THE MICRONAUTS
strong you would rip your arm off if you lifted something heavy. The smaller organism also needs a much higher metabolism rate to make up for the extra heat loss caused by the proportionally large increase in the body’s surface area. So the computer stimulates cell division with one set of hormones and controls the size to which the organs and muscles and bones grow with the GIF hormones.”
Khomich looked at Bruce. ‘‘Is he telling us that they have produced—small people?”
Jany threw up his arms in triumphant excitement. ‘‘You’ve got it! People thirty-five times smaller than life-size! Micro-people—some of our lab technicians have nicknamed them micronauts! That is what Project Arcadia is all about—that is why your soldiers cannot go into the garden. There are six people out there somewhere—micro-people! Before you saw them, you might have crushed them to death under your boots!”
The Commissioner came on vision. He held up a thin sheaf of paper. “I’ve been through the report you sent on the coder-wire, Bob. Any news of Richards yet?”
“No, but his wife has turned up at what they call base station. Khomich is talking to her now.”
“Pretty amazing stuff, eh?”
“Some might call it the most incredible scientific achievement of all time.”
“Who is backing them?”
“Jany says they did it on their own—I think he’s telling the truth as far as he knows.”
“No, there has to be a political angle. When can they get Richards out of there?”
“That’s the problem. They think he’s in a Life Support capsule, but it’s too far into the heart of the garden for the crane-arm to reach. Khomich wants to crash straight in and take a chance on not trampling Richards underfoot.”
“You think that would be a serious risk?”
“It’s pretty overgrown out there—and I can’t see Khomich and his baboons tiptoeing through the tulips like gossamer fairies. There’s another factor—Jany says they stopped allowing the micro-people to be in direct contact with full-size people because of the severe psychological shock. Can you imagine the effect of Khomich towering a hundred feet over you?”
“So what does Jany propose to do?”
“If they get a fix on the capsule’s radio-pulse, their
mechanics might be able to fix up ah extended arm—but normally they would just send out another rescue party from their base station. They have a dozen or so people down there on a more or less permanent basis. They’re the ones who were notified as having died.”
‘‘How long would it take them to rig up a longer arm?”
‘‘Hard to say—they’d have to send for more equipment.”
‘‘So their own rescue party looks like the best bet?”
‘‘I think so.”
Khomich came into the video-link room. He looked apprehensively at Towne’s face on the screen.
‘‘I have been speaking to Mrs. Richards on their video-relay, Commissioner,” he said hesitantly. ‘‘She says she had a row with her husband and left the party with another man...”
‘‘You don’t believe her?”
‘‘I spoke to her on a video-screen, Commissioner. I have no way of confirming that her story is true. She looked normal-size—the whole thing could be a trick.”
‘‘It’s true—we haven’t actually seen any of these micro-people,” Bruce said. ‘‘On the other hand, we have seen Richards’s dormant body in the Cryogenic Room.”
‘‘Do they claim to be able to bring them back to normal size?”
“Jany says so. It’s expensive—the small body is redundant once they’ve drawn off its electroencephalic wave patterns and fed the thought processes back into the full-size brain—but if miniaturization is possible, I guess the reversal would be even easier, simply a case of giving the big body back its thoughts and reactivating it. Obviously, Richards wouldn’t have taken any irreversible step that would prevent him coming back to astound the world.”
“That’s true. All right, it looks like the rescue party.”
Bruce nodded. “I take it you’ll want me to hang around until they bring Richards out?”
“Is he likely to be alive?”
“If he’s made it to one of these capsules, he should
be okay—they’re a miniaturization of a Stellar Probe life-support system. They’ve got food and an oxygenator and a water-recycling unit. Jany says they’re impregnable even if swallowed by a bird. Believe me, Towne, it may be madness, but they’ve taken it all the way!”
‘‘It sounds like it. Trouble is—if they get to Richards first and he knows you’re there waiting to arrest him, we might never see him again.” Towne thought for a moment, then made his decision. ‘‘You say Jany claims this process could be done in thirty-six hours?”
‘‘I suppose if you believe one part of it, you have to take everything as fact.”
‘‘Right. I want you two to join this rescue party—take some of the soldiers if that doesn’t hold up the process. You should get to Richards by— ”
‘‘Just a minute!” Bruce’s expression was part frown, part smile. ‘‘You want us to go down there? As micropeople?”
‘‘We must get to Richards and we can’t do it any other way without risking his life. Do you have any objections, Staff-Commander?”
Khomich shook his square, cropped head, his face impassive. ‘‘If that is your order, sir.”
Bruce turned on him scornfully. ‘‘You’re no genius, Khomich, but I didn’t think you were unhinged.” He stood up. ‘‘You can count me out, Towne.”
He walked out of the video-room.
He was still smiling grimly at the lunacy of what Towne had suggested when he came back to the big, split-level Control room. Jany was looking at the model garden. ‘‘Any contact?”
Jany shook his head. ‘‘If we hear nothing in the next six hours, we will send out a rescue party at first light tomorrow.”
‘‘Wait till you hear this—Towne has just ordered Khomich and myself to join that rescue party!”
‘‘Oh? You would be willing to undergo the cloning- down?”
‘‘Would I hell! But Khomich—well, Towne seems to own him, body and soul. If there is a soul.”
“Is the Commissioner impressed by the project?”
“You know what bureaucrats are like—all science is mumbo-jumbo to them unless they can see the profit angle. I think he’s more worried about how you people managed to filch all that stuff from official stocks.”
“You don’t like Towne—yet you are working for him? Why is that, Professor?”
“I made the mistake of helping a woman and her child. He’s quite prepared to send me up north to a construction camp if I don’t help him—seemingly, he’s reached an advanced stage of paranoia where he doesn’t trust anybody at Geneva.”
“You’re right, of course, the garden has its perils.”
“I’ve worked with insects all my life, Jany, you don’t have to tell me what perils a micro-man would face down there.”
“The insects? Yes, they can be tiresome. There are more serious complications—for one thing, we know that coming back to normal size is physically easy, but we need longterm research to discover any psychological effects. That is why we staffed base station with people willing to stay down there on a more or less permanent basis.”
“True believers? Disciples of George Richards, the new Messiah?”
“You may sneer, but it is true, we are all true believers here—that is why we gave up our careers. We accept all the dangers because we believe this is the only way ahead for the human race.”
“In a nice, safe garden with a wall round it?”
Jany raised his eyebrows. “A lot of botanical and entomological research was done here in the past—the garden is possibly not as cosy as it looks. We sealed it off at the bottom end ourselves—there’s a colony of leafcut- ter ants beyond the wall, they seem to be thriving in France’s new climate—but we’re
not sure how many varieties of unusual creatures are still inside the walls. If you wish, I’ll show you some of the other work we’re doing here—you would be interested in what we call our Tropical House.”
"Where is that?”
"On the other side of the building—you may have seen the greenhouses? From the previous occupiers we even inherited a small colony of driver ants which our entomologists find a most rewarding study—but don’t worry, they are safely behind glass.”
"I’m not worried, I’m going nowhere near your garden, believe me. I’m only surprised George Richards risked it himself— ”
"Yes, there are risks, but George said our pioneer work had to cover as many environmental conditions as possible. When it comes to the Supreme Council, he does not wish them to think Arcadia is exclusively for inhabitants of the Northern Hemisphere. Arcadia is for the whole of humanity— ”
"Save it for your trial, Jany.”
"What trial?”
"You think nine million marks will be written off as an administrative misdemeanor? You were playing for big stakes and now you’ve been rumbled.”
Jany looked appealingly at the ceiling. He sounded hurt. "This has nothing to do with politics or power, Bruce. The human race is starving to death. Those WFC bureaucrats would be out of work and rations tomorrow if they can’t go on fooling the world that things are getting better. The truth is, they’re getting worse. And the food resources we have are being wasted keeping millions of unproductive people alive. Down there is food on an unlimited scale.”
"You saw yourselves cloning-down millions of us, did you?”
"How much are we spending on the Stellar Probe project? Trillions! Why? Ignore all the propaganda about outer space supplying new sources of energy—the real goal is to find a commensurate planet that will support human life when this one finally dries up. If they find it, what happens? The men in power will grab seats on the first rocket for themselves and their families and disappear into the sky before the rest of us know what has happened. Isn’t that even more of an elitist concept? We
can’t hope to clone-replicate millions of people—but we can promise unlimited abundance for those who do cross over. In time they would multiply beyond mathematical reckoning. How do you think the ants live in colonies of millions? Anything they eat we can eat—we can even eat the ants themselves! That’s only one example—we eat lobsters as a delicacy, but they are sea-bed scavengers, dirty feeders—the grasshopper is a clean eater and just as nutritious. What difference is there between eels from the sea and worms from the soil?”
‘‘I know all that stuff, Jany, I’m working on the insect breeding programs. But we could never make a transition like that and survive on any permanent basis.”
‘‘There’s an old copy in the library of Arthur C. Clarke’s book, Profiles of the Future. Do you know one of Clarke’s laws— ‘‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” Look out of those windows, Bruce. Look how green it is. Paradise. That’s where the future of mankind is and that is why George is out there at this moment—not merely testing his own bravery or ingenuity. He wants to master all the dangers of that environment so that when he makes his report to the world he can say, ‘I have been in the future and I have survived.’ Would America have been discovered if Coi- umbus had waited for radar?”
‘‘The same old scientist’s dichotomy—laboratory brilliance and political naivete. I know Richards—he wants a sensational scientific triumph. When he gets it, you people will be left to rot.”
The big doors opened. Khomich stood there for a moment, his face at its most impregnable. Behind him stood his young aide, the boyish Captain Robinson. He looked like a man swallowing hard to keep his stomach down.
Khomich addressed them in the tone of a public pronouncement. ‘‘Doctor Jany, the Commissioner wants me to lead a rescue party into your garden to find Professor Richards. I will take Captain Robinson and one soldier, Corporal Carr—and Professor Bruce, Major Wol-
laston will be in charge here, with orders to allow no outside communications from this establishment unless directly to the Commissioner. Now—where do we go to start the necessary procedures?”
‘‘You can go to hell,” Bruce said firmly, “I’m going home. If Towne puts me on some fake trial for food- bribery, I’ll make such a stink he’ll wish—”
‘‘I would like a word with you, Professor,” said Khomich. Bruce followed him to a quiet corner of the big studio room. Khomich kept his eyes on the others. ‘‘You remember Larson?” he said quietly.
‘‘I won’t forget that young creep in a hurry.”
‘‘The Commissioner has just told me—Larson disobeyed instructions, he tried to communicate with the SRP office to warn Richards.”
‘‘I hope the young rat gets posted to Sakhalin Island.”
‘‘He will be going nowhere—except as fertilizer. He was arrested. In trying to escape from Security HQ at Tripoli, he fell from a fifth floor window.”
‘‘Escape—from a fifth floor window? Thrown you mean!”
Komich shrugged indifferently. ‘‘The choice is yours, Professor. The Commissioner wants you in the rescue party because you are an expert in bugs and such matters and also because Richards is more likely to react favorably if you are there to question him. You cannot be forced to go through this so-called cloning process—but I would not count on your chances of even reaching a trial if you refuse.”
‘‘He had Larson chucked out of a window for my benefit! The cold-blooded old bastard— ”
‘‘You are coming with us?”
Bruce let his chin collapse on his chest.
‘‘We are ready,” Khomich said to Jany. The little Frenchman rubbed his hands together. “Wonderful—we wish to let the whole world see the potential of Arcadia. Let us go to the clinic. We’ll speed up the process. By taking cells from different parts of the body, we’ll accelerate the divisions in ectoderm, that’s the outer layer of
THE MICRONAUTS
skin, hair, eyes, all nervous tissue—the mesoderm, your muscles, bones, bloodvessels—andendoderm, stomach, intestines, liver, and so forth. We’ll intensify the hormonal ratios...”
When he awoke, he was looking into a woman’s brown eyes. He had been in a long dream. Its events were already fading. He could remember nothing from before the dream. The woman seemed tired and worried, yet she was smiling.
‘‘You mustn’t move until I tell you,” she said. She had fair hair. He had the impression she knew more about him than he did.
‘‘Who are you?” he heard a voice saying. It was his own voice, yet he could not remember hearing it before.
“I’m Anne Richards—George Richards’s wife—keep perfectly still.” She leaned over him, hands touching his head. She smelled of something he liked, but could not name. She was wearing a white lab smock.
‘‘There you are,” she said, showing him a clutch of clamps and wires. ‘‘You can get up now. There’s a can of ointment on the bench, it’s a DMP-based insect-repellent. Spray yourself all over, even the soles of your feet. I’ll go and see how your friends are .making out.”
Not until he swung his legs off the narrow couch did he realize he was stark naked. He grabbed at the combination underwear folded on the bench. ‘‘Don’t forget to spray yourself—and don’t blush, Professor, I’m a doctor.” She left him.
He sprayed himself methodically, starting with the soles of his feet and even squirting the fine mist onto his hair. Why, he could not clearly remember, only that it was an instruction. He then pulled on the silk-lined combina-
THE MICRONAUTS
tion undersuit. Immediately, his skin felt clammy. He was in a cubicle bare of furnishings except for the couch and bench and a mobile console-unit on which were coiled the wires she had removed from his head. He blinked, his head and eyes fuzzy. Why were there wires on my head? he wondered. One wall of the cubicle was made of glass. He walked across to it in his bare feet.
> Only a few inches away was an alarm clock towering above him. He could not focus on anything beyond the clock. “I’ve been drugged,’’ he said angrily.
Feeling shaky, he sat down on the couch, blinking continuously. A young man with short red hair and white teeth smiled at him from the doorway.
“Hi, I’m Stanley Magruder,” he said enthusiastically, coming into the cubicle with his hand out. “It’s a very great honor to meet you, Professor Bruce.”
Bruce was taken aback by the energetic and instant friendliness of the young man. “Is it?”
“Naturally, I’m familiar with all your published work, Professor. I’m really looking forward to being with you in the garden. I know you’ll teach me a lot, sir.”
“Oh? What do you see through the glass over there?”
Magruder went across to the glass wall. His walk was springy and muscular and his laugh about the same. “Doctor Jany always does something like that. When I crossed over, he ieft a canary in a cage. It was as big as an eagle.”
“It’s drugs, is it?”
“Look in the mirror, sir.”
His eyes opened in astonishment. He felt tentatively at his chin and cheeks. A hand moved simultaneously in the mirror. It was his own face—yet he had short black hair and no beard. His own face from thirty years ago!
“You’ll feel dreamy and absent-minded for a little while, sir,” Magruder said sympathetically. “Your brain normally has around fourteen billion cells, but now you’re having to cope on about a billion. The reallocation and regrouping of functions doesn’t take long, however. George always tells people that the old scientist Louis
i
“When I crossed over, he left a canary in a cage. It was as big as an eagle.’’
Pasteur did some of his best work after half of his brain was damaged by a cerebral hemorrhage.”
He touched his hair. ‘‘What were those wires?”
‘‘The electroencephalogram input circuits for feeding the impulse patterns of your full-size brain into your new brain—mentally, you’re now the same person you were before— ”
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