my signal?" the girl went on. "I thought—and then I wasn't sure. I was waiting for you."
Don said, "I'm not—whoever you thought I was. It's just that the SSP wants the doll. They've tried twice before to get it away from me. That day you saw me on the path I'd been drugged with alaphronein. I suppose the man you saw with me was somebody from the SSP. I was taken to the cave and given suggestion to make me give up the doll voluntarily."
"But—why don't they simply take it away from you? The SSP isn't restrained by considerations of legality." Her head lowered, she was letting handfuls of sand trickle through her fingers. She would not look at him.
"There's a tie—a sort of force field—between me and it." He told her of the experiments Kunitz had made, and finished, "I suppose taking it from me by force would be dangerous. But I don't know what will happen now. That's why you've got to go away from here."
"What will you do, then, Don?" The glory of the sunset had faded into a still lavender twilight. He could smell the scent of the gardenia wreath she had replaced in her hair.
"Go to Kunitz, I guess. He said he'd help me."
"Kunitz? Do I know him?"
"You must. He's in the bar pretty often—buys phlomis in bottles. He's a stocky, heavy-set, middle-aged man."
"Oh, Yes, I know him. He reads a lot. Is he reliable, Don?"
"I suppose so. Look here, we mustn't stay here talking. It's dangerous. You've got to go."
She got to her knees obediently, and then sank back again. "You don't trust him, do you? There's something in your voice when you say his name ..."
"It doesn't matter whether I trust him or not," Don answered harshly. "He's the only chance I've got. It's true, I'm none too sure about him. But he seems to be my friend."
"You mustn't go to him, then," Phyllis replied quickly.
"Don't you see, all you have to rely on now is your intuition and your wits? We had so much trouble with people being betrayed. He might be an agent of—of theirs."
There was a second's silence. Phyllis was hugging her knees. He could not be sure in the poor light, but he thought she was shivering. A faint breeze had come up.
Don said abruptly, "Of course I could simply give them the doll."
Phyllis drew in her breath. "No!" she cried. Then, more calmly, she went on, "You're afraid I'll get into trouble, aren't you? Don't worry about it, Don—I'm already on their list of suspicious persons. Not that that's any distinction. I mean, half the people in the system must be by now.
"But you mustn't give the doll up to them. Doing that wouldn't help anyhow—they'd still send you to one of the concentration planetoids, just as a matter of principle. And they want the doll for some reason. You mustn't give it up. It's important, though I don't know how."
"I know it too," Haig admitted. "I don't suppose I could make myself let them have her. But what shall I do? Stay here until they try to get her again? And this time they wouldn't fail."
She let sand run through her fingers. It was almost dark. "Will you trust me?" she asked softly. "More than you trust Kunitz?"
"Yes." He was to regret other things, to the time he had left, but never that he had said that.
"Then ... I think I could hide you in the hemisphere. It's out in the water, you know—an underwater sphere-shaped projected field that the technicians who made Fyon built. We used to meet there. I think it's safe.
"There used to be a land connection with the sphere, but one of the technicians destroyed it because he thought it was dangerous. The only access is by water now. We'll swim out when it's quite dark."
Don let out a long breath. Now that he had the prospect of a refuge, he realized under what a strain he had been. "But what about you?" he asked in the next second, worried again. "Won't that be dangerous for you?"
He thought she shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I hate the SSP so much—! I'm under suspicion anyway because of my sister. They may even know that I was a member of the Holy Fish."
Don looked at the sky. There was still a little light. Phyllis was right; they must wait until night had come, in case the eye-beam was still focused on them. Waiting might be dangerous, but it couldn't be helped. They had to wait.
"What was the Holy Fish?" he asked. "A religious cult?"
"It was supposed to be a cult. Actually, it was an organization of scientists and technicians who were opposed to the SSP. It was started when they were building Fyon, and realized what they could build if they were free to do it. So many things aren't permitted to scientists now.
"My sister was a member. After the SSP got her, I joined, though I wasn't really qualified. I'm not a scientist, you see."
"That song you were singing outside the cave—was that a signal of theirs?"
"Yes. I'm the only member left on Fyon. All the others were picked up, or had accidents. There never were very many of us. About a month ago I got a message—it was only one line, but it had the identification—telling me to meet a Fish at the cave. The cave was our land meeting place. I thought you might be the one I was to meet."
"What happened to your sister?"
"She was sent to Phlegethon."
"The dream planet? Where they mine Dumortine?"
"They don't mine it," Phyllis answered. There was something very odd in her voice. "They hunt it with dogs. Don't you know about Dumortine?"
"Only that it's a drug which is supposed to induce rich and varied dreams in natural sleep. It's supposed to be harmless. It's taken through little cuts in the skin."
"It's not harmless," Phyllis answered. She gave a strangled little cough, as if what she felt was choking her. "People who use it get so they hate the day. But that's not what I meant. Do you know how they made Dumortine?"
"I thought they mined it."
"No. No. Phlegethon's radioactive—the soil, the air, everything. It's the headquarters of the SSP—well shielded, of course, from any radioactivity. And it's also a penal planetoid.
"When a prison ship lands on Phlegethon, the prisoners are turned loose. They can't get away; there's no need for guards. But in order to survive, they have to breathe the air, they have to eat the products of the radioactive soil."
"It—kills them?" Don asked softly.
"Nothing so kind as that. Oh, sometimes I think I can't bear it. Kyria—my sister—was so gentle and good. Gentle and brave and good!"
After a moment Phyllis controlled herself. "After the prisoners have been there for two or three years, the SSP hunts them. It's a regular part of the training of young officers. They do it with dogs.
"They always catch them. Sometimes it takes days, with the prisoner always running, but in the end they do. Then the prisoners are killed."
"But—the Dumortine?"
"It's found in crystals in their flesh. All through the musculature. It's formed as a result of the radioactivity. The running, with the dogs after them, helps the drug to crystallize."
Her voice was hard and detached. In the dimness, Don reached out for her hand. He pressed the fingers. For a moment she was quiet. Then she pulled her hand away. "If you touch me, I'll—I can't help crying," she said in explanation. "And crying
doesn't help. I've already cried too much.
"But you see what I meant about the SSP. I don't know why they want the doll. It looks like a small thing, not very important. But if they want it, you mustn't give it to them."
"Yes. I see. Look here, Phyllis, what do you think the SSP is trying to do? Or are they trying to do anything?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Well ... Is there something behind all these things, some bigger plan? The repression of science, I mean, and the mutant study program, and the encouragement the SSP has given the various cults. Maybe even the fact that hardly anybody can read letters now, but only scan isotypes, would be an example of what I mean.
"Is there something behind these things? Or is it just expediency, with no bigger design at all, and the SSP acting only to retain and consolidate its own power?"
"I think there's a plan," Phyllis answered. "We used to discuss that point a lot in the Fish. One thing was very plain—not all scientists were equally harassed and annoyed. We had a physicist and an astronomer among our members—they'd joined because they hated the SSP repression of free scientific thought and exchange of information—but they were never bothered personally or their work interfered with.
"On the other hand, the biologists and zoologists were under constant attack. My sister was only an assistant in a lab. Her chief was doing some experiments on growth buds in salamander embryos, trying to see that organs he could make develop from the buds, when they picked him up. Kyria tried to go on with his experiments, and a couple of month later they took her too.
"I do think there's a design. I mean, there's something in the life sciences, some possibility, perhaps, that the SSP doesn't want studied or understood."
It had grown quite dark. Phyllis got to her feet. "Stay close to me," she said. "I don't know how much an eye-beam can pick up, but try not to churn the water into froth when you swim, and don't show your teeth. They might be able to catch the beam of reflected light. When we get to the sphere, do exactly as I do. Follow me." She waded out into the surf.
Chapter Eleven — The Hemisphere
Agent of the Unknown Page 7