"But, sir, no emergency like this--"
"Right, Martel. No emergency like this, ever before. Report to
tie-in." With a faint glint of kindliness, Vomact added: "No need to
de-cranch. Report as you are."
This time it was Martel whose phone was cut out. The screen went gray.
He turned to Luci. The temper had gone out of his voice. She came to
him. She kissed him, and rumpled his hair. All she could say was,
"I'm sorry."
She kissed him again, knowing his disappointment. "Take good care of
yourself, darling. I'll wait."
He scanned, and slipped into his transparent aircoat. At the window he
paused, and waved. She called, "Good luck!" As the air flowed past
him he said to himself, "This is the first time I've felt flight
in--eleven years. Lord, but it's easy to fly if you can feel yourself
live!"
Central Tie-in glowed white and austere far ahead. Martel peered. He
saw no glare of incoming ships from the Up-and-Out, no shuddering flare
of Space-fire out of control. Everything was quiet, as it should be on
an off-duty night.
And yet Vomact had called. He had called an emergency higher than
Space. There was no such thing. But Vomact had called it.
2
When Martel got there, he found about half the Scanners present, two
dozen or so of them. He lifted the Talking finger. Most of the
Scanners were standing face to face, talking in pairs as they read
lips. A few of the old, impatient ones were scribbling on their
Tablets and then thrusting the Tablets into other people's faces. All
the faces wore the dull dead relaxed look of a haberman. When Martel
entered the room, he knew that most of the others laughed in the deep
isolated privacy of their own minds, each thinking things it would be
useless to express in formal words. It had been a long time since a
Scanner showed up at a meeting cranched.
Vomact was not there: probably, thought Martel, he was still on the
phone calling others. The light of the phone flashed on and off; the
bell rang. Martel felt odd when he realized that of all those present,
he was the only one to hear that loud bell. It made him realize why
ordinary people did not like to be around groups of habermans or
Scanners. Martel looked around for company.
His friend Chang was there, busy explaining to some old and testy
Scanner that he did not know why Vomact had called. Martel looked
further and saw Parizianski. He walked over, threading his way past
the others with a dexterity that showed he could feel his feet from the
inside, and did not have to watch them. Several of the others stared
at him with their dead faces, and tried to smile. But they lacked full
muscular control and their faces twisted into horrid masks. (Scanners
knew better than to show expression on faces which they could no longer
govern. Martel added to himself, I swear _I'll_ never smile again
unless I'm cranched.)
Parizianski gave him the sign of the Talking Finger. Looking face to
face, he spoke:
"You come here cranched?"
Parizianski could not hear his own voice, so the words roared like the
words on a broken and screeching phone; Martel was startled, but knew
that the inquiry was well meant. No one could be better-natured than
the burly Pole.
"Vomact called. Top emergency."
"You told him you were cranched?"
"Yes."
"He still made you come?"
"Yes."
"Then all this--it is not for Space? You could not go Up-and-Out? You
are like ordinary men?"
"That's right."
"Then why did he call us?" Some pre-Haberman habit made Parizianski
wave his arms in inquiry. The hand struck the back of the old man
behind them. The slap could be heard throughout the room, but only
Martel heard it. Instinctively, he scanned Parizianski and the old
Scanner: they scanned him back, and then asked why. Only then did the
old man ask why Martel had scanned him. When Martel explained that he
was under-the-wire, the old man moved swiftly away to pass on the news
that there was a cranched Scanner present at the Tie-in.
Even this minor sensation could not keep the attention of most of the
Scanners from the worry about the Top Emergency. One young man, who
had Scanned his first transit just the year before, dramatically
interposed himself between Parizianski and Martel. He dramatically
flashed his Tablet at them:
_Is Vmct mad?_
The older men shook their heads. Martel, remembering that it had not
been too long that the young man had been haberman, mitigated the dead
solemnity of the denial with a friendly smile. He spoke in a normal
voice, saying:
"Vomact is the Senior of Scanners. I am sure that he could not go mad.
Would he not see it on his boxes first?"
Martel had to repeat the question, speaking slowly and mouthing his
words before the young Scanner could understand the comment. The young
man tried to make his face smile, and twisted it into a comic mask.
But he took up his tablet and scribbled:
_Yr rght._
Chang broke away from his friend and came over, his half-Chinese face
gleaming in the warm evening. (It's strange, thought Martel that more
Chinese don't become scanners. Or not so strange perhaps, if you think
that they never fill their quota of habermans. Chinese love good
living too much. The ones who do scan are all good ones.) Chang saw
that Martel was cranched, and spoke with voice:
"You break precedents. Luci must be angry to lose you?"
"She took it well. Chang, that's strange."
"What?"
"I'm cranched, and I can hear. Your voice sounds all right. How did
you learn to talk like--like an ordinary person?"
"I practised with soundtracks. Funny you noticed it. I think I am the
only Scanner in or between the Earths who can pass for an Ordinary Man.
Mirrors and sound-tracks. I found out how to act."
"But you don't....?"
"No. I don't feel, or taste, or hear, or smell things, any more than
you do. Talking doesn't do me much good. But I notice that it cheers
up the people around me."
"It would make a difference in the life of Luci."
Chang nodded sagely. "My father insisted on it. He said, 'You may be
proud of being a Scanner. I am sorry you are not a Man. Conceal your
defects.' So I tried. I wanted to tell the old boy about the Up and
Out, and what we did there, but it did not matter. He said, 'Airplanes
were good enough for Confucius, and they are for me too.' The old
humbug! He tries so hard to be a Chinese when he can't even read Old
Chinese. But he's got wonderful good sense, and for somebody going on
two hundred he certainly gets around."