"What does that mean?" Colin asked.
"Not a damned thing," Banning said angrily. "He just threw the
transmission switch, is all."
"Look, sir." The radioman pointed to the oscilloscope. The smooth
sine of the carrier was slightly modulated now, uneven dips and jogs
appearing rhythmically. "There's something coming through, but it's
awfully damned faint, Sir."
"Run your sensitivity up," Banning ordered.
The radioman slowly twisted a knob, and the hiss-and-crackle coming
through the speakers increased in volume until each snap was like a
gunshot in the radio room. Colin winced at the noise.
"Maximum, sir."
"Increase your gain, then."
The technician did. The speakers were roaring now, filling the room.
Very faintly behind the torrent of sound another sound could be
heard, more regular. The rhythm corresponded with the jogging of the
oscilloscope.
"That's it," Banning said. "But what the hell is it?"
"I don't--wait a minute," said Colin. "He's whistling! It's a tune."
"You recognize it?"
"No--no, it's vaguely familiar, but--"
"I know it, sir," the radioman said. "It's an old folksong, _The
Quaker's Wooing_."
"Why is it so faint?" asked Colin.
"He must be a hell of a ways off-mike," said the tech. "Clear at the
other end of the control room, I'd say."
"Turn down that damned noise," said Banning. The radioman twisted his
controls back to medium range, and the thunderous hissing roar of the
speakers died away.
"Well," said Banning, "nothing. We shoulda stood in bed."
"I'm not so sure," Colin answered. "After all, he _did_ start to
transmit, and that's more than we've had since he landed. I think we'd
better keep it up."
"All right. Keep at it, sergeant."
"Yes, sir."
As Colin and Banning turned away, the psychiatrist heard the sergeant
begin to sing softly to himself. Suddenly Colin stopped and turned back
to the man.
"What'd you say?" he demanded.
"Nothing, sir."
"What you were singing, that song."
"Oh, it was the one the colonel was whistling, sir. It gets to running
around in your head. I'm sorry, it won't happen again."
"No, I want to know what the words are. What you just said."
"Well, it goes, I mean it starts out, I can't remember the whole--"
"Come _on_, man! Sing it!"
In an uncertain voice the radioman began to sing:
"_I had a true wife but I left her, oh, oh, oh, oh.
And now I'm broken hearted, oh, oh, oh, oh.
Well, if she's gone, I wouldn't mind her,
Foldy roldy hey ding di do,
Soon find one--_"
"That's enough, sergeant," Colin said, relaxing. He turned to Banning.
"Well, General, that's it. The wedge goes in a little deeper."
"What do you mean?"
"Is Harkins married?"
"Yes, yes, I think so. She lives in the officer's quarters on base."
"Get her," Colin said.
"Now? My God man, it isn't even five--"
"Get her," Colin repeated. "Harkins has her on his mind. Maybe we can
get to him through her."
* * * * *
Martha Harkins was a small brunette, too plain ever to be called
pretty. Almost mousy, Colin thought. But intelligent, and quick to
understand the situation, in spite of her nervousness. She sat on the
opposite side of Banning's desk, her hands folded quietly in her lap,
fingers twined, while Colin explained what they wanted her to do. Her
still-sleepy eyes were fixed on her fingers while the psychiatrist
talked.
"I--I think I see," she said hesitantly. "What it comes down to is that
you want me to try to talk Dick out of _Phoenix I_."
Colin nodded. "It may not be easy. I've told you as much as we know
about the condition of his mind. He will not consciously hear you, in
all likelihood. We hope to appeal to deep-seated emotions below the
conscious level. Are you willing to try?"
"Of course," she said with real surprise, looking up at him for the
first time.
"Good," Colin said warmly. He stood from behind the desk. "We'll take
you over to radio, now."
Banning was waiting for them in Central Control.
"Any change?" Colin asked.
"No. Same thing. Sometimes he comes closer to the mike. We can hear
his footsteps. He seems to be wandering around the control room pretty
aimlessly. Or maybe he's just carrying on the in-flight routine, we
can't tell."
"This is Mrs. Harkins," Colin said. "General Banning."
"Thank you for coming, Mrs. Harkins," the general said. "I hope this
isn't too difficult for you." He took her small hand in his own.
Martha Harkins smiled faintly. "A service wife gets used to just about
everything, general."
"Unfortunately true. If you'll come with me, I'll introduce you to your
technician. Has Dr. Meany explained what we want you to do?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Good."
"Just one thing, Mrs. Harkins," Colin put in. "This may take some time.
It may be we'll want you to cut a tape with a request to leave the
ship, if we can't get any response from live voice. Repetition is the
important thing, and the sound of your voice."
"All right. I'll do whatever you say." She turned away briefly, but not
before Colin saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes.
Banning led her over to the radio console, saw her seated and
instructed in the use of the equipment, and returned to Colin.
"What do you think?" he said.
"She'll do."
"Will it work?"
"How the hell do I know?" the psychiatrist answered roughly.
They were silent for a moment, watching the small figure of the woman
leaning forward tensely over the microphone, as if by her nearness she
might make her husband hear.
"You know," Banning said musingly, "I get the feeling this is all the
fault of SpaServ, somehow. Some little thing we overlooked. A little
more training, maybe."
The woman's soft voice droned on, not quite carrying distinctly to the
two men, though the warmth and urgency of it was evident in her tone.
"I think you did all right with your training," Colin said finally. "He
came back, didn't he?"
4.
Harkins slept only lightly, turning restlessly in the large control
chair. Finally the pain of his headache increased to the point he
could no longer sleep at all, even lightly. Just before he wakened, he
thought he heard a sound at once intolerably loud and somehow soothing.
Which was impossible, of course.
Opening the viewport shutter a crack, he found the land outside lit
ambiguously by the false dawn that was beginning to spread against the
eastern hills.
He took several more of the white pills for his headache. Briefly he
considered eating something, but abandoned the idea. The pain was so
intense, he didn't think he could keep anything down.
He found the illusion he had noted yesterday--the whispering sound he
could not hear when he tried--was still there. It was even worse now.
All about him was the flickering shadow of a sound, demanding his
attention, requesting. And still--when he tried to hear it, it was gone.
He pressed his knuckles against his forehead and clenched his eyes
tightly shut.
If only he had something to do to take his mind off the headache and
the elusive sound.... But there was nothing to do. With neither the
Skipdrive nor the atomics operating, he had not even the routine
powerchecks to keep him occupied.
_Then why am I here?_
His function was to operate the ship. That much he knew without doubt.
And he was well suited to operate it. His hands were properly shaped
to manipulate the controls, and he could do it automatically, without
thinking about it. He was Ship-Operator.
But the ship was not operating....
What was his function then, when the ship was not operating?
The other control devices, when not controlling, automatically shut
off. Perhaps something had gone wrong in his shut-off relay.
That was not it, either. He was not the same as the other controlling
mechanisms. He was different. Different materials, different potential
functions in his structure, all kinds of differences.
But even if it were true that he was _not_ intended to switch off when
not functioning as Ship-Operator, what was he to do?
_Think it out. Think this thing out very carefully._
Pain was a signal of improper functioning. All right. He was not
functioning properly, then, and he knew it because of the level of pain
in his head. If he could get rid of the headache, he would at the same
time be finding his proper function.
Step one, then: Get rid of the headache. And he had to do that anyway,
because he was unable to think clearly while he had it.
The headache had alleviated several times, then come back again. That
meant he had performed properly, then drifted away into--into--Wrong
was the word that came to his mind. Wrong. He had drifted into improper
functioning, and the word for that was Wrong, and his headache had come
back as a result.
All right. _When_ had the headache alleviated?
He tried to think back. The first time, the first time was when he
had found himself speaking the meaningless words into the microphone,
announcing his estimated time-to-destination. And then, when he had
closed the viewports. And throwing that Receive switch....
What did these actions have in common? What factor did they share?
Only one thing. Two, really. First, they had some connection with the
transmit-receive apparatus. Or two of the three did, at any rate. The
other factor, shared by all three acts, was that they were done almost
without his conscious will.
This, then, might be the critical factor. That he act without volition.
Relax. Completely. _Allow_ yourself to act.
He leaned back in the control chair and tried to blank his mind, tried
not to give his body any commands.
_Without volition, without willing._
He closed his eyes.
For a long while there was nothing. Then he heard the whir of
servomotors. He opened his eyes, delicately probed with his mind ...
and the headache had lessened.
He glanced up at the console, to see what he had done. A red bulb
glowed over the label AIRLOCK. He had thrown the airlock switch, then.
And it had been the "proper function" for him, because the headache had
lessened. But the out-of-range whispering had not diminished.
The airlock? He shook his head in puzzlement. But the technique seemed
to be working. What now?
He closed his eyes again, and this time the delay was shorter. He knew
before he looked what had happened. He had lowered the landing ladder.
Well, this began to be obvious. He was to leave the ship.
And yet, the headache had been worst when he _had_ left the ship.
What did that mean? It seemed to mean leaving the ship was a Wrong
function. But it was certainly indicated this time, from his opening of
the airlock and lowering the ladder.
Well, what was Wrong function at one time might well be Right function
another time. That could happen.
_Leave the ship...._
There was an edge of pleasantness and warmth to that thought, and the
headache diminished.
"_Please leave the ship, Dick...._" It was almost as if he could hear a
warmth in the air saying that to him.
Try the alternative. Deliberately he thought: _Stay in the ship_.
A flash of pain soared up the back of his head and across the top to
settle swirling and agonizingly in his temples.
_Leave the ship_, he thought quickly, and the pain abated.
Clear enough.
He got to his feet and carefully made his way out of the control room
down the catwalk toward the airlock that stood open and waiting to let
him out of _Phoenix I_....
* * * * *
An excited non-com slammed open the door to the radio room and shouted,
"The airlock's opening!"
Banning and Colin dashed to the broad window and stared out at the
bulky shape of _Phoenix I_, resting monolithic on the landing pad.
Banning took the proffered binoculars from the non-com, focussed them
on the broad flank of the ship.
"It's open, all right," he said. "Here." He handed the binoculars to
Colin.
After a long delay, the landing ladder slid down the side of the ship.
"I think he's going to come out."
"There he is."
"What's he doing?"
"Standing in the airlock, looking around. Now he's starting to come
down. Now he's at the bottom of the ladder, looking around again....
Now he's walking this way."
"Give me the glasses," Banning said. He looked for a long moment,
making sure the colonel's direction did not change. "Still coming
this way," he said, putting the glasses carefully on the table by the
window. He turned to look at the psychiatrist. "What now?"