When the 'copter swished to a feather-like landing on the wide expanse
of the front lawn, Doug was ready. He had dressed himself in one of
the dozen uniforms he had found arrayed in neat order in a full-length
bedroom closet. He fastened the cape at his throat, wished suddenly
that there was some way he could take Dot with him.
Suddenly she was in his arms, and Doug could feel her tremble.
"Don't worry, honey," Doug said. He opened the door. "So far it looks
pretty civilized--hell, they couldn't be any worse than the quaint
little tribe of cut-throats back home! Matter of fact, if I thought for
a minute anyone here'd believe me--"
"Better not, Doug."
"Not a chance. I'm still one of Our Crowd--I don't trust anybody! And
don't you--Stay put right here 'til I'm back, understand?"
He kissed her, then walked across the lawn to the idling helicopter.
It was empty.
He got inside, then saw the red button with the one word RETURN under
it. He punched it.
Effortlessly, the robot-controlled craft lifted, wafted him in seconds
high above the city. Its rise stopped at what he judged was about 1,000
feet, then proceeded on a course of its own.
"Wonderful, these dreamers," he muttered, and became engrossed in study
of the fabulous city below him.
There was no capitol dome, nor could he find the Washington monument.
But there was still the Potomac, and there were the cherry blossoms.
Then the city became little more than a rolling pattern of line and
color to him, and the thoughts began coming quickly, intensely. An
excuse for the difference in his voice--did people here have colds? The
uniform--suppose something were wrong ... and his own mannerisms--how
closely would he resemble, under the close scrutiny of the few there
must be who knew him well, the man whom he'd replaced--the other
Douglas Blair, who must at this instant be facing the same problem in
a world as alien to him as this was to Congressman Douglas Blair? The
woman on the phone had said "Your offices"--his meeting, then, and
they'd ask questions.
He'd been a fool. He'd never carry it off in a million years! They
were smart--even a half-intelligent person of his own world could spot
the eternal phony trying to bluff for what just wasn't there, even
in the guy who'd learned how from the right books. Hell, he'd be as
transparent as manners at a pink tea.
* * * * *
He wondered about the other Douglas Blair, and how the trap felt that
had snapped on him. About the kids--what about his kids? Terry was a
smart boy and he'd know the Contraption had been responsible for what
had happened. Would he try to get hold of Carl or somebody? If a bunch
of technicians or even scientists got to the Contraption, touched
anything.... There would be no knowing about that until they tried to
get back. Either the reference frame would be the same or, if someone
had tampered, it would be completely altered, and Dot and himself would
go from one time thread to the next, _ad infinitum_, with finding their
own again as probable as finding a specific grain of sand in the Sahara.
The other Douglas Blair. And of course, his wife. He knew what they
looked like--she would have Dot's slenderness, her face, eyes, hair....
No one would know. And the man would look like himself. Suppose even
the kids didn't know? Doug wondered if they'd fool the kids.... And
then--then what? No one would know, but that was a joke. They wouldn't
believe it if his alter-ego got to a microphone and broadcast it.
People only believed in gossip, in rumor, in the miracles of wishful
thinking. They never believed in facts. They accepted them, but they
were not convinced. Newspapers would publish accounts of dolls that
wept, but carefully steered clear of the scientific phenomenon if
it were not between governmental quotation marks. It was true of
course--mystery, properly interpreted, could not hurt. A fact defied
interpretation; in the final analysis, it must be taken or left. And
when it was a fact strange to the beliefs of men, it was left for
as long a period as curiosity would permit. And then, of course,
misunderstood.
He wondered how the other Douglas Blair would manage, and what, upon
realizing that his was the superior intelligence and knowledge, he
would do with it....
The 'copter had begun to lose altitude and the flat expanse of a
large roof below was its destination. Its edges were lined with other
'copters, hangars, servicing equipment, men. While he watched a
pilotless ship gently rose into a flight-pattern above the roof toward
which he descended. Another was descending toward it even as he was,
from slightly above and from the east.
And then there were little cold, stabbing fingers of panic inside him,
squeezing, twisting his vitals.
_Relax, mister._
Now it was no longer a pleasantly fantastic detached stage setting,
with red exit lights glowing reassuringly somewhere off in the shadows
of reality. Quite painfully, he felt the chiding slap of reality across
his face.
And it hurt.
_Forget about the Contraption, forget about the smart guys, and their
smart little world--their little dung-heaps of stupidity and moral
cannibalism you've had the colossal luck to escape...._
_Can't do it? That's right--the kids, of course...._
_Sure, but old Mother Nature takes care of that, doesn't she? When your
kids are lying dead on some foreign battlefield you can have more....
That's why life's cheap, old man.... Nature doesn't care--she'll keep
supplying and supplying as long as there are fools enough to flood the
market. And you have your woman, if it's kids you want...._
_It's a clean slate.... Pick up the chalk--_
_But you couldn't name them Mike and Terry, dammit, you couldn't!_
The 'copter's landing-gear touched.
Its blades were still slowing as the two uniformed men appeared
beside it, opened the small door. Doug climbed out, and the two stood
at attention, each right palm open and raised. He understood. The
universal gesture for peace--a salute. An odd gesture to replace the
mock-shielding of the eyes against the glitter of a nobleman's shiny
battle armor!
He returned it, and they fell in at his side to escort him across the
landing roof to an opening entrance, cloaks swirling gently behind
them in the bright morning sunlight.
* * * * *
He entered the chamber still flanked by the orderlies. There were
nine men and a woman about the circumference of the long, elliptical
conference table, and they stood as though brought erect by a common
puppet-string as he came through the wide door.
The vacant chair was at the far end of the table. Silently, he was
escorted to it, seated. The others bowed with but a hint of movement
toward him, then seated themselves. The orderlies withdrew, and the
softly curved walls seemed to grow in upon themselves as the wide
doorway through which he had come soundlessly disappeared.
Here they were, then. Ten people whom he did not know, called to
conference for the discussion of some supposedly vital situation of
which he had not the slightest inkling. And he had apparently called
it, so the talking was up to him.
It would mean discovery before he had said ten words.
As they sat, his eyes swept from one to the next in unhesitating
succession.
The woman, next to him, was clothed as Dot had been. He had seen many
less attractive. Of the men, three obviously outranked the remaining
six, who would have looked, were it not for the too-serious set of
their faces, like college athletes. Their three superiors, he judged,
were nearer his own age. The markings at the collars of their blue
cloaks were identical with his own, with the exception that they were
executed in red rather than in white. Four identical insignia--four
identical commands then.
The term Quadrate was at once self-explanatory. Somewhere, there were
four great armies....
And he, apparently, held power of decision over them all. What colossal
thing surged one way or the other at his order? And--who or what, in
turn, ordered him?
Now they were seated, waiting.
_You should've run, you should've run.... What'd you think it was, just
a dream with the label "Impossible" stuck on it? How long did you think
you could deny the reality of what you knew was real? How deep do you
have to get into a mess before you're convinced you don't come equipped
with a guardian angel, a $64 miracle that'll just take you over and
bail you out when the going gets rough enough? Charms and such went out
with the Dark Ages, mister.... Or didn't anybody ever tell you?_
"... Gentlemen, you of course know why you're here...." _That's the
idea! After all, you learned the old double-talk technique a long time
ago--Congressman._ "Therefore perhaps it will be best to reverse the
usual question and answer procedure; I shall hear your questions and
opinions on the matter first, then present my own. Proceed...."
The girl was writing.
The others seemed to be swallowing it.
"Quadrate Blair," the tallest of the three said abruptly. "Frankly,
we were hoping you might lay the matter open in this way! I don't
intend to speak for Quadrate Tayne and Quadrate Klauss, but I think
they have felt the same as I. Is it to be our understanding that we
are to receive no OP for this year's games? I for one would be the
first to grant that our overall system, developed since the days of the
Sahara as it has been, is well perfected, as nearly without flaw as is
possible to make it. Yet the burden of detail is always with us. It is
the small details, after all, each built on each, that have brought
us to the high level we've achieved. There has always been room for
correction, for experiment, for change. Therefore I, and I think here
I may speak for the others, am puzzled that, with the first phase of
the games but a week hence, we have received nothing--and there were
details of last year's Operational Procedure that I know Quadrate
Klauss as well as myself felt should have been further examined in
the field. The boys themselves keep developing new techniques--one
tells the other, a brother, a friend--and we must make it our business
to keep abreast of them, or we'll find ourselves in the midst of
a confusion that could conceivably assail the very psychological
foundations upon which our civilization is built!"
* * * * *
The one called Klauss rose then. He had a more soldierly carriage than
the first man, but he was not as tall. His tone was more conservative,
yet of a more subtle firmness. And Doug listened. It was the only way
in which he might gain some hint, some shadow of an idea of what these
impossible men were talking about.
"Would you answer one question, sir?" the Quadrate named Klauss said.
"Is the Director's word on this thing final? I ask this since if there
is still the possibility of discussing further any or all of the
procedure amendments proposed in our checklists...."
The words meant nothing. So far so good, but it was just
stalling--he'd succeeded in gaining time, but when they were finished,
they'd expect some sort of decision, and then a follow-through.
Dammit, he was balled up! Somehow maybe he could fake long enough to
get the materials, build the Contraption and get out. A tele-radio
machine he had examined in the house while Dot slept might provide
some of the needed material, but not the vital stuff. He would order
that from a government supply office as soon as he returned to the
house. His rank should be sufficient to get him what he needed without
questions being asked. The Earth he knew with all its clatter of
empty heads, its life-long familiarity--Terry and Mike were there. Or
this world of seeming intelligence, efficiency, forthright honesty of
conviction? Was there a choice?
The girl beside him moved in her chair. Recording secretary, of course.
She would know. Everything--
_How many times have you dreamed of a world like this? Don't be a
fool...._
"--and I therefore submit, sir, that unless final decision has been
made by the Director, we further discuss the expedited drafting of
the new OP for this year, based on the details enumerated in our
checklists."
The third one rose, the one referred to as Tayne.
There was something in the look of the man that brought Doug at once
on guard. Wide face and shoulders, sharp, small features that gave
his face a curious look of flatness, small eyes. The eyes bored in as
though they could see through Doug's body and into his brain, examine
it, and find it an imposter.
"I think the Senior Quadrate will agree," he said, "that each time the
games are conducted, it must be according to a plan which is as closely
fool-proof as is possible to make it. I think he will agree that
personal feelings have no place in the formulation of such plans--or
their lack of formulation."
All eyes were suddenly on Doug, and he knew that here was a
challenge--that here was something the others had wished to say, but
had considered the risk too great.
"Continue," he said.
"I ask, in the interests of the Council, what the Senior Quadrate's
real reason is for having delayed the revised OP for so protracted a
length of time. I am not in position to demand an answer, but I point
out that I ask the question as an alternative to filing a formal charge
of outright profligacy in office!"
* * * * *
The sharp intakes of breath about the table were his cue. Even the girl
hesitated the space of a second in her transcription. Suddenly, the
thing was obvious. And Doug knew he could cope with it--he had, so many
times before!
_This lad_, he thought, _wants to be the next Senior Quadrate!_
"It seems," he said, "the Quadrate has forgotten that the Council table
is not intended as a political arena. He will be seated."
Tayne reddened. But he did not sit.
"The Director be praised but it's time we got to the bottom of this!
Is it not true, Quadrate Blair, that the OP is being delayed so that
whole sections may be entirely revised--in order to conform to your
personal beliefs concerning what you term efficiency of equipment, on
which we hear you expound so often? I suggest sir that you are grossly
overstepping your authority! I doubt seriously that our checklists have
even been consulted! The Senior Quadrate would accuse me of seeking
his position--I'm aware of that--but I ask him point-blank of his own
ambitions toward the Directorate!"
There was but an instant of silence; the Council was stunned. Doug
felt cold little drops of sweat rolling down the undersides of his
arms. What now? Was he supposed to shoot the man on the spot? Fire him,
what? He turned to the girl.
"You will make extra copies of the Quadrate's remarks for the--the
Director's personal file. Forward them to his headquarters as soon
following adjournment of this session as is possible." She nodded. He
was still doing it right. But luck wasn't a consistent thing. "Until
the Director clarifies the status of Quadrate Tayne, pending his review
of this report of his insubordinate charges and my own recommendations
for the severest penalty the law allows for such insubordination, we
will consider the conference adjourned, gentlemen...."
They stood at once, bowed, and flanked by their junior officers filed
silently out.
Doug remained seated. The secretary was gathering her equipment. He
dared ask her--what?
She startled him when she spoke.
"I'll get the transcription coded and prepared for A priority
transmission on the first open Venus channel. But if I may say so,
Sir--not that he certainly hasn't deserved it ever since his brother
got him appointed--it's too bad you could not have found some other
way--I've always marvelled at the methods you've been able to devise to
cope with him in the past. This was--but pardon me. I'm entirely out of
place."
"No, no it's all right. His brother?"
"Why--yes of course, Gundar Tayne. The Director."