The Ganymede Takeover

XIII

“What do you mean, you don’t know where he is?” Dr. Choate demanded.

“Just what I said,” answered Ed Newkom, shrug­ging his shoulders. The two men faced each other for a moment in silence in the little Knoxville hotel room and then Dr. Choate turned away.

“He must have left some indication of how he could be reached,” Choate said.

“Nope,” Ed Newkom said flatly.

“And he took the girl, Joan Hiashi, with him?”

“That’s right, Dr. Choate.”

It had become hot in the hotel room. Choate brought out an Iris linen handkerchief and mopped the perspiration from his forehead; he squinted at the bright sunlight streaming in from the window and felt angry and irritable. “I have to locate him; I have to know whether he plans to undertake the Percy X mission or not. It’s been five days; he may be gone for good.” Defected, he thought, or just plain copped out.

“You don’t know Paul very well, do you?” Ed Newkom said.

“That’s the trouble; I do know him. I know how

involved he gets emotionally with his patients. It’s part of his style of therapy to treat the patient almost as an equal. A bad policy—it puts too much strain on the therapist. He’s probably cracking up.” He felt all at once—not irritation—but genuine concern.

Paul Rivers, at 'that moment, knew an inner calm and peace with himself such as he had never before experienced. He had begun to learn how to do noth­ing. The Sexual Freedom Society had not under­stood how to achieve it, but Joan Hiashi did; now she was teaching him, in a run-down one-room cabin in the woods of Tennessee, a good distance from the nearest paved road. She had taught him how to lie in the sun like a vegetable—and grow roots.

Side by side the two of them lay, on the ramshackle porch, only their fingertips touching. Once Paul had half-heartedly tried to kiss her, but she had pushed him gently away and he had taken “no” for an an­swer. Now, after more than an hour of torpid, mind­less silence, she had begun to speak, very slowly.

“I can’t make love anymore; it makes me feel false, now. I’m not a woman, or a man; I’m both and neither. I’m the entire universe and just a single tiny eye, watching. To be a man or a woman is to put on an act—and I’m through with acting. It is good to touch me, though, isn’t it? As it’s good to touch a dog or a cat?”

"Yes,” Paul said, almost inaudibly. This is the first time, he thought, that a woman has known how to let me be. How to be with me without requiring that I pay attention to her, constantly prove to her that she exists. It’s true in a way, he realized, that being a man or a woman is, in a large measure, just an act, a certain culturally determined role that may have very little to do with how we really are inside. How many times, he asked himself, have I made love not because I wanted to but because I wanted to prove to myself and some poor woman that I was a “real man’’?

He glanced over at Joan’s expressionless profile and thought, But she seems so far away. I wonder where she’s gone, deep in her hidden depths.

“Where are you, Joan?” he asked.

“Nowhere.”

“You’re the little Nowhere Girl, aren’t you?”

“You could call me that.”

A bird, probably a hummingbird, caught Paul’s eye; it sat on atree-branch beyond the weed-infested yard, singing. It had one short song which it sang over and over again, always exactly the same. As Paul watched it, he could have sworn that the bird paused and looked back at him, silent for a moment, and thoughtful. Man and bird contemplated each other across the expanse of undulating heat and then, abruptly, the bird resumed its singing. Suddenly, and without warning, Paul felt painful emotions rising into activity within him. Fantasies danced on his brain and unexplainable tears dimmed his vision. Perhaps he had been a bird, once; perhaps this small bird had recognized him as a brother.

The bird came closer, still singing.

I have wings, too, Paul thought. But you can’t see them. And I can feel the wind under them, feel the air bearing up the weight of my body.

When his vision cleared, the bird had gone.

“He knew you were listening, Joan said. “He’s a terrible ham.”

“Does this sort of thing happen to you often?”

“Yes,” Joan said. “They’re all hams, the birds and animals, but they won’t show off to you unless they sense that you won’t hurt them. They don’t have as much knowledge as humans, but much more wis­dom. Some of them, particularly cats, are great philosophers and holy men.”

“Are you a holy woman?” he asked, surprised at his own question.

“Perhaps. If I have any ambition it’s to be some­thing like a saint or holy woman. What else is worth­while?”

Paul said thoughtfully, “You’ve made it about halfway.” He chose his words with care. “Buddha and Christ began by going off into the wilderness, into the kind of aloneness you seem to be in now, but they didn’t stay there. They came back—to try to do something for the rest of us. Maybe they failed. But at least they tried.” With a grunt he rose unsteadily to his feet, stood swaying, then stretched and felt all right.

“Where are you going?” Joan asked.

“Back to the city,” Paul said grimly. “I’ve got work to do.”

Much to his own surprise, Gus Swenesgard found himself still alive after the Great Battle. And, being alive, he could indulge himself in the luxury of admir­ing his enemy.

“We got some pretty good Neegs in these hills,” he said to nobody in particular as he stumped through

the lobby of his hotel and out into the morning sun­shine. Pausing, he inhaled a good, hefty amount of dusty air laden with the healthy smell of decaying weeds; he then ran his hand over his somewhat un­shaven jowls, coughed and spat. "I gotta quit smok­ing one of these days,” he muttered under his breath. But he knew, deep inside, that he didn’t have the strength to do it.

Instead, he pulled out a cigar and lit it.

Ah, he thought dreamily, that’s better. There was nothing that covered up the taste of old, stale smoke quite so well as new, fresh smoke. Gus exhaled, then swaggered down the front steps—carefully avoiding the broken one—and headed for the prisoners’ com­pound down the street; several vacant lots had been fenced in to provide a temporary dwelling-place for the Neeg-part deserters that streamed into Gus’ plan­tation in ever-increasing numbers. Since the battle of the phantoms the trickle of turncoats had become a torrent. If thpy just keep using that illusion machine, Gus said to himself, I’ll be sittin’ pretty.

When he reached the fence of the prisoners’ com­pound he paused a moment, pondering. It’s no good, he decided, keeping those good, black bucks stand­ing around idle; I think we’d better get a little public works goin’ here. First off I’ll get a sign-painting factory going to make signs and posters that say ‘ FULL EMPLO YMENT’ ’ and ‘ LET’S ALL PULL TOGETHER” and that sort of thing, and then we’ll have to get a money factory going to pay them. I think we got some old steel engravings of confeder­ate money in the museum that are still as good as in the old days when Jeff Davis lived.

Once we get the money printed up, he thought happily, we can start fixin’ up this place. Roads to be built, ionocrafts to be repaired. And a government to be set up. In his mind he began to list all his relatives and personal friends; they, of course, would have to have special political positions set up for them and under them he would create an overlapping maze of job-holding bureaucratic functionaries whose tasks would be vague—but who would constitute all the. gpod people personally familiar to. him on a man-to-man hand-shaking basis throughout the bale. Have to get a few of the right kind of Neegs in there, too, he reflected. To keep them from getting restless.

He spotted the lean, stooped figure of Doc Burns emerging from the compound, past the guards. “How’s it going, Doc?” Gus said.

“You ought to get these people out of here; these conditions breed disease.”

“How about sending them into battle—they left the ’parts; now let them fight the ’parts.

Doc Bums said, “These Neegs didn’t leave the ’parts; they left those weapons. And they’re not about to go into battle against those same weapons. It was bad enough for them, being on the giving end; they’re not about to—”

“But,” Gus said, “I gotta clean out those hills once andfor all. I haven’t given up: Ican’t give up.” “Use robots.”

“You know, Doc, maybe you got something there.” A robot army, Gus thought, might not be affected by illusions. Anyhow it seemed worth a try. “An all-out offensive against the Neeg-parts,” he said aloud, “using nothing but autonomic and homeostatic weapons.”

Doc Burns said skeptically, “Where will you get such weapons?”

“From the worms,” Gus said. “I’ll get Mekkis to give me the best they’ve got; stuff maybe which we’ve never seen.” He strode off.

“Read no more,” the Oracle pleaded mournfully. “The hour of the Nowhere Girl is upon us!” Mekkis wove, sent out his tongue to depress a button on his office intercom. “Send in the Huck­ster,” he ordered his wik secretary.

A moment later the door slid aside; a smiling, well-dressed Terran with bow tie and purple velvet coveralls entered. “I am the Huckster,” he informed Mekkis.

“I know,” Mekkis said, and he thought, You must be a telepath, too; otherwise you never would have learned to scramble. And also, he said to himself, you must be a graduate of Balkani’s school.

“You are, I understand,” the Huckster said, “looking for certain documents, certain obscure papers written by Dr. Rudolph Balkani and circu­lated privately to students at his seminars. Papers crucial to a comprehension of Balkani’s theories, yet withheld from the general public.”

“Do you have such papers?”

“For a price.”

“Of course,” Mekkis said. “I’m told that it is you who sold my predecessor, Marshal Koli, this vast collection of plastic model planes and other various historical odds and ends now enshrined in these offices. If you can supply me with these documents I will trade you the entire World War One sequence of fighter aircraft for them.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” the Huckster said, grinning.

“I realize that you may find my generosity a little overwhelming,” Mekkis said, “but we Ganyme- dians are a—”

“You don’t understand.” The Huckster had begun to laugh openly. “I wouldn’t take those model planes if you paid me to haul them away. They’re utterly worthless.”

“What! But Marshal Koli said—”

“Marshal Koli was a collector, Mr. Administrator. I’m a businessman. The documents I have to sell should be worth in the neighborhood of one hundred Ganymedian cluds. It is that or nothing.”

“Let me see it,” Mekkis said.

“One page, that’s all.”

Mekkis said, “I could have you arrested and the document taken from you by force.”

“True,” the Huckster said. “But you would never see the other documents I could bring you; this is only one of many such lovely items.”

‘ ‘ Very well. My secretary will make out a check for you to the amount of one hundred cluds. Now let’s see the thing.”

After the Huckster had gone Mekkis studied the document carefully. It appeared authentic; he recog­nized the writing-style of the erratic Balkani. The key, Mekkis thought; analysis of the experiments in chemotherapy which made possible his Oblivion Therapy. Great god almighty!

I’ll have to see what else that young Terran has for sale, mused the Ganymedian Administrator.

He did not grant an audience to Gus Swenesgard.

When notified of Gus’ presence he did not even bother to scan him. “As I’ve already ordered,” he informed his secretary, “give him what he wants and leave me alone.” Gus, therefore, left with a requisi­tion for first-line autonomic and homeostatic Ganymedian attack weapons.

Mekkis did not know this, but, had he known, he would not have cared. Because a report had come in—news completely unexpected

“Percy X and Joan Hiashi,” his wik secretary informed him, “have escaped from Balkani’s estab­lishment in Norway.” A pause and then the secre­tary said, “Dr. Balkani is dead.”

For a moment Mekkis ceased to think. He sat, mouth open, his tongue frozen. “How did it hap­pen?” he asked at last.

“Suicide, it would appear.

“No,” Mekkis whispered. “It can’t be suicide.” “I’m only passing on what information I got from Cultural Control,” the secretary said.

“Is there anything more?”

The secretary said, “It seems almost certain that Percy X has returned to this bale; that has Cultural Control in a panic because it indicates that resistance to Gany rule may be much more widespread and subtle than had been previously believed. Someone managed to slip two simulacra into Balkani’s estab­lishment, one of Percy X and one of Joan Hiashi; Balkani evidently didn’t recognize the switch, even though the simulacra had been built from one of his designs. There is speculation that Balkani was a dou­ble agent and that all of the wiks trained by him may be imprinted with lethal post-hypnotic suggestions.

Some have already killed themselves—for no ap­parent reason.”

“Thank you,” Mekkis said in a strangled voice. He tongued off the intercom and sat for a long time in silence. All around him lay the articles, monographs, books and pamphlets of Dr. Balkani, and Mekkis thought, As long as I am alive Balkani is alive, too. What he began I will finish. The work of the man exists entire in my mind.

Harshly, he called for his creeches. They came, scuttling and scampering and flapping, from the next room, pitifully happy to be once more noticed, once more of use to him.

“Electronics engineer,” Mekkis said.

“Yes,” squeaked the little being with the slender, delicate fingers.

“Rig up the thought amplifier that we use to con­tact the Great Common for short-range purposes,” he commanded. We live always in each other’s minds, he thought. Stuck together in a sticky mass through the Great Common, hardly existing as indi­viduals at all.

But I, he thought, have become an individual; I have separated from the Great Womb and been born—as what? A true Ganymedian? A human? No; something else: a stranger in the universe belonging nowhere. A Balkani. The Great Common turned against me, cast me out to rot away in the most unwanted corner of the system. Now, he thought, I can thank them for it; if I hadn’t hated them I never would have seen the meaning of Dr. Balkani’s theories.

Theories? No, facts. The truth, the ultimate truth of existence.

“What,” the Oracle said apprehensively, “are you going to do with the thought amplifier when it is rigged?”

“I’m going to contact Percy X,” Mekkis informed him.

“Then,” the Oracle said with resignation, “it is too late to turn back. The great darkness is upon us and nothing can stop it now.”