"Well, during the war the Belt colonies were hit worse than anywhere else. Nearly everybody got killed. A few people escaped on ships, only most of 'em were in terrible shape. See, the Belt had been doing experiments, experiments on humans. When people out here in the Jupiter system saw what was coming in on some of the ships, they set up a special refugee camp. And that's what this is."
"That all?" Spook snorted. "I don't think that's scary, just some stupid refugee camp for Belters."
"Ah, that's because you've never seen 'em. I have. I've seen 'em arrive." The guard lowered his voice. "People that weren't people at all. People missing bits of them. Others all stretched out, arms over here and legs over there, just connected together by bundles of neural fibers. Some of them were brain-shocked so bad they had no idea who they were or where they were, and they'd wander round 'til they starved to death if no one took care of them. Those doors, see, they're not to stop you getting in—they're to stop the things inside getting out."
The guard straightened up. In the distance behind Spook there was the hum of an electric motor. He turned and saw a runabout car approaching with a single passenger.
"Now you know," the guard said. "So scat."
"I thought you said the doors aren't to keep me out. So why can't I go in?"
"The doors keep them in and they keep you out. Now get out of here."
The guard was stepping forward to give a smart salute. Spook saw a woman wearing a dark-green uniform with gold on the lapels. She nodded to the guard as the car passed. The big doors were opening automatically.
"You're letting her in," Spook complained.
"Well, I have to, don't I?" The guard stepped back into the little gatehouse and sat down. "Even if I didn't, she has her own gate controller. That's Dr. Isobel Busby. She runs the whole place, goes anywhere anytime. You don't, though. So scoot. I got work to do."
There was no sign of it, but Spook sensed that he would not be offered any more information. He gave it one last try. "Does this place have a name?"
"Of course it does. It's the Isobel Busby Sanctuary for War Victims." The guard was on his feet again, and again Spook heard from behind him the hum of an electric car.
"And I'll tell you one last time," the guard went on, brusque finality in his voice. The arrival of two bosses in a row was making him nervous. "This whole thing is none of your business. So get yourself right out of here, sharpish, before I come over there and do something about it."
15
A competent man does not merely follow his instructions; he leads them.
Jinx had heard through Alicia that she and Cayuga saw no threat at all in Spook Belman or Rustum Battachariya. They were mere children in an adult situation, and they could be no more than a distraction from the real problem.
Jinx was not so sure. With the information that he had, his job was probably finished, but he had seen the light of intelligence in two sets of young eyes. At the first opportunity he had, almost by reflex, tapped into Spook's data line and the access codes to the Bat Cave. He would be notified in real time whenever there was a conversation between Spook and Bat.
Which, according to the tiny signal processor in Jinx's left ear, was happening right now. He eased away from Lola's sleeping body, sat up in the gloom, and reached for his watch.
It was much later than he expected. Something strange happened to him when he was with Lola. After they made love, he lost hours and hours in dream-filled sleep. He didn't remember those dreams when he woke up, but he felt tired and uncomfortable.
He slipped into his clothes and rapidly wrote on her console, Sorry, I had to go—work beckons. See you tomorrow. Love you, Conner.
He locked Lola's door as he left. His office, with its tape recorder and scrambled circuit decoder, was just along the corridor. By the time that Jinx reached it, Spook's call had been completed and Bat was on the line.
A Bat who sounded none too pleased.
"You realize," he was saying, "that a more irritating message than the one that you sent from Callisto could scarcely be devised."
"I didn't want to send information over an open line."
"You certainly succeeded. Would it now be too much to ask what you discovered on Callisto?"
Bat, with Jinx as an interested but silent listener, heard Spook's summary of his two days away with no more than an occasional grunt. "Isobel Busby," Bat said at last, "and the Busby Sanctuary for War Victims. Hmph."
"Yeah. But I couldn't get in there, and I didn't get to talk to Busby."
"I am not sure that it would help if you had. I assume that you recognized the name?"
"Sure I did. You think I'm some kind of idiot? Don't answer that. Isobel Busby is in Bryce Sonnenberg's files, one of the doctors who recommended that he come to Ganymede and seek the assistance of a haldane."
"Precisely. So, even without access to the Busby Sanctuary or to its eponymous head, I believe that we are in a position to make a reasonable reconstruction of events. We can also pinpoint, much more clearly than before, the central mystery."
"Agreed. That's why I came right back. You want to take first shot?"
"Certainly. Bryce Sonnenberg has not been on Callisto for the past twenty-one years, as he stated to Lola Belman. In fact, he was on Hidalgo at the outbreak of hostilities between the Belt and the Inner System. When Hidalgo was destroyed by Earth forces, Sonnenberg was one of the lucky few who managed to make his way to an escape vessel. He reached the Jovian system five years ago as a refugee, much as you did. However, he did not arrive mentally and physically intact. The degree of his injuries can only be conjectured, although today he appears to be in excellent physical condition. We may therefore reasonably assume that, whether his problems were initiated during his years on Hidalgo or during his escape, upon arrival in the Jovian system his difficulties were psychological—as indeed they are today. It is not impossible, that the Busby Sanctuary deliberately sought to provide him with a whole new personality, complete with memories designed to bypass the trauma of his wartime experiences."
"I don't believe that. If Isobel Busby created those memories, why would she send him here for Lola to find out what's going on?"
"Agreed. I merely said that it is not impossible that the Sanctuary performed that role. Our objective at the moment is just that: to rule out the impossible. However, let us postulate that it is far more likely that Sonnenberg's problems, in whole or in part, result from experiences suffered before he arrived on Callisto. If we accept that, it brings us at once to the central mystery."
"Yeah. The other Bryce Sonnenberg. The one who died on Hidalgo of a burst artery in the brain."
"Precisely. Observe, in this whole affair, how frequently death enters. We have a vision of death on Mars. We have two visions of death, or probable death, on Hidalgo. We have a Bryce Sonnenberg—of whose mother, by the way, there is no sign in the Oberon data base—born on Earth in 2043, arrived on Hidalgo in '63, and dead there in '65. He has never been to Mars. Then we have our Bryce Sonnenberg. He also states that he has never been to Mars. His memories, if in fact they are true memories, are totally inconsistent with those of a man who, like the other Bryce Sonnenberg, reportedly left Earth for the last time when he was twenty years old. Most intriguing."
"You can call it that if you like. What next?"
"I must settle down for some serious thinking. And you?"
"I guess as soon as it's morning, I go and see Lola and she beats me up. She doesn't know I'm back yet, but as soon as she finds out, I'm dead meat."
"Ah. In dealing with the opposite sex, I believe it necessary to bear in mind the old question: Are they less logical than they seem, or do they seem less logical than they are?"
"I don't know the answer."
"The answer is, it is an ill-posed question. Both answers are impossible."
"Well, thanks for nothing. That's a real help."
"It would be unwise for you to regard me as an expert on anything involving family relationships."
Bat gave a rueful sniff. "Enough of that. We must talk again later, and see where our separate cerebrations have led us."
The line went dead, leaving Jinx sitting thoughtful in the darkness. He had heard everything. Although some of it remained a mystery, he had enough. He placed his own call.
There was a three-minute delay, even though the call signal did not have to leave Ganymede. He waited patiently until at last a sleepy voice came onto the line. "Hello. Alicia Rios speaking."
"This is Jinx Barker."
"And this is the middle of the night. Damn it, Jinx, I was sound asleep."
"I'm sorry. I thought you would like to hear this at once."
"Go on, then. I'm awake now."
"I will be brief. As you know, I have established the desired relationship with Lola Belman. The subject of concern to you turns out to be one of her patients, just as we suspected. His name is Bryce Sonnenberg. I have reviewed his records. I have also had limited discussions regarding him with Lola Belman, and monitored conversations between Spook Belman and Rustum Battachariya concerning an investigation of Sonnenberg's background. I conclude that although Sonnenberg's personal history contains some oddities and inconsistencies, there is no chance whatsoever that he spent time on Mars during the period of interest to you."
"Excellent." Alicia was suddenly awake and energetic. "You've done a first-rate job, Jinx. I'll pass the word along. It may take a few days. He's not back yet."
"There is no hurry, but I do need instructions from you as to how to proceed. If my work here is finished, and I am simply to conclude my relationship with Lola Belman, I can do so on the pretext of returning to the Belt. However, we had talked of . . . the other option."
"I know. Let me get back to you on that. For the moment, just keep on as you are. Good job, Jinx."
As Alicia Rios terminated the call, Jinx Barker sat for a few seconds longer in the darkness. He was tingling all over, more alive than he had felt for weeks. The very thought was enough to start the adrenaline flowing. Making love to Lola Belman certainly gave pleasure, but it could not compete with the preferred and ultimate form of personal interaction.
He went swiftly and silently back to her apartment, unlocked the door, and moved to cancel the message that he had left on her console. As he removed his shirt and pants, he stared down at her. She had turned over in her sleep, after he left, so that now she lay on her right side with her head thrown back. He studied the slim neck and the graceful line, of her jaw. The pulse in her throat was visible, just above her larynx.
He reached down and touched her skin with his index finger, exactly on that tiny regular spasm of pumped blood.
The other option. He believed that he knew what his instructions would be. But until he heard for certain, patience was needed.
Jinx lay down again by Lola's side. Pleasure deferred could be thought of as pleasure enhanced. And pleasure should not be mixed with business. This was still business.
His own pulse steadied and slowed. Within five minutes he had sunk into a dreamless and contented sleep.
* * *
Lola needed less rest than most people, and she always slept lightly. As soon as Conner left her side, she had sensed the loss of his warm presence, and when her outer door clicked shut, she had come fully awake.
She read his message on her console. It made little sense. Not even a media reporter got up and went to work in the middle of the night, unless he received a wake-up call to say that something new and urgent had come up. She had heard no call.
So why had Conner gone wandering off?
Lola lay thoughtful in the dim-lit room. One of the gifts—or curses—of being a haldane was that you could never turn off your antenna. You were sensitive, even when you sometimes wished that you weren't. It was quite obvious that Conner was not what he had said he was. She had known that for more than a week, and had ignored the fact because she wanted to. However, during the hours when she was awake and he was sleeping, she had already planted her deep verbal hooks. But would it be right to exercise them?
She was sure she could find some way to justify whatever she did. Most of the conscious mind's efforts went into an attempt to provide logical explanations and justifications, after the fact, for the perverse and nonlogical ninety-five percent of human actions dictated by the unconscious mind. Not even a haldane was exempt from that.
The idea of quizzing Conner without his knowing it had originally been justified as a game by her conscious mind. Now she suspected that it was no such thing. It was a dark suspicion derived from the underside of her brain. The haldane's basic training texts offered explicit advice: Do not be afraid to act on your gut instincts. Psychometric tools are of great value, but they are most useful when they confirm and reinforce what you suspect to be true.
She was awake when Conner returned, but she pretended to be still asleep. She watched through slitted eyes as he removed his clothes. The moment when he stooped to place his stiffened finger on her naked throat produced the first touch of fear. His face had changed. His movements were somehow different, too, the unpredictable actions of a stranger.
When he lay down again at her side and quickly fell asleep, she told herself that she was suffering from an attack of excess imagination. He had gone away for a few minutes to respond to a work emergency, found that he was not needed, and at once come back to her.
But why had he leaned over her with his hand at her throat, and what was that alien half-smile on his face?
Lola knew that she had to do it, or remain sleepless for the rest of the night. She did not move, but she spoke the first of the sequence of planted keys: "Black Arrow."
He did not respond. Apparently did not hear her; but she knew that the hook was set. Ten seconds later she had confirmation. His eyes flickered open, stared at nothing, and then closed. Lola felt her own shiver of awe. It was here, and not in the much publicized mind-reading abilities, that the haldane magic lay. Even the best theories were inadequate to explain how this worked, or why sometimes it failed.
She waited thirty seconds, then intoned softly, "Treasure Island."
The spoken key produced no visible reaction at all. Lola expected none. She waited another full minute, and finally said, "Kidnapped."
His eyes opened, and this time they stayed open.
It was time to begin. "Conner?" That produced no reaction; so she added, "Conner Preston: Are you awake?"
His lips moved, but no sound came out.
"Can you hear me?"
"I can hear you."
"So why didn't you answer me?"
"Because I am not Conner Preston."
Lola did not know what she had been expecting. It was not this. "Then who are you?"
There were a few moments of what seemed to be an internal struggle, until at last he muttered, "I am Jinx Barker."
A strange reply, far off from anything that Lola might have predicted. "So who is Conner Preston?"
"He was a media reporter for Ceres Broadcasting."
"Is that the same as United Broadcasting?"
Another pause. "Ceres Broadcasting became part of United Broadcasting, after the war."
"And do you work for United Broadcasting?"
"No."
"So who do you work for?" After a long unyielding silence, Lola added, "Who do you work for, Jinx Barker, and what do you do?"
His silence continued. At last it became apparent that he was not going to answer.
What was she supposed to do now? Lola rose from the bed and began to pace the room. She was naked, but she didn't even notice. Deep hooks and keys were a standard part of haldane technique. She had run through a dozen sessions with them during her own training, as both a subject and as a haldane questioner. She had read transcripts of scores more. Sometimes a subject would freeze, as Conner (or Jinx) had frozen, but it was always when the questions touched on some deeply personal or long-hidden topic. It was unheard of for a subject to tense up when asked something as simple as who he worke
d for, and what he did.
The worst thing that she could do now would be to act rashly. She needed time to ponder what had happened and perhaps consult references or another haldane.
And in the meantime, she needed to protect herself. It was probably quite unnecessary—but she felt again the finger on her neck, and saw the strange, almost exalted, expression on his face. She crouched naked by his side, and prepared to implant the series of haldane protection keys.
Would they work? She had never tried them before, never knew anyone who had. Conner seemed a gentle, loving man, but patients who turned violent were not uncommon. She had to prepare for the worst.
It took almost an hour—installing the verbal cues and then checking his physical responses over and over until she was satisfied. At last she gave the command that released the original triple hooks: "Kidnapped. Treasure Island. Black Arrow."
It was like cutting an internal string. His eyes closed and his taut body relaxed. If he had ever been awake, rather than in some induced state between sleep and waking, that had now been replaced by a deep natural slumber.
Lola lay down beside him—beside her lover, Conner Preston, who was also a stranger, Jinx Barker. She felt watchful and wary. Twenty minutes earlier she had been worried about the possibility of lying awake all night; now she was afraid that she might go to sleep.
It never occurred to her to leave. Above everything else, she was still a haldane. At her side lay a man with a deep, deep problem.
* * *
Even when she was distracted by worry and lack of sleep, work had to go on. Lola blinked at Bryce Sonnenberg, sitting in the chair opposite, and wished that she could borrow some of his bright-eyed energy. She had remained awake until Conner Preston left, early in the morning, and by that time it was too late to think of sleep.
She started slowly and easily, more for her sake than for his. "I'd like to talk to you about your mathematical work. When did you first become interested in number theory, and how old were you when you got into it?"
It was a minor trap, since it offered Bryce an easy chance to talk about parental influence. But he answered without hesitation. "I can't really answer that question. I know that I could do sums before I could read or write, almost before I could speak. When I was a child, my idea of a good time was a long, complicated calculation."
The Ganymede Club Page 18