There were five principal perception systems that recorded the surroundings; and at least three of those
senses had already provided him with tiny bits of information. But even that was based on information, and memory, in his brain. He knew things on the basis of previous indoctrination.
Essentially, the self is forever in darkness; and messages come in primarily by way of sight, sound and touch, which, like the antennae of TV or radio, are programmed to record specific wave bands.
It was an old General Semantics concept. But it was sensationally parallel to his present situation.
What was baffling about the condition was that he had no recollection of having gone to bed the previous evening in such a physical environment. But, since he had no sense of threat, the lack of memory did not disturb him. Because—what a fantastic parallel it was.
. . . I, thought Gosseyn, as a self am in actual pitch darkness. Almost immediately, perception began. But it hasn’t told me anything yet that shows any direct connection with the universe—with whatever the reality is . . . out there.
It was a typically human, fleeting awareness. Because, even as he had those thoughts, another reasoning process inside him noticed again that his situation did not fit the normal reality of the awakening of a living, intelligent person.
It was more than simple, unconcerned curiosity. It was a need to know because of a feeling that something was wrong.
Mindful of the numerous suction devices that he had sensed as being attached to his body, Gosseyn slowly raised his arms. First, then, he maneuvered the thin sheet downward, away from the upper part of his body. It seemed to be what he had sensed it to be: a loose sheet. It moved easily; and so, after mere moments, his hands and arms were free for their next action.
Carefully, he felt the bed itself. And, at once, found himself touching rubbery tubes. Dozens of them. They were what were attached to the suction devices on his body.
Actually feeling them was startling. He froze into motionlessness. Because . . . this is ridiculous!
Because—still no memory of how something like this could be happening to him.
Consciously, he braced himself. Placed his arms and hands firmly on the cushiony surface underneath him. And with their help, sat up.
Or rather, tried to sit up. What happened: his head struck something cushiony inches above him.
He lay back, startled. But, presently, he was exploring the surface above him with his fingers. The “ceiling” of his long, narrow couch was made of a smooth, cloth-like material. And it was less than a foot above him. The walls on either side, and at the foot and head, were also cushiony, and also about twelve inches from him.
The situation was no longer merely ridiculous. Or puzzling. It was totally unrelated to anything that he had ever known.
Lying there, he realized that in some fashion he had, until this exact moment, taken it for granted that this was Gilbert Gosseyn awakening after a night’s sleep.
Lying there, he consciously made the cortical-thalamic pause of General Semantics.
The theory was that the reasoning—cortical—part of the brain could handle even a dangerous situation better than the automatic, feeling—thalamic—that simply reacted.
Okay, he thought wearily. Now what?
An additional realization came suddenly: . . . Of course! When I awakened, I knew who I was.
And that knowledge—that he was Gilbert Gosseyn—he had taken so for granted that it had faded from the forefront of his mind. But it was not a small realization.
To awaken and know who you are: it undoubtedly happened each morning to all human beings. Except, in this case it had happened to someone who was not just an ordinary human being. The individual who had awakened here was a human being with an extra-brain.
That was the acceptance of himself that he had awakened with. A casual memory of what he had done: the vast distances of the galaxy that he had traversed with his extra-brain’s special abilities. The colossal events he had participated in, including the destruction of the Follower, and, even more important, saving non-Aristotelian Venus from the interstellar forces of Enro the Red.
. . . Knowing people like Eldred and Patricia Crang, Leej the Predictor woman and—
Pause! Dismissal of those memories. Or rather, realization that there was no obvious connection between all those mighty happenings and this pitch darkness.
How did I get there?
It was not an anxious thought, but it was a valid question . . . Obviously, no need for anxiety or fear of any kind. After all, at any instant he could visualize one of his numerous memorized areas: the surface of a planet, or the floor of a room, or a location on a spaceship. And be gone from this small bed, and this small, confined place.
The problem was, if he left he might never know what he was doing here, and where here was.
So there was the purpose again, in another form: examine his absolutely ridiculous environment.
With that thought, Gosseyn once more raised his hands and arms. This time, when he found himself pushing upward against that cushiony ceiling—so close—he braced himself. And pushed hard.
A quick discovery, then. The cushiony part was about an inch and a half thick. And it was soft, and had give in it. But beyond that he could feel something as hard as metal.
Lying there, he strained against it, briefly, with all his strength. But it had no give in it. After pressing at the walls and the foot and head cushions with equal futility, Gosseyn was convinced. Still not alarmed, he lay back.
Yet the thought had already come: what else was there to do in a place like this? It seemed a shame to leave without knowing. Yet the information available seemed so limited that, in fact, there appeared to be only one more exploration for him to make.
. . . All those rubber tubes my body is attached to: what am I getting from them?
More important, what would happen if the extrabrain transported him suddenly with the speed of twenty-decimal similarity?
It seemed a real concern: what would happen to whatever those tubes were transmitting into his body? Or—slightly belated thought—removing from his body: what about that?
Gosseyn allowed several tens of seconds to go by while he considered the implications. In the end, it seemed irrelevant. Because, out there, he didn’t need any attachments. Every remembered area for the twenty-decimal method by which he traveled vast distances, when necessary, was in a location that was relatively safe for him to be as a living, oxygen-breathing life form.
Lying there, it struck him that the analysis, by itself, as almost the equivalent of a decision to leave. Almost—not quite!
. . . Because, something happened to me that got me here into this prison. That something had to be almost magically powerful to capture Gilbert Gosseyn, the man with the extra-brain—
Yes, capture him! And—worse!—the prisoner not even aware of when or how it had been done . . . I should wait. And discover who, or what, this magical power it. Because, if he could do it once, a second time whoever, whatever, it is might decide to take no chances.
For a while, as Gosseyn relaxed and allowed his body simply to lie, unresisting, it seemed real that he should wait. But he did have another thought.
Obviously, there had to be a mechanism which opened what he was in. He was in an enclosure that, in some ways, resembled a coffin. But not really. They didn’t make coffins as metallically hard, and resistant, as what he had touched through the cushions. True, a man who was buried in the ground would not be able to force open the cover of his coffin; the earth itself would be totally resistant. But it would not be a steely metal resistance. Coffin covers had give in them, to some extent. A cover would give a little inside the box that coffins were placed in; particularly luxurious coffins like this one.
That train of thought had a short life in his mind. Because if this were a coffin, it was no problem to him. Five or six feet of packed earth on top of a coffin and its box was no barrier to twenty decimal similarity.
&n
bsp; Gosseyn actually shook his head, chidingly. The fact was it was a meaningless thought for him to have had. People in coffins didn’t have little rubber tubes stuck to several dozen parts of their bodies.
He was about to lie back again, when he had a thought that had no relation to anything. The thought was: “This is Gilbert Gosseyn. I must have blanked out. What happened?”
Several voices answered in some way. What was peculiar about them was, although the thoughts seemed to derive from other persons, they came through as his own thoughts. The meaning was: “Leej seems to have had a bad reaction, too.” The impression was of Eldred Crang speaking. Another meaning: “My impression is that something big happened, but I don’t know what. And the impression of that was that the words came from John Prescott. And Crang said, “Patricia, dear, get the doctors in here. Fortunately, we’ve got help standing by.”
“Yes—” That was the first voice again—“get the doctors. But right now, before we lose our impressions, let me say that at this moment I have the feeling that there are two Gilbert Gosseyns.” Pause. “Anyone got anything to match that?”
Another thought from (impression) Eldred Crang: “Oh, Leej is coming to. Leej, Leej, any impressions? Any predictions?”
It was a faraway voice that answered: “Something happened. Something absolutely colossal. We didn’t fail completely . . . I have a strange certainty about that. But—it isn’t a matter for prediction. It’s already happened, whatever it is. I, uh, don’t get a thing.”
“Lie back, dear.” Patricia’s voice was also, somehow, coming through another mind. “Let the doctor check you.”
For Gilbert Gosseyn, lying there in the pitch darkness of what could have been a grave, but probably wasn’t, the strange feeling had come that he was mentally not well.
—Now, I remember, he thought uneasily, we were going to make the jump from this galaxy to that other one, but . . .
As his mind came to the vagueness of that “but”, a man’s voice said almost directly into his ear: “There’s only one distortion in his brain profile that doesn’t resolve. But there’s no power connection to that. So he can’t use that against us in any way that we can anticipate. But now what do we do?”
It was a question that was surely as applicable to Gosseyn himself as it was to the speaker. The time had clearly come for another cortical-thalamic pause.
He noticed that this time he was more hopeful. True, there was silence again, and the darkness remained as black as ever. Also, he was still lying on the couch; and the feel of his naked body, with its numerous attachments, was all still there, exactly the same.
But as Gosseyn mentally replayed the words he had heard, their implication was that he was being closely observed by someone who spoke the English language of earth.
He visualized the exterior condition in its drabbest form, taking into account what had been said: . . . I m guessing that I’m inside a metal box, roughly the shape of a coffin. The box is resting on a solid table in a laboratory. And electronic devices are peering at me after the manner of X-ray machines or certain types of particle initiators. Whoever is doing the looking, doesn’t know that I am Gilbert Gosseyn, because that brief, spoken analysis was impersonal; and although he demonstrated exceptional refinement of understanding and apparently noticed the extra-brain inside my head the observer showed no awareness of identity . . .
Accordingly, this was a stranger, and not connected in any knowledgeable way with what Gilbert Gosseyn had been doing out there in the exterior universe.
Presumably, there would presently be more observations made; and the prisoner’s best purpose was: wait at least a little longer in the hope of obtaining some kind of meaningful information. He really ought to know what had happened, and what was happening.
He had not long to wait. A somewhat deeper—more baritone-ish voice said, also in English: Tell me the exact circumstances whereby you took this person aboard.”
“Sir,” was the courteous reply, “we detected a capsule floating in space. Our spy rays observed that there was a male human being inside, who seemed to be either sleeping or unconscious. However, now that we have him aboard, closer observation has determined that he was in a spacial state of suspended animation, whereby the brain was receptive to a variety of incoming signals. What those signals are is not wholly clear to us. But he seems to be a recipient of all the thoughts of an Alter-Ego who is actively pursuing some life situation while in a state of normal activity many light-years distant.” Another pause. Then the second voice said, “Perhaps, he needs to be placed under stress. So let’s leave him isolated, as he is—and let him be aware.”
“Of what?”
“We’ll consult with the biology department.”
A new voice, quiet, determined, holding in its tone a quality of higher command, said, “I have been monitoring this experiment. And it is not on such a cautious basis that a decision can be made. Our problem is severe. We don’t know where we are, and we don’t know how we got here. Bring him out of that capsule. It may have equipment that could operate in his favor in a crisis. So let’s get him away from his one possible assistance area.”
To Gilbert Gosseyn, it was a false-to-facts evaluation. Surely, the one thing he needed, most of all, was to get out of his tight, little prison. Presumably, then, he would be able to see what his captors looked like; and maybe he might even find out who they were.
There were other vaguer thoughts operating in the back of his mind: among them, the beginning of an analysis of the words that had now given him a picture of where these people had found him: in a capsule floating in space. The location raised as many questions as it answered—but not think of that now.
Because he had a feeling of movement. The movement seemed to be in the direction that his head pointed. Gosseyn reached up tentatively to check his impression. Moments after he had touched the cushiony stuff above him, there was no question: the “ceiling” was moving past him towards his feet; moving very slowly.
The double awareness brought a mental picture of a container with a sliding bed in it. Interesting, and logical, that people who could “see” inside a human brain, were able with their instruments to observe the mechanism by which the capsule was put together, and were in process of unlocking it.
Gosseyn anticipated that, any instant now, the head end of the capsule would fold back, or release, and light from the room would glare into his eyes. In a kind of a way, then, he braced himself for the shock of the brightness.
What actually happened: the movement under him ceased. A sudden freshness touched his cheeks. It was another level of perception, or maybe several levels. More air around him, and a tiny change in temperature: cooler.
Which suggested that his head and body had emerged into a room that was as dark as his prison had been.
. . . They’re really taking no chances!
What was doubly interesting was that, except for the flexible rubber devices attached to his body, presumably he could now get up.
But he didn’t.
The memory of what he had heard, held him back from any quick movement. His memory of the background of the Gilbert Gosseyns—it seemed to him—was relevant to the picture evoked of a man’s body found floating inside a capsule. It seemed to mean that he was now in a spaceship. Those on the spacecraft had picked up the capsule, and had taken it aboard.
The fantastic implication was: . . . I must be another Gilbert Gosseyn body, somehow awakened before the previous one died.
As he recalled it, Gosseyn One had arrived in the city of the Games Machine, on Earth, with a false memory of where he had come from. Then, after he was killed by an agent of the interstellar invasion force there on Earth, suddenly he was on Venus, believing himself to be the same Gosseyn. That second Gosseyn had proceeded to defeat the invasion forces, and had subsequently gone to Gorgzid, the home planet of the invaders.
That Gosseyn Number Two was still out there in far distant space, and was, in fact, the Alter Ego
referred to by the third voice. And at this exact moment—if there could be a similar moment so far away—that Number Two was recovering from an attempt by a group to “jump” to another galaxy, from which (they believed) the human race had come tens of thousands or a million years before.
Gosseyn Three, lying there in the pitch darkness of a location aboard what he believed was a spaceship, paused in his recollection of the past history of the Gilbert Gosseyn bodies, and, addressing that distant Gosseyn Alter Ego, said mentally, “Have I got that correct, Gosseyn Two?”
The reply—it must have been a reply, and not just a thought of his own, because of what it said—came instantly: “We could argue the number. My understanding was that the next group of Gosseyn bodies was eighteen years old. You seem to belong to my generation. Which makes you Number Three of those who actually emerged from their state of suspended animation and became consciously aware.”
“All right, I’m Three and you’re Two. Well, Two, my question is, do you think I can handle this situation, even though I’m newly awakened?”
“You’ve got all the stuff I have,” came the remote reply, “and of course you have me monitoring what’s going on.”
“I have an impression you’re far away, and can’t be too helpful.”
“As soon as you’re able, get a twenty decimal mental picture of some floor location; and in emergency—who knows?”
“Do you think it would be wise for both of us to be in a place where we could get killed?”
“It really wouldn’t be wise.”
“Why do you think they’re keeping me in a situation where I can’t see anything?”
The faraway reply came at once: “Two possibilities. First, they’re just being careful. Second, their set-up is an autocracy. In such a situation, all lesser persons have to protect themselves from subsequent criticism by appearing to take no chances. That third voice sounded strong, but maybe he, also, wishes to point out later that he proceeded step by step. On that basis, you’ll presently hear from Voice Number Four with even greater authority, taking his precautions.”
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