Brian n ball, p.10
Brian N Ball, page 10
“And you think this is the same kind of mark?” said Dod, pointing to the halo.
“It could be. I want to know what you yourself think.”
“I believe you’re on to something! A brilliant theory!” Eiserer stood frowning. Another two minutes gone. Obviously he wanted Dod to put forward some comment. What though? Something short-something that would satisfy Eiserer’s doubts and send him away to begin the conference. What?
“And nothing suggests itself to you––” Eiserer repeated.
“I’m sorry,” Dod told him. Then it came to him. There must be a snag-Eiserer had found a fallacy in the theory. “What did comp have to say?”
He knew he was on the right track by the sudden blankng-off of all expression in the Psychiarch’s face. He got up to leave.
“Stand by for further haloes,” Eiserer said slowly.
He looked at the halo for several seconds and then left without saying anything else. The Psychmen looked too, and then at one another. By tacit agreement, they did not resume the tests immediately, but stood about discussing the momentous conference: it could be the
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breakthrough they were hoping for; on the other hand, there still might be a chance for some young man to discover the answer to the halo’s mystery. There was little work done for the next half-hour, and the atmosphere was tense, strained with speculation-which was helpful, thought Dod. Scientific detachment was the last thing he wanted when the diversion came.
He moved to the entrance which led to the corridor he had to reach. Two minutes to go. The morning was almost over, and the Psychmen were ready for lunch; they were looking forward, also, to hearing how Rudge had impressed the conference-there might be a rumor going the rounds over lunch.
Dod saw the hands of the clock edge to three minutes to twelve. The last seconds slid away. Time!
He moved as the machines screamed.
The Psychmen froze and looked at the huge cliff of comps at the back of the lab. A thousand lights flashed, needles swung over, back again, and rebounded in outrage from side to side of dials; fuses blew noisily, and the machines spat out clouds of tape from all their channels, the shiny tape wriggling about like a shoal of demented octopods. Noise blasted through the huge room, whining, shrieking, breaking metal. As one man, the Psychmen moved to the comps.
Dod waited by the entrance as every Psychman in that part of Psych dashed in to the lab, hurrying in response to the emergency signals the comps were sending out: nothing like this had happened in Psych’s two centuries of existence.
Dod grinned as he reached the corridor.
That part of the plan had worked well: and why shouldn’t it? If comp suddenly screamed that it had the answer to the Aliens’ presence, no one could preserve an icy detachment; and when the senior men were out of the way, no ambitious junior Psychman could keep away from the lab. They had to read the tapes.
Over a period of days, Dod had fed in reports that the Aliens were none other than the Free Spacers; he had garbled the information so that only a key-phrase would make sense of it. And the phrase had been timed to slip into the memory-banks of the comps at three minutes to twelve.
It all depended now on the Flagmen’s instincts. 85
Dod had found a door which led into the corridor Rudge had pointed out, which was exactly opposite the Psych’s comps’ entrance; in the confusion that followed the machines’ uproar about the Aliens, he was able to find his way to the door without being especially remarked. Now he had to cross the four yards of corridor without being noticed by the Flagmen. It was two minutes to twelve.
Dod opened the door slowly. He could not look out without being seen. He was waiting for a particular-sound. At last, it came: he had been waiting for only fifteen seconds, but it seemed like hours. He let the sound increase hi volume, and then darted across the corridor without turning his head to look at the two Flagmen. Vaguely, he heard the tapping of sharp heels.
Inside the comp room, he waited for a couple of moments, but no warning shout nor rush of heavy boots came to tell him he had been seen. It had worked.
The Flagmen had obeyed their instincts and watched the girls leaving the offices-two minutes early, as the girls added another short period to their lunch break-as Dod had anticipated. They had missed him during the few seconds that the girls had been hi their view. It didn’t matter whether or not he was seen coming out of the comp room: the Plag guard was changed on the hour, every hour, and the new guards would not suspect him when he came out of the comp room: only if he had been entering the room would he have been questioned. Plag obeyed orders to the letter. And Rudge had pointed out that their orders were to keep him out of the comp room.
Dod walked out six minutes later with a bundle of tapes stuffed down his tunic. Now it would be a matter of waiting until the day’s work was over-of listening to Rudge and Eiserer, of keeping calm and outwardly undisturbed when the secret of his real identity burned his chest. This evening, thought Dod exultantly. He would know that evening.
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TWO
before Dod reached his quarters, he saw Scrimgouer. He almost missed him in the excitement of rushing back to his quarters to read the tapes. The Psychman passed him without interrupting his conversation with two other Psychmen; as they turned to look at the halo, so did he. But no nicker of recognition crossed his face.
There must be danger, Dod thought, his excitement passing in a moment of icy detachment. Scrimgouer could have risked a shadow of a wink. But he hadn’t.
It was not until four in the morning that Dod slid the first tape out of his tunic, and then it was shielded by his body.
“Evaluate the position of Commander Dod,” was his first instruction.
“DOD UNIQUE–-FIRST ALIEN CONTACT-IDENTITY MANUFACTURED IN PSYCH-A B-CLASS IDENT-REPLACEMENT–-
UTMOST CAUTION IN WITHHOLDING SUBJECT’S TRUE
identity––” The rest was Psych jargon, a repeat of
the same information. Dod read on, absorbed now.
“State the nature of Dod’s block.”
“block designed by then psych leader now psy-chiarch eiserer-permanent block with reservation that deep therapy can restore brief periods of awareness of original identity including knowlEDGE of research undertaken.” But it had not been as successful as they thought. What had they wanted to keep on ice in his memory, though?
“State the nature of Dod’s Error.”
“grand treason-charges not .specified-details only to the directors–state if this is director-authorized? query and give authorization ciphers.” And that was all.
It was like a game of blindfold chess, Dod thought sickly. Worse, in fact-more like the chess some bored
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grandmaster of antiquity had dreamed up, with an extra piece that combined the moves of knight and queen-an impregnable piece-and with trapdoors on the board, so that when pieces were moved to them they fell to a lower board and the game continued on two levels; but he was not playing a game, Dod thought. Bitter disappointment flooded through him.
He had lost this particular game. All his cheerful planning to get at the unrestricted comps had been wasted; he should have known, he told himself angrily, that the information he wanted would riot be available to every junior Psychman. He had made the mistake of underestimating Psych. He had gambled on getting some worthwhile piece of information, accepting the risk that Psych would be suspicious of the false program he had set up to distract the juniors. Now Psych would want an accounting; and he had gained nothing.
The only ray of hope in a dismal prospect was Scrim-gouerT reappearance, although the fat Psychman had ignored him.
Action, he thought, tired from the day’s tension, but unable to sleep: action-fierce, quick, sustained, and decisive action was needed. But what? He thought of the ‘texs. What would Captain Frost have done? Again, what would the men who changed the world by one shocking action have done in his place? What knot could he slash? Where should he lob the T-bomb if he could get it?
All he could think of was to work off the feeling of frustration that was burning him up by entering for a Games series, and continue his investigation of his own past by setting Scrimgouer to work. For, he felt hopelessly, he could do no more. Psych would be wary now; there would be no more opportunities like the one he had managed to manufacture.
Dod played the model Companion for the next few days. He saw Scrimgouer twice, but made no sign to him; the fat man would contrive a meeting when he thought it was safe. Eiserer sent for him a week after the pigeon conference. As he expected, an investigating panel had been set up to consider the false program he had set up: they must have spent a week deliberating before sending for him.
He looked about the faces. Rudge was there. Several of the junior Psychmen looked away in embarrassment when
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he eyed them: they must have received a blistering attack from the Psychiarch when they had interrupted the pigeon conference with Dod’s counterfeit and apparently planet-rocking news.
“What made you think of the Free Spacers?” Eiserer said sharply. He was suspicious. Always Eiserer, Dod thought. The man who made the block that was the admiration of the whole of Psych. Looking at him, Dod determined to even the score between them one day.
“I have always drawn my inspiration from our glorious Company’s history,” Dod told him. He thought out his line, but would Eiserer swallow it? The junior men were amused.
“Can you explain any further?” asked Eiserer.
“Maybe I did the wrong thing,” Dod said hesitantly, “but I wanted to help. After Leader Rudge’s brilliant example, I felt I might be able to do something.”
He had them interested. “And?” Eiserer prompted.
“Well, I modeled my program on the best heroic stories of early Company days.”
Eiserer looked incredulous. Annoyed, too. That would be because he had taken the matter too seriously. He had thought that Dod was showing signs of intelligence, when really he was only aping scientific methods; he had lost face with his staff, too.
“I think I understand,” the Psychiarch said, but Dod went on blithely.
“So I set up the program and based it on the story of Captain Frost and the fight for the bases on Mars, and Commander Gow’s expedition against the pirate Free Spacers on Venus and––”
Dod stopped and looked offended. They were laughing at him. He felt the sweat rising in his pores, and thought with relief that it was over. To them, he was a moron, harmless and helpless.
“Thank you, Commander!” Eiserer said smoothly. “I think we’ve heard enough. You showed an excellent appreciation of modern methods.” He could hardly contain the irony in his voice. “I trust you will continue to help?”
“Of course,” said Dod, eager now. “I’ll do all I can!”
Rudge looked more relieved than any of them. He called to Dod as he was leaving and walked with him to the lab.
“Just for my own curiosity-did you get to the comps?”
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It meant a good deal to him, Dod saw. This would be the first time in his life that he had ever committed an Error. When he heard this, Dod saw that he had been luckier than he had hoped. The Psych comps had not been plugged in to the memory banks, and no record had been kept of his queries-Rudge would have checked on them already; perhaps the connection with the banks had been cut because someone was engaged in confidential work, but whatever the reason, it made things much easier.
“No,” he told Rudge, who gasped in relief, “it was a crazy idea to begin with. I suppose that’s what being a Spacepilot does for you-it makes you too independent. I’m glad now I didn’t go through with it.”
Rudge did not even ask what Dod had wanted to test; Dod saw that the Psych leader would not even hint at their agreement again. One experience of almost falling into Error was enough for him.
It had passed over, Dod thought, listening to the bright, eager Psycnmen discussing the latest tests they were trying on him. He was back where he had started. His only hope now was Scrimgouer.
When the fat man passed him in an almost deserted gallery the next day, he almost walked past him, as on the last occasion. The Psychman stopped, however.
“Only those two about,” he said quickly, pointing to the Flagmen, “no pickups here. Just a few seconds.” Aloud, for the benefit of the Flagmen, he said, “Congratulations on your promotion, Commander! I hadn’t an opportunity of seeing you at Moonbase.”
“Thanks. Get details of Grandma,” he added urgently. “I’d like to call on you sometime,” said Scrimgouer. “Punch ‘renaissance’-Lab Four wordbank.”
“Do that,” said Dod off-handedly. He winked to show that he understood where Scrimgouer would leave the information. The fat Psychman’s apparently chance meeting with him would be the result of days, maybe weeks, of planning; he might have had to wreck a line of pickups on that particular corridor, perhaps divert a number of Psychmen who would normally use that passage-and it was simpler to leave information under an unused word in the wordbank than to risk another meeting. Dod smiled as he realized what the word meant-rebirth. A new beginning.
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Two more weeks passed, slowly for Dod. Every third day he punched in the key-word, but without result. And Scrimgouer had not shown up again. Surely there was no chance of Psych catching up with him? Dod dismissed the idea. All the fat man had to do was to check with manual records-he would keep away from the comps, of course-and abstract the information Dod wanted. What had gone wrong?
Two weeks passed into a month. Still the Psychman was absent. Dod felt the inactivity crippling his energy-the latest series of Psych tests had been physically exhausting, and the malaise of mental stagnation had turned him into a morose individual. He had caught himself openly sneering when the series was under way-they were after hypothesized photo-synthetic impressions recorded by the pigments of his facial skin, and trying, ludicrously, it seemed to Dod, to establish a connection with that chimera of superficial enquirers throughout the millennia, the missing third eye, Descartes’ “eye of the soul.”
All that resulted was mild burns for Dod and disappointment for the Psychmen. They had lost some of their early keenness. Rudge looked worried.
When Dod, in a fit of acute boredom, reminded him that he had agreed to Dod’s entering a Games series, he snapped back angrily that it was out of the question.
All Dod had wanted was a couple of combats to divert himself; entering the Games meant a few days away from the eternal round of tests. There was the prospect of action, of pitting one’s wits against a clever antagonist; the Games meant training schools, private instruction by past masters of the Games, ploy sellers, and sharpies, side-bets; and there was no danger.
When Rudge abruptly refused permission, Dod took him up immediately.
“Look, you said yourself that it was good for me-my aggressive impulses. Remember?”
“Out of the question, Dod. You should know better than to ask.”
“It’s my duty,” Dod reminded the Psych leader.
“Your duty is to co-operate with the Company!”
“It’s my duty to the Company as a Spacepilot to participate,” Dod told him. Rudge referred him to Eiserer then. The Psych leader was taking no chances with Dod,
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remembering how he had almost been brought into Error in his dealings with him.
His very opposition made Dod more determined to go ahead with a formal challenge to the Combat Marshal, and he spent a good deal of his spare time in running through old ‘texs of earlier Games.
Take van Gulik’s last series, he thought: the supreme champion of the Nine Planets was a brilliant tactician, but he had his weaknesses. Say when he put the combat craft Into his famous spin, fluttering through the arena like a falling leaf-say you beamed at an intersection which would miss him by wide margin as if you’d panicked, and then convert the craft’s energy to drive, so that it flickered along the path of the bolt you’d just sent, the last place he’d expect you to move to …
But it was kids’ stuff! Dod laughed in self-contempt The Games were as much a fake as the Moon Ruins. No one got hurt-Rudge knew that along with everyone else. The craft’s source of energy, serving for drive, screens, and weapons, was of just sufficient power to blow a similar craft, but the vanadium-zirconium gamesman’s cage was indestructible; the gamesman was never killed, unless he was careless enough to forget to seal himself in, and a recovery vessel simply towed the cage away out of the cloud of dust that had been the ship when a combat was over. Kids’ stuff.
Dod was ready to play kids’ games, he decided. They made a change. Maybe if he worked off his aggressions, he would start thinking clearly again and the fog of malaise would lift.
At one time he almost convinced himself that he could escape. Psych was not exactly careless, but they were so supremely sure of him-contemptuously sure that he was harmless-that they skipped up on points of security. They let him read notes they left lying about; they talked freely in front of him. He was a pet animal.
Dod found that the Plag detachment was changed completely every month; the force left en masse. If he could find the right opportunity he might be able to work the same trick that had got him out of the unrestricted comps room again; but the Plagmen never let up. Never once did he surprise them in a moment of laxness. It was more than a matter of guarding a valuable prisoner: the Plagmen all knew that Dod was responsible for the death of
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two of them; and possibly more. He had the feeling every time he passed them that Plag had marked him down as a victim. One day they would try to claim him.
Escape from the fantastically secure establishment at Serampur was impossible. It was like trying to send out a star-probe against the Aliens’ screens. There was a living wall of Plag around him.
