Again Turnbull's intuitive reasoning leaped far ahead of logic; he knew
that Drawford was honestly innocent of any knowledge of the whereabouts
of Scholar James Duckworth.
"I was under the impression," Turnbull said easily, "that Scholar
Duckworth was engaged in some sort of work with Scholar Rawlings."
Drawford smiled and spread his hands. "Well, now, that may be. Dr.
Turnbull. If so, then they're engaged in something that's above my
level."
"Oh?"
Drawford pursed his lips for a moment, frowning. Then he said: "I must
admit that I'm not a good intuitive thinker, Dr. Turnbull. I have not
the capacity for it, I suppose. That's why I'm an engineer instead of a
basic research man; that's why I'll never get a Scholar's degree." Again
he paused before continuing. "For that reason, Scholar Rawlings leaves
the logic to me and doesn't burden me with his own business. Nominally,
he is the head of the Corporation; actually, we operate in different
areas--areas which, naturally, overlap in places, but which are not
congruent by any means."
"In other words," said Turnbull, "if Duckworth and Rawlings were working
together, you wouldn't be told about it."
"Not unless Scholar Rawlings thought it was necessary to tell me,"
Drawford said. He put his cigar carefully in the ashdrop. "Of course, if
I _asked_ him, I'm sure he'd give me the information, but it's hardly
any of _my_ business."
* * * * *
Turnbull nodded and switched his tack. "Scholar Rawlings is off-planet,
I believe?"
"That's right. I'm not at liberty to disclose his whereabouts, however,"
Drawford said.
"I realize that. But I'd like to get a message to him, if possible."
Drawford picked up his cigar again and puffed at it a moment before
saying anything. Then, "Dr. Turnbull, please don't think I'm being
stuffy, but may I ask the purpose of this inquiry?"
"A fair question," said Turnbull, smiling. "I really shouldn't have come
barging in here like this without explaining myself first." He had his
lie already formulated in his mind. "I'm engaged in writing up a report
on the cultural significance of the artifacts on the planet Lobon--you
may have heard something of it?"
"I've heard the name," Drawford admitted. "That's in the Sagittarius
Sector somewhere, as I recall."
"That's right. Well, as you know, the theory for the existence of
Centaurus City assumes that it was, at one time, the focal point of a
complex of trade routes through the galaxy, established by a race that
has passed from the galactic scene."
Drawford was nodding slowly, waiting to hear what Turnbull had to say.
"I trust that you'll keep this to yourself, doctor," Turnbull said,
extinguishing his cigarette. "But I am of the opinion that the artifacts
on Lobon bear a distinct resemblance to those of the City." It was a
bald, out-and-out lie, but he knew Drawford would have no way of knowing
that it was. "I think that Lobon was actually one of the colonies of
that race--one of their food-growing planets. If so, there is certainly
a necessity for correlation between the data uncovered on Lobon and
those which have been found in the City."
Drawford's face betrayed his excitement. "Why ... why, that's amazing! I
can see why you wanted to get in touch with Scholar Rawlings, certainly!
Do you really think there's something in this idea?"
"I do," said Turnbull firmly. "Will it be possible for me to send a
message to him?"
"Certainly," Drawford said quickly. "I'll see that he gets it as soon as
possible. What did you wish to say?"
Turnbull reached into his belt pouch, pulled out a pad and stylus, and
began to write.
_I have reason to believe that I have solved the connection between the
two sources of data concerned in the Centaurus City problem. I would
also like to discuss the Duckworth theory with you._
When he had finished, he signed his name at the bottom and handed it to
Drawford.
Drawford looked at it, frowned, and looked up at Turnbull questioningly.
"He'll know what I mean," Turnbull said. "Scholar Duckworth had an idea
that Lobon was a data source on the problem even before we did our
digging there. Frankly, that's why I thought Duckworth might be working
with Scholar Rawlings."
Drawford's face cleared. "Very well. I'll put this on the company
transmitters immediately, Dr. Turnbull. And--don't worry, I won't say
anything about this to anyone until Scholar Rawlings or you, yourself,
give me the go-ahead."
"I'd certainly appreciate that," Turnbull said, rising from his seat.
"I'll leave you to your work now, Dr. Drawford. I can be reached at the
Mayfair Hotel."
The two men shook hands, and Turnbull left quickly.
* * * * *
Turnbull felt intuitively that he knew where Rawlings was. On the
Centaurus planet--the planet of the City. But where was Duckworth?
Reason said that he, too, was at the City, but under what circumstances?
Was he a prisoner? Had he been killed outright?
Surely not. That didn't jibe with his leaving Earth the way he had. If
someone had wanted him killed, they'd have done it on Earth; they
wouldn't have left a trail to Sirius IV that anyone who was interested
could have followed.
On the other hand, how could they account for Duckworth's disappearance,
since the trail _was_ so broad? If the police--
No. He was wrong. The trouble with intuitive thinking is that it tends
to leave out whole sections of what, to a logical thinker, are pieces of
absolutely necessary data.
Duckworth actually had no connection with Rawlings--no _logical_
connection. The only thing the police would have to work with was the
fact that Scholar Duckworth had started on a trip to Mendez and never
made it any farther than Sirius IV. There, he had vanished. Why? How
could they prove anything?
On the other hand, Turnbull was safe. The letters from Duckworth, plus
his visit to Drawford, plus his acknowledged destination of Sirius IV,
would be enough to connect up both cases if Turnbull vanished. Rawlings
should know he couldn't afford to do anything to Turnbull.
Dave Turnbull felt perfectly safe.
He was in his hotel room at the Mayfair when the announcer chimed, five
hours later. He glanced up from his book to look at the screen. It
showed a young man in an ordinary business jumper, looking rather
boredly at the screen.
"What is it?" Turnbull asked.
"Message for Dr. Turnbull from Rawlings Scientific Corporation," said
the young man, in a voice that sounded even more bored than his face
looked.
Turnbull sighed and got up to open the door. When it sectioned, he had
only a fraction of a second to see what the message was.
It was a stungun in the hand of the young man.
It went off, and Turnbull's mind spiraled into blankness before he could
react.
* * * * *
Out of a confused blur of color, a face sprang suddenly into focus, swam
away again, and came back. The lips of the face moved.
"How do you feel, son?"
Turnbull looked at the face. It was that of a fairly old man who still
retained the vitality of youth. It was lined, but still firm.
It took him a moment to recognize the face--then he recalled stereos
he'd seen.
It was Scholar Jason Rawlings.
Turnbull tried to lift himself up and found he couldn't.
The scholar smiled. "Sorry we had to strap you down," he said, "but I'm
not nearly as strong as you are, and I didn't have any desire to be
jumped before I got a chance to talk to you."
Turnbull relaxed. There was no immediate danger here.
"Know where you are?" Rawlings asked.
"Centaurus City," Turnbull said calmly. "It's a three-day trip, so
obviously you couldn't have made it in the five hours after I sent you
the message. You had me kidnaped and brought here."
The old man frowned slightly. "I suppose, technically, it _was_
kidnaping, but we had to get you out of circulation before you said
anything that might ... ah ... give the whole show away."
Turnbull smiled slightly. "Aren't you afraid that the police will trace
this to you?"
"Oh, I'm sure they would eventually," said Rawlings, "but you'll be free
to make any explanations long before that time."
"I see," Turnbull said flatly. "Mind operation. Is that what you did to
Scholar Duckworth?"
The expression on Scholar Rawling's face was so utterly different from
what Turnbull had expected that he found himself suddenly correcting
his thinking in a kaleidoscopic readjustment of his mind.
"What did you think you were on to, Dr. Turnbull?" the old man asked
slowly.
Turnbull started to answer, but, at that moment the door opened.
The round, pleasant-faced gentleman who came in needed no introduction
to Turnbull.
Scholar Duckworth said: "Hello, Dave. Sorry I wasn't here when you woke
up, but I got--" He stopped. "What's the matter?"
"I'm just cursing myself for being a fool," Turnbull said sheepishly. "I
was using your disappearance as a datum in a problem that didn't require
it."