Nothing happened.
The echo of his voice sounded from one end of the room to the other.
No head turned. No eyes met his.
Martel realized that as they paired for talk, the eyes of the Scanners
averted him. He saw that no one desired to watch his speech. He knew
that behind the cold faces of his friends there lay compassion or
amusement. He knew that they knew him to be cranched--absurd, normal,
man-like, temporarily no Scanner. But he knew that in this matter the
wisdom of Scanners was nothing. He knew that only a cranched Scanner
could feel with his very blood the outrage and anger which deliberate
murder would provoke among the Others. He knew that the Confraternity
endangered itself, and knew that the most ancient prerogative of law
was the monopoly of death. Even the Ancient Nations, in the times of
the Wars, before the Beasts, before men went into the Up-and-Out--even
the Ancients had known this. How did they say it? _Only the State
shall kill_. The States were gone but the Instrumentality remained,
and the Instrumentality could not pardon things which occurred within
the Earths but beyond its authority. Death in Space was the business,
the right of the Scanners: how could the Instrumentality enforce its
laws in a place where all men who wakened, wakened only to die in the
Great Pain? Wisely did the Instrumentality leave Space to the
Scanners, wisely had the Confraternity not meddled inside the Earths.
And now the Confraternity itself was going to step forth as an outlaw
band, as a gang of rogues as stupid and reckless as the tribes of the
unforgiven!
Martel knew this because he was cranched. Had he been haberman, he
would have thought only with his mind, not with his heart and guts and
blood. How could the other Scanners know?
Vomact returned for the last time to the Rostrum: _The Committee has
met and its will shall be done_. Verbally he added: "Senior among you,
I ask your loyalty and your silence."
At that point, the two Scanners let his arms go. Martel rubbed his
numb hands, shaking his fingers to get the circulation back into the
cold fingertips. With real freedom, he began to think of what he might
still do. He scanned himself: the cranching held. He might have a
day. Well, he could go on even if haberman, but it would be
inconvenient, having to talk with Finger and Tablet. He looked about
for Chang. He saw his friend standing patient and immobile in a quiet
corner. Martel moved slowly, so as not to attract any more attention
to himself than could be helped. He faced Chang, moved until his face
was in the light, and then articulated:
"What are we going to do? You're not going to let them kill Adam
Stone, are you? Don't you realize what Stone's work will mean to us,
if it succeeds? No more Scanners. No more habermans. No more Pain in
the Up-and-Out. I tell you, if the others were all cranched, as I am,
they would see it in a human way, not with the narrow crazy logic which
they used in the meeting. We've got to stop them. How can we do it?
What are we going to do? What does Parizianski think? Who has been
chosen?"
"Which question do you want me to answer?"
Martel laughed. (It felt good to laugh, even then; it felt like being
a man.) "Will you help me?"
Chang's eyes flashed across Martel's face as Chang answered: "No. No.
No."
"You won't help?"
"No."
"Why not, Chang? Why not?"
"I am a Scanner. The vote has been taken. You would do the same if
you were not in this unusual condition."
"I'm not in an unusual condition. I'm cranched. That merely means
that I see things the way that the Others would. I see the stupidity.
The recklessness. The selfishness. It is murder."
"What is murder? Have you not killed? You are not one of the Others.
You are a Scanner. You will be sorry for what you are about to do, if
you do not watch out."
"But why did you vote against Vomact then? Didn't you too see what
Adam Stone means to all of us? Scanners will live in vain. Thank God
for that! Can't you see it?"
"No."
"But you talk to me, Chang. You are my friend?"
"I talk to you. I am your friend. Why not?"
"But what are you going to do?"
"Nothing, Martel. Nothing."
"Will you help me?"
"No."
"Not even to save Stone?"
"No."
"Then I will go to Parizianski for help."
"It will do you no good."
"Why not? He's more human than you, right now."
"He will not help you, because he has the job. Vomact designated him
to kill Adam Stone."
Martel stopped speaking in mid-movement. He suddenly took the stance,
_I thank you, brother, and I depart_.
At the window he turned and faced the room. He saw that Vomact's eyes
were upon him. He gave the stance, _I thank you, brother, and I
depart_, and added the flourish of respect which is shown when Seniors
are present. Vomact caught the sign, and Martel could see the cruel
lips move. He thought he saw the words "...take good care of
yourself...." but did not wait to inquire. He stepped backward and
dropped out the window.
Once below the window and out of sight, he adjusted his aircoat to
maximum speed. He swam lazily in the air, scanning himself thoroughly,
and adjusting his adrenal intake down. He then made the movement of
release, and felt the cold air rush past his face like running water.
Adam Stone had to be at Chief Downport.
Adam Stone had to be there.
Wouldn't Adam Stone be surprised in the night? Surprised to meet the
strangest of beings, the first renegade among Scanners. (Martel
suddenly appreciated that it was of himself he was thinking. Martel
the Traitor to Scanners! That sounded strange and bad. But what of
Martel, the Loyal to Mankind? Was that not compensation? And if he
won, he won Luci. If he lost, he lost nothing--an unconsidered and
expendable haberman. It happened to be himself. But in contrast to
the immense reward, to Mankind, to the Confraternity, to Luci, what did
that matter?)
Martel thought to himself: "Adam Stone will have two visitors tonight.
Two Scanners, who are the friends of one another." He hoped that
Parizianski was still his friend.
"And the world," he added, "depends on which of us gets there first."
Multifaceted in their brightness, the lights of Chief Downport began to
shine through the mist ahead. Martel could see the outer towers of the
city and glimpsed the phosphorescent Periphery which kept back the
wild, whether Beasts, Machines, or the Unforgiven.
Once more Martel invoked the lords of his chance: "Help me to pass for
an Other!"
5
Within the Downport, Martel had less trouble than he thought. He
draped his aircoat over his shoulder so that it concealed the
instruments. He took up his scanning mirror, and made up his face from
the inside, by adding tone and animation to his blood and nerves until
the muscles of his face glowed and the skin gave out a healthy sweat.
That way he looked like an ordinary man who had just completed a long
night flight.
After straightening out his clothing, and hiding his tablet within his
jacket, he faced the problem of what to do about the Talking Finger.
If he kept the nail, it would show him to be a Scanner. He would be
respected, but he would be identified. He might be stopped by the
guards whom the Instrumentality had undoubtedly set around the person
of Adam Stone. If he broke the Nail-- But he couldn't! No Scanner in
the history of the Confraternity had ever willingly broken his nail.
That would be Resignation, and there was no such thing. The only way
out, was in the Up-and Out! Martel put his finger to his mouth and bit
off the nail. He looked at the now-queer finger, and sighed to himself.
He stepped toward the city gate, slipping his hand into his jacket and
running up his muscular strength to four times normal. He started to
scan, and then realized that his instruments were masked. _Might as
well take all the chances at once_, he thought.
The watcher stopped him with a searching Wire. The sphere thumped
suddenly against Martel's chest.
"Are you a Man?" said the unseen voice. (Martel would have known that
as a Scanner in haberman condition, his own field-charge would have
illuminated the sphere.)
"I am a Man." Martel knew that the timbre of his voice had been good;
he hoped that it would not be taken for that of a Manshonjagger or a
Beast or an Unforgiven one, who with mimicry sought to enter the cities
and ports of Mankind.
"Name, number, rank, purpose, function, time departed."
"Martel." He had to remember his old number, not Scanner 34. "Sunward
4234, 182nd Year of Space. Rank, rising Subchief." That was no lie,
but his substantive rank. "Purpose, personal and lawful within the
limits of this city. No function of the Instrumentality. Departed
Chief Outport 2019 hours." Everything now depended on whether he was
believed, or would be checked against Chief Outport.