Murdoch felt as if the entire place was lined with eyes, all focused on
his left hand. The act of theft clearly begun, his life in the balance,
he felt now the icy nausea of fear; a feeling familiar enough, and
which he knew how to control, but which he still didn't like. Fear.
It's a strange thing, he thought. A peculiar thing. If you analyzed
it, you could resolve it into the physical sick feeling and the wish
in your mind, a very fervent wish, that you were somewhere else.
Sometimes, if it caught you tightly enough, it was almost paralyzing so
that your limbs and even your lungs seemed to be on strike. When fear
gripped him he always remembered back to that turning point, that act
that had made him an outlaw and an exile from Earth.
He'd been a pilot in the Space Force, young, just out of the Academy,
and the bribe had seemed very large and the treason very small. It
seemed incredibly naive, now, that he should not have understood that a
double-cross was necessarily a part of the arrangement.
It was in escaping at all, against odds beyond calculating, that he had
learned that he thought faster and deeper than other men, and that he
had guts. Having guts turned out to be a different thing than he had
imagined. It didn't mean that you stood grinning and calm while others
went mad with fear. It meant you suffered all the panic, all the actual
physical agony they did, but that you somehow stuck to the gun, took
the buffeting and still had in a corner of your being enough wit to
throw the counter-punch or think through to the way out. And that's
what he had to do now. Endure the fear and keep his wits.
The robot had responded to Waverill's loud demand. It barely glanced
at Waverill's hand, said, "It will heal quickly" and left. So far as
Murdoch could tell, it didn't look at him.
As soon as he dared, he went and took a shower. In the process of
lathering he inserted the syringe into the slit between thumb and
forefinger of his left hand. In that hiding-place was a small plastic
sphere holding a substance which ought to be nutrient to the virus. It
was delicate work, but he'd practiced well and his fingers were under
control now; and he got the point of the syringe into the sphere and
squeezed. He relaxed the squeeze, felt the bulb return slowly to shape
as it drew out some of the gummy stuff. He squeezed it back in, let the
shower rinse the syringe and got that back into the pouch in his right
hand.
He didn't dare discard it. There was always the possibility of failure
and a second try, though, the timing made it very remote. If the
surgery was right, the pouches in his hand were lined with something
impervious, so that none of the virus would get into his blood too
soon. He lathered very thoroughly and rinsed off, then let a blast of
warm air dry him. He felt neither fear nor elation now. Rather there
was a let-down, and a weary apprehension at the trials ahead. The next
big step was to get the small sphere past the barrier ahead of the time
of leaving. He was pretty sure that he couldn't smuggle it out on his
person. The alien's final examination and sterilization would prevent
that.
* * * * *
Now there came the agony of waiting for the next step. He hadn't been
able to rig things tightly enough to predict within several hours
when it would come. It might be in one hour or in ten. A derelict was
drifting in. He'd arranged that, but it might be late or it might be
intercepted. He prepared a meal for Waverill and himself; sweated out
the interval and cooked another. He wandered from library to gymnasium
to out-of-doors, and fought endlessly the desire to stand at the
barrier and stare at the ship.
The robot examined Waverill and revealed only that things were going
well. Waverill spent most of his time bringing objects before his
eyes, squinting and twisting his face, swallowed up in the ecstasy of
his slowly returning vision. When darkness came the older man slept.
Murdoch lay twisting on his own couch or dozed fitfully, beset with
twisted dreams.
When the ship's alarm went off he didn't know at first whether it was
real or another of the dreams.
His mind was sluggish in clearing, and when he sat up he could hear
sounds at the front of the building. Suddenly in a fright that he
would be too late, he jumped up and ran that way. The robot was already
out of the building. It turned toward him with a suggestion of haste.
"What is this."
Murdoch tried to act startled. "The ship's alarm! There's something
headed in! Maybe Earth Patrol!"
"Why did you leave the alarm on."
"We--I guess I forgot in the excitement."
"That was dangerous stupidity. How is the alarm powered."
"It's self-powered. Rechargeable batteries."
"You are fortunate that it is only a dead hull drifting by, otherwise
we would have to dispose of you at once. Stay here. I will shut it off."
Murdoch pretended to protest mildly, then stood watching the robot
go. His hands were moving in what he hoped looked like a gesture of
futility. He got the plastic sphere out of its hiding-place and thumbed
it like a marble. He held his breath. The robot crossed the barrier.
Murdoch flipped the sphere after it. He saw it arc across the line
and bound once, then he lost it in the gravel. In the dim light from
Jupiter, low on the horizon, he could not find it again. Desperately,
he memorized the place in relation to the hedge. When he and Waverill
left, there would be scant time to look for it.
The robot didn't take long to solve the ship's hatches, go in through
the lock, and locate the alarm. The siren chopped off in mid-scream.
The robot came back out and started toward him. Involuntarily, he
backed up against the building, wondering what the robot (or its
masters) right deduce with alien senses, and whether swift punishment
might strike him the next instant. But the robot passed him silently
and disappeared indoors.
After a while he followed it inside, lay down on his couch, and resumed
the fitful wait.
* * * * *
The next morning Waverill's eyes followed him as he fixed breakfast.
There was life in them now, and purpose. The man looked younger, more
vigorous, too.
Murdoch, trying not to sound nervous, asked, "Can you see more now,
sir?"
"A little. Sit me so the light falls on my plate."
Murdoch watched the other's attempts to eat by sight rather than feel,
adding mentally to his own time-table of the older man's recovery.
Apparently Waverill could see his plate, but no details of the food
on it. There was no more drowsiness, though. The movements were deft
except that they didn't yet correlate with the eyes. The eyes seemed
to have a little trouble matching up too, sometimes. No doubt it would
take a while to restore the reflexes lost over the years.
Waverill walked the grounds alone in mid-morning. Murdoch, following
far enough behind not to draw a rebuff, took the opportunity to spot
his small treasure in the gravel beyond the barrier. Once found, it
was dismayingly visible. But there was nothing he could do now. He was
sweating again, and hoped with a sort of half-prayer to Fortune that
his nerves wouldn't start to shatter once more.
He made lunch, then set himself the job of waiting out the afternoon.
Ages later he cooked dinner. He managed to eat most of his steak,
envying Waverill the wolfish appetite that made quick work of the meal.
The long night somehow wore through, and he embraced eagerly the small
respite of breakfast.
He felt unreal when the alien voice said, "Do not bother to wash the
dishes. Lie down on your bunks for your final examination. When you
awake you may leave."
The fear spread through him again as he moved slowly to his couch. He
thought, If they've caught me, this is when they'll kill me. He was
afraid, no doubt of that; all the old symptoms were there. But, oddly,
there was a trace of perverse comfort in the thought: Maybe I've lost.
Maybe I'll just never wake up. Then dizziness hit him. He was aware of
a brief, feeble effort to resist it, then he slid into darkness.
* * * * *
He came awake still dizzy, and with a drugged feeling. His mouth was
dry. Breath came hard at first. He tried to open his eyes, but his
lids were too stiff. He spent a few minutes just getting his breath to
working, then he was able to open his eyes a little. When he sat up
there was a wash of nausea. He sat on the edge of the bunk, head hung,
until it lessened. Gradually he felt stronger.
Waverill was sitting up too, looking no better than Murdoch felt.
He seemed to recover faster, though. Murdoch thought. He's actually
healthier than I am now. I hope he hasn't become a superman.
The voice from the ceiling said, "Your clothes are in the next room.
Dress and leave at once. The barriers will be opened for you."
Murdoch got to his feet and headed for the other room. He paused to let
Waverill go ahead, and noticed that Waverill had no trouble finding the
door. The older man wasn't talking this morning, and the jubilation he
must feel at seeing again was confined, outwardly, to a tight grin.
They dressed quickly, Murdoch noting in the process that his clothes
had been gone over carefully and all weapons removed. It didn't matter.
But it did matter that he had to collect his prize on the way to the
ship, and the sweaty anxiety was with him.
As they went out the door, Waverill stopped and let his eyes sweep
about the grounds. What a cool character he is, Murdoch thought. Not a
word. Not a sign of emotion.
Waverill turned and started toward the ship. Murdoch let him get a step
ahead. His own eyes were searching the gravel. For a moment he had the
panicky notion that it was gone; then he spotted it. He wouldn't have
to alter his course to reach it. He saw Waverill flinch a little as
they crossed the barrier, then he too felt the odd sensation. He kept
going, trying to bring his left foot down on the capsule. He managed to
do it.
Taut with anxiety, he paused and half-turned as if for a last look back
at the place. He could feel the sphere give a little; or maybe it was
a pebble sinking into the ground. He twisted his foot. He thought he
could feel something crush. He hesitated, in the agony of trying to
decide whether to go on or to make more sure by dropping something and
pretending to pick it up. He didn't have anything to drop. He thought,
I've got to go on or they'll suspect. He turned. Waverill had stopped
and was looking back at him keenly. Murdoch gripped himself, kept his
face straight, and went on.
Waverill had to grope a little getting into the ship, as though his
hands still didn't correlate with his eyes, but it was clear that he
could see all right, even in the ship's dim interior. Murdoch said,
"Your eyes seem to be completely well, sir."
Waverill was playing it cool too. "They don't match up very well yet,
and I have to experiment to focus. It'll come back, though." He went
casually to his seat and lowered himself into it.