Another man sat in a chair. Knot noticed with distaste that he was fastened in, like a baby in its highchair, so that he could not fall.
“Hello, Swent,” Finesse said. “Can you read my mind?”
The seated man looked at her, his face going blank. He had a broad forehead fringed by reddish and thinning hair; this forehead began to perspire. Then his face crumpled, and he was crying openly. “Gone, gone...” he said.
“Let me assure you that CC will retire you comfortably,” Finesse said. “You can live out your life as a normal.”
“As a lobo!” he sobbed. “My magic is gone!”
A lobo? Suddenly Knot made a connection. The criminals who—but why would Finesse interview a convicted-and-punished criminal?
“It is true,” Finesse said. “You have been involuntarily lobotomized. This is a crime, a galactic felony. Your civil rights have been violated. We intend to bring the guilty parties to justice. This is why I’m here to interview you. I must elicit information to identify those who did this to you. This may not be any comfort, but you are not alone; there has been a recent spate of similar offenses, many right here on Planet Macho. We seem to be dealing with an organized conspiracy of mischief.”
Knot listened, his comprehension growing. Lobo-lobotomy. The nullification of a section of the brain by scalpel, electric shock or radiation surgery. It was normally used on criminals, in lieu of the barbaric death penalty of man’s earlier centuries. A man who was criminally insane could be rendered law-abidingly sane by lobotomy. And a psi-mutant with a dangerous talent, such as the ability to cause blood-clotting in a living body—which clots could maim or kill instantly, or after painful delay. Only death or complete isolation could stop such a mutant from indulging in mischief, assuming he was inclined to use it. Until lobotomy had been developed as a rehabilitative measure.
But now someone was lobotomizing law-abiding psi-mutes? Mischief indeed! They had done it to a telepath employed by CC, so it was no longer a purely planetary matter. The Coordination Computer was involved—and would act effectively. Once the facts were in. Obviously Finesse knew quite a bit about the matter already—just as she had known about the leadmuter before interviewing Knot that first time. She might be a normal, but she was CC’s agent, and subtly competent. Someone was about to be very sorry he had messed with a CC employee.
Yet, though Knot sympathized with the mutilated telepath, he was privately gratified that someone was annoying CC. The Coordination Computer could not operate without its network of psi mutants. The constant barrage of computer assassins was a mere annoyance to an entity guarded by clairvoyants, but the elimination of psi-mutants struck CC in its vitals.
“Please trace your activities from the time you landed on this planet a month ago,” Finesse said to Swent. “Perhaps we can locate the time and place of the crime, even though the individuals have been excised from your memory.”
“I cannot,” the man moaned. “All blank!”
Finesse remained calm. “What is the last thing you remember, before?”
Swent concentrated forlornly. “It’s foggy. Some scenes between gaps. An assignment on Planet Contralto—”
“That was six months ago,” Finesse exclaimed.
“Was it? I have little time sense now.”
“It is still soon after your lobotomy. The disorientation will desist in due course, and your memory will firm. But I’m afraid there is no hope of recovering any of your Macho experience.” Finesse moved toward the door. “I have another appointment. Thank you for talking to me.”
“My pension—” the man said, alarmed.
“Is secure. CC takes care of its own.” She moved on out, and Knot followed.
She had been abrupt with the lobo, as she had been with Knot himself. That seemed cruel, but obviously she could not get through thirty interviews if she dawdled. Also, there was no point in becoming too personal, too caring, for that would only lead to attachments of a less-than-professional nature. That, it seemed, had been the case with Knot himself.
Back in the car, her eyes on the road, she asked: “Satisfied?”
“No.” Then he had to smile, ruefully. “I mean yes, I can see that you are not making love to supercilious he-man type Macho normals. But lobotomizing—who would do such a thing to an innocent man? Could he have gotten into a fight with a local?”
“He did not. He was here to investigate the lobotomizing of other psi-mutants in this region. He was abducted from his hotel room at night, and returned by morning—in the present state.”
“You know all this? Why were you asking him, then?”
“I always know the answers to the key questions I ask. You ought to know that.”
“As with the leadmuter. Yes. Still, what was there to gain by torturing him like that? He’s obviously disoriented, and hurting from the loss of his psi ability. You were being deliberately cruel.” As she had been to Knot himself, establishing her efficient distance from him despite his misapprehension.
“It is necessary to check each one of the new lobos. Somewhere there may be an overlapping of patterns that will provide a hint who is doing this. I must be cruel to each one, to help them all.”
“Who do you think is doing this?”
“An enemy of CC. Picking off the psi-mutants CC depends on. In time, this sort of thing could seriously crowd CC’s operations.”
Exactly as he had conjectured. “And lead to anarchy?”
“Or worse.”
She drew in at another chateau. This time the interviewee was a middle aged woman, a former distance clairvoyant. She was as desolate as Swent had been. Her story was similar; not only had she lost her talent, she had no recollection of her stay on this planet.
Then a third: a young boy, a small-mass telekinetic—now dependent on his hands to move things, feeling crippled. He was a Macho native, not connected to CC though entered in CC’s files. He had made application to join CC—and, it seemed, paid for that gesture by being mutilated.
“Knot,” Finesse said as they drove toward the fourth interview. “I should take you back now; you’ve seen enough to understand why I don’t have time for you. It’s nothing personal.”
“I can see that. You have your job to do. I’m in the way.” He was glum but serious; she certainly had shown him. It was nothing personal—when he had aspired to some very personal interaction. His imaginings of her making love to handsome normal males.
“But I think I’m forming a picture. Two or three more interviews should do it. It’s intuitive; I may lose it if I break off now. So I’m going to ask you to do me a favor.”
“A favor for CC? I don’t like these lobo-mutilations, but that doesn’t mean I favor CC. I see evil on each side.”
“A favor for me, personally. So that I can do the job I was sent to do, without getting myself lobotomized.”
That shook him. “But you’re normal!”
“Lobotomy seems to be a dandy way to erase memory too, irrevocably. Brutal but effective. It isn’t like hypno-drug therapy; the destroyed brain tissue can never be regenerated. I’m sure CC assigned me to this investigation in the belief that I would be safe, as a normal, but I lack confidence in that. I’m afraid that if I don’t solve the whole problem now, I may be eliminated before I do. Obviously these lobotomizers play a hard game. I need special equipment.”
“I’ll do your favor,” Knot said tightly. He opposed CC on vague general principle, but the thought of Finesse being lobotomized appalled him. She might not return the feeling, but he would do almost anything for her.
“Thank you. I want you to drive this car back to my hotel, and go to my apartment, and pick up a small suitcase there. It is sitting at the foot of my bed. Don’t open it; just bring it to me here.”
“Here?”
“At this apartment complex,” she said, turning into a series of linked buildings. “I have three interviewees here. Ask for me at the lobby.”
“All right,” he agreed dubiously, accept
ing the quaint key to vehicle and apartment. The favor seemed simple enough, but he had the feeling there was more to it than showed. For one thing, she had to know it would take him more than an hour to return; she would by then have forgotten his involvement, unless she took steps to remember. She might have her holo recorder operating now, and might stop to play it back in an hour, but he wasn’t sure she would have the opportunity, or remember it if she did. Forgetting was insidious; it did not alert a person to itself, and so it normally proceeded unchecked. As she must know. Was she getting rid of him? Yet she would need her car to return.
All he could do was play along and find out. He could fetch her equipment, locate her, and remind her how she had sent him. He was used to doing that sort of thing. He moved over to the driver’s seat as she exited, and fumbled with the controls.
“You know how to operate it; I saw you watching,” she said, and leaned in the window to kiss him briefly. “Now scoot.”
He scooted, startled by her kiss. She had to remember more than she was letting on! Maybe when he returned, she would let him in on the rest of her secrets. Or was he foolishly dreaming again?
He took the car out. It wasn’t hard at all to handle. In fact, it was fun, for it responded to his every signal, seeming like an extension of himself. A man could get used to anything, even pneumatic-wheeled traction. When he accelerated, the vehicle leaped forward pleasantly. Soon he found himself zooming over the bridge.
He looked down, trying to see more detail, his feelings roiling up again. All those mutants down there, his own kind, suffering deprivation, neglect, and sewage on their heads from the arrogant normals above! Perhaps turning up their faces in futile prayer to their deities for reprieve—and receiving garbage in response. Was that the fault of the planetary government, beyond the control of CC—or the fault of CC for its policy of mutancy and laissez faire? He had speculated on that on the way in, but it was a morbid question that would not let go of his attention. A pox on both their houses! No one wanted the ninety-nine failures that came with the single mutant success.
He mulled it over yet again, and concluded as before that CC had title to the most fundamental blame. Planet Macho might be callous about the problem, but the problem derived from galactic policy. If CC fostered mutancy to benefit its own operations, CC should assume responsibility for the failures, at least allocating funds for decent maintenance, perhaps setting aside enclave planets provided with plenty of food. Since CC declined to do that—
Eliminate the mutants, eliminate the enclaves, eliminate the suffering. It might be simplistic, but at least it was an answer.
CHAPTER 7:
Knot arrived after what seemed like a moment but was actually a reasonable interval, at the Open Range Hotel. He parked his car in the spot reserved for it—even cars had privileged sites, on Macho, (mental image of healthy cars draining their used oil onto the hoods of worn-out or misconstructed cars in a nether junkyard)—and took the gravshaft up. The car key also keyed open the door. He entered and saw the suitcase at the foot of the bed. Since the bed was round, it technically had no foot, but there was a pillow and night table to mark the head. He could be out of here and on his way without delay.
He picked up the case. It had a very firm feeling to it, though it was not heavy. He was tempted to open it, out of curiosity, but refrained. It was not his business. Besides, it might be booby trapped, or have a recording device triggered by illicit entry. He turned to the door.
Two men stood blocking the exit. One was a hulking brute who had THUG written all over him, the moronic type with splendid muscles. Somewhere—Knot did not recall where—he had recently learned how to catalogue a man, to ascertain a stranger’s physical condition and potential. This one had callused knuckles, but sagged somewhat in the belly. A hitter, not a wrestler. The other was a small, sharp-eyed man with the look of a short-range telepath. Psi powers were theoretically not evident, physically, but the mannerisms they fostered were. A telekinetic tended to turn his hands receptively, letting his psi bring objects to him; a telepath tended to focus beyond a person’s face, orienting on thoughts rather than physical expressions.
But Knot knew better than to take such a thing on faith, especially after what Finesse had just shown him. A good psi learned to conceal his ability from casual detection, and some who had been psis were psis no longer. He projected this message, strongly: I am going to fire my concealed laser pistol at the big oaf. Then knock the small jerk’s head into the door frame.
“You are the occupant of this apartment?” the small man inquired. Now his eyes wore focusing properly.
Knot nodded. “Of course.” And thought: You ought to know that’s a lie, mouseface!
“You work for CC.”
“None of your business if I do.” One thing’s sure. Rodent: you’re no telepath. In fact you’re not a psi mutant at all, are you?
“Come with us, please.” The “please” was not courteously enunciated.
“Sorry, I’m busy at the moment. Give me your address and I’ll contact you at my convenience.” And he projected a mental finger jabbing upward in an insulting gesture.
The larger man stepped forward, reaching for Knot. Knot caught that arm and whirled into a throw he hadn’t known he knew. The man whomped over Knot’s big right shoulder and landed heavily on the floor. Then Knot rebounded and drove a fist into the smaller man’s gut. It was his big fist, with a lot of power; the man doubled over.
Knot snatched up the suitcase he had dropped. He stepped out the door.
Three more men were blocking off the hall. One held a laser pistol.
Knot had learned somewhere—again, he could not recall the occasion—that resistance in the face of a competently held laser was suicidal. He simply had to go along with these people, and hope for a better opportunity to escape, later. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to inquire what you folk want with me?”
“Follow that man,” the one with the pistol said.
Knot followed the man indicated; a young normal with reddish hair and big ears. The lad led the way into the stairwell—it seemed that backup access systems were required on this planet—and proceeded down the quaint old stairs. Knot kept pace, though stairs were not the smoothest things for his structure. Why weren’t they using the gravlift? Obviously because his captors did not want to encounter strangers. Which meant this was no legal police action; it was a covert operation.
They moved all the way down to the basement level. There a double-door opened onto a concourse: a large, low-ceilinged hall with a number of offshoot passages, doors, and columns. They walked some distance down the main hall, then took a side passage and walked farther down that, then took another side hall that opened out into another full concourse. This was an under-city network, not much in use at this hour.
Knot was fascinated; no such thing existed where he lived. This was like magic, where any little passage could convert into a whole new system, indefinitely. He wished he could explore it on his own, ferreting out new passages, getting himself lost in this topological wonderland. It was the back-planet hick in him manifesting again.
He could hear powerful vehicles running beneath this level. Did they actually have trains, trolleys or subways on this planet? If so, why were he and his captors walking? He doubted that it was the Macho ethic, this time; these people were too furtive, too interested in getting through and out. They were covering some distance, and it would have been faster and more secure for them to transport him in a vehicle. Unless vehicles were public, with identification lenses that registered the passengers. Criminals would be wary of that. For one thing, he could simply scream “Help! Kidnap! and the police would put a stasis-freeze on the train and haul them all in.
Yet if this were a criminal action, why hadn’t they blindfolded or drugged him, so as to get him to their hideout without betraying its location? Obvious answer: they weren’t going to let him go.
However, they probably didn’t know his psi nat
ure. If they planned to hold him for ransom, they would soon discover no one remembered him. There would be no ransom. By the time they discovered that, they would have forgotten him. If they locked him in a cell, the jailer would come in the morning to discover a stranger there, and in the end they would have to release him, not knowing why he was there. Or he would simply escape, with no hue and cry because he had been forgotten. So there was no reason for him to panic or risk getting lasered by an untimely break for freedom; time was mostly with him. That was the tremendous asset of his psi: its subtlety and certainty. It could readily be countered—by anyone who understood it. But it wasn’t obvious.
At last they entered a passage marked RESTRICTED—POWER. There was an emblem of a shining sun-disk, with a single ray pointing down. This would be the solar power station.
Now why would criminals take him to a place like this? This was no secret hideout; this was one of the most important installations on the planet. Assuming the Macho setup were typical, a single solar power station would provide virtually all the power for a major city. Security would be tight.
They paused at the security checkpoint. This was such a station, all right. On most planets, such checkpoints were computerized, with a connection to CC, but this one was manned. Knot had to submit to an unkindly thorough physical search, being stripped and rayed. His captors, however, had to go through the same procedure. No chances at all were being taken here. But obviously people would not be going in and out idly; this was probably a once-a-week occasion.
Then the suitcase Knot carried was taken and opened. Knot half expected it to explode or melt down, but it accepted the indignity passively. To his surprise, it contained no electronic equipment or drugs or other tools an investigator might use. Instead there were two little cages confining small animals: a pretty weasel and a snail or something in an ornate shell. A placard said: LABORATORY CONTROL SPECIMENS: DO NOT FEED.
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