Not that Maria had been exactly inhibited. Damn! The girl refused to stay out of his thoughts. He recalled what she had told him of her conspiracy against the computers, of its aims and methods. And again he smiled wryly to himself.
They were like spoiled children, he thought. A little group of over-intense young men and women, neurotic, excitable, unstable, meeting in one another’s houses or in expensive cafes, plotting little coups that never quite came off.
From certain unguarded phrases Maria had dropped during the less frenetic periods of their evening together, he gathered that their current aim was actual physical sabotage of Giac, the mightiest of all computers about to be unveiled, before it went into work.
They didn’t even realize, he thought, that sabotage would avail them nothing in the long run—or the short either. Destruction of the computers would not cure Earth. It might easily increase the reliance of Earthfolk upon their cybernetic monsters. What was needed to effect a cure was destruction of human confidence in and reliance upon these machines.
And how in hell, he wondered, was he going to manage that?
* * * *
To a man from level, water-starved Mars the sight of New Orleans still ablaze with lights at five o’clock in the morning was something of a miracle. Mars had its share of atomic power-plants, of course, but such sources had proved almost prohibitively costly as providers of cheap power.
That was true on Earth too, of course, but Earth had its rivers, its waterfalls, its ocean tides to help out. More important, it averaged some fifty million miles closer to the Sun, thus giving it immense storage supplies of solar heat for power. Without these resources the thousand-square-mile expanse of intricately criss-crossed artificial lighting that was the United Worlds capital would have been impossible.
Lindsay wondered how any people possessed of a planet so rich could be afflicted with such poverty of soul. Or was this very opulence the cause? His own planet was comparatively poor—yet nervous breakdowns were few and far between. There the ugly strove for beauty, instead of the reverse.
He parked the copter on the garage-plat, pressed the button, and watched it sink slowly out of sight to its concealed hangar. Like all Martian natives to leave for Earth, he had been warned about the intense heat and humidity that assailed most of the mother planet, especially in the UW capital. Yet the night breeze felt pleasantly cool against his face and its thickness was like the brush of invisible velvet against his skin. Perhaps, he thought, he was more of an Earthling than three generations of Martian heredity made likely.
He did miss the incredible brilliance of the Martian night skies. Here on Earth the stars shone as puny things through the heavy atmosphere.
But, he thought guiltily, he did not have as severe a pang of homesickness as he ought.
In a state of self-bemusement he rode the elevator down to his suite on the ninety-first story. And was utterly unprepared for the assault which all but bore him to the floor as he stepped out into his own foyer.
Since the attack came from behind and his assailant’s first move was to toss a bag over his head, Lindsay had no idea of what the would-be assassin looked like. For a moment he could only struggle blindly to retain his balance, expecting every instant to feel the quick searing heat of a blaster burn through his back.
But no heat came, nor did the chill of a dagger. Instead he felt his attacker’s strong hands encircle his neck in a judo grip.
This was something Lindsay understood. He thrust both his own hands up and backward, getting inside the assassin’s grip and breaking it. His thumbnails dug into nerve centers and he bent an arm sharply. There was a gasp of agony and he felt a large body crumple under the pressure.
* * * *
Lindsay’s first impulse was to summon the constabulary. His second, after examining the face of his would-be slayer, was to drag the man into the shelter of his apartment, revive him and seek to learn what he could about the attempt.
To his astonishment he discovered that he knew the man. His assigned murderer was long, red-headed Pat O’Ryan rated as a top gladiator, a tennis and squash champion whose reputation was almost as widespread among sporting fans on Mars as on Earth. Lindsay had remodeled his own backhand, just the year before, upon that of the man sent to kill him.
He got some whiskey from the serving bar beside the vidar screen, poured a little of it between the unconscious killer’s lips. O’Ryan sputtered and sat up slowly, blinking. He said, “Get me some gin, will you?”
Lindsay returned the whiskey to its place, got the requested liquor, offered some neat to the tennis player in a glass. O’Ryan downed it, shuddered, looked at Lindsay curiously. He said, “What went wrong? You’re supposed to be dead.”
Lindsay shrugged and said, “I know some judo too. You weren’t quite fast enough, Pat.”
O’Ryan moaned again, reached for the bottle. Then he said, “I remember now. Thank God you got my right arm—I’m left-handed.”
“I know,” Lindsay told him laconically.
The would-be assassin looked frightened. He said, “How do you know?”
“I play a little tennis myself,” Lindsay told him. “How come they sent a man like you on such a mission?”
“Top gladiator—top assignment,” said the athlete. “We’re supposed to do something besides play games for our keep.”
“That’s a wrinkle in the social setup I didn’t know about,” said Lindsay. “Mind telling me who sent you?”
“Not at all. It was my sponsors, the New Hibernian A.C.” He frowned. “According to the computers I was in. There’s going to be hell to pay over my muffing it.”
“How do you feel about that?” the Martian asked him.
O’Ryan shrugged. “It’s okay by me,” he said. “They can hardly degrade me for fouling up this kind of a job. I’ll simply tell them their information was incomplete. No one knew you knew judo.” He eyed the gin, added, “A good thing you didn’t feed me whiskey. I’m allergic to all grain products—even in alcohol. Comes from being fed too much McCann’s Irish oatmeal when I was a kid.”
“Interesting,” said Lindsay, wondering how the conversation had taken this turn. “What does whiskey do to you?”
The gladiator shuddered. “It usually hits me about twenty-four hours afterward. Makes my eyes water so I can’t see much. I’ve got a match at the Colosseum tomorrow night. I hope you’ll be there.”
“So do I,” said Lindsay dryly. “You wouldn’t know who gave you this little chore on me, would you?”
“Not likely,” said the gladiator. “When we report at the club every evening we find our assignments stuck in our boxes. Usually we get orders to meet a dame. This was something different.”
“I see what you mean,” Lindsay told him.
O’Ryan got up, said, “Well, I might as well be running along. I’ll give them hell for fouling up the computer-prophecy. Look me up after the match tomorrow. And thanks for not having me pinched. I might have had to spend the night in a cell. That’s bad for conditioning.”
“You’re quite welcome,” said Lindsay, feeling like a character in a semi-nightmare. “Will I be seeing you again—this way?”
“Unlikely,” the gladiator told him. “They’ll have to run a lot of checks on you after this before they try again. See you tomorrow.”
Lindsay looked after his visitor with amazement. Then it occurred to him that computers were substituting not only for human judgment but for human conscience as well. And this, he felt certain, was important.
Turning in on his contour couch, Lindsay recalled that he had given whiskey to the allergic athlete. He decided then and there that he would be in attendance at the match in the Colosseum that evening.
* * * *
He got to his office about eleven o’clock. His desk was stacked high with messages, written and taped, and all sorts of folk wished to
talk with him on the vidarphone. Nina, looking more slovenly than ever, had arranged them neatly, according to their nature and importance in separate little piles.
“Next time you tear up the pea-patch,” she informed him resentfully, “I’m going to get in some help.” She eyed him with somber speculation, added, “I hear the Sec-Gen turned in early last night.”
“You’ve got big ears,” said Lindsay.
“I get around,” she said. “I’m supposed to keep tabs on you, boss.”
“Then you must know someone tried to kill me early this morning when I came back from Natchez.”
Nina’s eyes narrowed alarmingly under the glasses that covered them. She said, “Why didn’t you report it?” She sounded like a commander-in-chief questioning a junior aide for faulty judgment.
“I won,” Lindsay said simply. “There was no danger.”
“Who was it?” she asked. And, when he hesitated, “I’m not going to shout it from the housetops, boss.”
“It was Pat O’Ryan.”
“You handled Pat?” she asked, apparently astonished. Something in her tone told him Nina knew his would-be assassin.
“Why not?” he countered. “It wasn’t much of a brawl.”
“But Pat.…” she began, and hesitated. Then, all business again, “We’d better get at some of this. You have a date to be psyched by Dr. Craven at two o’clock.”
“What for?” he asked, startled.
“Routine,” she told him. “Everyone connected with UW has to go through it. But cheer up, boss, it doesn’t hurt—much.”
“Okay,” he said resignedly. “Let’s get to work.”
While he dictated Lindsay found himself wondering just who was paying Nina’s real salary. If she were a spy for the same group that had sent O’Ryan to kill him, his position was delicate, to put it mildly. But for some reason he doubted it. There were too many groups working at once to make any such simple solution probable.
When she departed briefly to superintend a minor matter out of the office, he found himself staring at the wastebasket by his tilt-chair. A heart-shaped jewel-box of transparent crystoplastic lay within it. Curious, Lindsay plucked it out. It had evidently held some sort of necklace and bore the mark of Zoffany’s, the Capital’s costliest jeweler. Within it was a note that read: For Nina, who lost last night—as ever.… The signature was an indecipherable scrawl.
Lindsay stuck the card in his wallet, returned the box to the wastebasket. Who in hell, he wondered, would be sending this sort of gift to his slatternly thick-bodied secretary. The answer seemed obvious. The sender was her real boss, paying her off in a personal way that would obviate suspicion. Lindsay wondered exactly what Nina had lost.
He was not surprised when she said she would come along to the psychiatrist’s with him after an office lunch of veal pralines, soya buns and coffee. He suggested she might be tired, might want the day off.
She said, “Night soil, boss! Between the Sec-Gen’s daughter and things like Pat O’Ryan I’m going to keep an eye on you.”
As if on signal the vidar-screen lit up and Maria’s face appeared on it. She had not donned harmopan or glasses and looked quite as lovely as she had the night before. She said, “Zalen, I’ve got to see you tonight. Something has come up.”
Lindsay nodded. He figured out his schedule, suggested, “I’m going to the match in the Colosseum. Why not take it in with me?”
She shook her head, told him, “I’m tangled up at a banquet for the Egypto-Ethiopian delegation. I can meet you afterward though. How about the Pelican?”
“That’s not very private,” he protested.
“All the more reason,” she announced. “This is important!”
“And seeing me in private isn’t?” Despite himself a trace of wounded male entered his tone.
Maria laughed softly, her dark eyes dancing. “Perhaps later,” she said softly. “You’ll understand when I talk to you.” She clicked off and the screen was empty.
“Damned cat!” said Nina through a haze of cigarette-smoke. “Watch out for her, boss—she’s a cannibal.”
“And I’m a bit tough and stringy,” he told her.
Nina said, “Night soil!” again under her breath and led the way out of the office. Lindsay wondered if she were jealous.
* * * *
Dr. Craven received them in a comfortable chamber, the north wall of which was all glass brick, the south wall a solid bank of screens and dials. He was a soft-faced man who wore lozenge-shaped light blue spectacles and seemed afflicted with a slight chin rash. He caught Lindsay’s regard, rubbed his chin in mild embarrassment, said, “I’ve a mild allergy to paranoids.”
Lindsay looked at Nina distrustfully but she nodded and said, “Go ahead—he won’t break your arm. I’ll wait outside.”
The psychiatrist closed his office door. After settling him in a comfortable contour couch, Dr. Craven opened up with, “I don’t want you to have any worries about this test, Ambassador. If anybody’s crazy here it’s me. According to very sound current theory all psychiatrists are insane. If we weren’t we wouldn’t be so concerned with sanity in others.”
Lindsay asked, “Why in hell am I being tested anyway?”
Craven replied, “President Giovannini himself came in for a voluntary checkup just last week.” As if that were an answer.
Lindsay suppressed a desire to ask if the North American president had all his marbles. He had an idea any levity he displayed would register against him. Dr. Craven asked him a number of apparently routine questions which Lindsay answered via a recorder. How old he was, whether he liked flowers, how often he had fought with his schoolmates as a boy, what sort of food he preferred.
“Good,” the doctor said, pushing aside the microphone on his desk and motioning Lindsay to do likewise. He rose, wheeled a device like an old-fashioned beautician’s hair-drier close to the couch, adjusted the helmet to Lindsay’s head. “Now,” he added, “I want you to think as clearly as you can of your mother. Keep your eyes on the screen and give me as clear a picture as you can.”
He pressed a button and the whir of a camera, also focussed on the screen, sounded from the wall behind Lindsay. When Dr. Craven nodded, he concentrated and, to his amazement, watched a fuzzy likeness of his maternal parent take form on the screen.
This was something new, he decided, and said so. Dr. Craven replied, “Yes—the psychopic is brand new. But concentrate on the picture, please. You’re losing it.”
It had faded to almost nothing. Lindsay concentrated again, this time brought his maternal parent into clear focus. He felt a little like a man who has never wielded a brush in his life and has suddenly discovered he could paint a perfect portrait.
Dr. Craven said nothing for a moment. Then, “Will you try to visualize your mother without the blemish at her temple?”
Lindsay tried, and all but lost the picture entirely. He brought it back again, blemish and all, felt a sudden tug of nostalgia for the firm kindly features of the woman who had brought him into the world. A minute or so later Dr. Craven pressed another button and the screen went blank. “That will do very nicely,” he said. “You may wait for the psycho-computer verdict outside if you wish.”
He found Nina sprawled in an anteroom chair with her long legs stuck out before her, contemplating a flashing diamond-and-emerald necklace. He said, before she looked up and saw him, “Business good, Miss Beckwith?”
To his amazement Nina began to snivel. And when he asked her what he had done to cause it she snapped angrily, “You big pig, you haven’t the sensitivity to understand. Don’t ever speak of it as business again. Now I’ll have to bathe my eyes when I get home or they will be all swollen and horrible.”
She removed her glasses and they were swollen. Lindsay had seen too much of allergic reactions since reaching Earth not to know he was looking at another.
He was relieved when she put her glasses back on.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“I know it,” she replied, “but you did.”
“Perhaps, if you told me—” he began. Dr. Craven chose that moment to emerge from his office.
“If you’ll come back inside,” he said. “There are just a few more questions I’d like to ask, Ambassador.”
“Ask them here,” said Lindsay. He had no desire to go back under the drier.
Dr. Craven hesitated and rubbed his chin, which was bright red again. He said finally, “Mr. Lindsay, you didn’t kill your mother before you were seventeen, did you?”
“My mother died last year,” said Lindsay, unbelieving.
“Incredible!” muttered the psychiatrist, shaking his head. “According to the computer you must have.…” He paused again, then said, “I hope this won’t embarrass you but you evidently are a man who prefers men to women. The stigmata is definite and shows—”
“Night soil!” Nina exploded her favorite expression before Lindsay could collect his wits for an answer. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dr. Craven, but this man’s a veritable satyr. I caught him looking at my legs yesterday. Ask Maria Bergozza if you want any further proof.”
“But this is impossible!” the psychiatrist exploded. “According to the computer—”
“Your computer’s out of whack,” Nina said calmly, and led a stunned Lindsay out of the place. She added, “You didn’t deserve that, boss. Not after puffing my eyes up.”
“Why not just keep your glasses on then?” he countered. They returned to their office in unfriendly silence. Lindsay sent Nina home early and took a copter across the Lake to his own place, there to nap until time for the match at the Colosseum.
* * * *
He felt more at home in the UW box at the vast arena than at any time since reaching Earth. Since it was a sporting event, the eye-glasses were serried, at least in the lower, higher-priced tiers, by good looking faces, male and female, unadorned.
Someone slid into the comfortable contour chair beside him and said, “Evening, Zalen. Enjoying yourself?”
The 31st Golden Age of Science Fiction Page 6