Back again in the underground offices of C.I.B., Agent Richard Pell
plunged into his job. Up to his neck. It was the only way he could keep
from brooding about Ciel. She was somewhere in the city at this very
moment and if he really wanted to take the trouble he'd be able to find
her easily enough--but he didn't want it to happen that way. She'd never
really be his again unless _she_ came to _him_....
And so once more he found himself in the office late at night. Alone.
Poring over the lab reports that had come in that afternoon, turning
them over in his mind and hoping, he supposed, for a nice intuitive
flash, free of charge.
As a matter of fact the analysis of the vaccine he'd lifted from
Wilcox's dispensary was not without significance. There was definitely
an extraneous substance. The only question was just what this substance
might be. Take a little longer to find that out, the report said.
It made Pell think of the corny sign World Government officials always
had on their desks, the one about doing the difficult right away and
taking a little longer for the impossible. Some day, when he was a
big-shot, he would have a sign on his desk saying: _Why make things
difficult when with even less effort you can make them impossible?_ Of
course, ideas like that were probably the very reason he'd never be a
big-shot....
The Identifier humming. Someone coming again.
He looked up, and then had the curious feeling of being jerked back in
time to several nights ago. Chief Larkin and Theodor Rysland entered.
"Hello, Dick," said Larkin, with a touch of studied democracy. He
glanced at the government adviser as if to say: _See? Knew we'd find him
here._
Pell made a sour face. "Some day I'm going to stop giving all this free
overtime. Some day I'm not going to show up at all."
Rysland smiled, dislodging some of the rock strata of his curiously pale
face. He seemed a little weary this evening. He moved slowly and with
even more than his usual dignity. He said, "I hope, Mr. Pell, that
you'll wait at least until you finish this job for us. I understand
you've made some progress."
Pell shrugged and gestured at the lab report. "Progress, maybe--but I
don't know how far. Just a bunch of new puzzles to be perfectly frank."
Rysland sat down at the other desk and drummed on it with his
fingertips. He looked at Pell gravely. "As a matter of fact, since we
last talked to you the situation has become even more urgent. A
Supremist congressman introduced a bill today before the world delegates
which may prove very dangerous. Perhaps you know the one I refer to."
"I was too busy to follow the news today," said Pell, looking
meaningfully at Larkin.
Larkin didn't seem to notice.
Rysland said, "I'll brief you then. The bill purports to prohibit
material aid of any kind to a non-Terran government. That means both
credit and goods. And since the only real non-Terran government we know
is Venus, it's obviously directed specifically at the Venusians."
Pell thought it over. High level stuff again. He nodded to show he
followed.
"On the surface," continued Rysland, "this would seem to be a sort of
anti-espionage bill. Actually, it's a deliberately provocative act. I
know the Venusians will take it that way. But right now certain quarters
are secretly trying to negotiate a trade treaty with Venus which would
be a major step toward peaceful relations. If this bill became law, such
a treaty would be impossible."
"But World Congress isn't likely to pass such a bill, is it? Won't they
see through it?"
Rysland frowned. "That's what we're not sure of. Messages are pouring in
urging passage--all of them from Supremists, of course. The Supremists
are relatively few, but they make a lot of noise. Sometimes noise like
that is effective. It could swing a lot of delegates who don't see the
real danger of this bill and are at the moment undecided. The Defender
side, with its desire to isolate and fortify, is especially
susceptible."
"That _is_ bad," said Pell thoughtfully.
* * * * *
Rysland put his palm on the desk. "Now then, if we can somehow discredit
the Supremists--get to the bottom of this thing quickly enough--I'm sure
that bill will be killed. I came here tonight, I suppose, out of pure
anxiety. In other words, Mr. Pell, just how far are you?"
Pell smiled and shook his head. "Not very, I'm afraid. This Supremist
thing is the damndest I ever came across. No central headquarters, no
officers, no propaganda mill--entirely word of mouth as far as I can
see. No way of finding out how it started, or even how the new members
are proselyted. Ask any member how he became a Supremist. He just looks
kind of dreamy and mutters something about the truth suddenly dawning
upon him one day."
"But don't you have any theories?"
"I've got a hunch," Pell said, picking up the lab report.
Chief Larkin snorted softly. The snort said clearly enough that an
efficient investigator didn't depend on hunches these days: he went
after something doggedly on the computer, or by other approved
techniques.
Pell pretended not to hear the snort. "First of all we discovered that
nearly all Supremists received some kind of an inoculation before they
became Supremists. Then we found a whole village, one of those moon
resort towns, that had gone over. There was the record of inoculation
there, too. I got hold of some of the vaccine and had the lab analyze
it. It's mostly vaccine all right, but there _is_ a foreign substance in
it. Listen." He read from the report: "_Isolated point oh six four seven
grams unclassified crystal compound, apparently form of nucleotide
enzyme. Further analysis necessary._"
"You think this enzyme, or whatever it is, has something to do with it?"
"I don't know. All I have is a pretty wild theory. To begin, when our
lab can't analyze something right away, it's pretty rare--possibly even
unknown to chemistry in general. Now it's just possible that this
substance does something to the brain that makes a man into a Supremist,
and that somebody's behind the whole thing, deliberately planting the
stuff so that people here and there become injected with it."
"Pell." Larkin made a pained face. "Really."
Pell shrugged. "Well, as I say, it's a hunch, that's all."
"It's a pipe dream," said Larkin. "I never heard of anything so
fantastic."
"That's what folks said a couple of centuries ago when the Venusians
were first trying to make contact and their ships were sighted all over
the place. 'I never heard of anything so fantastic,' they all said."
Theodor Rysland still looked interested. "Granted there is some
connection between the Supremist mental state and this, er, enzyme. What
then, Mr. Pell?"
"Well," said Pell, stretching his legs out, "I had an idea maybe your
friend Dr. Nebel could give us some help on that."
"Nebel?"
"He's interested in this thing, isn't he?"
"Definitely. Nebel's a very public spirited man."
"Well, I understand he's one of the top psychobiologists in the country
today. Seems to me this new enzyme, whatever it is, would be right up
his alley. Of course the lab should get to it eventually, but he might
do it a lot quicker."
Larkin had been examining some statistical crime charts on the wall. He
turned from them. "Pell, does Kronski know about all these wild hunches
of yours?"
"I haven't talked with him about them yet. He left today before the lab
report came in. Why?"
"I was just wondering," said Larkin evenly, "whether I had two maniacs
in my organization or only one."
Rysland, frowning, turned to the chief. "I wouldn't be hasty, Larkin,"
he said. "Crazy as it sounds Pell may have something here."
Larkin snorted again, and this time along with it he shook his head
sadly.
"What's your next move then?" Rysland asked Pell.
"Tomorrow morning, first thing," Pell said, "I'll take a sample of this
stuff to Dr. Nebel and see what he can do with it. Of course the lab can
keep on working on it in the meantime."
"Don't you think you might do better to get busy on those computers?"
Larkin asked.
Pell shook his head. "This hunch is too strong, Chief."
Rysland smiled, and got up. "I'm inclined to put a little stock into
this man's hunches. He's done pretty well with them so far. I'd even say
he's pretty close to a solution of this thing--possibly."
Larkin shrugged and started to look at the crime charts again.
Rysland held out his hand. "Good night, Mr. Pell. You've encouraged me.
Larkin and I are going topside for a little night cap before we turn in.
Like to join us?"
"No, thanks," said Pell. "I'm sleepy. I want to get home and hit that
sack."
"Very well. Good night again." The two men went toward the door.
Pell watched them quietly. He had lied. He wasn't sleepy at all. He just
wanted to get home and sit by that viewer and hope, hope against hope,
that it would ring and that Ciel's lovely image would swirl into
view....
* * * * *
On the way home he was just the least bit tempted to go topside,
however. He thought he might like to walk the broad, quiet boulevards
under the stars. His brain functioned better there. The tunnels were so
clean and bright and sterile, so wonderfully functional and sensible,
that they oppressed him somehow. Maybe, he sometimes thought, he wasn't
fit for this age. Maybe he should have been born a couple of hundred
years ago. But common sense told him that people in _that_ age must have
often thought exactly the same thing to themselves.
He looked at his chrono and decided he had better go home.
The apartment, when he came to it, was cold and empty without Ciel. He
bathed and tried to keep up his spirits by singing in his tuneless way,
but it didn't help.
He went back into the living room, selected a film from the library and
slipped it into a lap projector. He sat down and tried to concentrate on
the film, a historical adventure about the days of the first moon
rockets. He couldn't follow it.
The viewer rang.
He bounded from the chair as though he had triggered a high speed
ejection seat in a burning jet. He went to the viewer and flicked it on.
The plate shimmered, and then Ciel's image came into focus.
"_Baby!_" He was certain his shout overmodulated every amp tube in the
entire World City viewer system. But he felt better, wonderfully better,
already.
She was smiling. "Hello, Dick."
"Hello."
And then they looked at each other in affectionate embarrassment for a
moment.
"One of us," said Pell, "ought to have his script writer along."
"Dick, I don't know exactly how to say what I want to say...."
"Don't. Don't say anything. Just pretend nothing ever happened. Just
come on home fast as you can."
"No, Dick. Not yet. I still want to talk about--well, everything. Dick,
we've got to reach some sort of compromise. There _must_ be a way."
"Come on home. We'll find a way."
"Not home. Too many memories there. Besides," she smiled a little, "I
don't trust us alone together. You know what would happen. We wouldn't
get _any_ talking done. Not any sensible talking anyway. You'd better
meet me someplace."
He sighed. "Okay. Where can I meet you?"
"How about the Stardust Cafe?"
"Again? That place didn't help us much the last time."
"I know, but it's the handiest. I'm sure we can find a quiet place. Out
on the terrace or something."
"Is there a terrace?"
"Yes, I think so. I'm sure there must be."
He looked at his chrono. "All right, baby. Half an hour?"
"Half an hour."
When she clicked off he felt his heart pounding. He felt dizzy. He felt
as though he had just taken a quart of meth at one jolt--intravenously.
He sang, more loudly and more off-key than ever. He went into the
bedroom and started to get dressed again.
It wasn't until he was finishing the knot in his tie that the hunch hit
him.
* * * * *
It was funny about that hunch. He would have said it came out of
nowhere, and yet it must have broken from the bottom of his mind through
some kind of restraining layer into the conscious levels. He didn't
remember thinking anything that might have brought it on--his mind was
strictly on Ciel. Maybe that was how it came through, with the attention
of his conscious mind directed elsewhere.
With the hunch he heard Ciel's voice again, heard it very clearly,
saying: "_I'm sure we can find a quiet place. Out on the terrace or
something._" And with that other things started to fall into place.
As he thought, and as the possibilities of his hunch fanned out to
embrace other possibilities he became suddenly cold and sick inside. He
fought the feeling. "Got to go through with it," he muttered to himself.
"Got to."
As soon as he was dressed he took the tunnel cars to Station D-90,
changing twice. People were aboard at this hour, returning from the
evening. Lots of men and women in uniform: the green of the
landfighters, the white of the seamen, the blue of the flyers, the
silver and black of the space force. Young people. Kids mostly: kids who
had never seen war, smelled death, heard the wounded scream. He hoped
they never would. But if his hunch was correct they might be dangerously
near to it right now.
If only he had time to call Kronski. He'd feel a lot safer....
He shook himself. Have to stop thinking about it. Proceed cautiously
now, and take each thing as it came. That was the only thing to do.
He went topside and stepped from the elevator kiosk into the night air.
Ahead he saw the bright globular sign of the Stardust Cafe. But he
didn't go toward it right away. He turned in the other direction, walked
swiftly, and kept a sharp eye on the shadows. He turned off on a side
street, circled a small park, and then crossed a sloping lawn toward the
back of the night club. He headed for the light of the service entrance.
A half-credit bill got him inside through the back entrance. He found
the door with the temporary sign saying: Marco the Mentalist. He
knocked.
Marco the Mentalist opened the door. He didn't look quite as tall
face-to-face as he did out on the floor, nor quite as impressive. His
face was still dark and faintly saturnine, but the jowls seemed a little
puffier now, there was a faint network of capillaries around his
nostrils and his eyes looked just the least bit weary and tired. In a
pleasant enough voice he said, "Yes?"
Pell showed his C.I.B. identification.
Marco raised his eyebrows a little and said, "Come inside, please."
Inside he found a chair for Pell. He sat across from him at his dressing
table, half-turned toward the room. "I must get ready for my show in a
little while. You understand that, of course."
Pell nodded. "What's on my mind won't take long. First of all, I want to
ask a few questions about hypnotism. They may seem silly to you, or
maybe a little elementary, but I'd like you to answer 'em just the
same."
Marco's eyebrows went a little bit higher and he said, "Proceed."
"Okay. Question number one: can anybody be hypnotized against his will?"
"Some can, some can't." Marco smiled. "The average person, under average
circumstances--no. I appear in my act to hypnotize people against their
wills. Actually, subconsciously, they _wish_ to be hypnotized, which is
why they volunteer to let me try in the first place."
"Okay, number two. Is there any drug that can hypnotize a person?"
Marco frowned. "Pentothal and several things _appear_ to do that. You
could argue it either way, whether the subject is actually hypnotized or
not. I believe post-hypnotic commands have been given to subjects under
sodium pentothol and carried out, even back in the dark ages of
psychiatry several hundred years ago."
"I've got one more really important question," Pell said then. "I'd
understood that somebody under hypnosis won't do anything against his
moral or ethical sense. An honest man, for instance, can't be forced to
steal. Is that true?"
Marco laughed and gestured with his graceful fingers. "I don't think it
is true. It was once believed to be, because hypnotic technique was not
strong enough. That is, the subject's hypnosis was not strong enough to
overcome a strong moral sense, which is actually a surface veneer on a
deeper, more brutal nature. But I think with deep enough hypnosis, and
the right kind of command, you can get a person to do most anything in
post-hypnotic behavior--and of course not know why he _must_ do it, even
knowing it's wrong. Do you follow me?"
"I hope I do." Then Pell leaned forward. "And now I have a very great
favor to ask of you."
"Yes?"
"I want you to put on a little special private performance for me, right
here and now."
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"You will, in about sixty seconds. Just listen carefully...."