Null-A Three

by A. E. van Vogt

  It was not an ideal situation for any person to have to confront . . . suddenly. For Gosseyn, the thought-reaction was complicated by what seemed to be a contradiction: Dan Lyttle giving Enin a lesson in General Semantics, with armed intruders watching.

  The other complication was that, in his interest and response, the boy had acted as if his instructor and he were alone in the room; and, even in his final, threatening reaction against Lyttle, he had paid no heed to the onlookers.

  It took a moment or two, then, to realize that His Imperial Majesty had behind him at least two seats of ignoring onlookers, and of being totally confident that his special mental control of energy was always decisive

  With that realization, he drew a deep breath. And was back to as much normal as was possible under the circumstances.

  Normalcy came just in time.

  At that exact moment, Enin ran over to him, and grabbed his arm.

  “Boy, am I glad you finally came to, Mr. Gosseyn.” He seemed to have forgotten his implied threat against their host; and he totally ignored the intruders. His bright eyes peered up at Gosseyn. “You always sleep this long?”

  “Well!” Gosseyn managed a smile, and, since it was his first normal sleep ever—a reality which, fortunately, he had already considered, he was able to dissemble, as he said, “I think it was the icy cold . . . back there . . . and my unusually thin clothing. I—”

  That was as far as he got. From off to his right, Dan Lyttle s voice interrupted: “It looks as if this little house has been bugged all this time, Mr. Gosseyn,” he said. “While you two were asleep, I went over to the hotel, and borrowed a video game for your young friend here. When I came back, these men were sitting where you see them.”

  Even as Dan Lyttle’s voice gave the explanation, one of the two men in civilian clothes made the first overt move of any of the intruders: he stood up. He was a medium-sized, rather chunky individual. There was a twisted smile on his thick face, as he waited politely for Dan Lyttle to finish his brief statement. Then he spoke in a soft voice:

  “Mr. Gosseyn, as soon as you’ve eaten breakfast, we’ll have to tie you up. The boss wants to come over and take a look at you.”

  It was not a moment for anyone to make a swift move. And even His Imperial Majesty must have realized it; for his voice came, high-pitched but controlled: “Shall I let him have it, Mr. Gosseyn?”

  That required a reply. “No, Enin!” Gosseyn had been considering the information in the words of the spokesman for the intruders. He explained: “I deduce we’re going to meet some of the people I want to see while I’m here. So all is well.”

  He added, “We can decide later what we do about it. Okay?”

  “Okay?”

  During the interchange Dan Lyttle had not moved. Now, he said, “Before I make breakfast, I think I’d better make sure your young friend is not bored while you eat.”

  With that, he walked to the wall near the outer door, and removed the canvas covering from a shining machine that had not been there before they went to sleep.

  It was easy to guess that it was the video game borrowed from the hotel where Lyttle worked as a night clerk.

  Both men, and the intruders, watched as Enin walked over to the instrument. The boy peered at the transparent inner works. Then he examined the computer buttons. And, finally, he gingerly reached over and turned a switch. There was a flood of light inside. The appearance was of an underwater city and populace threatened by gigantic sea beasts.

  It was quickly possible to deduce that the game player’s job was to decimate the attacking creatures with the computer-controlled weapon systems.

  As Gosseyn watched, smiling, the emperor of the Dzan began firing. After that, it was simply a matter of internally dimming the effect of Enin’s delighted cries, and, at the same time, asking questions of Dan Lyttle. And of listening to the answers while he, presently, ate eggs, bacon, and a waffle.

  The questions had to do with the government situation on this part of the planet.

  The answers were discouraging.

  It seemed that supporters of the late President Hardie had somehow managed to inherit his power. And, apparently, they had no awareness that Hardie, himself, had not been responsible for the excesses of his regime, but had been a pawn in an interstellar struggle for control that he never really understood. Apparently, the inheritors were mostly venal men of the type known in politics on earth from time immemorial. Lyttle named no names; and that was obviously wise. Named individuals had a tendency to get even, on the level where these people operated.

  The additional information was that the people on Venus had not been heard from since the attack by Enro s forces a few months before.

  On that point, Gosseyn had his own thoughts—which he had no intention of sharing.

  The fact was that the non-Aristotelian millions of Venus had, for some time now, been emigrating. Groups of them were being taken out to the inhabited planets of, principally, the Interstellar League. There, they were assigning themselves the task of bringing the philosophy and methods of General Semantics to all those enormous populations out there.

  It would take a while.

  Equally silently, Gosseyn doubted that earth was being entirely neglected by the Venusians. Undoubtedly, individuals had arrived from Venus, and were evaluating the problem of dealing with the consequences of the earlier secret takeover of the government by the minions of Enro. Currently, that meant dealing with the earth types who had been motivated to join the invaders, and who were not entrenched in key positions.

  It was Gosseyn Three’s silent belief that, in the area of dealing with the venal types, he himself might be of considerable assistance.

  With that mental reiteration of his purpose, he was about to lay down his fork when he grew aware that

  Dan Lyttle was standing slightly behind him, offering a damp towel.

  “Clean yourself—your mouth.”

  As Gosseyn accepted the cloth, he saw that one of Lyttle’s fingers of the hand holding it, was oddly extended. Pointing. At something on the table cloth.

  As he accepted the towel, and began wiping himself, he looked to where the finger had pointed. What he saw lying on the table cloth was a small, white sheet printed with thousands of computer chips. How it had got there, how Lyttle had managed casually to include it, unnoticed, as part of, or among, the breakfast dishes he had set down, could, presumably, be explained by the fact that, so far as he himself was concerned, he had been busy with his own thoughts. And the intruders had evidently been lulled by the ordinariness of a man eating.

  Lyttle was leaning down again, and this time he whispered: “That is the Games Machine! Its identity!”

  “Hey!” It was a yell from the intruder spokesman.

  Both Gosseyn and Lyttle were quick, then. Gosseyn said, “Some more egg, you say?”

  With that, he wiped his mouth as if the whisper had had to do with the grooming act. The cloth he laid on the chip card. Stood up. And turned.

  He said, “Thank you for letting me eat. But it’s time to tie me up, and call your—what did you call him?—boss.”

  As he walked toward the intruders, he was aware of Dan Lyttle behind him busily cleaning up the breakfast dishes. Surely, that would include a skilful removal of the small sheet that had been so undramatically identified as the identity of the most important machine ever to exist on earth.

  The way it was done: they tied his legs with cord at the ankles and at the knees. His hands and arms were handcuffed behind his back. And he was laid down on the sofa, which was against the wall across from where the intruders now re-seated themselves.

  “Stay there!” the thick-faced man commanded. “Mr. Blayney is on his way over.”

  “Blayney!” said Gosseyn Three. But he didn’t say it out loud.

  After hearing that name, there was no question. He would, indeed, “stay”.

  CHAPTER

  15

  Gosseyn said, “You’ve come far, Mr.
Blayney, since we last met. Head of the government and commander-in-chief of the armed forces.”

  There was no immediate reply. The man who was gazing down at him had a grim look on his smooth face, with a suggestion of puzzlement. Blayney seemed older than the Gosseyn memory recalled for Gosseyn Three. And what had been a heavy-set body, was leaner. As if a lot of meals had been skipped, or perhaps there had been an internal chemical re-adjustment to a period of tension.

  The clothes the man wore were, if anything, even more elegant than last time.

  And, still, there was no reply to his opening remark.

  Gosseyn lay there during the lengthening silence, recalling somewhat unhappily that the last time Blayney had stood like this, looking down at a tied-up Gosseyn body, he had suddenly, without visible motivation, leaned down and struck several hard blows.

  It seemed an appropriate moment for another conciliatory comment. “I would deduce,” he said, “from your great success, that my then analysis of you was in error.”

  At that the grim look changed into a shadow of a smile. And the unpleasant silence ended. “I took your advice,” said Blayney. “I did an elementary study of General Semantics, and corrected certain, shall we say, false-to-facts personality flaws that you called to my attention.”

  Gosseyn, who had unhappily recalled that the personality flaw the earlier Gosseyn criticised had to do with Blayney being excessively worried about future possibilities. At that time, the warning given the mighty Thorson was that a man who always expected the worst would sooner or later—usually sooner—take unnecessary preventive actions on a paranoid level.

  It would be unfortunate if anything of that remained; for, in a moment of actual crisis, it might cause an unusually violent response. And, in this situation, the victim, of course, would be Gilbert Gosseyn Three.

  An effort should be made to try to head off such an outcome.

  “If,” said Gosseyn, “an elementary study could so quickly bring you up to where you could become head of government, it might be worth your while to take more advanced non-Aristotelian training, and dispose of the remaining . . . false-to-facts—” he repeated the General Semantics term after a tiny pause, and finished—“that may remain from your early life conditioning.”

  What there was of a smile on that smooth face, faded. The grimness was back. Blayney shook his head. “The game of politics,” he said, “is strictly Aristotelian. It has no place for idealists.”

  Above him, the hard face was changing again. The puzzlement was back as Blayney bent down, and with his right hand, touched the cords that bound Gosseyn’s knees.

  “What I’ve been trying to figure out,” the man said in that soft voice of his, “is, why did you let it happen—again?”

  The question seemed to imply that Blayney had heard of the 20-decimal abilities of the Gosseyn brain.

  Naturally, that was a possibility only, and not to be taken for granted. So Gosseyn parried: “I’m no smarter than I was last time.” He added, “Who would suspect that you would take the trouble to keep this little house under surveillance.”

  He was watching the smooth face as he spoke the words, with their implied praise. And felt pleased as he detected a tiny smugness in the other’s expression.

  But Blayney said nothing; offered no explanation of his foresightedness.

  In a way, of course, his comment did not need a reply. First, it was doubtful if an honest answer would ever be given by a conniver. There had been a small group of top people involved, secretly backed by the mighty armies of Enro, commanded by Thorson.

  Of those individuals, President Hardie was dead, and Thorson was dead. Not too surprising that Blayney who had been a close associate of one or the other, had taken advantage.

  And, obviously, when elections were rigged, those who did the rigging—or their chief aides—tried to gain advantages. But even yet it was hard to believe that the people of the western hemisphere of earth had come down to this in the 26th century A.D.

  It showed what secret intervention by interstellar forces could do to the unsuspecting inhabitants of a planet.

  Fortunately, except for further action Enro might take while aboard the Dzan battleship, that conspiracy had been essentially defeated.

  . . . And except, of course, for the leftover debris—like Blayney—that still remained to be cleaned up on earth. Hopefully, there was a possibility that the man knew nothing of the background of what had happened—

  Also, it was possible that the question asked by Gilbert Gosseyn Three had averted a violent reaction from the new head of the government in this area of earth.

  Other than that, the Gosseyn predicament remained the same. So far, nothing basic had been accomplished.

  Thinking thus, and still lying there, Gosseyn Three allowed himself a partial General Semantics awareness.

  Naturally, first impression was, once more, of the interior of this little house. And second, the thought that it was probably significant that Blayney had not yet indicated his purpose in coming to a place like this . . . coming here from the grandeur of the presidential mansion. But the reality that he had come at all indicated that a decision would presently be made.

  So the biggest threat had to do with the presence in this room of a very special type of ordinary, old style human beings: meaning, most of the individuals who had intruded into Dan Lyttle’s small house would probably do nothing inimical until they were given a direct command.

  Gosseyn, who had already, earlier, taken the precaution of mentally photographing the four gunmen with his extra-brain, decided that at very least he should offer them a way out. Since there was now a person present with the “right” to give them any order, including “Shoot him!”—and they would—the time of such an offer had to be now, and not at the moment that the command was given.

  It was purpose on an intermediate level; and so he turned his head, and spoke to the four:

  “I’d appreciate it if you would all put away your guns.” He added, “They’re not needed, now that I’m handcuffed and tied up.”

  Interesting, then, that three of the men simply sat there as if they had not heard. The fourth man—at the far end of the quartet—glanced over at his, presumably, sergeant, or equivalent—the civilian who had, so far, done all the talking for this lower echelon group—and said, “You got any thoughts on that, Al?”

  The man addressed replied immediately in his soft voice: “The Big Boss is here—” He indicated the beautifully arrayed individual standing beside Gosseyn—“and he’ll give the orders when he feels like it.”

  The gun-holder, who had spoken, glanced at Gosseyn. And shrugged. Whereupon, he sank back into silence, gun still in hand.

  Gosseyn turned his gaze away from the men, and smiled grimly up at Blayney. “Looks like there’s not a future Venusian in your group,” he said.

  The man-who-had-become-the-equal-of-king was frowning down at the prisoner. “Was that an attempt to subvert men who have sworn to do their duty whenever called upon to do so by an authorized commander?” Gosseyn gazed up at other’s slightly heavy, frowning face, and shook his head. “On one level,” he said, “General Semantics recognizes the rule of law in a backward society. But what has happened here seems to transcend ordinary legal, or criminal, ordinances.” He broke off: “Am I to understand that I can be tied up in this fashion without any charges being leveled against me?” Blayney stroked his jaw. “You’re a special situation. And I gave the order.” His lips twisted into a smile. “And these men obeyed it, as they should.”

  “That’s why I spoke to them. They are participants in a pre-emptive action. Their role is that of automatons. In coming here, they came as minions and not with any intention of finding out the facts. Later, when they go to their homes, if someone asks them what they did today, what will they be able to say?”

  Blayney’s smile was tighter, his teeth showing. “They’re bound by their oaths not to reveal to unauthorized persons anything that happens during
their period of duty.”

  “In other words,” replied Gosseyn, “if you were to order them to shoot me, they would do so without having to know the reason?”

  “Exactly.” Blayney’s manner abruptly showed impatience. “Government by authority will be continuing on earth for some time. So let’s get to the point. What are you here for?”

  But Gosseyn had turned his attention back to the four gun carriers. And it was them he addressed: “As individuals,” he asked, “do you each, separately, wish to be bound by the minion condition in this specific situation?”

  The Gun-holder-second-from-Gosseyn’s-left stirred, and said to Blayney, “Any special orders, Mr. President?” Silently, that individual shook his head.

  So there was still time to obtain more data. Gosseyn turned. And called, “Mr. Lyttle!”

  It must have been unexpected. For Lyttle, though he had ceased all kitchen work, and had his hands free, merely stood there. And waited.

  It seemed a good idea to let the man recover. The recovery occurred in about five seconds, as Lyttle replied, “Yes, Mr. Gosseyn?”

  Before Gosseyn could acknowledge that, there was another interruption. Enin, who had been staring, said, “You fellows just going to talk?” he asked, “Or—” to Gosseyn—“you need help from me?”

  Gosseyn smiled. “Not yet, Enin. If I do, I’ll let you know. Right now, if you wish, you can go back to your game.”

  “Okay.”

  Moments later, the delighted cries began again.

  And Gosseyn said, “Mr. Lyttle, what would you like to have happen on earth?”

  The reply came immediately, “I’m hoping that you’ll stay, and help restore the whole General Semantics preliminary to Venus here on earth, including—” after a small pause—“complete rehabilitation of the Games Machine.”

  Gosseyn commented, “It’s generally agreed among semanticians that the Games Machine proved to be unexpectedly vulnerable to interference with its activities.”