VI

Somewhere along the way, this and other matters became too profound for

me. I absorbed what I could; but my field is action and feeling, not

deep penetration, like Dr. Lanvin's. He pursued androidal conversion

down to its last secret. Drawings and formulae, changed to Earthly

terms, went down on parchment, and into his head. He toyed with the

wondrous slimes of another kind of life, and at last understood them.

Jan and I were lesser beings. Buffaloed and a little dazed, we would

wander off from the labs. Often we swam and laughed. Part of our

personalities was adjusting to the fantastic region of The Small. But

we worried, too. About our original bodies, and about a reticence

before questioning, on the part of even Kobolah. Then Jan expressed

another thing:

"Have I learned to read suspicion in the manner of the local folks,

Charlie? Their minds are beyond us. But to them, recently, we have been

strange giants beyond easy imagining. Now, do they especially resent

having their greatest secret given to us? Do they object to the advice

of their version of George, that we should have it? I feel a danger,

Charlie. They could destroy us, or keep us here. Already they won't

let us go up to the surface of the asteroid, though gosh knows what we

could do there."

Jan and I were crouching in a little glade, in a lush cavern where the

sun shone. No one else was near. I said softly:

"From the surface, I think we might get back to Ganymede and the

_Intruder_, and maybe to ourselves, if it's not too late."

Jan looked at me with a wondering frown. "Yes, she mused. A few inches

is a mile to us. Some ways, our movements are terribly limited. But in

other respects, we're more free. With only a jet rod, we might travel

those thousands of miles."

"It's an idea to keep in reserve," I said. "But there's another

trouble. We've been here for about two months--counting one for the

changing of our forms. Would our own bodies, even if they are still

alive, or our ship and Bowhart and Scharber, still be where they were,

after so long?"

A trapped, icy feeling came over me.

Jan was a real pal. You didn't have to hide your fears from her. She

was a courageous realist. Her little rounded face only looked sort of

stern.

"What to do, Charlie?" she answered. "Wait and see, I guess. Funny how

important old familiar circumstances are. But we'll get along--even

always being what we are, now. Darn Doc, though, never thinking about

anything but his studying. Double-darn our Xian sponsor, Kobolah! Hint

about our personal futures, lately, and he gets as elusive as all the

history of his kind!"

I chuckled bitterly, and then quoted some of the things Kobolah had

buzzed at us: "'Leaving soon? How soon is soon? To a long life, a

century is nothing. Are you not happy?...' Yeah, that's Kobolah! A

demoniac cross between something we'll never quite understand, and a

kid denying with naive aplomb that he stole the cookies."

Yes, an elusive inertia of suspicion was all around us now, like a

barrier.

Jan and I got through to Doc Lanvin at last, penetrating his studious

fog. An overtone of grimness came into his mild expression.

"I've noticed the change in Xian attitude, too," he admitted. "It's a

shame to be wanting to skip out on them, now that I've learned all that

is necessary. But with the biggest piece of potential human history in

my possession, I could hardly let minor qualms deter me much, could I?

We'll find a road to freedom."

Yet it turned out less easy than Doc hoped. Time after time we

approached various surface airlocks. Redoubled Xian guard-groups

pushed us back gently. Neither stealth nor violence had any chance

of being effective. We were constantly watched and outnumbered.

Twice we tried hiding in metal boxes, full of parts destined for the

surface-assemblies of the tiny world's slowly developing star motors.

Both times we were promptly discovered, and pulled forth with emphasis.

Xian voices buzzed. Their eyes were cold. After that second try, Doc

had a wild look, like somebody with a treasure that he can't use.

"No star trips for us, yet," he growled. "Not with another bigger

purpose back home. Somehow I'll get there, or stop living!"

* * * * *

A little later we were back in the familiar laboratories. It was night,

deepened by the fact that the sun was now eclipsed by Ganymede. But

in the windowless lab with its electron lamps, this couldn't matter.

Kobolah puttered in a corner. No one else was with us.

Keyed up and angry inside, I noticed a rather unobtrusive combination

of circumstances--three new jet rods in a corner; small nets of fine

wire, containing steel cylinders of supplies. Casually stuck to a metal

prong on the wall was a parchment map, showing a vertical shaft leading

to an airlock--the lab's private exit. Beside the map, a little used

grille was slightly ajar.

Excitement became a kind of panic inside me. I looked at Jan. Her

long lashes blinked knowingly. Doc nodded and walked casually away.

The parchments of the secret he had gained were nearby. As if only to

add further notes, he took the vast sheaf out of its compartment and

carefully divided it into three. Midway in this operation, Kobolah

turned toward us. Millions of years of difference in background, and

in physical, mental, and emotional form, looked at us from great,

cold eyes. A nervous chill came over me, both from the bleakness of

discovery and frustration, again, and from the namelessness of that

gaze.

Finally the monster imitated a harsh laugh. "Call this outburst

peculiar," he buzzed. "Coming from nothing. But I happened to think

that it is easy to be a fool, and often one will never know which way

is foolish. Remember that."

He turned his attention back to the sputtering electrical apparatus

over which he had been working.

"Thank you, Kobolah," Jan said nervously. He did not reply.

We divided the parchment among us, gathered up the equipment, and

slipped quietly past the exit grille. An air current lifted us up the

shaft to an unguarded airlock, whose control devices were readily

responsive.

"Somebody stacked the deck for us," Doc whispered. "The scientist's

logic, against popular doubts, maybe? Better to let us escape, than

to release us openly, eh? I hope he doesn't get into trouble with his

people. Or is there a deeper trick? Well, we'll soon know."

We emerged onto the deserted surface. We were micro-androids in space;

dust-grain things matched against the universe, and the future of man.

But we were part of both.

In the shadow of the asteroid world's eclipse by Ganymede, there was

still soft light from Jupiter. Now we joined ourselves like mountain

climbers, with a thoughtfully provided floss cable. Then, with small

bursts from our jet-tubes, we leapt.

Soon we were falling toward Ganymede, accelerated by its attraction.

It was a trip of many hours. Our jet rods checked our speed while we

were still in space, and the satellite's atmosphere became a supporting

cushion. We had an advantage over full-sized people--we could not fall

to destruction. Instead we had to search for downdrafts to help force

our descent with the rods.

Completing our journey, however, was not especially difficult. In

Ganymede's glowing crescent we located a foamy dot--the airdomes of

Port Hoverton. From this reference point it was easy to determine

where we had left the _Intruder_. We got down into a prevailing wind.

Thereafter our progress was swift.

After a few more hours, and some jockeying with our jet rods, we knew

we were over the right place. We could speak audibly again, now.

Doc's grin was a bit forced. "You can even see its circular imprint in

the dust," he said. "But the _Intruder_ is gone."

Jan pointed below. "There's a space tent, Charlie!" she exclaimed. "The

little brown dot! See? And somebody's standing before it!"

Swiftly we jetted down toward that bulging, inflated tent, fitted with

its zippered airlock compartment. It stood alone in frigid desolation.

"_S.S. Intruder_" was lettered on its side.

We alighted on the plastic face window of the armored figure, and clung

to scratches in the material.

From this position we looked at the face of the man, huge, handsome

to our former view, but made ugly by magnification. The skin-pores

were craters. Individual scales of the epidermis, with the living

cells beneath, were all visible, on forehead and nose, and around the

colossal eyes, in which the separate flecks of pigmentation could be

seen. It was an impressive, belittling vista.

The colossal jaw worked slightly: the narrowed gaze looked grim.

"It's Scharber!" Jan said. "He stayed here to keep watch, hoping for a

sign from us, I'll bet! He knew part of what we were doing. But now he

doesn't even notice us, any more than you notice motes on a windowpane.

And how can we talk to him? He could never hear our voices directly.

How can we get anything across?"

The riddle faced us tautly, as if we were trapped forever in a lesser

dimension, even beyond communication with our own kind.

"The jet rods again!" Doc shouted. "He'll see the spark of blue fire!"

* * * * *

Doc braced himself in a scratch ridge in the plastic and squeezed the

trigger of his rod. At a little distance, the glassy surface boiled up

in dazzling flame. When the thread of intense atomic heat was broken

off, a smoldering pit was left in the outer surface of Scharber's face

window. A mere pinprick.

But plainly Scharber had observed, and added it up. His great eyes

widened; the plateaux that were his cheeks, paled. In the canyon-like

ridges of his brow, came the sweat of fear. Drops of it were bulging

lakes, rushing down past the lopped-off redwood trunks of the blond

bristle along his jowls.

It was then that I found that another's fear of the unknown can inspire

fear--which was easy to feel, anyway, when looking up at that mighty

visage. Here was I, minute before this Atlas. I felt outclassed beyond

measure.

There came suddenly a great shock of sound. Almost, it was more a heavy

vibration, like an earthquake. Quivering with it, Jan, Doc and I clung

to the roughness of Scharber's face window. Yet it had the beat of

recognizable words. Scharber was speaking:

"So you've come, damn you, whoever you are! Like you came for some part

of Lanvin and Charlie Harver and his wife. Well, their bodies, still

in deep coma, were shipped back to Earth a week ago on the _Jovian_!

We have scientists to figure out what you've done to my pals. Bowhart

has gone to help the scientists with what we know! So look out! We're

strong on Earth. We can fight and punish. So--to hell with you!"

Scharber was terrified before the unknown, but defiant and brave. The

oldest human virtue was there, and it gave me a lift.

"I wish we could thank him for that kind of talk," Jan said.

"Maybe we can," Doc answered. "But our big problem is to get home fast,

now. Ships from Ganymede to Earth run only every two months, and if

the _Jovian_ left only a week ago, there aren't any ships here! And

how long before coma becomes death? When it has already gone on for so

long? I know how you two must feel. With me, maybe it's not quite so

bad. But darn, I still need that carcass of mine!"

I looked again at Scharber's frightened face. I had hoped that he could

help us. But without space craft, that was unlikely. Oh, a call might

be sent for a rescue vessel. But it would be sixty or so Earth-days in

arriving, even if involved explanations of our peculiar position could

be made by interworld radio.

"There's a way to communicate with Scharber," I said. "We could

probably get him to have a message sent to Bowhart to recall the

_Intruder_. But to turn a fully accelerated space ship around in

mid-trajectory is no simple trick. Anyhow, there'd still be a bad

delay."

"So, beyond trying to locate some small craft at Port Hoverton, there's

just one other thing for us to do," Doc said grimly.

Jan expressed it for us: "Use the same method that we used to come here

from the sub-moon of the Kobolah's people? Go without a ship at all?

Achieve a high velocity; trust ourselves to something over four hundred

million miles of empty void unprotected? Is that what you mean, Dr.

Lanvin?"

Her small face looked pinched and awed.

"That's exactly what I mean," Doc replied. "As things are, I believe

that it is considerably the best way. Oh, we can still die, I imagine,

under certain circumstances! But the stakes are pretty big. I'd suggest

that you stay behind, Jan, until we could send for you. But the form

that was you is also one of those in a coma; and time is undoubtedly

precious. Yes, there's desperation of at least a minor kind in what I

suggest. But I think we've got all that we will need. And being as tiny

as dust gives us certain definite advantages."

Jan looked at me soberly. "Sometimes small, inert objects actually

leave worlds on their own, don't they, Charlie?" she mused. "Not only

atmospheric molecules achieving escape velocity, but sometimes much

more massive particles? At least, there was the Arrhenius theory of

the propagation of life throughout space--by means of spores torn from

the upper air of one world by the light-pressure of its mother star,

and propelled by the same force across the interstellar regions to the

planets of other suns. About ourselves--well--aren't we about the right

size and toughness to travel in approximately the same way?"

I looked at Jan, gulped hard, breathed "Okay," raggedly. Then I

returned my attention to the enormity that was Scharber's face.

He had hardly moved; his eyes continued to search the curve of his face

window, as if needing another sign from out of the unknown--as if, in

fascination, he feared to miss such a sign. But his sweat of terror, at

least, was subsiding.

"He can help us, a little," I said. "But staying here, he's unhappy,

and can't do any good."

Doc nodded.

"So we do the right thing," I chuckled. "First we change position;

mount to the top of the metal flange that frames his face window. Just

let go of this plastic surface, you two."

My jet rod flashed. The cable of floss which joined us all, drew Jan

and Doc after me, as I shot outward through the air to the crest of the

flange. There we clung. I had to hold on tight to resist the kick of

the rod, which would have hurled us far out into the air again, as I

used it for a pencil to etch a message on Scharber's face window with

its long needle of atomic heat.

It was like writing on the sky. My arm swung wide. But the range of

about half an inch, with the rod's energy roaring at full, was about

right to give me a normal-sized script. The jet's kick was trying to

break my arm, otherwise it wasn't too hard to do.

I even tried writing backwards so that Scharber could read my message

normally from inside his helmet. Where the needle of heat touched,

plastic seethed, and a visible line was left.