"The principal difficulty in the case ... lay in the
fact of there being too much evidence. What was vital
was over-laid and hidden by what was irrelevant."
--Sherlock Holmes
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Astounding Science Fiction June 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
They just didn't give a damn. The first load of survivors brought back
after the Battle of Leymon's Star had been short-circuited somewhere,
and they didn't give two hoots whether they lived or died.
The same thing happened to the crew of the GSS _Bedevin_ after the
skirmish in the Great Rift. The _Bedevin_ was found drifting along, out
of control, after having demolished an enemy vessel with a blast of the
new _aJ_ guns.
It was a case of "the operation was a success, but the doctor died." Or
might as well have.
The crewmen of the fighting ships were in a state of semicatatonia.
The alien ships were burned and blasted out of space, with the
exception of those which turned tail and ran. The survivors in the
human ships were picked up and taken to Kandoris VI, the Galactic Main
Base of the Interstellar Fleet.
Fleet Commander Allerdyce hospitalized the men and turned the problem
over to the Civilian Research Corps. General Director Eckisster frowned
over the whole mess, fired out assignments right and left, and dumped
the bulk of the responsibility into the lap of Roysland Dwyn, chief of
the Special Weapons Group.
Dwyn immediately asked for a specimen from the Fleet Hospital
Psychiatric Ward.
Bilford, the chief psychometrist, brought one of the crew members from
the _Bedevin_ into the office of the head of Special Weapons four days
after the survivors had been picked up.
Roysland Dwyn glanced up from the work at his desk when Bilford
entered. Behind the huge plastic block of the desk, he looked no
larger than the average man. It was only when he stood that it became
apparent that Roysland Dwyn was two sizes larger than the average man,
regardless of where you measured.
Bilford walked on into the office. "You wanted to see Captain Gisser,
Roysland?"
Roysland nodded his massive head. "Bring him in; I want to get the
whole picture on this business."
Bilford nodded and turned back toward the door. His eyes looked sad and
pitying, and he ran a lean, nervous hand through his bushy gray hair as
he called out: "All right, Captain Gisser--come in here."
* * * * *
As Captain Gisser strolled in from the outer office, Roysland watched
him carefully.
Gisser was tall and graceful, in the near-perfect physical trim of a
fighting man. He moved with military precision, but without the stiff
rigidity of formal marching. He took one step through the door--and
stopped.
Roysland narrowed his gray eyes and looked at the captain's face.
The expression on it was definitely not the sleepy, glazed look of
the hypnotic catatonic. After a moment, Roysland decided it could be
described as a sort of apathetic introspection.
"How long will he stand like that?" he asked Bilford.
Bilford spread his hands. "Until someone tells him to move or he
collapses from lack of food or sheer fatigue."
"Have him sit down over there." Roysland pointed. "No use making the
poor guy stand up."
"Go over to that chair and sit down," Bilford told the captain. Gisser
did as he was told.
Bilford pulled up another chair and sat down. "Why'd you want to see
him?" he asked. "I mean, do you have anything in mind?"
Roysland shook his head. "Nothing specific; I'm just trying to see
every angle of this. The Enlissa have a new weapon; we've got to do
something to counteract it. So far, we don't know anything about it
except that it bollixes up the brain--and that isn't very useful. It's
like trying to deduce the existence of a pistol from the holes in the
target."
"Worse," Bilford said gloomily; "we don't even have a hole to analyze."
"Yes, we do. A psychic hole." Roysland gestured toward the silent
captain. "Are they all like that?"
"Essentially, yes," Bilford said.
"Can he hear what I'm saying? I mean, can he understand me?"
"That's a hard question to answer. I should say that the understanding
was of a very low level. Here, I'll show you what I mean." He turned
and looked directly at the seated spaceman.
"Captain Gisser, how old are you?" he asked in a firm, clear voice.
There was no answer.
"Gisser, when were you born?"
Still no answer.
"Gisser, _tell us_ when you were born."
"Twelve, Eight, Seven sixty-four," Gisser said promptly.
Bilford looked back at Roysland. "He won't do anything on his own;
there's absolutely no conscious volition. He has to be told what to do.
"Just asking him a question isn't enough; you have to insist on the
answer. That's what I meant by saying that his understanding is on
a very low level. He can't even deduce the presence of an unspoken
command."
Roysland frowned and started to say something, but he was interrupted
by a flicker of light on his desk panel.
He looked at Bilford. "The boss," he said dryly. Then he pressed a stud.
* * * * *
Light flickered in the air and coalesced into the seated figure of a
portly, smiling, middle-aged man. The image wavered a little, then
settled into an illusion of material solidity.
General Director Eckisster smiled and said: "Are we getting anywhere,
gentlemen?"
"We're just getting started," Roysland said.
Eckisster nodded. "I see." His eyes lit on the captain, who was still
sitting in the same position he had taken when he was ordered into the
chair. "Is this one of the _Bedevin_'s men?"