He walked aboard and spent his first ten minutes memorizing a dozen floor areas with his extra-brain—and that was that. During the take-off, he lay comfortably on the bed of one of the finest suites on the ship. About an hour later, a key rattled in the lock. Swiftly, Gosseyn attuned to a memorized area, and swiftly he was transported to it.
He'd chosen his materialization positions skillfully. The three men who saw him step out from behind a heavy girder obviously took it for granted that he had been there for several minutes, for they scarcely glanced at him. He walked easily to the rear of the ship, and stood before the great plexiglass port gazing down at Earth.
The planet was vast below him. It was an immense world that still showed color. As he watched, it slowly turned a grayish dark, and looked rounder every minute. It began to contract sharply, and for the first time he saw it as a great misty ball floating in black space.
Somehow it looked unreal.
He stayed that first night in one of the many unoccupied cabins. Sleep came slowly, for his thoughts were restless. Two weeks had passed since the death of the mighty Thorson, and he hadn't heard a word from Eldred Crang or Patricia Hardie. All his attempts to contact them through the Institute of Emigration had met with the unvarying reply, 'Our Venusian office reports your message undeliverable.’ He'd thought once or twice that Janasen, the Institute official, took a personal satisfaction in giving him the bad news, but that seemed hardly possible.
There was no question, so it seemed to Gosseyn, that Crang had seized control of the galactic army on the very day Thorson died. The papers'd been full of the news of the withdrawal of the invaders from the cities of non-Aristotelian Venus. There was confusion as to the reason for the mass retreat, and the editors did not seem to be clear as to what was happening. Only to him who knew what had preceded the enormous defeat was the situation understandable. Crang was in control. Crang was shipping the galactic soldiers out of the solar system as fast as his two-mile-long similarity powered ships could carry them—before Enro the Red, military overlord of the Greatest Empire, discovered that his invasion was being sabotaged.
But that didn't explain why Crang had not delegated someone to get in touch with Gilbert Gosseyn who, by killing Thorson, had made all this possible.
Gosseyn slept uneasily on that thought. For though the desperate danger of the invasion was temporarily averted, his own personal problem was unsolved—Gilbert Gosseyn, who possessed a trained extra brain, who had died, yet lived again in a highly similar body. His own purpose must be to find out about himself and his strange and tremendous method of immortality. Whatever the game that was being played around him, he seemed to be one of the important and powerful figures in it. He must have been tensed by the long strain he'd been under and by the hideous fight with Torson's armored guard, or he would have realized sooner that, like it or not, for better or for worse, he was above the law. He should never have wasted his time with the Institute of Emigration.
Nobody questioned him. When officers came towards him, he stepped out of sight, and vanished to one of his memorized areas. Three days and two nights after the start, the ship eased down through the misty skies of Venus. He had glimpses of colossal trees, and then a city grew onto the horizon. Gosseyn came down the gangplank with the rest of the four hundred passengers. From his place in the fast moving line he watched the process of landing. Each person stepped up to a lie detector, spoke into it, was confirmed, and passed through a turnstile into the main part of Immigration Hall.
The picture clear in his mind, Gosseyn memorized a spot behind a pillar beyond the turnstile. Then, as if he had forgotten something, he returned aboard the ship and hid until dark. When the shadows lay deep and long in the land below, he materialized behind the pillar of the immigration building, and walked calmly toward the nearest door. A moment later he stepped down onto a paved sidewalk, and looked along a street that shone with a million lights.
He had an acute sense of being at the beginning and not the end of his adventure—Gilbert Gosseyn, who knew just enough about himself to be dissatisfied.
The pit was guarded by a division of Venusian Null-As, but there was no interference with the thin but steady stream of visitors. Gosseyn wandered disconsolately along the brightly lighted corridors of the underground city. The vastness of what had once been the secret base in the solar system of the Greatest Empire overshadowed his body. Silent distorter-type elevators carried him to the higher levels, through rooms that glittered with machines, some of which were still operating. At intervals he paused to watch Venusian engineers singly and in groups examining instruments and mechanical devices.
A communicator snatched Gosseyn's attention, and a sudden wonder made him stop and switch it on. There was a pause, then the voice of the roboperator said in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘What star are you calling?'
Gosseyn drew a deep breath. 'I'd like,' he said, 'to speak to either Eldred Crang or Patricia Hardie.'
He waited, with rising excitement. The idea had come like a flash, and he could hardly imagine its being successful. But even if no contact was established, that in itself would be information of a sort.
After several seconds, the robot said, 'Eldred Crang left the following message: “To anyone who may attempt to locate me, I regret that no communication is possible".' That was all. There was no explanation. 'Any other call, sir?'
Gosseyn hesitated. He was disappointed, but still the situation was not entirely adverse. Crang had left the solar system connected with the vast interstellar videophone organization. It was a tremendous opportunity for the Venusians, and it gave Gosseyn a personal thrill to imagine what they could do with it. Another question formed in his mind. The answer of the roboperator was prompt:
'It would take a ship about four hours to come here from Gela 30, which is the nearest base.'
It was a point Gosseyn was very much interested in. 'I thought Distorter transport was virtually instantaneous.'
‘There is a margin of error in the transport of matter, although the traveler has no physical awareness of it. To him it appears to be an instantaneous process.'
Gosseyn nodded. He could understand that to some extent. Twenty decimal similarity was not perfect. He continued, 'Suppose I made a call to Gela. Would it take eight hours to get a message back?'
'Oh, no. The margin of error on the electronic level is infinitesimally small. The error to Gela would be about one-fifth of a second. Only matter is slow.'
'I see,' said Gosseyn. 'You can talk right across the galaxy with scarcely any delay.'
'That is right.'
'But suppose I wanted to talk to someone who didn't speak my language?'
'There is no problem. A robot translates sentence by sentence in as colloquial a manner as possible.'
Gosseyn wasn't sure about there being no problem in such a verbal transference. Part of the Null-A approach to reality had to do with the importance of word-word relationships. Words were subtle, and frequently had little connection with the facts they were supposed to represent. He could imagine innumerable mix-ups between galactic citizens who did not speak each other's languages. Since the galactic empires did not teach Null-A, or practice it, they were apparently unaware of the dangers of misunderstanding implicit in the process of intercommunication through robots.
The important thing was to be aware of the problem from moment to moment. Gosseyn said, That's all, thank you!' and broke the connection.
He arrived presently in the tree apartment which he had shared with Patricia Hardie while they were both prisoners of Thorson. He looked for a message that might have been left for him, a more complete and personal account than could be entrusted to the videophone exchange. He found several transcribed conversations between Patricia and Crang —and had what he wanted.
The references to Patricia's identity did not surprise him. He had always hesitated to accept her statements about her personal life, even though she had proved trustworthy in the fight against Thorson. T
he information that the great war in space had started shocked him. He shook his head to the suggestion that they would return for him in a 'few months'. Too long by far. But the gathering awareness that he was cut off in an isolated sun system made him sharply attentive to the rather complete account of the effort Crang had made to get in touch with him on Earth.
Janasen was responsible, of course. Gosseyn sighed with understanding. But what was the matter with the man, that he had taken it upon himself to frustrate one individual whom he did not know? Personal dislike? Could be. Stranger things had happened. But, on reflection, it seemed to Gosseyn that that was not the explanation.
More thoughtfully, he played over what Crang had said about possible hidden players and his danger from them. It was oddly convincing, and it directed his thought back to Janasen like a beacon.
The man was his starting point. Somebody had moved Janasen onto the 'board', perhaps only for a fleeting moment of universe time, perhaps only for a fleeting purpose, a mere pawn in this great game—but pawns, also, were looked after. Pawns came from somewhere and, when they were human, returned whence they came. There was probably no time to waste.
Yet, even as he accepted the logic of that, another purpose grew in Gosseyn's mind. He considered a few of the possibilities, then sat down at the apartment communicator, and made his call. When the roboperator asked him what star he wanted, he said, 'Give me the highest official available at the head offices of the Galactic League.'
'Who shall I say is calling?'
Gosseyn gave his name, and then settled down to wait. His plan was simple. Neither Crang nor Patricia Hardie would have been able to advise the League as to what had happened in the solar system. It was a chance that neither could have taken without grave risks. But the League, or at least a tiny division of it, had exerted its weak influence in an attempt to save Venus from Euro, and Patricia Hardie had stated that its permanent officials were interested in Null-A from an educational viewpoint. Gosseyn could see many advantages in making the contact. The roboperator's voice interrupted his thought:
'Madrisol, the secretary of the League, will speak to you.'
The words were scarcely uttered when a lean, intense face image grew onto the videoplate. The man seemed about forty-five years old, and many passions were written on his face. His blue eyes darted over Gosseyn's face. At last, apparently satisfied, Madrisol's lips moved in speech. There was a short delay, and then: 'Gilbert Gosseyn?'
The robot translator's tone had a query in it. If it was a reasonably exact representation of the original, then it was a remarkable job. Who, the tone suggested, was Gilbert Gosseyn?
That was one point that Gosseyn didn't discuss in any kind of detail. He kept his account to events in the solar system 'in which I have reason to believe the League has interested itself. Yet even as he was speaking he had a sense of disappointment. He had expected a measure of Null-A appearance in the permanent secretary general of the League, but this man's face showed him to be a thalamic type individual. Emotions would rule him. Most of his actions and decisions would be reactions based upon emotional 'sets', and not upon Null-A cortical-thalamic processes.
He was describing the possibilities of using Venusians in the battle against Enro, when Madrisol interrupted both his train of thought and his narrative.
'You're suggesting,' he said pointedly, that the League States establish transport communication with the solar system, and permit trained Null-As to direct the League side of the war.'
Gosseyn bit his lip. He took it for granted that Venusians would achieve the highest positions in a short time, but thalamic individuals mustn't be allowed to suspect that. Once the process started, they'd be surprised at the swiftness with which men of Null-A, who had come originally from Earth, would attain the highest positions which they felt it necessary to achieve.
Now, he mustered a bleak, humorless smile, and said, 'Naturally, Null-A men would be of assistance in a technical capacity.'
Madrisol frowned. ‘It would be difficult,’ he said. The solar system is hemmed in by star systems dominated by the Greatest Empire. If we attempted to break through, it might seem as if we attached some special importance to Venus, in which case Enro might destroy your planets. However, I will take the matter up with the proper officials, and you may be sure that what can be done will be. But now, if you please ———- ‘
It was dismissal. Gosseyn said quickly:
'Your excellency, surely some subtle, arrangement can be made. Small ships could slip through, and take a few thousand of the most highly trained men out where they could be of assistance.'
‘Possibly, possibly’—Madrisol looked impatient, and the mechanical translator made his voice sound the same way—‘but I’ll take that up with ——‘
'Here on Venus,' Gosseyn urged, 'we have an intact distorter ship transmitter capable of handling spaceships ten thousand feet long. Perhaps your people could make use of that. Perhaps you could give me some idea as to how long such a transmitter remains similarized with transmitters on other stars.'
'I shall refer all these matters,' said Madrisol, to the proper experts, and decisions will be made. I presume there will be someone available and authorized to discuss the problem at your end.'
'I'll have the roboperator see to it that you talk to the, uh, properly constituted authorities here,' said Gosseyn, and suppressed a smile. There were no 'authorities' on Venus, but this was no time to go into the vast subject of Null-A voluntary democracy.
'Good-by and good luck.'
There was a click, and the intense face vanished from the plate. Gosseyn instructed the roboperator to switch all future calls from space to the Institute of Semantics in the nearest city, and broke the connection. He was reasonably satisfied. He had set another process in motion and, though he had no intention of waiting, at least he was doing what he could.
Next, Janasen—even if it meant going back to Earth.
III
NULL-ABSTRACTS
In order to be sane and adjusted as a human being, an individual must realize that he cannot know all there is to know. It is not enough to understand this limitation intellectually; the understanding must be an orderly and conditioned process, 'unconscious' as well as 'conscious'. Such a conditioning is essential to the balanced pursuit of knowledge of the nature of matter and life.
The hour seemed late, and Janasen was not yet recovered from the surprise of having been snatched from the offices of the Institute of Emigration. He had not suspected the presence of a transport machine in his own office. The Follower must have other agents in this planetary system. He looked around him cautiously. He was in a dimly lighted park area. A waterfall cascaded from some invisible height beyond a clump of trees. The plume of spray glittered in the vague light.
The Follower stood partly silhouetted against the spray, but his formless body seemed to merge with the greater darkness on every side. The silence grew long, and Janasen fidgeted, but he knew better than to speak first. At last the Follower stirred, and drifted several feet nearer.
'I had difficulty adjusting myself,' he said. 'These intricate energy problems have always annoyed me, since I am not mechanically minded.'
Janasen held his silence. He had not expected an explanation, and he did not feel qualified to interpret the one he had received. He waited.
'We must take a chance,' said the Follower. 'I have followed my present course because I wish to isolate Gosseyn from those who could help him and, if necessary, destroy him. The plan that I have agreed to pursue in support of Enro the Red cannot be interfered with by a person of unknown potentialities.'
In the darkness, Janasen shrugged. For a moment, then, he wondered at his own indifference. For a moment there was a bright thought in his mind that there was something supernormal about a man like himself. The thought passed. It didn't matter what chance he took, or what were the unknown potentialities of his opponents. He didn't care. 'I'm a tool,' he told himself with pride. I serve a sh
adow master.'
He laughed wildly. For he was intoxicated with his own ego, and the things that he did and felt and thought. Janasen he had called himself because it was as close as he could get to his real name. David Janasen.
The Follower spoke again. 'There are curious blurs,' he said, 'in the future of this man Gosseyn, but pictures do come through . . . though no Predictor can get them clearly. Yet I am sure that he will seek you out. Do not try to prevent him. He will find that your name was on the list of passengers of the President Hardie. He will wonder that he did not see you, but at least it will indicate to him that you are now on Venus. At this moment we are in a park in downtown New Chicago '
'Huh!' Janasen glanced around in astonishment. But there were only the trees and shadow-like shrubs, and the hiss of the waterfall. Here and there in the darkness weak lights cast their pale glow, but there was no sign of a city.
‘These Venusian cities,' said the Follower, 'have no parallel elsewhere in the galaxy. They are differently arranged, differently planned. Everything is free: food, transport, shelter —everything.'
'Well, that makes things simple.'
'Not quite. The Venusians have become aware of the existence of human beings on the planets of other stars. Having been invaded once they are likely to take precautions. However, you'll have a week or so, during which time Gosseyn should discover you.'
'And when he does?' Janasen was interested.
'Have him come to your apartment and give him this.'
The thing tumbled out of the darkness glittering, as it fell, like a white flickering flame. It lay on the grass shining like a mirror in sunlight.
'It won't seem so bright in daytime,' said the Follower. 'Remember, it must be given to him in your room. Now, any questions?'
Janasen reached down gingerly and picked up the glowing object. It seemed to be a plastic card of some kind. It felt smooth and glassy. There was printing on it, which was too small for him to read with the naked eye.
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