Masters of Space/Chapter III
“But listen!” he exclaimed. “I can't, even if I want…”
“Of course you can't.” Pure deviltry danced in her eyes. “You're the Director. It wouldn't be proper. But it's Standard Operating Procedure for simple, innocent, unsophisticated little country girls like me to go completely overboard for the boss.”
“But you can't—you mustn't!” he protested in panic.
Temple Bells was getting plenty of revenge for the shocks he had given her. “I can't? Watch me!” She grinned up at him, her eyes still dancing. “Every chance I get, I'm going to hug your arm like I did a minute ago. And you'll take hold of my forearm, like you did! That can be taken, you see, as either: One, a reluctant acceptance of a mildly distasteful but not quite actionable situation, or: Two, a blocking move to keep me from climbing up you like a squirrel!”
“Confound it, Temple, you can't be serious!”
“Can't I?” She laughed gleefully. “Especially with half a dozen of those other cats watching? Just wait and see, boss!”
Sandra and her two guests came aboard. The natives looked around; the man at the various human men, the woman at each of the human women. The woman remained beside Sandra; the man took his place at Hilton's left, looking up—he was a couple of inches shorter than Hilton's six feet one—with an air of … ofexpectancy!
“Why this arrangement, Sandy?” Hilton asked.
“Because we're tops. It's your move, Jarve. What's first?”
“Uranexite. Come along, Sport. I'll call you that until …”
“Laro,” the native said, in a deep resonant bass voice. He hit himself a blow on the head that would have floored any two ordinary men. “Sora,” he announced, striking the alien woman a similar blow.
“Laro and Sora, I would like to have you look at our uranexite, with the idea of refueling our ship. Come with me, please?”
Both nodded and followed him. In the engine room he pointed at the engines, then to the lead-blocked labyrinth leading to the fuel holds. “Laro, do you understand ‘hot’? Radioactive?”
Laro nodded—and started to open the heavy lead door!
“Hey!” Hilton yelped. “That's hot!” He seized Laro's arm to pull him away—and got the shock of his life. Laro weighed at least five hundred pounds! And the guy stilllooked human!
Laro nodded again and gave himself a terrific thump on the chest. Then he glanced at Sora, who stepped away from Sandra. He then went into the hold and came out with two fuel pellets in his hand, one of which he tossed to Sora. That is, the motion looked like a toss, but the pellet traveled like a bullet. Sora caught it unconcernedly and both natives flipped the pellets into their mouths. There was a half minute of rock-crusher crunching; then both natives opened their mouths.
The pellets had been pulverized and swallowed.
Hilton's voice rang out. “Poynter! How can these people be non-radioactive after eating a whole fuel pellet apiece?”
Poynter tested both natives again. “Cold,” he reported. “Stone cold. No background even. Play that on your harmonica!”
Laro nodded, perfectly matter-of-factly, and in Hilton's mind there formed a picture. It was not clear, but it showed plainly enough a long line of aliens approaching the Perseus. Each carried on his or her shoulder a lead container holding two hundred pounds of Navy Regulation fuel pellets. A standard loading-tube was sealed into place and every fuel-hold was filled.
This picture, Laro indicated plainly, could become reality any time.
Sawtelle was notified and came on the run. “No fuel is coming aboard without being tested!” he roared.
“Of course not. But it'll pass, for all the tea in China. You haven't had a ten per cent load of fuel since you were launched. You can fill up or not—the fuel's here—just as you say.”
“If they can make Navy standard, of course we want it.”
The fuel arrived. Every load tested well above standard. Every fuel hold was filled to capacity, with no leakage and no emanation. The natives who had handled the stuff did not go away, but gathered in the engine-room; and more and more humans trickled in to see what was going on.
Sawtelle stiffened. “What's going on over there, Hilton?”
“I don't know; but let's let 'em go for a minute. I want to learn about these people and they've got me stopped cold.”
“You aren't the only one. But if they wreck that Mayfield it'll cost you over twenty thousand dollars.”
“Okay.” The captain and director watched, wide eyed.
Two master mechanics had been getting ready to re-fit a tube—a job requiring both strength and skill. The tube was very heavy and made of superefract. The machine—the Mayfield—upon which the work was to be done, was extremely complex.
Two of the aliens had brushed the mechanics—very gently—aside and were doing their work for them. Ignoring the hoist, one native had picked the tube up and was holding it exactly in place on the Mayfield. The other, hands moving faster than the eye could follow, was locking it—micrometrically precise and immovably secure—into place.
“How about this?” one of the mechanics asked of his immediate superior. “If we throw 'em out, how do we do it?”
By a jerk of the head, the non-com passed the buck to a commissioned officer, who relayed it up the line to Sawtelle, who said, “Hilton, nobody can run a Mayfield without months of training. They'll wreck it and it'll cost you … but I'm getting curious myself. Enough so to take half the damage. Let 'em go ahead.”
“How about this, Mike?” one of the machinists asked of his fellow. “I'm going tolike this, what?”
“Ya-as, my deah Chumley,” the other drawled, affectedly. “My man relieves me ofso much uncouth effort.”
The natives had kept on working. The Mayfield was running. It had always howled and screamed at its work, but now it gave out only a smooth and even hum. The aliens had adjusted it with unhuman precision; they were one with it as no human being could possibly be. And every mind present knew that those aliens were, at long, long last, fulfilling their destiny and were, in that fulfillment, supremely happy. After tens of thousands of cycles of time they were doing a job for their adored, their revered and beloved MASTERS.
That was a stunning shock; but it was eclipsed by another.
“I am sorry, Master Hilton,” Laro's tremendous bass voice boomed out, “that it has taken us so long to learn your Masters' language as it now is. Since you left us you have changed it radically; while we, of course, have not changed it at all.”
“I'm sorry, but you're mistaken,” Hilton said. “We are merely visitors. We have never been here before; nor, as far as we know, were any of our ancestors ever here.”
“You need not test us, Master. We have kept your trust. Everything has been kept, changelessly the same, awaiting your return as you ordered so long ago.”
“Can you read my mind?” Hilton demanded.
“Of course; but Omans can not read in Masters' minds anything except what Masters want Omans to read.”
“Omans?” Harkins asked. “Where did you Omans and your masters come from? Originally?”
“As you know, Master, the Masters came originally from Arth. They populated Ardu, where we Omans were developed. When the Stretts drove us from Ardu, we all came to Ardry, which was your home world until you left it in our care. We keep also this, your half of the Fuel World, in trust for you.”
“Listen, Jarve!” Harkins said, tensely. “Oman-human. Arth-Earth. Ardu-Earth Two. Ardry-Earth Three. You can't laugh them off … but there never was an Atlantis!”
“This is getting no better fast. We need a full staff meeting. You, too, Sawtelle, and your best man. We need all the brains the Perseus can muster.”
“You're right. But first, get those naked women out of here. It's bad enough, having women aboard at all, but this … my men are spacemen, mister.”
Laro spoke up. “If it is the Masters' pleasure to keep on testing us, so be it. We have forgotten nothing. A dwelling awaits each Master, in which each will be served by Omans who will know the Master's desires without being told. Every desire. While we Omans have no biological urges, we are of course highly skilled in relieving tensions and derive as much pleasure from that service as from any other.”
Sawtelle broke the silence that followed. “Well, for the men—” He hesitated. “Especially on the ground … well, talking in mixed company, you know, but I think …”
“Think nothing of the mixed company, Captain Sawtelle,” Sandra said. “We women are scientists, not shrinking violets. We are accustomed to discussing the facts of life just as frankly as any other facts.”
Sawtelle jerked a thumb at Hilton, who followed him out into the corridor. “I havebeen a Navy mule,” he said. “I admit now that I'm out-maneuvered, out-manned, and out-gunned.”
“I'm just as baffled—at present—as you are, sir. But my training has been aimed specifically at the unexpected, while yours has not.”
“That's letting me down easy, Jarve.” Sawtelle smiled—the first time the startled Hilton had known that the hard, tough old spacehound could smile. “What I wanted to say is, lead on. I'll follow you through force-field and space-warps.”
“Thanks, skipper. And by the way, I erased that record yesterday.” The two gripped hands; and there came into being a relationship that was to become a lifelong friendship.
“We will start for Ardry immediately,” Hilton said. “How do we make that jump without charts, Laro?”
“Very easily, Master. Kedo, as Master Captain Sawtelle's Oman, will give the orders. Nito will serve Master Snowden and supply the knowledge he says he has forgotten.”
“Okay. We'll go up to the control room and get started.”
And in the control room, Kedo's voice rasped into the captain's microphone. “Attention, all personnel! Master Captain Sawtelle orders take-off in two minutes. The countdown will begin at five seconds… Five! Four! Three! Two! One! Lift!”
Nito, not Snowden, handled the controls. As perfectly as the human pilot had ever done it, at the top of his finest form, he picked the immense spaceship up and slipped it silkily into subspace.
“Well, I'll be a …” Snowden gasped. “That's a better job than I ever did!”
“Not at all, Master, as you know,” Nito said. “It was you who did this. I merely performed the labor.”
A few minutes later, in the main lounge, Navy and BuSci personnel were mingling as they had never done before. Whatever had caused this relaxation of tension—the friendship of captain and director? The position in which they all were? Or what?—they all began to get acquainted with each other.
“Silence, please, and be seated,” Hilton said. “While this is not exactly a formal meeting, it will be recorded for future reference. First, I will ask Laro a question. Were books or records left on Ardry by the race you call the Masters?”
“You know there are, Master. They are exactly as you left them. Undisturbed for over two hundred seventy-one thousand years.”
“Therefore we will not question the Omans. We do not know what questions to ask. We have seen many things hitherto thought impossible. Hence, we must discard all preconceived opinions which conflict with facts. I will mention a few of the problems we face.”
“The Omans. The Masters. The upgrading of the armament of the Perseus to Oman standards. The concentration of uranexite. What is that concentrate? How is it used? Total conversion—how is it accomplished? The skeletons—what are they and how are they controlled? Their ability to drain power. Who or what is back of them? Why a deadlock that has lasted over a quarter of a million years? How much danger are we and the Perseus actually in? How much danger is Terra in, because of our presence here? There are many other questions.”
“Sandra and I will not take part. Nor will three others; de Vaux, Eisenstein, and Blake. You have more important work to do.”
“What can that be?” asked Rebecca. “Of what possible use can a mathematician, a theoretician and a theoretical astronomer be in such a situation as this?”
“You can think powerfully in abstract terms, unhampered by Terran facts and laws which we now know are neither facts nor laws. I cannot even categorize the problems we face. Perhaps you three will be able to. You will listen, then consult, then tell me how to pick the teams to do the work. A more important job for you is this: Any problem, to be solved, must be stated clearly; and we don't know even what our basic problem is. I want something by the use of which I can break this thing open. Get it for me.”
Rebecca and de Vaux merely smiled and nodded, but Teddy Blake said happily, “I was beginning to feel like a fifth wheel on this project, but that'ssomething I can really stick my teeth into.”
“Huh? How?” Karns demanded. “He didn't give you one single thing to go on; just compounded the confusion.”
Hilton spoke before Teddy could. “That's their dish, Bill. If I had any data I'd work it myself. You first, Captain Sawtelle.”
That conference was a very long one indeed. There were almost as many conclusions and recommendations as there were speakers. And through it all Hilton and Sandra listened. They weighed and tested and analyzed and made copious notes; in shorthand and in the more esoteric characters of symbolic logic. And at its end:
“I'm just about pooped, Sandy. How about you?”
“You and me both, boss. See you in the morning.”
But she didn't. It was four o'clock in the afternoon when they met again.
“We made up one of the teams, Sandy,” he said, with surprising diffidence. “I know we were going to do it together, but I got a hunch on the first team. A kind of a weirdie, but the brains checked me on it.” He placed a card on her desk. “Don't blow your top until after I you've studied it.”
“Why, I won't, of course…” Her voice died away. “Maybe you'd better cancel that ‘of course’…” She studied, and when she spoke again she was exerting self-control. “A chemist, a planetographer, a theoretician, two sociologists, a psychologist and a radiationist. And six of the seven are three pairs of sweeties. What kind of a line-up is that to solve a problem in physics?”
“It isn't in any physics we know. I said think!”
“Oh,” she said, then again “Oh,” and “Oh,” and “Oh.” Four entirely different tones. “I see … maybe. You're matching minds, not specialties; and supplementing?”
“I knew you were smart. Buy it?”
“It's weird, all right, but I'll buy it—for a trial run, anyway. But I'd hate like sin to have to sell any part of it to the Board… But of course we're—I mean you're responsible only to yourself.”
“Keep it 'we', Sandy. You're as important to this project as I am. But before we tackle the second team, what's your thought on Bernadine and Hermione? Separate or together?”
“Separate, I'd say. They're identical physically, and so nearly so mentally that of them would be just as good on a team as both of them. More and better work on different teams.”
“My thought exactly.” And so it went, hour after hour.
The teams were selected and meetings were held.
The Perseus reached Ardry, which was very much like Terra. There were continents, oceans, ice-caps, lakes, rivers, mountains and plains, forests and prairies. The ship landed on the spacefield of Omlu, the City of the Masters, and Sawtelle called Hilton into his cabin. The Omans Laro and Kedo went along, of course.
“Nobody knows how it leaked …” Sawtelle began.
“No secrets around here,” Hilton grinned. “Omans, you know.”
“I suppose so. Anyway, every man aboard is all hyped up about living aground—especially with a harem. But before I grant liberty, suppose there's any VD around here that our prophylactics can't handle?”
“As you know, Masters,” Laro replied for Hilton before the latter could open his mouth, “no disease, venereal or other, is allowed to exist on Ardry. No prophylaxis is either necessary or desirable.”
“That ought to hold you for a while, Skipper.” Hilton smiled at the flabbergasted captain and went back to the lounge.
“Everybody going ashore?” he asked.
“Yes.” Karns said. “Unanimous vote for the first time.”
“Who wouldn't?” Sandra asked. “I'm fed up with living like a sardine. I will scream for joy the minute I get into a real room.”
“Cars” were waiting, in a stopping-and-starting line. Three-wheel jobs. All were empty. No drivers, no steering-wheels, no instruments or push-buttons. When the whole line moved ahead as one vehicle there was no noise, no gas, no blast.
An Oman helped a Master carefully into the rear seat of his car, leaped into the front seat and the car sped quietly away. The whole line of empty cars, acting in perfect synchronization, shot forward one space and stopped.
“This is your car, Master,” Laro said, and made a production out of getting Hilton into the vehicle undamaged.
Hilton's plan had been beautifully simple. All the teams were to meet at the Hall of Records. The linguists and their Omans would study the records and pass them out. Specialty after specialty would be unveiled and teams would work on them. He and Sandy would sit in the office and analyze and synthesize and correlate. It was a very nice plan.
It was a very nice office, too. It contained every item of equipment that either Sandra or Hilton had ever worked with—it was a big office—and a great many that neither of them had ever heard of. It had a full staff of Omans, all eager to work.
Hilton and Sandra sat in that magnificent office for three hours, and no reports came in. Nothing happened at all.
“This gives me the howling howpers!” Hilton growled. “Why haven't I got brains enough to be on one of those teams?”
“I could shed a tear for you, you big dope, but I won't,” Sandra retorted. “What do you want to be, besides the brain and the kingpin and the balance-wheel and the spark-plug of the outfit? Do you want to do everything yourself?”
“Well, I don't want to go completely nuts, and that's all I'm doing at the moment!” The argument might have become acrimonious, but it was interrupted by a call from Karns.
“Can you come out here, Jarve? We've struck a knot.”
“'Smatter? Trouble with the Omans?” Hilton snapped.
“Not exactly. Just non-cooperation—squared. We can't even get started. I'd like to have you two come out here and see if you can do anything. I'm not trying rough stuff, because I know it wouldn't work.”
“Coming up, Bill,” and Hilton and Sandra, followed by Laro and Sora, dashed out to their cars.
The Hall of Records was a long, wide, low, windowless, very massive structure, built of a metal that looked like stainless steel. Kept highly polished, the vast expanse of seamless and jointless metal was mirror-bright. The one great door was open, and just inside it were the scientists and their Omans.
“Brief me, Bill,” Hilton said.
“No lights. They won't turn 'em on and we can't. Can't find either lights or any possible kind of switches.”
“Turn on the lights, Laro,” Hilton said.
“You know that I cannot do that, Master. It is forbidden for any Oman to have anything to do with the illumination of this solemn and revered place.”
“Then show me how to do it.”
“That would be just as bad, Master,” the Oman said proudly. “I will not fail any test you can devise!”
“Okay. All you Omans go back to the ship and bring over fifteen or twenty lights—the tripod jobs. Scat!”
They “scatted” and Hilton went on, “No use asking questions if you don't know what questions to ask. Let's see if we can cook up something. Lane—Kathy—what has Biology got to say?”
Dr. Lane Saunders and Dr. Kathryn Cook—the latter a willowy brown-eyed blonde—conferred briefly. Then Saunders spoke, running both hands through his unruly shock of fiery red hair. “So far, the best we can do is a more-or-less educated guess. They're atomic-powered, total-conversion androids. Their pseudo-flesh is composed mainly of silicon and fluorine. We don't know the formula yet, but it is as much more stable than our teflon as teflon is than corn-meal mush. As to the brains, no data. Bones are super-stainless steel. Teeth, harder than diamond, but won't break. Food, uranexite or its concentrated derivative, interchangeably. Storage reserve, indefinite. Laro and Sora won't have to eat again for at least twenty-five years…”
The group gasped as one, but Saunders went on: “They can eat and drink and breathe and so on, but only because the original Masters wanted them to. Non-functional. Skins and subcutaneous layers are soft, for the same reason. That's about it, up to now.”
“Thanks, Lane. Hark, is it reasonable to believe that any culture whatever could run for a quarter of a million years without changing one word of its language or one iota of its behavior?”
“Reasonable or not, it seems to have happened.”
“Now for Psychology. Alex?”
“It seems starkly incredible, but it seems to be true. If it is, their minds were subjected to a conditioning no Terran has ever imagined—an unyielding fixation.”
“They can't be swayed, then, by reason or logic?” Hilton paused invitingly.
“Or anything else,” Kincaid said, flatly. “If we're right they can't be swayed, period.”
“I was afraid of that. Well, that's all the questions I know how to ask. Any contributions to this symposium?”
After a short silence de Vaux said, “I suppose you realize that the first half of the problem you posed us has now solved itself?”
“Why, no. No, you're 'way ahead of me.”
“There is a basic problem and it can now be clearly stated,” Rebecca said. “Problem: To determine a method of securing full cooperation from the Omans. The first step in the solution of this problem is to find the most appropriate operator. Teddy?”
“I have an operator—of sorts,” Theodora said. “I've been hoping one of us could find a better.”
“What is it?” Hilton demanded.
“The word ‘until’.”
“Teddy, you're a sweetheart!” Hilton exclaimed.
“How can ‘until’ be a mathematical operator?” Sandra asked.
“Easily.” Hilton was already deep in thought. “This hard conditioning was to last only until the Masters returned. Then they'd break it. So all we have to do is figure out how a Master would do it.”
“That's all,” Kincaid said, meaningly.
Hilton pondered. Then, “Listen, all of you. I may have to try a colossal job of bluffing…”
“Just what would you call ‘colossal’ after what you did to the Navy?” Karns asked.
“That was a sure thing. This isn't. You see, to find out whether Laro is really an immovable object, I've got to make like an irresistible force, which I ain't. I don't know what I'm going to do; I'll have to roll it as I go along. So all of you keep on your toes and back any play I make. Here they come.”
The Omans came in and Hilton faced Laro, eyes to eyes. “Laro,” he said, “you refused to obey my direct order. Your reasoning seems to be that, whether the Masters wish it or not, you Omans will block any changes whatever in the status quo throughout all time to come. In other words, you deny the fact that Masters are in fact your Masters.”
“But that is not exactly it, Master. The Masters …”
“That is it. Exactly it. Either you are the Master here or you are not. That is a point to which your two-value logic can be strictly applied. You are wilfully neglecting the word ‘until’. This stasis was to exist only until the Masters returned. Are we Masters? Have we returned? Note well: Upon that one word ‘until’ may depend the length of time your Oman race will continue to exist.”
The Omans flinched; the humans gasped.
“But more of that later,” Hilton went on, unmoved. “Your ancient Masters, being short-lived like us, changed materially with time, did they not? And you changed with them?”
“But we did not change ourselves, Master. The Masters …”
“You did change yourselves. The Masters changed only the prototype brain. They ordered you to change yourselves and you obeyed their orders. We order you to change and you refuse to obey our orders. We have changed greatly from our ancestors. Right?”
“That is right, Master.”
“We are stronger physically, more alert and more vigorous mentally, with a keener, sharper outlook on life?”
“You are, Master.”
“That is because our ancestors decided to do without Omans. We do our own work and enjoy it. Your Masters died of futility and boredom. What I would like to do, Laro, is take you to the creche and put your disobedient brain back into the matrix. However, the decision is not mine alone to make. How about it, fellows and girls? Would you rather have alleged servants who won't do anything you tell them to or no servants at all?”
“As semantician, I protest!” Sandra backed his play. “That is the most viciously loaded question I ever heard—it can't be answered except in the wrong way!”
“Okay, I'll make it semantically sound. I think we'd better scrap this whole Oman race and start over and I want a vote that way!”
“You won't get it!” and everybody began to yell.
Hilton restored order and swung on Laro, his attitude stiff, hostile and reserved. “Since it is clear that no unanimous decision is to be expected at this time I will take no action at this time. Think over, very carefully, what I have said, for as far as I am concerned, this world has no place for Omans who will not obey orders. As soon as I convince my staff of the fact, I shall act as follows: I shall give you an order and if you do not obey it blast your head to a cinder. I shall then give the same order to another Oman and blast him. This process will continue until: First, I find an obedient Oman. Second, I run out of blasters. Third, the planet runs out of Omans. Now take these lights into the first room of records—that one over there.” He pointed, and no Oman, and only four humans, realized that he had made the Omans telegraph their destination so that he could point it out to them!
Inside the room Hilton asked caustically of Laro: “The Masters didn't lift those heavy chests down themselves, did they?”
“Oh, no, Master, we did that.”
“Do it, then. Number One first … yes, that one … open it and start playing the records in order.”
The records were not tapes or flats or reels, but were spools of intricately-braided wire. The players were projectors of full-color, hi-fi sound, tri-di pictures.
Hilton canceled all moves aground and issued orders that no Oman was to be allowed aboard ship, then looked and listened with his staff.
The first chest contained only introductory and elementary stuff; but it was so interesting that the humans stayed overtime to finish it. Then they went back to the ship; and in the main lounge Hilton practically collapsed onto a davenport. He took out a cigarette and stared in surprise at his hand, which was shaking.
“I think I could use a drink,” he remarked.
“What, before supper?” Karns marveled. Then, “Hey, Wally! Rush a flagon of avignognac—Arnaud Freres—for the boss and everything else for the rest of us. Chop-chop but quick!”
A hectic half-hour followed. Then, “Okay, boys and girls, I love you, too, but let's cut out the slurp and sloosh, get some supper and log us some sack time. I'm just about pooped. Sorry I had to queer the private-residence deal, Sandy, you poor little sardine. But you know how it is.”
Sandra grimaced. “Uh-huh. I can take it a while longer if you can.”
After breakfast next morning, the staff met in the lounge. As usual, Hilton and Sandra were the first to arrive.
“Hi, boss,” she greeted him. “How do you feel?”
“Fine. I could whip a wildcat and give her the first two scratches. I was a bit beat up last night, though.”
“I'll say … but what I simply can't get over is the way you underplayed the climax. 'Third, the planet runs out of Omans'. Just like that—no emphasis at all. Wow! It had the impact of a delayed-action atomic bomb. It put goose-bumps all over me. But just s'pose they'd missed it?”
“No fear. They're smart. I had to play it as though the whole Oman race is no more important than a cigarette butt. The great big question, though, is whether I put it across or not.”
At that point a dozen people came in, all talking about the same subject.
“Hi, Jarve,” Karns said. “I still say you ought to take up poker as a life work. Tiny, let's you and him sit down now and play a few hands.”
“Mais non!” de Vaux shook his head violently, shrugged his shoulders and threw both arms wide. “By the sacred name of a small blue cabbage, not me!”
Karns laughed. “How did you have the guts to state so many things as facts? If you'd guessed wrong just once—”
“I didn't.” Hilton grinned. “Think back, Bill. The only thing I said as a fact was that we as a race are better than the Masters were, and that is obvious. Everything else was implication, logic, and bluff.”
“That's right, at that. And they were neurotic and decadent. No question about that.”
“But listen, boss.” This was Stella Wing. “About this mind-reading business. If Laro could read your mind, he'd know you were bluffing and … Oh, that 'Omans can read only what Masters wish Omans to read', eh? But d'you think that applies to us?”
“I'm sure it does, and I was thinking some pretty savage thoughts. And I want to caution all of you: whenever you're near any Oman, start thinking that you're beginning to agree with me that they're useless to us, and let them know it. Now get out on the job, all of you. Scat!”
“Just a minute,” Poynter said. “We're going to have to keep on using the Omans and their cars, aren't we?”
“Of course. Just be superior and distant. They're on probation—we haven't decided yet what to do about them. Since that happens to be true, it'll be easy.”
Hilton and Sandra went to their tiny office. There wasn't room to pace the floor, but Hilton tried to pace it anyway.
“Now don't say again that you want to do something,” Sandra said, brightly. “Look what happened when you said that yesterday.”
“I've got a job, but I don't know enough to do it. The creche—there's probably only one on the planet. So I want you to help me think. The Masters were very sensitive to radiation. Right?”
“Right. That city on Fuel Bin was kept deconned to zero, just in case some Master wanted to visit it.”
“And the Masters had to work in the creche whenever anything really new had to be put into the prototype brain.”
“I'd say so, yes.”
“So they had armor. Probably as much better than our radiation suits as the rest of their stuff is. Now. Did they or did they not have thought screens?”
“Ouch! You think of the damnedest things, chief.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and concentrated. “… I don't know. There are at least fifty vectors, all pointing in different directions.”
“I know it. The key one in my opinion is that the Masters gave 'em both telepathy and speech.”
“I considered that and weighted it. Even so, the probability is only about point sixty-five. Can you take that much of a chance?”
“Yes. I can make one or two mistakes. Next, about finding that creche. Any spot of radiation on the planet would be it, but the search might take …”
“Hold on. They'd have it heavily shielded—there'll be no leakage at all. Laro will have to take you.”
“That's right. Want to come along? Nothing much will happen here today.”
“Uh-uh, not me.” Sandra shivered in distaste. “I never want to see brains and livers and things swimming around in nutrient solution if I can help it.”
“Okay. It's all yours. I'll be back sometime,” and Hilton went out onto the dock, where the dejected Laro was waiting for him.
“Hi, Laro. Get the car and take me to the Hall of Records.” The android brightened up immediately and hurried to obey.
At the Hall, Hilton's first care was to see how the work was going on. Eight of the huge rooms were now open and brightly lighted—operating the lamps had been one of the first items on the first spool of instructions—with a cold, pure-white, sourceless light.
Every team had found its objective and was working on it. Some of them were doing nicely, but the First Team could not even get started. Its primary record would advance a fraction of an inch and stop; while Omans and humans sought out other records and other projectors in an attempt to elucidate some concept that simply could not be translated into any words or symbols known to Terran science. At the moment there were seventeen of those peculiar—projectors? Viewers? Playbacks—in use, and all of them were stopped.
“You know what we've got to do Jarve?” Karns, the team captain, exploded. “Go back to being college freshmen—or maybe grade school or kindergarten, we don't know yet—and learn a whole new system of mathematics before we can even begin to touch this stuff!”
“And you're bellyaching about that?” Hilton marveled. “I wish I could join you. That'd be fun.” Then, as Karns started a snappy rejoinder—
“But I got troubles of my own,” he added hastily. “'Bye, now,” and beat a rejoinder—
Out in the hall again, Hilton took his chance. After all, the odds were about two to one that he would win.
“I want a couple of things, Laro. First, a thought screen.”
He won!
“Very well, Master. They are in a distant room, Department Four Six Nine. Will you wait here on this cushioned bench, Master?”
“No, we don't like to rest too much. I'll go with you.” Then, walking along, he went on thoughtfully. “I've been thinking since last night, Laro. There are tremendous advantages in having Omans …”
“I am very glad you think so, Master. I want to serve you. It is my greatest need.”
“… if they could be kept from smothering us to death. Thus, if our ancestors had kept their Omans, I would have known all about life on this world and about this Hall of Records, instead of having the fragmentary, confusing, and sometimes false information I now have … oh, we're here?”
Laro had stopped and was opening a door. He stood aside. Hilton went in, touched with one finger a crystalline cube set conveniently into a wall, gave a mental command, and the lights went on.
Laro opened a cabinet and took out a disk about the size of a dime, pendant from a neck-chain. While Hilton had not known what to expect, he certainly had not expected anything as simple as that. Nevertheless, he kept his face straight and his thoughts unmoved as Laro hung the tiny thing around his neck and adjusted the chain to a loose fit.
“Thanks, Laro.” Hilton removed it and put it into his pocket. “It won't work from there, will it?”
“No, Master. To function, it must be within eighteen inches of the brain. The second thing, Master?”
“A radiation-proof suit. Then you will please take me to the creche.”
The android almost missed a step, but said nothing.
The radiation-proof suit—how glad Hilton was that he had not called it “armor”!—was as much of a surprise as the thought-screen generator had been. It was a coverall, made of something that looked like thin plastic, weighing less than one pound. It had one sealed box, about the size and weight of a cigarette case. No wires or apparatus could be seen. Air entered through two filters, one at each heel, flowed upward—for no reason at all that Hilton could see—and out through a filter above the top of his head. The suit neither flopped nor clung, but stood out, comfortably out of the way, all by itself.
Hilton, just barely, accepted the suit, too, without showing surprise.
The creche, it turned out, while not in the city of Omlu itself, was not too far out to reach easily by car.
En route, Laro said—stiffly? Tentatively? Hilton could not fit an adverb to the tone—“Master, have you then decided to destroy me? That is of course your right.”
“Not this time, at least.” Laro drew an entirely human breath of relief and Hilton went on: “I don't want to destroy you at all, and won't, unless I have to. But, some way or other, my silicon-fluoride friend, you are either going to learn how to cooperate or you won't last much longer.”
“But, Master, that is exactly …”
“Oh, hell! Do we have to go over that again?” At the blaze of frustrated fury in Hilton's mind Laro flinched away. “If you can't talk sense keep still.”
In half an hour the car stopped in front of a small building which looked something like a subway kiosk—except for the door, which, built of steel-reinforced lead, swung on a piano hinge having a pin a good eight inches in diameter. Laro opened that door. They went in. As the tremendously massive portal clanged shut, lights flashed on.
Hilton glanced at his tell-tales, one inside, one outside, his suit. Both showed zero.
Down twenty steps, another door. Twenty more; another. And a fourth. Hilton's inside meter still read zero. The outside one was beginning to climb.
Into an elevator and straight down for what must have been four or five hundred feet. Another door. Hilton went through this final barrier gingerly, eyes nailed to his gauges. The outside needle was high in the red, almost against the pin, but the inside one still sat reassuringly on zero.
He stared at the android. “How can any possible brain take so much of this stuff without damage?”
“It does not reach the brain, Master. We convert it. Each minute of this is what you would call a ‘good, square meal’.”
“I see … dimly. You can eat energy, or drink it, or soak it up through your skins. However it comes, it's all duck soup for you.”
“Yes, Master.”
Hilton glanced ahead, toward the far end of the immensely long, comparatively narrow, room. It was, purely and simply, an assembly line; and fully automated in operation.
“You are replacing the Omans destroyed in the battle with the skeletons?”
“Yes, Master.”
Hilton covered the first half of the line at a fast walk. He was not particularly interested in the fabrication of super-stainless-steel skeletons, nor in the installation and connection of atomic engines, converters and so on.
He was more interested in the synthetic fluoro-silicon flesh, and paused long enough to get a general idea of its growth and application. He was very much interested in how such human-looking skin could act as both absorber and converter, but he could see nothing helpful.
“An application, I suppose, of the same principle used in this radiation suit.”
“Yes, Master.”
At the end of the line he stopped. A brain, in place and connected to millions of infinitely fine wire nerves, but not yet surrounded by a skull, was being educated. Scanners—multitudes of incomprehensibly complex machines—most of them were doing nothing, apparently; but such beams would have to be invisibly, microscopically fine. But a bare brain, in such a hot environment as this…
He looked down at his gauges. Both read zero.
“Fields of force, Master,” Laro said.
“But, damn it, this suit itself would re-radiate …”
“The suit is self-decontaminating, Master.”
Hilton was appalled. “With such stuff as that, and the plastic shield besides, why all the depth and all that solid lead?”
“The Masters' orders, Master. Machines can, and occasionally do, fail. So might, conceivably, the plastic.”
“And that structure over there contains the original brain, from which all the copies are made.”
“Yes, Master. We call it the ‘Guide’.”
“And you can't touch the Guide. Not even if it means total destruction, none of you can touch it.”
“That is the case, Master.”
“Okay. Back to the car and back to the Perseus.”
At the car Hilton took off the suit and hung the thought-screen generator around his neck; and in the car, for twenty five solid minutes, he sat still and thought.
His bluff had worked, up to a point. A good, far point, but not quite far enough. Laro had stopped that “as you already know” stuff. He was eager to go as far in cooperation as he possibly could … but he couldn't go far enough but there had to be a way…
Hilton considered way after way. Way after unworkable, useless way. Until finally he worked out one that might—just possibly might—work.
“Laro, I know that you derive pleasure and satisfaction from serving me—in doing what I ought to be doing myself. But has it ever occurred to you that that's a hell of a way to treat a first-class, highly capable brain? To waste it on second-hand, copycat, carbon-copy stuff?”
“Why, no, Master, it never did. Besides, anything else would be forbidden … or would it?”
“Stop somewhere. Park this heap. We're too close to the ship; and besides, I want your full, undivided, concentrated attention. No, I don't think originality was expressly forbidden. It would have been, of course, if the Masters had thought of it, but neither they nor you ever even considered the possibility of such a thing. Right?”
“It may be… Yes, Master, you are right.”
“Okay.” Hilton took off his necklace, the better to drive home the intensity and sincerity of his thought. “Now, suppose that you are not my slave and simple automatic relay station. Instead, we are fellow-students, working together upon problems too difficult for either of us to solve alone. Our minds, while independent, are linked or in mesh. Each is helping and instructing the other. Both are working at full power and under free rein at the exploration of brand-new vistas of thought—vistas and expanses which neither of us has ever previously …”
“Stop, Master, stop!” Laro covered both ears with his hands and pulled his mind away from Hilton's. “You are overloading me!”
“That is quite a load to assimilate all at once,” Hilton agreed. “To help you get used to it, stop calling me ‘Master’. That's an order. You may call me Jarve or Jarvis or Hilton or whatever, but no more Master.”
“Very well, sir.”
Hilton laughed and slapped himself on the knee. “Okay, I'll let you get away with that—at least for a while. And to get away from that slavish ‘o’ ending on your name, I'll call you ‘Larry’. You like?”
“I would like that immensely … sir.”
“Keep trying, Larry, you'll make it yet!” Hilton leaned forward and walloped the android a tremendous blow on the knee. “Home, James!”
The car shot forward and Hilton went on: “I don't expect even your brain to get the full value of this in any short space of time. So let it stew in its own juice for a week or two.” The car swept out onto the dock and stopped. “So long, Larry.”
“But … can't I come in with you … sir?”
“No. You aren't a copycat or a semaphore or a relay any longer. You're a free-wheeling, wide-swinging, hard-hitting, independent entity—monarch of all you survey—captain of your soul and so on. I want you to devote the imponderable force of the intellect to that concept until you understand it thoroughly. Until you have developed a top-bracket lot of top-bracket stuff—originality, initiative, force, drive, and thrust. As soon as you really understand it, you'll do something about it yourself, without being told. Go to it, chum.”
In the ship, Hilton went directly to Kincaid's office. “Alex, I want to ask you a thing that's got a snapper on it.” Then, slowly and hesitantly: “It's about Temple Bells. Has she … is she … well, does she remind you in any way of an iceberg?” Then, as the psychologist began to smile; “And no, damn it, I don't mean physically!”
“I know you don't.” Kincaid's smile was rueful, not at all what Hilton had thought it was going to be. “She does. Would it be helpful to know that I first asked, then ordered her to trade places with me?”
“It would, very. I know why she refused. You're a damned good man, Alex.”
“Thanks, Jarve. To answer the question you were going to ask next—no, I will not be at all perturbed or put out if you put her onto a job that some people might think should have been mine. What's the job, and when?”
“That's the devil of it—I don't know.” Hilton brought Kincaid up to date. “So you see, it'll have to develop, and God only knows what line it will take. My thought is that Temple and I should form a Committee of Two to watch it develop.”
“That one I'll buy, and I'll look on with glee.”
“Thanks, fellow.” Hilton went down to his office, stuck his big feet up onto his desk, settled back onto his spine, and buried himself in thought.
Hours later he got up, shrugged, and went to bed without bothering to eat.
Days passed.
And weeks.