It struggled on gamely, however. Once it had been stimulated to follow, it could do nothing else.
The three men and a woman drifted upward in a well of rising fluid. The white cell, barely moving, drifted up with them.
The smooth curved wall at one side was transparent. It was transparent not in the fashion of the thin capillary wall, but truly transparent. There were no signs of cell membranes of nuclei.
Duval said, “This is the cornea. The other wall is the lower eyelid. We’ve got to get far enough away to de-miniaturize fully without hurting Benes, and we only have seconds to do it in.”
Up above, many feet above (on their still tiny scale) was a horizontal crack.
“Through there,” said Duval.
“The ship’s on the surface of the eye,” came the triumphant shout.
“All right,” said Reid. “Right eye.”
A technician leaned close with the microscope slide at Benes’ closed eye. A magnifying lens was in place. Slowly, with a felted clamp, the lower eyelid was gently pinched and pulled down.
“It’s there,” said the technician in hushed tones. “Like a speck of dirt.”
Skillfully, he placed the slide to the eye and a teardrop with the speck in it squeezed on to it.
Everyone backed away.
Reid said, “Something that is large enough to see is going to get much larger very quickly. Scatter!”
The technician, torn between hurry and the necessity for gentleness, placed the slide down on the floor of the room, then backed away at a quick trot.
The nurses wheeled the operating table quickly through the large double door and with a startlingly accelerated speed, the specks on the slide grew to full size.
Three men, a woman, and a heap of metal fragments, rounded and eroded, were present where none had been a moment before.
Reid muttered, “Eight seconds to spare.”
But Carter said, “Where’s Michaels? If Michaels is still in Benes …” He started after the vanished operating table with the consciousness of defeat once again filling him.
Grant pulled off his helmet and waved him back. “It’s all right, general. That’s what’s left of the Proteus and somewhere in it you’ll find whatever’s left of Michaels. Maybe just an organic jelly with some fragments of bones.”
Grant still hadn’t grown used to the world as it was. He had slept, with a few breaks, for fifteen hours, and he woke in wonder at a world of light and space.
He had breakfast in bed, with Carter and Reid at his bedside, smiling.
Grant said, “Are the rest getting this treatment, too?”
Carter said, “Everything that money can buy—for a while, anyway. Owens is the only one we’ve let go. He wanted to be with his wife and kids and we turned him loose, but only after he gave us a quick description of what happened. —Apparently, Grant, the mission’s success was more to your credit than to anyone’s.”
“If you want to go by a few items, maybe,” said Grant. “If you want to recommend me for a medal and a promotion, I’ll accept. If you want to recommend me for a year’s vacation with pay, I’ll accept them even more quickly. Actually, though, the mission would have been a failure without any one of us. Even Michaels guided us efficiently enough—for the most part.”
“Michaels,” said Carter, thoughtfully. “That bit about him, you know, isn’t for publication. The official story is that he died in the line of duty. It wouldn’t do any good to have it known that a traitor had infiltrated the CMDF. And I don’t know that he was a traitor at that.”
Reid said, “I knew him well enough to be able to say that he wasn’t. Not in the usual sense of the word.”
Grant nodded. “I agree. He wasn’t a storybook villain. He took time to put a swimsuit on Owens before pushing him out of the ship. He was content to have the white cells kill Owens, but he couldn’t do the job himself. No—I think he really wanted to keep indefinite miniaturization a secret for, as he saw it, the good of humanity.”
Reid said, “He was all for peaceful uses of miniaturization. So am I. But what good would it do to …”
Carter interrupted. “You’re dealing with a mind that grew irrational under pressure. Look, we’ve had this sort of thing since the invention of the atomic bomb. There are always people who think that if some new discovery with frightful implications is suppressed, all will be well. Except that you can’t suppress a discovery whose time has come. If Benes had died, indefinite miniaturization would still have been discovered next year, or five years from now, or ten. Only then, They might have had it first.”
“And now We will have it first,” said Grant, “and what do we do with it? End in the final war. Maybe Michaels was right.”
Carter said, dryly, “And maybe the common sense of humanity will prevail on both sides. It has so far.”
Reid said, “Especially since, once this story gets out, and the news media spread the tale of the fantastic voyage of the Proteus, the peaceful uses of miniaturization will be dramatized to the point where we can all fight military domination of the Technique. And perhaps successfully.”
Carter, taking out a cigar, looked grim and did not answer directly. He said, “Tell me, Grant, how did you catch on to Michaels?”
“I didn’t really,” said Grant. “It was all the result of a confused mass of thinking. In the first place, general, you put me on board ship because you suspected Duval.”
“Oh, now—wait …”
“Everyone on the ship knew you had done so. Except Duval, perhaps. That gave me a headstart—in the wrong direction. However, you were clearly not sure of your ground, for you didn’t warn me of anything, so I wasn’t inclined to go off half-cocked myself. Those were high-powered people on board ship and I knew that if I grabbed someone and turned out to be mistaken, you would back off and let me take the rap.”
Reid smiled gently, and Carter flushed and grew very interested in his cigar.
Grant said, “No hard feelings, of course. It’s part of my job to take the rap—but only if I have to. So I waited until I was sure, and I was never really sure.
“We were plagued with a series of accidents, or what might possibly have been accidents. For instance, the laser was damaged and there was the chance that Miss Peterson had damaged it. But why in so clumsy a fashion? She knew a dozen ways of gimmicking the laser so that it would seem perfectly all right and yet not work properly. She could have arranged it so that Duval’s aim would be off just enough to make it inevitable that he would kill the nerve, or perhaps even Benes. A crudely damaged laser was either an accident, then, or the deliberate work of someone other than Miss Peterson.
“Then, too, my lifeline came loose in the lungs and I nearly died as a result. Duval was the logical suspect there, but it was he who suggested that the ship’s headlight be shone into the gap, and that saved me. Why try to kill me and then act to save me? It doesn’t make sense. Either that was an accident, too, or my lifeline had been loosened by someone other than Duval.
“We lost our air supply, and Owens might have arranged that little disaster. But then when we pulled in more air, Owens improvised an air-miniaturization device that seemed to do miracles. He could easily not have done so and no one of us would have been able to accuse him of sabotage. Why bother to lose our air and then work like the devil to gain it back? Either that was an accident, too, or the air supply had been sabotaged by someone other than Owens.
“I could omit myself from consideration, since I knew that I wasn’t engaged in sabotage. That left Michaels.”
Carter said, “You reasoned that he had been responsible for all those accidents.”
“No, they might still have been accidents. We’ll never know. But if it were sabotage then Michaels was far and away the most likely candidate for he was the only one who was not involved in a last-minute rescue, or who might be expected to have performed a more subtle piece of sabotage. So now let’s consider Michaels.
“The first accident was the e
ncounter with the arterio-venous fistula. Either that was an honest misfortune or Michaels had guided us into it deliberately. If this was sabotage, then unlike all the other cases, only one culprit was conceivable, only one—Michaels. He admitted as much himself at one point. Only he could possibly have guided us into it; only he could possibly know Benes’ circulatory system well enough to spot a microscopic fistula; and it was he who directed the exact spot of insertion into the artery in the first place.”
Reid said, “It might still have been a misfortune; an honest error.”
“True! But whereas in all the other accidents, those who were involved as possible suspects did their best to pull us through, Michaels, after we had emerged into the venous system, argued hard for immediate abandonment of the mission. He did the same at every other crisis. He was the only one to do so consistently. And yet that wasn’t the real giveaway as far as I was concerned.”
“Well, then, what was the giveaway?” asked Carter.
“When the mission first started and we were miniaturized and inserted into the carotid artery, I was scared. We were all a little uneasy, to say the least, but Michaels was the most frightened of all. He was almost paralyzed with fear. I accepted that at the time. I saw no disgrace in it. As I said, I was pretty frightened myself, and in fact, I was glad of the company. But …”
“But?”
“But after we had gotten through the arterio-venous fistula, Michaels never showed any trace of fear again. At times when the rest of us were nervous, he was not. He had become a rock. In fact, at the start, he had given me plenty of statements on what a coward he was—to explain his obvious fear—but toward the end of the voyage, he was offended almost to frenzy when Duval implied he was a coward. That change in attitude got to seeming queerer and queerer to me.
“It seemed to me there had to be a special reason for his initial fear. As long as he faced dangers with the rest of us, he was a brave man. Perhaps, then, it was when he faced a danger the rest of us did not share that he was afraid. The inability to share the risk, the necessity to face death alone, was what turned him coward.
“At the start, after all, the rest of us were frightened of the mere act of being miniaturized but that was carried through safely. After that, we all expected to move toward the clot, operate on it and get out, taking ten minutes perhaps, all told.
“But Michaels must have been the only one of us who knew this was not going to happen. He alone must have known there would be trouble and that we were about to rumble into a whirlpool. Owens had spoken about the ship’s fragility at the briefing and Michaels must have expected death. He alone must have expected death. No wonder he nearly broke down.
“When we got through the fistula in one piece, he was almost delirious with relief. After that, he felt certain that we would not be able to complete the mission and he relaxed. With each successful surmounting of some crisis, he grew angrier. He had no more room for fear, only for anger.
“By the time we were in the ear, I had made up my mind that Michaels, not Duval, was our man. I wouldn’t let him badger Duval into trying the laser beforehand. I ordered him away from Miss Peterson when I was trying to get her away from the antibodies. But then in the end, I made a mistake. I didn’t stay with him during the actual operation and thus gave him his chance to seize the ship. There was this last little shred of doubt in my mind …”
“That perhaps it was Duval after all?” said Carter.
“I’m afraid so. So I went out to watch the operation when I could have done nothing about it even if Duval were a traitor. If it hadn’t been for that final piece of stupidity, I might have brought the ship back intact, and Michaels alive.”
“Well,” Carter got to his feet, “it was cheap at the price. Benes is alive and slowly recovering. I’m not sure that Owens thinks so, though. He’s in mourning for his ship.”
“I don’t blame him,” said Grant, “it was a sweet vessel. Uh—listen, where’s Miss Peterson, do you know?”
Reid said, “Up and around. She had more stamina than you had, apparently.”
“I mean, is she here at the CMDF anywhere?”
“Yes. In Duval’s office, I imagine.”
“Oh,” said Grant, suddenly deflated. “Well, I’ll wash and shave and get out of here.”
Cora put the papers together. “Well, then, Dr. Duval, if the report can wait over the weekend, I would appreciate the time off.”
“Yes, certainly,” said Duval. “I think we could all use some time off. How do you feel?”
“I seem to be all right.”
“It’s been an experience, hasn’t it?”
Cora smiled and walked toward the door.
The corner of Grant’s head pushed past it. “Miss Peterson?”
Cora started violently, recognized Grant, and came running to him, smiling. “It was Cora in the bloodstream.”
“Is it still Cora?”
“Of course. It always will be, I hope.”
Grant hesitated. “You might call me Charles. You might even get to the point someday where you can call me Good Old Charlie.”
“I’ll try, Charles.”
“When do you quit work?”
“I’ve just quit for the weekend.”
Grant thought a while, rubbed his clean-shaven chin, then nodded toward Duval, who was bent over his desk.
“Are you all tied up with him?” he asked at last.
Cora said, gravely, “I admire his work. He admires my work.” And she shrugged.
Grant said, “May I admire you?”
She hesitated, then smiled a little. “Any time you want to. As long as you want to. If—if I can admire you occasionally, too.”
“Let me know when and I’ll strike a pose.”
They laughed together. Duval looked up, saw them in the doorway, smiled faintly, and waved something that might have been either a greeting or a farewell.
Cora said, “I want to change into street clothes, and then I would like to see Benes. Is that all right?”
“Will they allow visitors?”
Cora shook her head. “No. But we’re special.”
Benes’ eyes were open. He tried to smile.
A nurse whispered anxiously, “Only a minute, now. He doesn’t know what’s happened, so don’t say anything about it.”
“I understand,” said Grant.
To Benes, in a low voice, he said, “How are you?”
Benes tried again to smile. “I’m not sure. Very tired. I have a headache and my right eye hurts, but I seem to have survived.”
“Good!”
“It takes more than a knock on the head to kill a scientist,” said Benes. “All that mathematics makes the skull as hard as a rock, eh?”
“We’re all glad of that,” said Cora, gently.
“Now I must remember what I came here to tell. It’s a little hazy, but it’s coming back. It’s all in me, all of it.” And now he did smile.
And Grant said, “You’d be surprised at what’s in you, professor.”
The nurse ushered them out and Grant and Cora left, hand in warm hand, into a world that suddenly seemed to hold no terrors for them, but only the prospect of great joy.
Available now from Bantam Books:
FORWARD THE FOUNDATION
As Hari Seldon continues to develop his Theory of Psychohistory, he notices an alarming rise in breakdowns within the infrastructure of Trantor, central world of the galaxy. Suspecting the work of the Joranumites, a revolutionary group determined to overthrow Imperial rule, Hari sends his son Raych on an undercover mission to infiltrate the radical movement. After gaining access to the group’s inner sanctum, Raych, operating under the assumed name Planchet, is pressed by Joranumite leaders Gambol Deen Namarti and Gleb Andorin to prove his loyalty to the cause. Raych’s mission: Kill Hari Seldon.
Here is an excerpt from Isaac Asimov’s epic future history, available in paperback from Bantam Books:
Gambol Deen Namarti was not, at even the b
est of times, noted for his politeness and suavity, and the approach of the climax of a decade of planning had left him the sourer of disposition.
He rose from his chair in some agitation as he said, “You’ve taken your time getting here, Andorin.”
Andorin shrugged. “But I’m here.”
“And this young man of yours—this remarkable tool that you’re touting. Where is he?”
“He’ll be here eventually.”
“Why not now?”
Andorin’s rather handsome head seemed to sink a bit as though, for a moment, he were lost in thought or coming to a decision, and then he said, abruptly, “I don’t want to bring him till I know where I stand.”
“What does that mean?”
“Simple words in Galactic Standard. How long has it been your aim to get rid of Hari Seldon?”
“Always! Always! Is that so hard to understand? We deserve revenge for what he did to JoJo. Even if he hadn’t done that, since he’s the First Minister we’d have to put him out of the way.”
“But it’s Cleon—Cleon—that must be brought down. If not only he, then at least he in addition to Seldon.”
“Why does a figurehead concern you?”
“You weren’t born yesterday. I’ve never had to explain my part in this because you’re not so ignorant a fool as not to know. What can I possibly care about your plans if they don’t include a replacement on the throne?”
Namarti laughed. “Of course. I’ve known for a long time that you look upon me as your footstool; your way of climbing up to the Imperial throne.”
“Would you expect anything else?”
“Not at all. I will do the planning, take the chances, and then, when all is quite done, you gather in the reward. It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does make sense, for the reward will be yours, too. Won’t you become the First Minister? Won’t you be able to count on the full support of a new Emperor, one who is filled with gratitude? Won’t I be”—his face twisted with irony as he spat out the words—”the new figurehead?”