Vomact went into the stance: The honorable scanners are pleased to vote.
One light of protest shone; Chang’s, again.
Martel imagined that he could see a cruel joyful smile on Vomact’s dead face—the smile of a man who knew himself righteous and who found his righteousness upheld and affirmed by militant authority.
Martel tried one last time to come free.
The dead hands held. They were locked like vises until their owners’ eyes unlocked them: how else could they hold the piloting month by month?
Martel then shouted: “Honorable Scanners, this is judicial murder.”
No ear heard him. He was cranched, and alone.
Nonetheless, he shouted again: “You endanger the Confraternity.”
Nothing happened.
The echo of his voice sounded from one end of the room to the other. No head turned. No eyes met his.
Martel realized that as they paired for talk, the eyes of the scanners avoided him. He saw that no one desired to watch his speech. He knew that behind the cold faces of his friends there lay compassion or amusement. He knew that they knew him to be cranched—absurd, normal, manlike, temporarily no scanner. But he knew that in this matter the wisdom of scanners was nothing. He knew that only a cranched scanner could feel with his very blood the outrage and anger which deliberate murder would provoke among the Others. He knew that the Confraternity endangered itself, and knew that the most ancient prerogative of law was the monopoly of death. Even the ancient nations, in the times of the Wars, before the Beasts, before men went into the up-and-out-even the ancients had known this. How did they say it? Only the state shall kill. The states were gone but the Instrumentality remained, and the Instrumentality could not pardon things which occurred within the Earths but beyond its authority. Death in space was the business, the right of the scanners: how could the Instrumentality enforce its laws in a place where all men who wakened, wakened only to die in the great pain? Wisely did the Instrumentality leave space to the scanners, wisely had the Confraternity not meddled inside the Earths. And now the Confraternity itself was going to step forth as an outlaw band, as a gang of rogues as stupid and reckless as the tribes of the Unforgiven!
Martel knew this because he was cranched. Had he been haberman, he would have thought only with his mind, not with his heart and guts and blood. How could the other scanners know?
Vomact returned for the last time to the rostrum: The committee has met and its will shall be done.Verbally he added: “Senior among you, I ask your loyalty and your silence.”
At that point, the two scanners let his arms go. Martel rubbed his numb hands, shaking his fingers to get the circulation back into the cold fingertips. With real freedom, he began to think of what he might still do. He scanned himself: the cranching held. He might have a day. Well, he could go on even if haberman, but it would be inconvenient, having to talk with finger and tablet. He looked about for Chang. He saw his friend standing patient and immobile in a quiet corner. Martel moved slowly, so as not to attract any more attention to himself than could be helped. He faced Chang, moved until his face was in the light, and then articulated:
“What are we going to do? You’re not going to let them kill Adam Stone, are you? Don’t you realize what Stone’s work will mean to us, if it succeeds? No more scanners. No more habermans. No more pain in the up-and-out. I tell you, if the others were all cranched, as I am, they would see it in a human way, not with the narrow crazy logic which they used in the meeting. We’ve got to stop them. How can we do it? What are we going to do? What does Parizianski think? Who has been chosen?”
“Which question do you want me to answer?”
Martel laughed. (It felt good to laugh, even then; it felt like being a man.) “Will you help me?”
Chang’s eyes flashed across Martel’s face as Chang answered: “No. No. No.”
“You won’t help?”
“Why not, Chang? Why not?”
“I am a scanner. The vote has been taken. You would do the same if you were not in this unusual condition.”
“I’m not in an unusual condition. I’m cranched. That merely means that I see things the way that the Others would. I see the stupidity. The recklessness. The selfishness. It is murder.”
“What is murder? Have you not killed? You are not one of the Others. You are a scanner. You will be sorry for what you are about to do, if you do not watch out.”
“But why did you vote against Vomact then? Didn’t you too see what Adam Stone means to all of us? Scanners will live in vain. Thank God for that! Can’t you see it?”
“No.”
“But you talk to me, Chang. You are my friend?”
“I talk to you. I am your friend. Why not?”
“But what are you going to do?”
“Nothing, Martel. Nothing.”
“Will you help me?”
“Not even to save Stone?”
“Then I will go to Parizianski for help.”
“It will do you no good.”
“Why not? He’s more human than you, right now.”
“He will not help you, because he has the job. Vomact designated him to kill Adam Stone.”
Martel stopped speaking in mid-movement. He suddenly took the stance: I thank you, Brother, and I depart.
At the window he turned and faced the room. He saw that Vomact’s eyes were upon him. He gave the stance, I thank you, Brother, and I depart, and added the flourish of respect which is shown when seniors are present. Vomact caught the sign, and Martel could see the cruel lips move. He thought he saw the words ” … take good care of yourself … ” but did not wait to inquire. He stepped backward and dropped out the window.
Once below the window and out of sight, he adjusted his aircoat to a maximum speed. He swam lazily in the air, scanning himself thoroughly, and adjusting his adrenal intake down. He then made the movement of release, and felt the cold air rush past his face like run-fling water.
Adam Stone had to be at Chief Downport.
Adam Stone had to be there.
Wouldn’t Adam Stone be surprised in the night? Surprised to meet the strangest of beings, the first renegade among scanners. (Martel suddenly appreciated that it was of himself he was thinking. Martel the Traitor to Scanners! That sounded strange and bad. But what of Martel, the Loyal to Mankind? Was that not compensation? And if he won, he won Luci. If he lost, he lost nothing—an unconsidered and expendable haberman. It happened to be himself. But in contrast to the immense reward, to mankind, to the Confraternity, to Luci, what did that matter?)
Martel thought to himself: “Adam Stone will have two visitors tonight. Two scanners, who are the friends of one another.” He hoped that Parizianski was still his friend.
“And the world,” he added, “depends on which of us gets there first.” Multifaceted in their brightness, the lights of Chief Downport began to shine through the mist ahead. Martel could see the outer towers of the city and glimpsed the phosphorescent periphery which kept back the Wild, whether Beasts, Machines, or the Unforgiven.
Once more Martel invoked the lords of his chance: “Help me to pass for an Other!”
Within the Downport, Martel had less trouble than he thought. He draped his aircoat over his shoulder so that it concealed the instruments. He took up his scanning mirror, and made up his face from the inside, by adding tone and animation to his blood and nerves until the muscles of his face glowed and the skin gave out a healthy sweat. That way he looked like an ordinary man who had just completed a long night flight.
After straightening out his clothing, and hiding his tablet within his jacket, he faced the problem of what to do about the talking finger. If he kept the nail, it would show him to be a scanner. He would be respected, but he would be identified. He might be stopped by the guards whom the Instrumentality had undoubtedly set around the person of Adam Stone. If he broke the nail—But he couldn’t! No scanner in the history of the Confraternity had ever willingly broken his nail. That
would be resignation, and there was no such thing. The only way out, was in the up-and-out! Martel put his finger to his mouth and bit off the nail. He looked at the now-queer finger, and sighed to himself.
He stepped toward the city gate, slipping his hand into his jacket and running up his muscular strength to four times normal. He started to scan, and then realized that his instruments were masked. Might as well take all the chances at once, he thought.
The watcher stopped him with a searching wire. The sphere thumped suddenly against Martel’s chest.
“Are you a man?” said the unseen voice. (Martel knew that as a scanner in haberman condition, his own field-charge would have illuminated the sphere.)
“I am a man.” Martel knew that the timbre of his voice had been good; he hoped that it would not be taken for that of a manshonyagger or a Beast or an Unforgiven one, who with mimicry sought to enter the cities and ports of mankind.
“Name, number, rank, purpose, function, time departed.”
“Martel.” He had to remember his old number, not Scanner 34. “Sunward 4234, 782nd Year of Space. Rank, rising subchief.” That was no lie, but his substantive rank. “Purpose, personal and lawful within the limits of this city. No function of the Instrumentality. Departed Chief Outport 2019 hours.” Everything now depended on whether he was believed, or would be checked against Chief Outport.
The voice was fiat and routine: “Time desired within the city.” Martel used the standard phrase: “Your honorable sufferance is requested.”
He stood in the cool night air, waiting. Far above him, through a gap in the mist, he could see the poisonous glittering in the sky of scanners. The stars are my enemies, he thought: I have mastered the stars but they hate me. Ho, that sounds ancient! Like a book. Too much cranching.
The voice returned: “Sunward 4234 dash 782 rising subchief Martel, enter the lawful gates of the city. Welcome. Do you desire food, raiment, money, or companionship?” The voice had no hospitality in it, just business. This was certainly different from entering a city in a scanner’s role! Then the petty officers came out, and threw their belt-lights on their fretful faces, and mouthed their words with preposterous deference, shouting against the stone deafness of scanner’s ears. So that was the way that a subchief was treated: matter of fact, but not bad. Not bad.
Martel replied: “I have that which I need, but beg of the city a favor. My friend Adam Stone is here. I desire to see him, on urgent and personal lawful affairs.”
The voice replied: “Did you have an appointment with Adam Stone?”
“The city will find him. What is his number?”
“I have forgotten it.”
“You have forgotten it? Is not Adam Stone a magnate of the Instrumentality? Are you truly his friend?”
“Truly.” Martel let a little annoyance creep into his voice. “Watcher, doubt me and call your subchief.”
“No doubt implied. Why do you not know the number? This must go into the record,” added the voice.
“We were friends in childhood. He has crossed the—” Martel started to say “the up-and-out” and remembered that the phrase was current only among scanners. “He has leapt from Earth to Earth, and has just now returned. I knew him well and I seek him out. I have word of his kith. May the Instrumentality protect us!”
“Heard and believed. Adam Stone will be searched.”
At a risk, though a slight one, of having the sphere sound an alarm for non-human, Martel cut in on his scanner speaker within his jacket. He saw the trembling needle of light await his words and he started to write on it with his blunt finger. That won’t work, he thought, and had a moment’s panic until he found his comb, which had a sharp enough tooth to write. He wrote: “Emergency none. Martel Scanner calling Parizianski Scanner.”
The needle quivered and the reply glowed and faded out: “Parizianski Scanner on duty and D.C. Calls taken by Scanner Relay.”
Martel cut off his speaker.
Parizianski was somewhere around. Could he have crossed the direct way, right over the city wall, setting off the alert, and invoking official business when the petty officers overtook him in mid-air? Scarcely. That meant that a number of other scanners must have come in with Panzianski, all of them pretending to be in search of a few of the tenuous pleasures which could be enjoyed by a haberman, such as the sight of the newspictures or the viewing of beautiful women in the Pleasure Gallery. Parizianski was around, but he could not have moved privately, because Scanner Central registered him on duty and recorded his movements city by city.
The voice returned. Puzzlement was expressed in it. “Adam Stone is found and awakened. He has asked pardon of the Honorable, and says he knows no Martel. Will you see Adam Stone in the morning? The city will bid you welcome.”
Mantel ran out of resources. It was hard enough mimicking a man without having to tell lies in the guise of one. Martel could only repeat:
“Tell him I am Martel. The husband of Luci.”
“It will be done.”
Again the silence, and the hostile stars, and the sense that Parizianski was somewhere near and getting nearer; Martel felt his heart beating faster. He stole a glimpse at his chestbox and set his heart down a point. He felt calmer, even though he had not been able to scan with care.
The voice this time was cheerful, as though an annoyance had been settled: “Adam Stone consents to see you. Enter Chief Downport, and welcome.”
The little sphere dropped noiselessly to the ground and the wire whispered away into the darkness. A bright arc of narrow light rose from the ground in front of Martel and swept through the city to one of the higher towers-apparently a hostel, which Martel had never entered. Martel plucked his aircoat to his chest for ballast, stepped heel-and-toe on the beam, and felt himself whistle through the air to an entrance window which sprang up before him as suddenly as a devouring mouth.
A tower guard stood in the doorway. “You are awaited, sir. Do you bear weapons, sir?”
“None,” said Mantel, grateful that he was relying on his own strength.
The guard led him past the check-screen. Mantel noticed the quick flight of a warning across the screen as his instruments registered and identified him as a scanner. But the guard had not noticed it.
The guard stopped at a door. “Adam Stone is armed. He is lawfully armed by authority of the Instrumentality and by the liberty of this city. All those who enter are given warning.”
Mantel nodded in understanding at the man and went in.
Adam Stone was a short man, stout and benign. His gray hair rose stiffly from a low forehead. His whole face was red and merry-looking. He looked like a jolly guide from the Pleasure Gallery, not like a man who had been at the edge of the up-and-out, fighting the great pain without haberman protection.
He stared at Martel. His look was puzzled, perhaps a little annoyed, but not hostile.
Martel came to the point. “You do not know me. I lied. My name is Martel, and I mean you no harm. But I lied. I beg the honorable gift of your hospitality. Remain armed. Direct your weapon against me—”
Stone smiled: “I am doing so,” and Mantel noticed the small wire-point in Stone’s capable, plump hand.
“Good. Keep on guard against me. It will give you confidence in what I shall say. But do, I beg you, give us a screen of privacy. I want no casual lookers. This is a matter of life and death.”
“First: whose life and death?” Stone’s face remained calm, his voice even.
“Yours, and mine, and the worlds’.”
“You are cryptic but I agree.” Stone called through the doorway:
“Privacy please.” There was a sudden hum, and all the little noises of the night quickly vanished from the air of the room.
Said Adam Stone: “Sir, who are you? What brings you here?”
“I am Scanner 34.”
“You a scanner? I don’t believe it.”
For answer, Mantel pulled his jacket open, showing his chestbox. Stone looked up at hi
m, amazed. Martel explained:
“I am cranched. Have you never seen it before?”
“Not with men. On animals. Amazing! But—what do you want?”
“The truth. Do you fear me?”
“Not with this,” said Stone, grasping the wirepoint. “But I shall tell you the truth.”
“Is it true that you have conquered the great pain?”
Stone hesitated, seeking words for an answer.
“Quick, can you tell me how you have done it, so that I may believe you?”
“I have loaded the ships with life.”
“Life?”
“Life. I don’t know what the great pain is, but I did find that in the experiments, when I sent out masses of animals or plants, the life in the center of the mass lived longest. I built ships—small ones, of course—and sent them out with rabbits, with monkeys—”
“Those are Beasts?”
“Yes. With small Beasts. And the Beasts came back unhurt. They came back because the walls of the ships were filled with life. I tried many kinds, and finally found a sort of life which lives in the waters. Oysters. Oyster-beds. The outermost oysters died in the great pain. The inner ones lived. The passengers were unhurt.”
“But they were Beasts?”
“Not only Beasts. Myself.”
“You!”
“I came through space alone. Through what you call the up-and-out, alone. Awake and sleeping. I am unhurt. If you do not believe me, ask your brother scanners. Come and see my ship in the morning. I will be glad to see you then, along with your brother scanners. I am going to demonstrate before the chiefs of the Instrumentality.”
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