"Yessi--"
"Then don't say another word." He pulled out a little black book, made
a notation and looked at Hartley as if no one else were there. "What's
this about?"
"Nothing important, sir. We didn't have the specimen box set
cryogenically a few times and when the temperature went up to human
normal in the compression cycle chamber little water crystals flew out."
"Well, nothing unusual about that."
"But, sir," Cramer protested, "they couldn't have been just water."
"Silence!" Chisholm roared and two of his staff officers at the bend
of a corridor turned to watch the fun. "Consider yourself under
Probationary discipline, Mister Cramer. Informality's natural and
permissible on a front-line craft like a scouter but chain of command
has to be _absolute_ on a dreadnought, you know that."
"I'm very sorry this happened, sir," Hartley apologized.
"When we land he's under your probationary control for the first five
days of Earth leave. It's up to you to teach him how to stay in line."
He rubbed his brush mustache thoughtfully. "To begin with, though, it
might be good to take him along to Analysis Lab just to show him how
wrong he probably is even about the specimens. Any objections to that,
Mister?"
"No sir!" he said, more hopeful now of exposing Hartley.
"A very good idea, sir," Hartley nodded unexpectedly.
They proceeded two hundred yards toward the stern where the Specimen
Analysis Laboratory was located. In one long room there was a row of
totally automatic equipment for both deepfreeze and normal temperature
breakdowns. Sommers, the chief chemist, set the specimen box in a
large, sealed chamber with one transparent side. When the inside
temperature matched that within the box itself fine robot fingers
unlocked it, withdrew samples and shifted them toward various test
compartments. Meanwhile, Chisholm explained about the crystal cloud to
the chemist.
"That must have been an exceptional batch," Sommers said, as he studied
the response dial. "_Very_ little moisture here. Nothing important to
that one way or the other, though. Matter of fact, nothing important to
these specimens in general--usual asteroid run."
Hartley impassively considered the shocked expression on Cramer's face.
"Confined to quarters for the rest of the voyage," snapped the General,
turning his back on the miscreant.
* * * * *
As Hartley led his ward to scout quarters, he kept shaking his head.
"Shouldn't make trouble like that, Cramer. See where it gets you? I
can't get ahead in this man's service so how far do you think _you_ can
go?"
"But you didn't tell him the most important thing. And the material in
the lab didn't give off _any_ whiteness even when its temperature was
raised. I don't think you put in any new chips the third time you went
out--I think you're trying to hide something!"
"Sure, right here." He pulled a pocket inside out. A few tobacco shreds
were clinging to the lining. "Go ahead, tell them more and you'll keep
getting into deeper trouble. Nobody will believe you anyway."
They stopped by the Recreation Room entrance to watch a foursome at
ping pong. It was a good game, requiring special skill since the
artificial gravity of the dreadnought-class craft varied slightly from
that of Earth, "Come along," Hartley said finally, "no human company
for you until touchdown. When we're on _terra firma_ I'll show you how
silly you've been and you can get in on the ground floor for something
really big."
Saying nothing, Cramer stepped into his little windowless cabin and
listened as his door was locked from the outside. He broke open an
emergency ration bar, munching sullenly until the idea came to him that
the asteroid experience had to involve some new kind of drug Hartley
wanted to keep to himself. He would have to convince the authorities
that the matter warranted further investigation, chain of command rules
or no rules.
Meanwhile, there was a week of isolation to be filled. There were
thirty courses on his shelf to choose from, various things he had
planned to learn when the occasion arose. Now there'd be enough time
to absorb two of them. He set up the audio-visuals and started on the
intensive twenty-four hour regimen that permitted even sleeping hours
to be pedagogically fruitful.
A week later, as the _Solar Pioneer_ settled in its magnetic cradle
near Paris, he found himself master of _Old Sanskrit_ (his eighth
language) and _Luna: History of the First Settlements_. He also found
himself once more face to face with the problem of Hartley's devious
scheming. A Probationer's badge was given him to wear before the
Captain took him off the ship. Hartley accompanied him in a RobotCab
toward the tower city twenty miles down the Seine from the ancient
arrondissements.
"That powder was a drug," Cramer said as soon as they were alone in the
cab. "You think you can turn it to private advantage but the idea's
insane--everybody knows the dangers of drugs."
"That's the beauty of it--it isn't a drug." Hartley leaned back and
crossed his legs. "There wasn't any after-effect, was there?"
"Doesn't mean a thing--drugs only do their real damage after repeated
dosages. Joy can't be this free--you have to pay for it at horribly
compounded interest when it comes this easily."
"I'm willing to wager we're going to find this stuff perfect, no side
effects at all and--"
"The cry down through the ages, Captain, all drugs have been evil but
this newest one is the exception. Until it turns out to be the same
narcotic chimera, pure hell."
[Illustration: "... all drugs have been evil but this newest one is the
exception."]
"--and, Mr. Cramer, it isn't a drug."
He threw up his hands. "A chemical working like that one did isn't a
drug!"
"Did you ever hear of a narcotic drug that was alive?"
"Alive? Did you say _alive_?"
"That's what I said," he smirked.
"But then--. You mean it's a germ?"
"Ah, getting smart at last!"
"Then we're infected and you want to corrupt other people the same way."
"Nobody can be infected." Eyes glittering, he watched the first vast
metropolitan tower grow ahead of them. "The germs die after a few
minutes of body warmth--die and _completely_ disintegrate. I saw it
through the eye-socket microscope!"
* * * * *
Cramer felt the first cold horror brush his brow like the substanceless
touch of the wings of the angel of death, but he managed to stifle his
incipient protest. It was more important than ever now that he find out
what was being planned. "That _is_ peculiar. I don't know whether it
could be called a drug or not."
"It isn't one. But a name's not important one way or the other except
sometimes for legal purposes. The important point's that here's
something without any bad side effects because the body utterly
destroys it." He pulled a cylinder from his pocket. It was the smallest
deepfreeze unit generally available. "At least 100 cc in dormant _pure_
form inside this cryogenic package."
"That's what you were doing on the asteroid, gathering your own
private stock!"
"Naturally. I saw that the powder lay in the schists and just scraped
the stuff in and sealed it up." He patted the insulating ceramic. "Now
we're going to see a friend of mine and, if I'm right, we have five
millon dollars in the palm of my hand."
"Why are you telling me this?" Cramer demanded.
"Because it's simpler to have you in on it than on the outside. Not
that you'll be able to do anything even if you remain so naively Boy
Scoutish about it. Who's going to believe your story at this stage of
the game? There's an even better reason why you'll keep quiet, though,
but I won't tell you that until later."
Cramer was still considering how he might snatch the capsule away when
the Captain dropped it back into a self-locking pocket of his suit. The
cab had stopped before the sleekest tower on Boulevard Radial. Hartley
jumped out, waving for Cramer to follow.
The elevator had several other people in it, all of whom eyed the
Probationary badge with distaste. Any attempt to subdue Hartley would
receive no support from these super-respectables.
The two of them got off at the eighty-seventh floor and were ushered
into a vast, luxuriously-decorated chamber. About a dozen men and women
were scattered about the room, boredly watching a color symphony unfold
on one wall. They were all dressed in the sort of highest fashion
glitter which evoked as much disgust as amusement among most space
workers. But Hartley was obviously not typical of his breed; he enjoyed
coming among these people, livening up as soon as he saw them.
A tall, blonde man came slowly toward them, wearily rejoicing. "So glad
to see you, Hartley. Ah, a Probationary in tow--well, any Probationary
is a fellow friend in the kingdom of chaos."
Hartley perfunctorily introduced them, then glanced around. "Drinking
nectar?"
"It kills time, can't do any damage and--I know what you're going to
say," he grinned, "it's a bore!"
"Well, it is, you should be on to something stronger."
"You gone space gaga?"
"Not at all, Neilson."
"Who would bother with what isn't safe? Everyone knows down to the last
nerve tremor the consequences of really good stimulants. We've seen it,
smella- and feela-visioned it through social indoctrination procedures
to the point where no one would dare. All we can do is stick to the
legally permissible alkaloid-heightened caffein derivatives."
"Suppose I told you there is something new, something perfect _and_
safe?"
"I'd say gaga again, sheer lunacy!"
"All right, just listen." He recounted their experiences on the
asteroid and, despite himself, Neilson began to show real interest.
"And you have a capsule?"
"Yes, want to try a fleck? That's all you need, I think."
"Oh no!" Neilson exclaimed. "Not until I've run the tests."
"Well, that's what I'm here for. You're a biochemist, you have all the
equipment."
* * * * *
Cramer looked disdainfully at the man. The type was common
enough--probably knew next to nothing about his specialty. But--and
this was what made it doubly revolting--he didn't have to know in
order to be an expert. Good equipment could do _all_ the work in most
cases.
Neilson waved languidly toward his other guests, mumbling, "See you
shortly," and let the pair through a series of golden rooms to his
Analyzer Laboratory. There he took the capsule from Hartley and placed
it in a cryogenic tester similar to the one aboard the _Solar Pioneer_.
After temperature adjustments were made, tiny filament hands began
lifting out specimen flecks and shifting them to various test sections.
"Odd stuff," murmured Neilson as he surveyed the preliminary sheet
punched out by the reporting machine. "It's a living organism and--and
it's _silicon_-based! That's a real weird one. Its biological action
in the human body wouldn't be like any narcotic, completely new. Can't
read the next stuff--ah, here's the translation--heightened hormone
discharges, not one of which is detrimental. Metabolic cycle of
bacteria somewhere between three and four hours."
"The spin period for the asteroid! This stuff's likely to be available
hundreds of places in the asteroid belt, wherever the spin period's in
that range. Might have an endless supply because in its native habitat
it reappears after the heating phase even though something in the
human body destroys it permanently."
Now summaries were being pumped out more rapidly and Neilson was
scanning them with unwonted speed. "Fleck dose too small for _any_
endocrine upset. None for musculature either. Gastro-intestinal
negative. Bone Marrow negative. Ten minutes after entering the body
this stuff dissolves completely into _lower_ elements! Physiologically
non-habit-forming. Hartley, if this gives all the pleasure you claim
it's the answer to our wildest prayers. I will try a fleck."
As soon as he inhaled the infinitesimal dosage he began grinning at the
pair in speechless wonder. Hartley joined him and offered to set a bit
up for Cramer.
"No," Cramer said, "I don't care what the analyzers say. You can't get
something for nothing."
"This is beyond price," Neilson sighed contentedly. He moved to a wall
mirror. "Not even a little retinal contraction. The dosage is so small
the silicon base couldn't hurt you even if you took one an hour for the
rest of your life. And there can't be any hangover."
"No law on the books against it and I don't think the public would
tolerate a prohibition. This stuff is actually _good_ for you!" Hartley
exulted.
"And we are the only ones on Earth who have it for at least the next
few weeks!" He jotted down some calculations. "Figure a hundred
thousand doses in the capsule and at least fifty dollars a microscopic
flake slice, seventy-five dollars, more probably. Anybody can lay his
hands on cryogenic capsules--they're all over the place. We'd only
need a few dozen runners and I can get them easily enough. Are we in
business, Hartley?"
"Let's give a free sample to your friends first."
"Fair enough, they're going to be among our best customers."
Cramer watched in horrified disgust as the others were summoned and
willingly passed over into the fully-conscious ecstasy. But why the
horror? Why the disgust? he demanded of himself. Why condemn something
that even the Specimen Analyzer showed to be wholly beneficial? He
couldn't find the tangible reason but that didn't matter; there had to
be something wrong somewhere.
"Still not with it?" Hartley asked after a while.
"I'd just as soon not bother quite yet."
"Well, you do know what you're missing," shrugged the Captain. "My
Probationary rights don't give the privilege to insist on this. As I
told you, complaining to authority wouldn't change anything but now
I'll give you the biggest reason why. Even in the highly unlikely case
of their believing your story, they couldn't move against me because
they'd know it wouldn't matter. First I'd see to it that word got out
about germ-joy. There are hundreds of craft on the Mars run that can
detour into the asteroid belt and pick up a supply once they know what
to look for. Look at all the freighters that do a little bootlegging on
the side now--there'd be no way to seal off that supply."
"I can see that," Cramer agreed. "I'm not interested in reforming
anything. I just don't want to be personally involved."
"Perfectly all right," Hartley said thoughtfully. "Each man to his own
tastes." Then he moved away to discuss business arrangements with his
host.
_How do I get out of here?_ Cramer wondered. _And how do I get anybody
to listen, to believe such a wild story from a Probationary? Or would
it be best to string along with them and see what happens?_
* * * * *
Trying all the while to hide his anxiety, he struggled with a dozen
problems that seemed to have no solution, that might not even deserve
a solution if the stuff were as harmless as it had shown itself to be
so far. For the present, he had to appear to be one of them; just
before going in to dinner, he asked for a fleck and there was a patter
of applause from everyone with jovial cries of "For he's a jolly good
fellow!" and "Now you're talking!"
There was no denying the renewed sense of youthful cleanliness it gave
him, as if every nerve of his body had been gently washed down to dawn
of life freshness.
The main course consisted of yeast snow nectar laced with rare
confectionery spices that broke evanescently on the palate and then
subtly vanished to make way for the next clearly distinct sensation.
Behind his own mask of laughter Cramer drowsily watched all the other
chattering faces. After a while there only seemed to be the glitter of
eyeballs and silver and perfectly-spaced teeth sinking into nectar, and
he got up with the assistance of Hartley and Neilson to accompany them
sleepily, oh so yawn-sleepily! away to another room....
He saw himself floating from afar toward the asteroid, its rougher
side glowing in the sun, the flatter one a sable blank. He moved
slowly through a viscous atmosphere, one joint stickily shifting after
the other. An enormous flake of whiteness settled on his face and he
inhaled. To be _this_ happy, _this_ content! And again the movement
around the surface as gradual as the turning of the asteroid itself.
Over and over again, never an end to it, while another flake drifted
inexorably toward his upturned face. And again that final happiness.
He swung imperceptibly, across the surface of his new home as it
streamed in an arcing line along the invisible orbit of the asteroid
belt. And always at the right interval another floating flake.
When the voices came to him they were hardly wanted and totally
unneeded but, although he did not listen, he heard them and even
identified their owners.
"He's hooked now," Hartley was saying.
"I guess so," Neilson answered. "But it's not physiological."
"Who cares about that? _Psychologically_ he's going to want the stuff
from now on--any sensible person would. You know, we're actually doing
him a favor, destroying his inhibitions against something so harmless."
"Which doesn't concern me one way or the other."
"Well, maybe it would have been neater just to get rid of him but
Probationers have to report to HQ at the end of their punishment
periods. If he doesn't go in today there'll be an investigation and,
believe me, Neilson, they'd trace down my every movement and get an
electronic hold on me that I couldn't shake. The whole thing would come
out."
"A lot of good spilling our beans would do the government. Someone else
would just bring in the happy germs."
"Yeah, but this next month's the time when _we_ make our killing. Hey,
I think he's starting to wake up."
"No, prob--"
Neilson's answer mumbled itself away and he found himself floating
across the flat face of the asteroid, waiting for the next huge flake
to descend.
... And then he was really awake. He discovered that he was leaning
against the back of a heavily-padded chair, alone in a guest bedroom.
Approaching footsteps told him the pair was returning and he hastily
shut his eyes. This had to be carefully managed.
"Ought to be waking up about now," said Neilson.
Cramer started stretching, then rubbed his lids and blinked at the
light. "Give me a fleck," he pleaded. "Just a little bit."
The two of them nodded to one another and Hartley leaned forward.
"Takes a little while to get it out of the freezer, Will."
"I want it now," he said petulantly.
Hartley gave his shoulder a comradely squeeze. "One of the gang now,
eh? Come along and you'll get it. You have to report to HQ."
"I have five days Probationary." He got up and followed them a little
unsteadily to the cryogenic freezer in another room.
"Five days are up," Hartley explained. "You've been doing a lot of
sleeping, even were sleepy when you got up to eat."
"Don't understand."
"I'll tell you after you get our sniff."
"Yes, that's what I want now."
* * * * *
One tiny fleck came out on a holder the size of a fingernail paring. It
was frightening how quickly they had developed techniques for handling
the stuff.
"Take it fast!" Neilson shouted. "That germ colony's worth eighty
dollars and it's breaking down fast. You won't get another."
Cramer leaned forward to quickly breath it in. By the time he exhaled
it was already working its magic. He straightened up and smiled with
hangdog gratitude. "Oh, that's good!"
"Had to get you used to it," Hartley said. "Only reason why we kept you
sleepy--you'll thank us some day."
"Some day? I thank you _now_!"
Neilson gave him a friendly handshake but his eyes were coolly
observant. "Okay," he nodded for Hartley's benefit.
Hartley glanced at his watch. "The stuff's all gone by now. They can't
find a thing even if they do give you a checkup."
"But the silicon--"
"Not a trace," Neilson said. "This thing even breaks up on the atomic
level, takes a little longer than the germ death but inside an hour no
silicon."
"But the fission breakdown--"
"Don't ask me," Neilson shrugged, "it doesn't work that way. Must have
something to do with the beautiful energy charge you get from germ-joy."
"Feeling clear-headed?" Hartley asked.
"Sure, I'll be right back for some more after I report."
He went out, grinning inwardly. They were right about one thing--it
wasn't physiologically habit-forming. And he just did not have the kind
of psychological defect for it to be habit-forming any other way.
When he reached Space Pioneer HQ he handed in his card at the
Probationary desk. The Major in charge looked him up and down in stony
silence, then suddenly barked, "Anything to say, Mister?"
"Yes sir. I want to register a complaint with General Chisholm
personally."
"What!" His face turned beet red. "Look, soldier, we're not strictly
GI in this outfit out of love of red tape. This is a dangerous service.
You have to follow the chain of command every time." He entered a black
mark on the card. "Tell your immediate superior."
"He's the one I'm complaining against, sir."
"Then go see the Inspector General!"
"The time lag, sir, it would take too long to reach General Chisholm."
The Major violently punched another mark on the card. "Wipe the grin
off your face, Mister. What's so funny?"
"That's part of my complaint, sir. I've been drugged to joy."
"I really ought to call the General. You'd make a perfect punishment
example."
"Just as long as I get to talk to the General, sir," he said,
confidence in his success gone even if the evil stuff kept him feeling
so good.
"Wait in the outside room." He reached for a phone. "Who's your
immediate superior?"
"Scout Captain Hartley, sir." He went out and sat down on the edge of a
chair. No, it wasn't going to work, he could just see it wasn't.
Then the Major was striding out and shouting, "Follow me, the General
actually wants to break you in person!"
Cramer sighed and followed him up an escalator, then past two
receptionists and two private secretaries. The Major pointed at a small
door. "You go in on your own, soldier."
* * * * *
He turned the knob and stepped nervously into a room which was bare
except for a glass-topped desk behind which General Chisholm was seated
and a few wrought-iron chairs facing the desk. The General stared
at him as if he weren't there but would materialize under prolonged
scrutiny. "Sit down and tell me what this is all about," Chisholm said,
raising one index finger from the desk.
Cramer sucked in his breath and the story came pouring out, faster
and faster all the time as if he were racing against the moment when
Chisholm would bark for silence and bring him crashing down. But the
General said nothing, studying first one cuticle, then the speaker's
face, then back to the next cuticle.
Suddenly he slammed on an intercom and said, "Get Dr. Jonas and tell
him to bring a portable blood test rig."
"Then you _believe_ me, sir?" Cramer was too stunned to remain safely
silent.
"Of course I don't, Mister, but there's too much smoke for no fire."
"The silicon trace may not show up now--"
A smile flashed up Chisholm's face, then disappeared. "Those are the
chances you take when you tell sensational stories."