by James White
A deep sigh rustled into Simpson’s mouth-piece and he went on, ‘Now some idiots are suggesting that he died testing a new and very hush-hush Hart-Ewing aircraft and we are trying to cover up. Printed insanity of this kind is highly contagious, so you will understand, Joe, that the only thing I am curious about is why I continue to work in this mad-house.’
Carson took another risk that night when he entered Daniel’s office and dialled his own extension. He used the spare internal phone by the window and after dialling left the receiver off the hook. The internal telephone system worked off an automatic PBX and could not be tapped without considerable trouble and advance knowledge of the lines being used.
When he arrived back at the main patrol office, Donovan said, ‘Your telephone has been ringing for nearly ten minutes, sir. A persistent cuss, whoever he is. I would have answered it for you but you locked your office door ...’
‘I was going home,’ said Carson, ostentatiously fishing for his keys, ‘then I remembered something I had to do...’
He closed the door firmly behind him and lifted the receiver, carrying on half a conversation for a few minutes before placing it carefully on his blotter. Now all he had to do was act natural, pop in and out of his office occasionally to ask about duty rosters and to cadge coffee ... and wait.
He had to wait until nearly eight-thirty
The first sound he heard was a door opening. This was followed by footsteps, the murmur of at least three different conversations. One of them was loud enough for him to catch part of it...
‘... And now he is insisting on a more accurate fix. Eighteen point five and two hundred and fifteen miles per second, and now we have to compute for just over one thousand miles an hour--an hour, mind you--as well. In miles per second that is a negligible distance. What do they carry reserve fuel for ... ?’
If the time and position are really accurate they would not need fuel at all, so he has a point. But is your one thousand and thirty-four corrected for launch latitude or is it equatorial …?’
Another voice was raised suddenly. It sounded like Daniels himself.
‘Settle down, please. This will be a short one, I hope--discussion only and no paperwork to worry about afterwards. Now that you’ve all had a chance to think about it, I would like to have your ideas on what it was that could cause a man like Wayne Tillotson to behave in the way he did prior to re-entry … ‘
The voice had been reducing in volume as the other people in the room grew quiet until Carson could now no longer hear it clearly. Neither could he distinguish any of the replies. He jammed the receiver so tightly against his ear that it hurt, while he pushed a finger into his other ear to deaden the sounds coming from the patrol office, but still he could not make out more than one word in six.
The telephone which he had left off the hook in Daniels’s office was about seven yards from the conference table, and his problem might be additionally complicated by the fact that the speakers had their backs to the phone. It was a spare telephone, after all, in an inconspicuous corner and was rarely used since the geography of the room’s desk, tables and filing cabinets had been changed a few months earlier--Carson would never have been able to get away with this trick otherwise.
He swore under his breath and strained even harder to listen. But whenever one of the voices was raised a little, a truck went past or a plane went snarling into the air or somebody in the outer office had a fit of coughing. Apparently he would only hear what was going on when somebody became excited or angry.
One man in particular was becoming very angry.
‘...At a loss to understand how you can be so coldblooded about him. You showed more emotion over the guinea-pigs, dammit. They couldn’t tell us what happened, but they were badly confused for weeks afterwards. Wayne did not have time to become de-confused, did he? He did not have time for anything except ... ‘
‘He should not have overridden the automatic controls! He would have been all right otherwise .. ‘
‘I know he wasn’t supposed to, that he would have been landed safely if he hadn’t, but he did. And we were expecting so much from this trip--a thinking, self-controlled, articulate man instead of a few confused guinea-pigs. Instead he ...’
‘He cried like a baby. At the end he cried like a baby with its night-clothes on fire ...!’
‘I am being deliberately unemotional in order to be constructive. I liked him as much as you did!’
‘I agree with him, Steve--our grief should be private. And it does seem to be the software is letting us down on this one. The effect works, but there are psychological, perhaps even philosophical, complications as well. We’re breaking quite a few of the accepted natural laws with this space drive--Einstein for one would not have approved--and crime doesn’t pay. From here to the orbit of Mars in the blink of an eye--faster than that because we can at least measure the blink of an eye--must break something more than a speed record. The trouble is we don’t know what law it is we’re breaking or the punishment being meted out...’
Donovan came into the office at that moment to have a uniform requisition signed and to talk about the way pants were always wearing out before tunics. Carson, the phone pressed tightly to his ear, moved his hand towards the dial and stopped with one finger poised. He was trying desperately to listen with one ear and not listen to Donovan with the other. The strain must have shown on his face because the senior patrol officer gave him a worried look as he left.
Meanwhile in Daniels’s office the argument, and the audibility, was dying away. Odd words and phrases rose from time to time from the background murmuring, but out of context they meant absolutely nothing. Carson found himself wishing for another argument to start so hard that his jaw ached, but it did not happen until nearly half an hour later when the meeting was beginning to break up.
He recognised the voice as that of the man who had objected to the apparently callous treatment of Tillotson’s death.
‘... Some sort of recognition for what he did? As it is he’s just another pilot lost over the sea. Some kind of medal, perhaps ...’
‘What good would that do him? He has no living close relatives. That is why he was chosen ..
‘And that is why we are using Pebbles. His mental problems are irrelevant when we have complete control. He won’t be taking the long way back ...’
‘Wayne was against using Pebbles towards the end. He said that it wasn’t fair that ... ‘
‘Where would we find another physically fit guinea-pig, without friends or relations to complain if something ... peculiar ... happened to him ...?’
‘But he isn’t a moron, you know. Wayne said that potentially he might be very bright...’
‘I still say Wayne should get some kind of recognition ...!’
There was a single, sharp crack of someone hitting the table with something hard and heavy, then silence. A few seconds later Carson heard a voice speaking not very quietly and, because it was the only voice, very clearly.
‘Let’s face it, gentlemen, Wayne is not going to be awarded a posthumous medal for gallantry or gain any other recognition. He did not want it when he was alive and I don’t see him changing his mind now. This project is too secret for that. If we start agitating for medals for people the intelligence departments will begin taking an interest. They may discover that we are working on something that is potentially much more than a space-drive which can, once we get rid of the unwanted side effects, open up the stars to humanity. They will see applications much nearer home.’
‘Our present master is scared stiff by what we have here. That is why he allows these peculiar security arrangements. He wants us to succeed before his more warlike colleagues realise that we have a weapon which makes early warning systems and anti-missile missiles obsolete. They would cover us with so much security that the other side could not help but notice it, and start digging. Before we knew it there would be another arms race going on and this one would be so expensive that it would wreck both
our economies--I’ve calculated the cost of moving our entire nuclear arsenal into space and I know.’
‘With the sort of control and guidance we are beginning to achieve we could place a bomb of any desired megatonnage in any cellar of any house in any city in the world, and there would be no possible way of stopping it because it would arrive before ... ‘
‘We’ve been over this before, sir. But you’re forgetting that there may be people on the other side who feel as we do...’
‘I don’t doubt it. But like us they are outnumbered by people who want to look hours instead of years ahead.’
‘Which brings us back to Pebbles. How far are we going to go with him? We have to bear in mind, of course, that he will not be in control at any point. He will not even be allowed to press the return button. By rights he should be shot full of pain-killers, supportive medication, psychological buffers and anything else which would enable him to survive whatever it was that got Tillotson and still leave him in a condition to talk about it afterwards. Unfortunately, we lack specialist advice on that subject and for security reasons cannot ask for it.’
‘I suggest using the long-range boosters to a spatial equivalent of four hours ...’
Carson lost them for several minutes because they all began talking at once. They were still talking over the sounds of chairs being pushed back as the meeting broke up. When the last few men were leaving the office someone--it sounded like the man who had wanted recognition for Tillotson--said something which left Carson feeling completely confused.
‘ … And he shouldn’t forget that it is twenty-eight million, five hundred and twelve thousand odd miles away, and right now tomorrow is too far...’
Only half a mile away, a door slammed.
Chapter Fifteen
For her own sake Carson had not wanted Jean Marshall to become too deeply involved. Now that he had some idea of the tremendous importance of the project he felt even more worried about bringing her in on it. But he had to have specialist assistance to evaluate and advise him on the Pebbles material. He needed her help and, as her visits to the flat became more frequent, he found that he needed--or at least badly wanted--her.
Those were the reasons why, when he had finished telling her about the meeting in Daniels’s office, he slipped his arm around her waist and said, ‘I’m beginning to worry about you. Neither of us has any business knowing this stuff. I don’t want to get you shot.’
‘We can share the last cigarette,’ she said, removing his hand. ‘You did say that we had a lot of work to get through tonight...?’
‘I could say something ponderous and unoriginal,’ he replied, turning towards the tape-recorder, ‘about all work and no play...’
He was trying to conceal his anger and disappointment but not, he suspected, doing a very good job of it.
‘And I could say something about workmates not necessarily being playmates,’ Jean replied coldly. ‘You don’t have to worry about involving me in this thing. It ... I can hardly believe how big it is, but I would not have missed being involved in it for anything. And for your professional handling of the investigation I have nothing but admiration, but as a person I don’t even know if I like you, Joe.’
‘But...’
‘You see, I don’t like what we are doing. It’s shameful.
And I can’t make up my mind whether you’re trying to help Pebbles or crucify him.’
‘That,’ said Carson, jabbing hard on the play-back button, ‘makes two of us … ‘
For a long time neither spoke. He was playing back the tape through matched speakers, with the volume turned well up but not uncomfortably loud. Each footfall, click of door lock and sound of body against upholstery came in sharp and clear, as did every word and even the breaths between words.
Carson could not help contrasting this conversation with the one he had strained to hear in Daniels’s office. Here every nuance and emotional overtone was plain and, if it was not quite plain enough the first time it could be re-run until it was. During the first twenty minutes or so, while Carson writhed inwardly at the still strange sound of his own voice, nothing of importance was said. But then they came to the section where Carson had begun questioning Pebbles about his mental state and early memories ...
‘... You say it was hard to think in those days, John. Can you remember what it was like exactly? Were you aware that you should have been quicker on the uptake?’
‘Yes, I can remember some of it. Everybody seemed to talk gibberish. I didn’t know it was gibberish then because I didn’t know anything at all, but I still felt that it was gibberish. Maybe it was because people spoke differently when I was dreaming. In my dreams I almost understood what they said, but I didn’t dream often--my mind was too empty. The peculiar thing was that I knew it was empty and that frightened me badly. Do you understand, Joe? There wasn’t enough in my mind to dream with. I ... I seem to remember waking up from nightmares in the very early days because nothing, nothing at all, was going to happen. Joe, maybe I do need a psychiatrist...’
‘You would only need a psychiatrist if your condition was getting worse, and even you must admit that mentally you have been steadily improving. But dreaming is important to health. Do you dream now, and if so, what happens in them? And John, there is no need to tell me about sex fantasies or anything in that area ...’
‘Tact,’ said Carson.
‘Cold feet, you mean,’ said Jean.
‘... Quite a lot these nights and it scares me, Joe. The people in the dreams talk and show me books printed in the same gibberish I talk and read every day--you see, I still have this peculiar feeling that everything we’re saying is gibberish. Sometimes, not often, the dream people talk a different gibberish which I understand just as well. When this happens I get really afraid and wake up and ... and the lady who owns the house is starting to get angry because I shout and scream. You see, the frightening thing about these other people, the ones who speak this different familiar gibberish, is that they look like ordinary people but they aren’t. There is something different about them and about me ...’
‘Lots of people believe they’re different. The delusion that one is in reality of noble blood, kidnapped from the palace as a very young baby, that sort of thing, is fairly common. Quite normal people have daydreams about it, but rarely nightmares. It’s nothing to worry about. These people, these different people, do they call you Sir or General or Your Majesty ...?’
‘Don’t laugh, Joe. It ... it’s getting so bad I’m afraid to go to sleep.’
‘I’m sorry. But what exactly are you afraid of? Are these ... different ... people trying to hurt you?’
‘I don’t know. They aren’t trying to hurt me but they did. They seem to like me, even respect me, but I’m sure they mean to do something terrible to me. Some of them call me “sir” I think, but they are still going to wipe me out. I don’t know how because I wake up yelling before I can find out.’
‘John, you said that they aren’t trying to hurt you but they did. What exactly did they do?’
‘They didn’t do anything. But one of these nights they will.’
‘I see. You got your tenses mixed up a little just then-, but no matter. What is it that you’re afraid they’ll do? Torture you? Subject you to a series of painful tests, medical or psychological, perhaps? Is there any special phobia you have, something which makes you particularly afraid? These nightmares are your subconscious trying to tell you about it. Did someone nearly kill you when you were a child ... But then you can’t remember your childhood ... ’
‘I don’t think they killed me--will kill me, I’m sure that it was worse than that...’
‘A fate worse than death, eh? But I refuse to believe that your subconscious could take things that literally ...!’
‘The rest of it is pretty repetitious,’ Carson said as he pressed the Hold button, ‘but then if it was full of Grade A Freudian slips I probably wouldn’t even notice. You can hear it all later, of course. R
ight now I’d like to know what you think so far?’
‘There isn’t much that you wouldn’t notice,’ she said, ‘and false modesty doesn’t become you.’
Carson tried not to lose his temper. He said, ‘Why do you always try to start a fight? You’re beginning to analyse the wrong patient, Jean ...’
‘Very well,’ she broke in, ‘I’ll stick to the other one. In my professional opinion John Pebbles is a very frightened man. At the moment he does not know what exactly it is that is frightening him. I would say that this is because the person or thing or event which is frightening him has not yet appeared or happened. It is possible, even highly probable, that he is only beginning to realise consciously that something is threatening him--but his subconscious is screaming blue murder! Are they really planning a dangerous mission for him and beginning, perhaps, to hint at what the risks might be?’
‘He is going to be, or he may already have been, asked to do something very risky indeed,’ Carson said. ‘Wayne Tillotson was killed doing it. But I’m pretty sure that they haven’t told him about the risks.’
‘Then he is beginning to suspect,’ she said seriously, ‘that his friends aren’t really his friends. He may even be beginning to suspect you, Joe. And don’t shake your head--you’ve admitted that your suspicions have caused a change of feeling towards him and he is sensitive, as sensitive as a child.’
Carson leaned forward to rewind the tape, for no other reason than to avoid her eyes while he was speaking. He was beginning to feel like something that had crawled from under a damp stone, and he was afraid that her expression would show that she agreed with him.
He said, ‘It’s your whole theory I’m shaking my head at. It’s a good theory, full of common sense and it seems to fit all the facts. But just suppose that your theory is completely wrong and you were asked to think of one a little bit far-fetched, ridiculous even ...?’