Officially, Canada was co-operating with the United States in chasing the fugitive. Actually, Naysmith was sure it was bluff, a sop to the anti-U.N. elements in the Dominion. Mexico was doing nothing—but that meant the Mexican border was being closely watched.
It couldn’t go on. The situation was so unstable that it would have to end, one way or another, in the next several days. If Hessling’s men dragged in a Brother—well—whether or not Fourre’s organization survived, it would have lost its greatest and most secret asset.
But the main thing, Naysmith reflected grimly, was to keep Fourre’s own head above water. The whole purpose of this uproar was to discredit the man and his painfully built-up service, and to replace him and his key personnel with nationalist stooges. After that, the enemy would find the next stages of their work simple.
And what can I do?
Naysmith felt a dark surge of helplessness. Human society had grown too big, too complex and powerful. It was a machine running blind and wild, and he was a fly caught in the gears and stamped into nothingness. There was one frail governor on the machine, only one, and if it were broken the whole thing would shatter into ruin. What to do? What to do?
He shrugged off the despair and concentrated on the next moment. The first thing was to get Rosenberg’s information to his own side.
The island was a low sandy swell in an immensity of ocean. There was harsh grass on it, and a few trees gnarled by the great winds, and a tiny village. Naysmith dropped Lampi on the farther side of the island to hide till they came back for him. Rosenberg took the Finn’s mask, and the two jetted across to the fuel station. While their boat’s tanks were being filled, they entered a public communibooth.
Peter Christian, in Mexico City—Naysmith dialed the number given him by Prior. That seemed the best bet—and wasn’t the kid undergoing Synthesis training? His logic might be able to integrate this meaningless flux of data.
No doubt every call across either border was being monitored—illegally but thoroughly. However, the booth had a scrambler unit. Naysmith fed it a coin, but didn’t activate it immediately.
“Could I speak to Peter Christian?” he asked the servant whose face appeared in the screen. “Tell him it’s his cousin Joe calling. And give him this message: ‘The ragged scoundrel leers merrily, not peddling babies.’ ”
“Senor?” The brown face looked astonished.
“It’s a private signal. Write it down, please, so you get it correct.” Naysmith dictated slowly. “ ‘The ragged scoundrel—’ ”
“Yes, understand. Wait, please, I will call the young gentleman.” Naysmith stood watching the screen for a moment. He could vaguely make out the room beyond, a solid and handsomely furnished place. Then he stabbed at the scrambler buttons. There were eight of them, which could be punched in any order to yield 40,320 possible combinations. The key letters, known to every Brother, were currently MNTSRPBL, and “the ragged scoundrel” had given Christian the order Naysmith was using. When Hessling’s men got around to playing back their monitor tapes, the code sentence wouldn’t help them unscramble without knowledge of the key. On the other hand, it wouldn’t be proof that their quarry had been making the call; such privacy devices were not uncommon.
Naysmith blanked the booth’s walls and removed his own and Rosenberg’s masks. The little man was in a state of hypnosis, total recall of the Fieri manuscript he had read on Mars. He was already drawing structural formulas of molecules.
The random blur and noise on the screen clicked away as Peter Christian set the scrambler unit at that end. It was his own face grown younger which looked out at Naysmith—a husky blond sixteen-year-old, streaked with sweat and panting a little. He grinned at his Brother.
“Sorry to be so long,” he said. “I was working out in the gym. Have a new mech-volley play to develop which looks promising.” His English was fluent and Naysmith saw no reason to use a Spanish which, in his own case, had grown a little rusty.
“Who’re you the adoptive son of?” asked the man. Privacy customs didn’t mean much in the Brotherhood.
“Holger Christian—Danish career diplomat, currently ambassador to Mexico. They’re good people, he and his wife.”
Yes, thought Naysmith, they would be, if they let their foster child, even with his obvious brilliance, take Synthesis. The multi-ordinal integrating education was so new and untried, and its graduates would have to make their own jobs. But the need was desperate. The sciences had grown too big and complex, like everything else, and there was too much overlap between the specialties. Further progress required the fully trained synthesizing mentality.
And progress itself was no longer something justified only by Victorian prejudice. It was a matter of survival. Some means of creating a stable social and economic order in the face of continuous revolutionary change had to be found. More and more technological development was bitterly essential. Atomic-powered oil synthesis had come barely in time to save a fuel-starved Earth from industrial breakdown—now new atomic energy fuels had to be evolved before the old ores were depleted. The rising incidence of neurosis and insanity among the intelligent and apathy among the insensitive had to be checked before other Years of Madness came. Heredity damaged by hard radiation had to be unscrambled—somehow—before dangerous recessive traits spread through the entire human population. Communications theory, basic to modern science and sociology, had to be perfected. There had to be—Why enumerate? Man had come too far and too fast. Now he was balanced on a knife edge over the red gulfs of hell.
When Peter Christian’s education was complete, he would be one of Earth’s most important men—whether he realized it himself or not. Of course, even his foster parents didn’t know that one of his Synthesis instructors was an Un-man who was quietly teaching him the fine points of a secret service. They most assuredly did not know that their so normal and healthy boy was already initiated into a group whose very existence was an unrecorded secret.
The first Brothers had been raised in the families of Un-man technics and operators who had been in on the project from the start. This practice continued on a small scale, but most of the new children were put out for adoption through recognized agencies around the world—having first been provided with a carefully faked background history. Between sterility and the fear of mutation, there was no difficulty in placing a good-looking man child with a superior family. From babyhood, the Brother was under the influence—a family friend or a pediatrician or instructor or camp counselor or minister, anyone who could get an occasional chance to talk intimately with the boy, would be a spare-time employee of Fourre’s and helped incline the growing personality the right way. It had been established that a Brother could accept the truth and keep his secret from the age of twelve, and that he never refused to turn Unman. From then on, progress was quicker. The Brothers were precocious: Naysmith was only twenty-five, and he had been on his first mission at seventeen; Lampi was an authority in his field at twenty-three. There should be no hesitation in dumping this responsibility on Christian, even if there had been any choice in the matter.
“Listen,” said Naysmith, “you know all hell has broken loose and that the American S-men are out to get us. Specifically, I’m the one they think they’re hunting. But Lampi, a Finnish Brother, and I have put the snatch on one Barney Rosenberg from Mars. He has certain information the enemy wants.” The man knew what the boy must be thinking—in a way, those were his own thoughts—and added swiftly: “No, we haven’t let him in on the secret, though the fact that he was a close friend of Rostomily’s makes it awkward. But it also makes him trust us. He read the report of a Fieri on Mars, concerning suspended animation techniques. He’ll give it to you now. Stand by to record.”
“O.K., ja, si.” Christian grinned and flipped a switch. He was still young enough to find this a glorious cloak-and-dagger adventure. Well, he’d learn, and the learning would be a little death within him.
Rosenberg began to talk, softly and very fast, hold
ing up his structural formulas and chemical equations at the appropriate places. It took a little more than an hour. Christian would have been bored if he hadn’t been so interested in the material; Naysmith fumed and sweated unhappily. Any moment there might come suspicion, discovery—The booth was hot.
“That’s all, I guess,” said Naysmith when the prospector had run down. “What do you make of it?”
“Why, it’s sensational! It’ll jump biology two decades!” Christian’s eyes glowed. “Surgery . . . yes, that’s obvious. Research techniques—Gud Fader i himlen, what a discovery!”
“And why do you think it’s so important to the enemy?” snapped Naysmith, rather impatiently.
“Isn’t it plain? The military uses, man! You can use a light dose to immunize against terrific accelerations. Or you can pack a spaceship with men in frozen sleep, load ’em in almost like boxes, and have no supply worries en route. Means you can take a good-sized army from planet to planet. And of course there’s the research aspect. With what can be learned with the help of suspension techniques, biological warfare can be put on a wholly new plane.”
“I thought as much.” Naysmith nodded wearily. It was the same old story, the worn-out tale of hate and death and oppression. The logical end-product of scientific warfare was that all data became military secrets—a society without communication in its most vital department, without feedback or stability. That was what he fought against. “All right, what can you do about it?”
“I’ll unscramble the record . . . no, better leave it scrambled . . . and get it to the right people. Hm-m-m—give me a small lab and I’ll undertake to develop certain phases of this myself. In any case, we can’t let the enemy have it.”
“We’ve probably already given it to them. Chances are they have monitors on this line. But they can’t get around to our recording and to trying all possible unscrambling combinations in less than a few days, especially if we keep them busy.” Naysmith leaned forward, his haggard eyes probing into the screen. “Pete, as the son of a diplomat you must have a better than average notion of the overall politico-military picture. What can we do?”
Christian sat still for a moment. There was a curious withdrawn expression on the young face. His trained mind was assembling logic networks in a manner unknown to all previous history. Finally he looked back at the man.
“There’s about an eighty per cent probability that Besser is the head of the gang,” he said. “Chief of international finance, you know. That’s an estimate of my own; I don’t have Fourre’s data, but I used a basis of Besser’s past history and known character, his country’s recent history, the necessary communications for a least-effort anti-U.N. setup on a planetary scale, the . . . never mind. You already know with high probability that Roger Wade is his chief for North America. I can’t predict Besser’s actions very closely, since in spite of his prominence he. uses privacy as a cover-up for relevant psychological data, but if we assume that he acts on a survival axiom, and logically apart from his inadequate grounding in modern socio-theory and his personal bias . . . hm-m-m.”
“Besser, eh? I had my own suspicions, besides what I’ve been told. Financial integration has been proceeding rather slowly since he took office. Never mind. We have to strike at his organization. What to do?”
“I need more data. How many American Brothers are underground in the States and can be contacted?”
“How should I know? All that could would try to skip the country. I’m only here because I know enough of the overall situation to act usefully. I hope.”
“Well, I can scare up a few in Mexico and South America, I think. We have our own communications. And I can use my ‘father’s’ sealed diplomatic circuit to get in touch with Fourre. You have this Lampi with you, I suppose?” Christian sat in moody stillness for a while. Then:
“I can only suggest—and it’s a pretty slim guess—that you two let yourselves be captured.”
The man sighed. He had rather expected this.
Naysmith brought the boat whispering down just as the first cold light of sunrise crept skyward. He buzzed the narrow ledge where he had to land, swung back, and lowered the wheels. When they touched, it was a jarring, brutal contact that rattled his teeth together. He cut the motor and there was silence.
If Jeanne was alert, she’d have a gun on him now. He opened the door and called loudly: “The crocodiles grow green in Ireland.” Then he stepped out and looked around him.
The mountains were a high shadowy loom of mystery. Dawn lay like roses on their peaks. The air was fresh and chill, strong with the smell of pines, and there was dew underfoot and alarmed birds clamoring into the glowing sky. Far below him, the river thundered and brawled in an echoing hollowness.
Rosenberg climbed stiffly after him and leaned against the boat. Earth gravity dragged at his muscles, he was cold and hungry and cruelly tired, and these men who were ghosts of his youth would not tell him what the darkness was that lay over the world. Sharply he remembered the thin bitter sunup of Mars, a gaunt desert misting into life and a single crag etched against loneliness. Homesickness was an ache in him.
Only—he had not remembered Earth could be so lovely.
“Martin! Oh, Martin!” The woman came down the trail, running, slipping on the wet needles. Her raven hair was cloudy about the gallantly lifted head, and there was a light in her eyes which Rosenberg had almost forgotten. “Oh, my darling, you’re back!”
Naysmith held her close. One minute more, one little minute before Lampi emerged, was that too much?
He hadn’t been able to leave the Finn anywhere behind. There was no safe hiding place in all America, not when the S-men were after him. There could be no reliable rendezvous later, and Lampi would be needed. He had to come along.
Of course, the Finn could have stayed masked and mute all the while he was at the cabin. But Rosenberg would have to be left here, it was the best hideaway for him. The prospector might be trusted to keep secret the fact that two identical men had brought him here—or he might not. He was shrewd, Jeanne’s conversation would lead him to some suspicion of the truth, and he might easily decide that she had been the victim of a shabby trick and should be given the facts. Then anything could happen.
Oh, with some precautions Naysmith could probably hide his real nature from the girl a while longer. Rosenberg might very well keep his mouth shut on request. But there was no longer any point in concealing the facts from her—she would not be captured by the gang before they had the Un-man himself. And sooner or later she must in all events be told. The man she thought was her husband was probably going to die, and it was as well that she think little of him and have no fears and sorrows on his account. One death was enough for her.
He laid his hands on the slim shoulders and stood back a bit, looking into her eyes. His own crinkled in the way she must know so well, and they were unnaturally bright in the pale dawn-glow. When he spoke, it was almost a whisper.
“Jeanne, honey, I’ve got some bad news for you.”
He felt her stiffen beneath his hands, saw the face tighten and heard the little hiss of indrawn breath. There were dark rings about her eyes, she couldn’t have slept very well while he was gone.
“This is a matter for absolute secrecy,” he went on, tonelessly. “No one—I repeat no one—is to have a word of it. But you have a right to the truth.”
“Go ahead.” There was an edge of harshness in her voice. “I can take it.”
“I’m not Martin Donner,” he said. “Your husband is dead.”
She stood rigid for another heartbeat, and then she pulled wildly free. One hand went to her mouth. The other was half lifted as if to fend him off.
“I had to pretend it, to get you away without any fuss,” he went on, looking at the ground. “The enemy would have . . . tortured you, maybe. Or killed you and Bobby. I don’t know.”
Juho Lampi came up behind Naysmith. There was compassion on his face. Jeanne stepped backward, voiceless.
Then, swinging away, he faced Lampi. “We’ll clean up and get some breakfast here,” he said. “After that, we’re off.”
Jeanne did not follow them inside. Bobby, awakened by their noise, was delighted to have his father back—Lampi had re-assumed a mask—but Naysmith gave him disappointingly little attention. He told Rosenberg that the three of them should stay put here as long as possible before striking out for the village, but that it was hoped to send a boat for them in a few days.
Jeanne’s face was cold and bloodless as Naysmith and Lampi went back to the jet. When it was gone, she started to cry. Rosenberg wanted to leave and let her have it out by herself, but she clung to him blindly and he comforted her as well as he could.
XI.
There was no difficulty about getting captured. Naysmith merely strolled into a public lavatory at Oregon Unit and took off his mask to wash his face; a man standing nearby went hurriedly out, and when Naysmith emerged he was knocked over by the stet-gun of a Unit policeman. It was what came afterward that was tough.
He woke up, stripped and handcuffed, in a cell, very shortly before a team of S-men arrived to lead him away. These took the added precaution of binding his ankles before stuffing him into a jet. He had to grin sourly at that, it was a compliment of sorts. Little was said until the jet came down on a secret headquarters which was also a Wyoming ranch.
There they gave him the works. He submitted meekly to every identification procedure he had ever heard of. Fluoroscopes showed nothing hidden within his body except the communicator, and there was some talk of operating it out; but they decided to wait for orders from higher up before attempting that. They questioned, him and, since he had killed two or three of their fellows, used methods which cost him a couple of teeth and a sleepless night. He told them his name and address, but little else.
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