The Ceres Solution

Chapter Eight

Long experience had shown that seven years was the longest period for which it was prudent for a Mollanian agent to remain in one location and with one identity. Beyond that span, no matter how good the agent had been at avoiding close relationships, people began to notice that the man or woman in the apartment down the hall was strangely untouched by the passage of time. They simultaneously became resentful and inquisitive, often without being consciously aware of their own feelings, and that was the signal for the agent to pack up and move on to another town.

“I call it the Dorian Grey syndrome,” Ichmo had told Gretana, showing off his knowledge of Terran literature on one of her early returns to Station 23. “It’s almost as if the Terrans are on the alert for that sort of thing, as if they have a collective unconscious in which there’s a suspicion that they’ve been unfairly treated by Nature. The idea of immortality crops up many times in their mythology and literature, and it’s interesting that anybody who is suspected of being immortal is usually presented in an unfavourable light.

“We could be directly responsible, of course—some of our people are bound to have been careless from time to time—but that’s all the more reason to be careful now. Always move on at the very first hint that somebody is taking an undue interest in you.”

Gretana had recalled the conversation a number of times—but always with a mild and fairly academic interest—during her stay of seven years in Silver Spring under the name of Greta Rushton. Any special attention from Terrans had been inspired by her physical appearance, and she had soon learned to counter it with a glacial indifference which left the other party humbled or scornful according to his degree of self-esteem, and in either case definitely no longer interested. It had been the same during the seven-year spells she had spent in two other cities in the same region, and now that she was two years into her stay in Annapolis, Maryland it had begun to seem that her technique of repulsing strangers had reached perfection. That was why, quite suddenly, she was worried by the tall man in the slate-grey overcoat.

In an odd way, it had been the garment’s lack of distinction which had drawn her attention to it. Two or three times while walking in Carter Park, she had thought: There’s a coat that was made for blending into backgrounds. Then had come the belated realisation that it was the same coat each time, and that in turn had drawn her attention to the wearer—the black-haired man who, by accident or design, seemed to visit many of the places she visited.

He appeared to be about thirty, was no more and no less ugly than any other native of Earth, and had droop-lidded grey eyes which gave him an expression of bored knowingness. It was his eyes which disturbed Gretana most. More than twenty years on Earth had taught her that some of the crudest and most offensive sexual advances could be made through eye contact alone, without a word being spoken, but this man seemed to have different objectives. It was as though he got all the satisfaction he wanted simply by being near her in a crowd, looking at her, knowing about her—and, for someone in Gretana’s position, that kind of attention was highly unwelcome. It was almost the worst possible kind.

I’ll give it one more chance, she thought, one sharp and acrylic-bright January morning. If he’s in the park today, watching me, I’ll take Ichmo’s advice. I’II pack up in the afternoon and move on.

She breakfasted early and spent an hour conscientiously absorbing TV newscasts, with special emphasis on her part of the United States and how its inhabitants were responding to their physical, political and cultural environment in the year AD 2025. The international news was no worse than usual—the smallpox outbreak in the Netherlands was being brought under control; Sarawak had tested a second fusion device in spite of protests from neighbouring countries; preliminary reports were coming in of some kind of major mishap on the Aristotle space colony; and Britain had introduced sugar rationing for a trial period of three months. In the U.S.A. the steel, coal and dock strikes were close to being settled, but there had been setbacks in the negotiations on the power workers’ and the hospital staffs’ pay claims; California police had discovered a partially-completed high-megaton bomb in an underground cavern close to the centre of the Palmdale bulge; in Flint, Michigan, the owner of a sporting goods store had killed his wife by tying her to a chair and hurling a total of 381 darts into her. And in the Annapolis area, because of a westerly wind, temperatures were comparatively high and the radiation count comparatively low.

Gretana took in the news with the practised indifference which preserved her sanity, storing it in a disused room in the mansion of her mind, then left the apartment and walked slowly to the southern entrance of Carter Park. A light snowfall during the night had sunk down through the atmosphere like wine finings, giving the air a sparkle, and so many people were heading for the park that lines had formed at all the weapon detectors. By the time she had passed through she had begun to feel quite warm and she opened her blue duvet jacket to allow some of the crisp air to circulate around her body. Hot food stands were already beginning to do business, the open-air ice rink was in use, and several groups of children—having discovered that the snow was a suitable consistency for throwing—were engaged in good-natured horseplay, the boys crowing with pleasure when they brought off difficult shots. Tall buildings, visible here and there through the trees, formed a mellow pastel background to the entire scene.

As had happened many times in the past, Gretana was both entranced and dismayed. The phenomenal vitality of the Terrans, shown at its best on such an occasion, was a reminder that none of them had any time, that they began to die almost from the moment of birth. When she returned to Mollan in a mere five or six decades, still at the very beginning of her life, most of the darting animated figures around her—including the children—would have been consigned to the grave. How could such a thing be? How could such inequality exist? That small boy over there, the one sitting so quietly and watchfully beside his mother while he tried to comprehend the miracle of snow—what would be left of him when she was attending her first parties on Silver Island in the Bay of Karlth? Would she remember him while she and Vekrynn circled in the spangled twilight? Because, if she did remember, what right would she or any other Mollanian have to dance?

The realisation that she was breaking her own rules for non-involvment and survival prompted Gretana to turn away in search of distraction. There was a modern self-heating conservatory in the centre of the park, one of her favourite places, and she walked straight to it. The air inside was heavy with the scent of foliage and blossoms, laden with moisture from a rectangular pool in which red-gold carp nosed and rippled the surface. She paused at a new display of trumpet-shaped purple flowers and after a moment’s thought identified them as Ruellia macrantha. After the first sensual shock of learning that Earth flowers were varicoloured, she had made a hobby of botany for some years, but found difficulty in relating its scientific terms to the wondrous actuality of the plants themselves. The richly coloured trumpets at which she was looking, for example, were…

“I don’t think you’ll ever get used to them.” The male voice came from behind her and slightly to the right. “No matter how long you stay here.”

Gretana turned and saw the man in the slate-coloured overcoat. Her first impulse was to hurry away, but years of dealing with predatory Terran men, and some women, had taught her that retreating usually encouraged the other person to advance. It was important to stand her ground. She examined the tall man dispassionately, as though he were another botanical specimen, then returned her gaze to the flowers without speaking.

“I like the flowers, but I’m not too sure about the insects,” he said. “Have you ever taken a close look at an insect?”

That’s what I’m doing now. The answer flashed into her mind—to be accompanied by a cold and impersonal stare—but it was dawning on Gretana that the stranger’s remarks had an oblique quality about them, an ambiguity which hinted that he might have more than a casual pick-up on his mind. She glanced along the leafy aisles, saw they were almost alone in the conservatory, and decided there could be occasions on which it was only prudent to retreat. The man could be anything from an immigration official to a sex offender, and either way she had no wish to find out.

“Excuse me,” she said, keeping her voice light and unconcerned, and began to walk towards the entrance.

“Of course.” The man waited until she had taken several paces before he spoke again. “Fair seasons.”

Gretana had taken two further steps before realising that the final words had been spoken in Mollanian.

She paused—overwhelmed by surprise—and without looking back said, “Who are you?”

The stranger added a new dimension to her surprise by emitting what sounded like a yelp of laughter. She spun round and saw that he really was laughing—shoulders raised, lean face growing darker as he strove to regulate his breathing. It appeared he was a person for whom laughing was not a superficial action, but a near-painful process which involved his whole body and was difficult to control.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to say, “but it’s so much like one of those awful spy melodramas. I knew you’d walk away, so I decided in advance that I’d speak to you in the tongue. You were supposed to stop with your back to me and say ‘Who are you?’—and that’s exactly what you did. It was classic.” He palmed away a tear from the corner of his right eye and gave a ruminative snort of amusement.

Gretana felt some anger and puzzlement, but overriding everything was a growing sense of alarm. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s all right,” the tall man said. “My name is Keith and I work for the Bureau. Just like you, except that I’m not assigned to any particular area.”

“I’m sorry, but I still don’t…”

“Look, I know this is something of a shock for you, but I tell you it’s all right.” He repeated the sentence in Mollanian, then switched back to English. “We both work for Vekrynn.”

“But…”

“I know, I know—there’s a strict rule about agents not associating with each other.” The man who had called himself Keith gave an elaborate shrug. “I’ve been here a quarter of a century, and that’s a long time for anybody to be on his own—even a Mollanian. And with the whole planet getting ready to blow itself up any year now, I can’t see how my talking to you for a few hours is going to make much difference to anything.” He smiled, showing teeth that were almost too regular. “Except to me, that is—I think maybe I’m a bit homesick.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Gretana confessed, still shocked and bewildered. She was deeply worried over the idea of breaking one of the Bureau’s strictest regulations, and yet hearing just a few words spoken in her native tongue had made her realise how isolated her existence had become.

“Why don’t you ask me how I located you?”

She considered the suggestion. “How did you?”

“It was simple,” Keith said, lowering his voice as a couple entered the conservatory. “All I knew was that there was a female agent in the Annapolis area, but that was all I needed to know. It’s easy to spot another Mollanian. If these people had any idea what was going on, if they had any idea what to look for, they could pick us up in no time.”

“I don’t understand.” Gretana was unable to shake off a suspicion that she was being tricked in some way.

“Well, we’ve got these solitary habits, and by Earth standards are practically asexual—two dead give-aways. Also, our general appearances are roughly the same. We’re all very tall and well set up in comparison to the average Terran, and there are points of resemblance in our features. The Bureau surgeons don’t realise they’re doing it because they can’t shake our old Lucent Ideal nonsense out of their heads. They give us features which conform to a calculated median, without realising that on Earth that’s a formula for beauty.” Keith paused and gave Gretana a direct, appreciative look which would have been a danger signal had it come from a Terran. “I’ve been here long enough to appreciate Terran aesthetics, and I can tell you Vekrynn’s tame sawbones really did a job on you.”

Gretana felt an unexpected flicker of gratification which had the effect of reawakening all her doubts. “Look, this is wrong. I really don’t want to go on with it.”

“There’s nothing to go on with,” Keith said. “We have already committed the ghastly, monstrous, unspeakable crime of saying hello to each other, so we might as well relax for one day and practise the lost art of conversation. I’ll tell you what I’ll do…” Keith showed signs of being overtaken by one of his unmanageable laughs. “…for every hour that you listen to me I’ll listen to you for two. How’s that?”

Gretana felt a similar urge to laugh and knew it had sprung from a preliminary easing of tension, a foretaste of what it would be like to lay down the burden of constantly being an alien among aliens. The idea was so appealing, her emotional defences so low, that she was predisposed to like and trust the tall man even though he was a stranger to her. Or was he? Looking at Keith’s face as he coped with the task of not laughing, she wondered if they could have met before they left Mollan.

“Do you come from Karlth?” she said, uncomfortably aware that asking the question signified acceptance of his proposal.

“Keith of Karlth?” He smiled and shook his head. “That sounds ridiculous. No, I’m from Eyrej province, beautiful home of the dewberry and the snowcake. I’ll tell you all about it in boring detail if you like.”

“We’d better go to my apartment.”

“Your apartment!” Keith allowed his jaw to sag. “What sort of a person do you think I am?”

Gretana laughed aloud from the sheer pleasure of being party to an exclusive joke, a private communication from one Mollanian to another which meant, for once, that it was the Terrans who were the outsiders. Keith had been contrasting the frenetic sexual activity of Earth to that of Mollan and giving her an unnecessary assurance that he would honour the behavioural codes of their own culture.

“You know,” she said warmly, “I’d almost forgotten how to laugh.”

“Sounds as though you suffer from either a bad memory or bad jokes.”

“My memory is excellent,” Gretana replied, wondering why she had experienced yet another flicker of uneasiness as she glanced up at her new companion. She was inherently law-abiding, so the most likely explanation was that her conscience was troubled over the breaking of the Bureau’s non-association rule—but the idea that she had seen Keith somewhere lingered in her mind. She was toying with it, preparing to question him further about his past, when there came a thought which perhaps had been too obvious to occur earlier. Keith, as a Mollanian, must have undergone surgery to enable him to work on Earth. His present appearance was substantially different to what it had been on Mollan, therefore her memory had to be playing tricks.

Relieved at having untangled a mental knot, she relaxed and began to anticipate the comfort of a day without loneliness.

Keith had stated his intention to leave at eight in the evening, and Gretana timed the meal for 6.30 so that they could continue talking at a leisurely pace while they ate. The global food shortages had had one benefit as far as she was concerned—a wide variety of vegetable proteins were available in the stores, and she could look after her nutritional needs without resorting to animal products. She planned a menu which in many respects was similar to what they would have had on Mollan, and even—by marinating small grapes in a peach liqueur—managed to approximate Keith’s beloved dewberries. He remained in or near the kitchen while the meal was in preparation and they talked continuously, obsessively, about all things Mollanian—deliberately concentrating on homely trivia—with Keith breaking into his infectious whole-body laughs each time they touched on a subject that particularly appealed to him.

With the passage of the hours Gretana’s conscience had ceased its murmurings, and by the time they sat down to eat she felt happier than at any time since her arrival on Earth. The starter dishes were good and the surroundings pleasant, she was mildly intoxicated by the conversation, and the darkness beyond the triple glass could have been that of a peaceful Mollanian evening, except for…She glanced towards the window on the east side of the room, knowing exactly where to look, and saw that a grain-coloured full moon was rising over the islands of Chesapeake Bay. Repressing a shiver, she went to the window and closed the Venetian blind. Keith’s heavy-lidded eyes were intent on her as she returned to the table and sat down.

“That won’t change anything,” he said perceptively. “It’s still there.”

“I know—but I’m practising being as blind as a Terran.” Aware that she had sounded callous, she lowered her gaze and stirred whorls of Creemette into her soup.

“These people are every bit as human as we are,” he said gently. “They’ve just been unlucky.”

“I know that.” Annoyed at her own verbal clumsiness, she was unwilling to back down. “I know they can’t help being blind.”

“The point is that they would be just as aware of third-order forces as members of any other race if it wasn’t for…” Keith paused. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to lecture you.”

“It’s all right.”

“Here I am—a first-time guest at your table—and I begin acting as if you were one of Old Father Vekrynn’s Preservationist puppets.”

“I told you it’s quite all right.” Gretana smiled, determined to hide the fact that she had been disturbed by Keith’s remarks. He appeared to have set out to make it obvious that he had little respect for Warden Vekrynn or the Bureau’s central policy, possibly with the intention of sounding out her own views, and her political naivety was such that she had no idea how to deal with the situation. Could he have been joking? Or masking loyalty with cynicism?

“Anyway, I expect you’ll have noticed by this time that Terrans aren’t totally insensitive to third-order forces,” Keith said, his interest apparently shifting.

“I’ve seen books on astrology.”

“That’s pure mumbo-jumbo, except that they’ve almost got it right when they talk about the influence of planets when they’re in square or trine, but I’m talking about the direct sensing of skord lines. I’ve travelled quite a bit in Europe and I’ve seen too many ancient megaliths placed directly on lines for it to have been coincidental. Also, it’s amazing how many times you’ll find that an old tavern or church has been built squarely on a minor node. They didn’t consciously realise what they were doing, of course. They must have looked over an area and decided that one particular place felt right for a particular kind of building, without ever knowing what influenced their decisions.

“And you get the opposite effect with modern developments which have been laid out by impersonal planning authorities. You’ll get a pub which has been sited way off a line or a node, and the local residents don’t want to patronise it, but they can’t tell you why. All they know is that it is somehow out of place. There was an eighteenth century English poet called Pope, who was interested in garden layout and architecture, and his advice to planners was ‘consult the genius of the place’. Now, if that doesn’t indicate an…” Keith stopped in mid-sentence and blinked apologetically over a poised spoonful of soup.

“I’m afraid you pressed my starter button,” he said. “When anybody presses my starter button—off I go.”

Gretana shook her head, denying the need for an apology. “I was interested.”

“Really? I’m glad about that. I’ve developed a great respect for the people of this planet, you see, and it sickens me the way they’re regarded as freaks. It’s so unfair.”

“They can hardly be classed as normal,” Gretana said, tentatively accepting the role of devil’s advocate.

“No, but look at the general galactic situation. We know—in fact, it’s basic to our philosophy—that the third-order forces which permeate the universe have a profound effect on living matter, especially just after conception. That’s when the raw materials of heredity are sorting themselves into the arrangement for the new individual. It’s a crucial time, when even the slightest interference from outside—say, the movement of nearby planets—has a major effect on the biological end-product.

“That’s also why the presence of one or more natural satellites is the most powerful factor influencing the development of life on any given planet—simply because a moon is the nearest astronomical neighbour. Do you know, Gretana, that every other planet which supports intelligent life is either moonless, or has a very small moon in a remote orbit?

“Even in the latter case, even when the moon is just a distant hunk of rock, studies have shown that the indigenous race is handicapped in its development because of the unstable lunar influences.” Keith abruptly swallowed the long-awaiting spoonful of soup and, as if to make up for lost time, took several more in rapid succession.

“I didn’t realise a small moon would make a difference,” Gretana said. “I thought it was only…”

“Even the smallest has its effect,” Keith cut in emphatically, “and that’s why the Terran culture is unique. Just think of it—a massive moon, a quarter of the diameter of the planet, atadistance of only thirty planetary diameters! There’s nothing like it anywhere else in the known galaxy.”

Gretana considered her sketchy knowledge of astronomy and frowned. “Really? In a hundred billion star systems?”

“There are other planets with giant moons, of course, but none of them has evolved a civilisation or even anything approaching intelligent life. This place is a crucible, Gretana. The first humans to skord themselves here must have been desperate for a home—maybe they chose it because nobody would follow—and their descendants probably lost the ability to escape right from the first generation. They’ve been here ever since, surviving in conditions that…

“Well, how can you describe the conditions? When the genetic programme is being assembled the weak, weak, weak molecular forces of DNA and RNA need a neutral environment in which to work—but what’s it like here? A volcano? An anthill that somebody has just put his boot through? It’s a miracle that the race has been able to survive this long, let alone create a civilisation. By all the rules of the game, the Terrans should have degenerated to the level of rabid animals long ago, but somehow they’ve managed to retain their humanity—and what do we do? Do we offer them help?”

Keith shook his head and an abstracted look in his eyes showed he was no longer addressing Gretana, that he was rehearsing old and painful arguments. “We feel superior—that’s what we do. We stand by with smug expressions on our faces and watch a world full of human beings go under. We help Old Father Vekrynn fill his stupid bloody Notebook.”

Gretana set her spoon down. “I wish you wouldn’t talk about Warden Vekrynn in that way.”

“Why? Is he a friend of yours?”

“I…” She decided to avoid personal issues. “Mollan has always believed in non-intervention with other human worlds. Vekrynn didn’t decide the policy.”

“No, but he doesn’t oppose it.”

“Why should he?”

“Because it’s wrong, Gretana.” All traces of humour had deserted Keith’s features, leaving a suggestion of hardness, a hinted capacity for cruelty which she found disconcerting.

“It’s wrong to avoid inflicting culture shock?” she said, again feeling icy slitherings far back in her consciousness as she saw the change in Keith’s face. She was almost certain, regardless of logical objections, that his image was lodged somewhere in her memory, but she was unable to make the proper connections. Perhaps it was a matter of the name being…

“It’s not the inflicting of culture shock that bothers Mollan,” Keith said forcibly. “It’s the receiving of it.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Gretana countered. “We are the most advanced.”

“The most static, you mean—the nearest to being dead.” Keith moved his soup plate away to make room for his elbows as he leaned forward. “I know you’re very young, Gretana, but did it never strike you what a boring place Mollan was? We, as a people, have elevated vapidity to the status of a religion. We have a government which is dedicated to ensuring that nothing ever happens and nothing ever changes. We’re a scared people, Gretana. We want eternity to be one endless Sunday afternoon—and that’s why we don’t interact with the other human worlds. It doesn’t matter about our non-human contacts, because it’s impossible for different species to have any social effect on each other, but we shut out the other humans because we’re afraid of their vitality and their potential for change. Don’t talk to me about culture shock.”

“I won’t.” Gretana cast around for a suitable sarcasm. “Your ideas are all too new and advanced for me.”

Keith smiled in mock-kindliness. “Could it be that all ideas are too new and advanced for you? It takes a certain kind of mind to face an eternal Sunday afternoon.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that you’re a typical product of the Mollanian system of non-education. How many full-scale educational imprints have you taken in your whole life?”

Gretana felt her cheeks grow warm. “I don’t have to…”

“How many imprints, Gretana?”

“About twenty,” she said defensively.

“Twenty!” Keith sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “You’ve been alive for something like eighty years, and out of that time—allowing a generous one second for the making of each imprint—you have devoted a third of a minute to the pursuit of knowledge. Congratulations!”

“I know all I need to know.”

“Not many people can make a claim like that,” Keith said with overt irony.

“It seems to me that…” Gretana, about to protest at being lectured, left the sentence unfinished as an earlier thought returned to her mind. Was it possible that she knew Keith under a different name?

“It seems to you that my stylus is stuck? Repeating a thing doesn’t make it untrue.”

“It isn’t the repetition, it’s the over-simplification.” Gretana strove to marshal unfamiliar arguments. “Does anybody ever do anything for a single, clear-cut reason?”

“Probably not. The Bureau’s main reason for being so solidly in favour of non-intervention—they don’t try to conceal it, don’t even see it as something that ought to be concealed—is that they want their sociological data to remain quote valid unquote. The Warden’s idea is to stand the uncertainty principle on its head, to observe without having any effect on the subject, and in that way to learn so much about the processes of macro-history that they’ll be able to preserve Mollanian society unchanged, exactly the way it is now, for ever. The fact that you can’t embalm a body until it’s dead doesn’t bother them.”

The smile, the sardonic twist to Keith’s lips, acted as a trigger which released ponderous mechanisms in Gretana’s memory. An image was retrieved, compared with that of the man sitting opposite to her, and a new name appeared in the forefront of her consciousness—Lorrest tye Thralen. Its psychological impact was so great that she almost moaned aloud.

You must act as though nothing had happened, she told herself amid the clamour of mental alarms. Act naturally…get close to the door…

“Isn’t that a one-sided view?” she said. “Can outside contact never harm a developing culture?”

“What I’m saying is that there are circumstances which not only justify intervention, but which cry out for it. How many worlds did Vekrynn tell you the Bureau was observing? A hundred?”

“I think so.” Gretana spoke casually while she tried to remember which of the locks on the apartment’s outer door were actually secured. It would be madness to run for the door and then have to waste valuable seconds fumbling with the locks.

“That figure is slightly historical,” Kelth/Lorrest said. “Four civilisations out of the original hundred no longer exist. We stood by and allowed four planetary cultures to founder.”

Gretana scarcely heard. All her attention was on the task of raising a spoonful of soup to her lips and, in the most natural manner possible, pretending to find something wrong with it.

“This has gone cold,” she said lightly. “It wasn’t one of my best efforts, anyway.” She got to her feet, picked up the two plates and carried them into the kitchen, her mind still grappling with the enormity of her problem. Crime of any sort was rare on Mollan, and murder was so unthinkable, so contrary to the basic tenets of Mollanian thought, that no case had been reported in Karlth during her six decades in the city. That showed that the memories relating to her visitor were the result of an educational imprint received during the induction given by the Bureau. The initial identification of Lorrest tye Thralen had been slowed by the intervening twenty-three years of experience and overlaid memories, but now that it had been achieved supplementary details were all too readily available:

The flurry of decades-old memories concerning Lorrest served to increase Gretana’s alarm. She had no idea why he had sought her out, but merely being near him was eroding her self-control at a frightening rate. It was imperative that she get out of the apartment quickly, before losing the slight advantage she had. A Mollanian who could kill was, by definition, an unpredictable psychotic, and the only reaction of which she was capable was to run away. Her instincts craved the sweet sensations of flight.

She rearranged saucepans on the cooker, making sure the actions were audible, glanced around the kitchen and felt a pang of relief as she saw that her pocketbook and gloves were on a stool near the door which led into the hall. Her credit cards and money were in the pocketbook, which meant that once she was safely out of the apartment she could travel nonstop for a long distance, all the way to the Cotter’s Edge nodal point if necessary. The trick was to get outside, quickly and without any fuss.

“That would happen,” she exclaimed with a show of homely annoyance. “I’m completely out of celery salt. Damn!”

“It doesn’t matter.” Lorrest spoke without turning his head towards the kitchen door. “I don’t mind.”

She laughed. “It’s obvious that you’re no cook—I don’t go to all the trouble of making greencakes and then serve them without celery salt. Not ever.”

“There’s no need to…”

“No, please…I’m going to leave you on your own for sixty seconds while I run next door and borrow some from the Harpers. Do you mind?” Gretana was studying Lorrest’s back as she spoke. He seemed completely relaxed, at ease with his surroundings, and it occurred to her that he would find her disappearance pretty bizarre if it turned out that she had mistaken his identity. Was that possible? How reliable was a memory imprinted twenty-three years earlier by…?

“I guess I can endure the solitude.” Lorrest stretched contentedly and placed his hands on the back of his neck, intertwining the fingers.

“Sixty seconds,” Gretana said. She strode silently to the other end of the kitchen, picked up her pocketbook and gloves, and did a rapid sidestep which took her into the hall. There was a silhouette, an unexpected presence. She gave a low sob as she saw that Lorrest was standing at the apartment’s outer door, barring her exit, his eyes filled with watchful reproach.

“You startled me,” she said hopelessly, aware that he had not been deceived, and that the speed with which he had reached the door proved she was physically outclassed. “I’ve just remembered that I owe Joanie Harper ten dollars, so I’m bringing my…”

She broke off, transfixed, as the tall man’s shoulders slowly drew up to the level of his ears. He stooped forward, face rapidly darkening, and it came to her that he was embarking on one of his harrowing bouts of laughter. She backed into the kitchen doorway and stood with one hand raised to her throat, unable to guess what might come next.

“I’m sorry,” Lorrest said, controlling his breathing with some difficulty, “but you did it again. I saw the exact moment you realised who I was, and I guessed you’d make an excuse and go into the kitchen and another excuse to leave the apartment. The only bit I got wrong was the celery salt—I was betting on ordinary salt or sugar or coffee.”

“I want to leave,” Gretana said in a fear-dulled voice. “Please let me go.”

“I can’t do that, Gretana.”

“Why?” Her challenge was born of despair. “Why not?”

Lorrest seemed surprised. “I can’t let you run out of here thinking I’m a murderer—you could draw a lot of attention to both of us. Besides, there’s no need for you to abandon a perfectly good apartment. I’ll be leaving soon and you’ll have the place all to yourself again.”

Gretana backed further into the kitchen and resisted the desire to sag on to a stool. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?” Lorrest followed her into the cupboard-lined alley, his shoulders still twitching with nervous amusement. “I mean you no harm—I only came to sound you out.”

“Under a false name.”

“We all use false names,” Lorrest said reasonably. “Making contact was a bit tricky under the circumstances, and that’s why I let you see me a few times in the park beforehand. I was hoping the imprint they gave you had faded out altogether.”

“I’ll bet you were,” Gretana said, marvelling at her ability to think and speak coherently while alone in a small room with a taker of life. It occurred to her that, with her ignorance of abnormal psychology, she ought to avoid antagonising or provoking Lorrest in any way. She tried to smile, to soften her retort.

“I’m not a murderer.” Lorrest’s face was solemn. “I’m a citizen of Mollan, just like you, and I’m no more capable of killing another human being than you are.”

“Then why did…?” Gretana stifled the query.

“I should have thought that was obvious,” Lorrest said. “The Warden knows that observers in the field, people with first-hand experience, are the most vulnerable part of the organisation, most likely to be susceptible to the ideas of the 2H movement—so they take crude but quite effective steps to prevent idealogical contamination. When there’s no conflicting evidence, a lie can be imprinted in the memory just as easily as the truth.”

In spite of the confusion and fear which dominated her thoughts, Gretana was amazed at the audacity of what she had heard. Any Mollanian who knowingly made a cerebral imprint containing false information would be flouting one of the most rigid ethical codes ever devised. His statement that Vekrynn had done so was proof, if any more were needed, that Lorrest was alone and lost in his private reality.

“This is all so…” Gretana paused, aware of the need to conciliate her visitor. “You’re telling me that the murder charges against you are falsifications?”

“Charges plural?”

“There was a Bureau worker who disappeared.”

“Oh, I see. That’s all part of the technique. Any time an observer meets with an accident—which is bound to happen now and then—the Bureau says 2H was responsible.” The humorous expression returned to Lorrest’s face. “We ought to be able to sue.”

Gretana shook her head. “I need time to think about this.”

“Well, if you’re not really out of celery salt, perhaps we could…” Lorrest gestured towards the dining area.

“Of course.” As she began to serve the main course, Gretana found that her hands were trembling in spite of the fact that she no longer sensed an immediate threat. She did her best to conceal the reaction, encouraging Lorrest to expand on his ideas while she, knowing that a too-quick acceptance would arouse suspicion, pretended to give them impartial consideration. A new short-term goal overshadowed everything else in her life—she had to part company with Lorrest in safety, and as soon as possible afterwards go to the Cotter’s Edge nodal point, transfer to Station 23 and report on the day’s events. She had no idea what action the Bureau might take, but that was a matter for the future, and merely coping with the present was taking all her resources.

As the minutes went by, however, she found evidence that she was not the Gretana ty Iltha of two decades earlier. Her conditioned dread of being in the presence of a murderer was abating and some measure of self-possession was returning. By the time Lorrest had turned his attentions to the dewberry substitute she felt confident enough to play the role of a near-convert who had earned the right to do some plain talking.

“These are good,” Lorrest said. “You must tell me how you did it.”

“Certainly—on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“That you tell me the real reason you’re here.” She met his gaze squarely. “The story I’ve heard so far doesn’t make sense.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You took a big risk contacting me the way you did—in fact, you still have no guarantee I won’t report everything. And for what? My sympathy or allegiance couldn’t make any difference to the 2H movement, otherwise you’d have contacted me long ago.” She kept her tone mild and impersonal, as though solving a party puzzle. “So there must be something you haven’t told me.”

“Not bad,” Lorrest replied, smiling. “You’re not just a pretty face.”

“Calling me pretty by Terran standards hardly constitutes flattery, so there’s no point in…”

“I give in!” Lorrest set his spoon down and raised both hands. “You’re quite right—I admit you can help me a lot. You see, there’s a kind of unofficial truce between the Bureau and 2H at present. Vekrynn would like to see us put away, but as long as we’re content to skulk around on Earth and do nothing it isn’t a big thing with him.”

Lorrest paused to scan Gretana’s face in a way that made her feel uncomfortable. “But that situation is about to change. Everything is going to change, Gretana, and when it does Vekrynn is going to take this planet apart to find us. That’s why I’m going to need your help.”

“You still haven’t…” Gretana broke off as urgent new questions invaded her mind. “What can you possibly do? Break the secrecy?”

“Go around telling people they’ve got visitors from another world? Warn them they’ve got to beat their missiles into ploughshares before it’s too late? Groups of Terrans have been doing that for a long time and they get nothing but horselaughs. Besides, I’d have to turn the spotlight on myself and the Bureau would pick me up within a day.”

“What, then?”

“I can’t tell you,” Lorrest said, his eyes holding hers with white-rimmed intensity. “You’ll know about it when it happens, though. Everybody in the world will know about it when it happens—but I can’t tell you anything in advance. That’s the way it has to be.”

Megalomania, paranoia, schizophrenia Gretana thought. How many madnesses are compatible?

“Everything seems a little one-sided so far,” she said. “I’m being asked to give my trust and my…Exactly what was it you wanted me to do?”

“I doubt if I’ll be able to get off the planet without your help—it’s as simple as that.” Lorrest gave her a rueful smile. “We’re short of manpower and resources in 2H. We’ve only been able to find three major nodes on Earth, and the nearest is in Chile, of all places—hardly what you would call a convenient location. The Bureau is aware of all three, anyway, and I know they are permanently watched, so they’ve got me penned here on Earth, unless…”

“I can’t do it,” Gretana said quickly, her original fears returning in force. “It’s too much.”

“How can you say it’s too much? It’s nothing!” Lorrest’s heavy eyelids slid downwards, censors. “I’d use the node once only—once only—then I’d be gone, and nobody would even know I’d done it.”

“I took an oath.”

“Have you weighed up your priorities? Which is more important to you—honouring a meaningless bit of ritual or helping throw a lifeline to billions of human beings?”

“It’s easy to put it like that.” Gretana almost sneered, wondering how far she dared go. “You’re talking about changing the history of an entire planet, and you want me to invest my whole future in some wild plan you won’t even discuss.”

“That’s the way it has to be,” Lorrest replied. “Some knowledge is too dangerous.”

“For whom?”

“I see.” Lorrest picked up a table knife and examined it, causing reflections to run like quicksilver on the blade. “What if I admitted I really am a murderer and threatened to use force on you?”

“I wouldn’t be able to believe anything you’ve told me,” Gretana said steadily. “And that would be a pity.”

“No psychological manipulation, please.” Lorrest let the knife fall. “Where do we go from here?”

“I suggest we don’t go anywhere for a while—I need a little time to think things through. Does that sound fair?”

“Fair she says!” Lorrest stood up suddenly, almost toppling his chair behind him. “Have you a television set?”

“There’s a portable in my bedroom,” Gretana said, taken aback, feeling her pulse quicken. It appeared that Lorrest’s mood had changed again, that the hours of talking had come to an end, and she had no idea what was coming next.

“That’s good.” Lorrest walked into the hall, then reappeared in the doorway as he pulled on his grey overcoat. “I suggest you pay attention to the newscasts during the next day or so—you might see something worth thinking about.”

He turned and left, moving with the silent speed that had confounded her earlier, and a second later the outer door of the apartment slammed so violently that the coffee cups she had set out shivered delicately on their saucers. She ran to the door and secured it, then went straight to the bedroom and began to pack an overnight bag.

The familiar task was almost completed when she paused, pressing the back of one hand to her forehead, forcing herself to review the events of the day. There was no doubt that Lorrest’s principal reason for contacting her had been that he wanted the location of the Carsewell node, and on the face of it he had bungled the mission, alienating her with his wild talk and irrational behaviour. But was it possible that it had all been calculated?

If he had guessed in advance that she would remain loyal to Vekrynn he might have decided to take advantage of her inexperience, to give her enough of a jolt to send her scurrying to Station 23 by way of the hidden node. It was, now that she thought about it, quite possible that Lorrest was positioned nearby in the darkness outside the apartment, waiting for her to react according to his plan. And if that were the case, she would be better to do nothing out of the ordinary for at least a couple of days and use the time to devise a method of getting to Carsewell without being followed.

A new decision made, Gretana unpacked the overnight bag. With the need for action no longer present, she began to feel a deep weariness—a reaction to the prolonged tensions of the day—and her thoughts turned to the coffee which was percolating in the kitchen. Coffee with just a dash of brandy seemed highly desirable at that moment, no more than she had earned. She put the bag into a closet and, on impulse, picked up the lightweight television set and carried it with her into the kitchen.