“In that case, Mr. President, may I ask Ambassador Kaldor to join me?”
The president hesitated only a moment then he replied, “Certainly.” The captain was relieved to see a ghost of a smile, as if in recognition of this diplomatic nicety. The visitors might be outranked – but not outnumbered.
Prime Minister Bergman, as Captain Bey knew perfectly well, was really the power behind the throne. Behind the PM was the cabinet, and behind the cabinet was the Jefferson Mark 3 Constitution. The arrangement had worked well for the last few centuries; Captain Bey had a foreboding that it was now about to undergo some major perturbation.
Kaldor was quickly rescued from Mrs. Farradine, who was using him as a guinea pig to try out her ideas for redecorating the President’s House. The prime minister arrived a few seconds later, wearing his usual inscrutable expression.
When they were all seated, the president folded his arms, leaned back in his ornate swivel chair, and looked accusingly at his visitors.
“Captain Bey – Dr. Kaldor – we have received some most disturbing information. We would like to know if there is any truth in the report that you now intend to end your mission here – and not at Sagan 2.”
Captain Bey felt a great sensation of relief- followed instantly by annoyance. There must have been a bad breach of security; he had hoped that the Lassans would never hear of the petition and Ship’s Council – though perhaps that was too much to expect.
“Mr. President – Mr. Prime Minister – if you have heard such a rumour, I can assure you that there is absolutely no truth in it. Why do you think we are hoisting six hundred tons of ice a day to rebuild our shield? Would we bother to do that if we planned to stay here?”
“Perhaps. If for some reason you’ve changed your mind, you would hardly alert us by suspending operations.”
The quick rejoiner gave the captain a momentary shock; he had underrated these amiable people. Then he realized that they – and their computers – must have already analysed all the obvious possibilities.
“True enough. But I’d like to tell you – it’s still confidential and not yet announced – that we plan to double the rate of hoisting to finish the shield more quickly. Far from staying on, we plan to leave early. I had hoped to inform you of this in more pleasant circumstances.”
Even the prime minister could not completely conceal his surprise; the president did not even try. Before they could recover, Captain Bey resumed his attack:
“And it’s only fair, Mr. President, that you give us the evidence for your – accusation. Otherwise, how can we refute it?”
The president looked at the prime minister. The prime minister looked at the visitors.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. It would reveal our sources of information.”
“Then it’s a stalemate. We won’t be able to convince you until we really do leave – one hundred and thirty days from now according to the revised schedule.”
There was a thoughtful and rather gloomy silence; then Kaldor said quietly: “Could I have a brief private talk with the captain?”
“Of course.”
While they were gone, the president asked the prime minister: “Are they telling the truth?”
“Kaldor wouldn’t lie; I’m certain of that. But perhaps he doesn’t know all the facts.”
There was no time to continue the discussion before the parties of the second part returned to face their accusers.
“Mr. President,” the captain said, “Dr. Kaldor and I both agree that there is something we should tell you. We’d hoped to keep it quiet – it was embarrassing and we thought the matter had been settled. Possibly we’re wrong; in that case, we may need your help.”
He gave a brief summary of the Council proceedings and the events that had led up to them and concluded, “If you wish, I’m prepared to show you the recordings. We have nothing to hide.”
“That won’t be necessary, Sirdar,” the president said, obviously vastly relieved. The prime minister, however, still looked worried.
“Er – just a minute, Mr. President. That doesn’t dispose of the reports we’ve received. They were very convincing, you’ll recall.”
“I’m sure the captain will be able to explain them.”
“Only if you tell me what they are.”
There was another pause. Then the president moved towards the wine decanter.
“Let’s have a drink first,” he said cheerfully. “Then I’ll tell you how we found out.”
41. Pillow Talk
It had gone very smoothly, Owen Fletcher told himself. Of course, he was somewhat disappointed by the vote, though he wondered how accurately it reflected opinion aboard the ship. After all, he had instructed two of his fellow conspirators to register Noes, lest the – still-pitiful – strength of the New Thalassan movement be revealed.
What to do next was, as always, the problem. He was an engineer, not a politician – though he was rapidly moving in that direction – and could see no way of recruiting further support without coming out into the open.
This left only two alternatives. The first, and easier, was to jump ship, as close to launch-time as possible, by simply failing to report back. Captain Bey would be too busy to hunt for them – even if he felt inclined – and their Lassan friends would hide them until Magellan’s departure.
But that would be a double desertion – one unheard of in the closely-knit Sabra community. He would have abandoned his sleeping colleagues – including his own brother and sister. What would they think of him, three centuries hence on hostile Sagan 2, when they learned that he could have opened the gates of Paradise for them but had failed to do so?
And now the time was running out; those computer simulations of up-rated lifting schedules could have only one meaning. Though he had not even discussed this with his friends, he saw no alternative to action.
But his mind still shied away from the word sabotage.
Rose Killian had never heard of Delilah and would have been horrified to be compared to her. She was a simple, rather naive Norther who – like so many young Lassans – had been overwhelmed by the glamorous visitors from Earth. Her affair with Karl Bosley was not only her first really profound emotional experience; it was also his.
They were both heartsick at the thought of parting. Rose was weeping on Karl’s shoulder late one night when he could bear her misery no longer.
“Promise not to tell anyone,” he said, fondling the strands of hair lying along his chest. “I’ve some good news for you. It’s a big secret – nobody knows it yet. The ship isn’t going to leave. We’re all staying here on Thalassa.”
Rose almost fell off the bed in her surprise.
“You’re not saying this just to make me happy?”
“No – it’s true. But don’t say a word to anyone. It must be kept completely secret.”
“Of course, darling.”
But Rose’s closest friend Marion was also weeping for her Earth lover, so she had to be told …
… and Marion passed the good news on to Pauline… who couldn’t resist telling Svetlana … who mentioned it in confidence to Crystal.
And Crystal was the president’s daughter.
42. Survivor
This is a very unhappy business, Captain Bey thought. Owen Fletcher is a good man; I approved his selection myself. How could he have done such a thing?
There was probably no single explanation. If he had not been a Sabra and in love with that girl, it might never have happened. What was the word for one plus one adding up to more than two? Sin-something – ah, yes, synergy. Yet he could not help feeling that there was something more, something that he would probably never know.
He remembered a remark that Kaldor, who always had a phrase for every occasion, had made to him once when they were talking about crew psychology.
“We’re all maimed, Captain, whether we admit it or not. No one who’s been through our experiences during those last years on Earth could possibly be unaffecte
d. And we all share the same feeling of guilt.”
“Guilt?” he had asked in surprise and indignation.
“Yes, even though it’s not our fault. We’re survivors – the only survivors. And survivors always feel guilty at being alive.”
It was a disturbing remark, and it might help to explain Fletcher – and many other things.
We’re all maimed men.
I wonder what your injury is, Moses Kaldor – and how you handle it. I know mine, and have been able to use it for the benefit of my fellow humans. It brought me to where I am today, and I can be proud of that.
Perhaps in an earlier age I might have been a dictator, or a warlord. Instead, I have been usefully employed as Chief of Continental Police, as General-in-Charge of Space Construction Facilities – and finally as commander of a starship. My fantasies of power have been successfully sublimated.
He walked to the captain’s safe, to which he alone held the key, and slipped the coded metal bar into its slot. The door swung smoothly open to reveal assorted bundles of papers, some medals and trophies, and a small, flat wooden box bearing the letters S.B. inlaid in silver.
As the captain placed it on the table, he was happy to feel the familiar stirring in his loins. He opened the lid and stared down at the gleaming instrument of power, snug in its velvet bed.
Once his perversion had been shared by millions. Usually it was quite harmless – in primitive societies, even valuable. And many times it had changed the course of history, for better or for worse.
“I know you’re a phallic symbol,” the captain whispered. “But you’re also a gun. I’ve used you before; I can use you again.”
The flashback could not have lasted for more than a fraction of a second, yet it seemed to cover years of time. He was still standing by his desk when it was over; just for a moment, all the careful work of the psychotherapists was undone, and the gates of memory opened wide.
He looked back in horror – yet with fascination – on those last turbulent decades which had brought out the best and the worst in humanity. He remembered how, as a young Inspector of Police in Cairo, he had given his first order to fire on a rioting crowd. The bullets were supposed to be merely incapacitating. But two people had died.
What had they been rioting about? He had never even known – there were so many political and religious movements in the final days. And it was also the great era of the supercriminals; they had nothing to lose and no future to look forward to, so they were prepared to take any risks. Most of them had been psychopaths, but some had been near geniuses. He thought of Joseph Kidder, who had almost stolen a starship. No one knew what had happened to him, and sometimes Captain Bey had been struck by a nightmare fantasy: “Just suppose that one of my sleepers is really…”
The forcible running down of the population, the total prohibition of any new births after the year 3600, the absolute priority given to the development of the quantum drive and the building of the Magellan-class ships – all these, together with the knowledge of impending doom, had imposed such strains on terrestrial society that it still seemed a miracle that anyone had been able to escape from the solar system. Captain Bey remembered, with admiration and gratitude, those who had burned up their last years for a cause whose success or failure they would never know.
He could see again the last world president, Elizabeth Windsor, exhausted but proud as she left the ship after her tour of inspection, returning to a planet that had only days to live. She had even less time; the bomb in her spaceplane had exploded just before it was due to land at Port Canaveral.
The captain’s blood still ran cold at the memory; that bomb had been intended for Magellan, and only a mistake in timing had saved the ship. It was ironic that each of the rival cults had claimed responsibility …
Jonathan Cauldwell and his dwindling but still vocal band of followers proclaimed ever more desperately that all would be well, that God was merely testing Mankind as He had once tested Job. Despite everything that was happening to the Sun, it would soon return to normal, and humanity would be saved – unless those who disbelieved in His mercy provoked His wrath. And then He might change His mind …
The Will of God cult believed the exact opposite. Doomsday had come at last, and no attempt should be made to avoid it. Indeed, it should be welcomed, since after Judgement those who were worthy of salvation would live in eternal bliss.
And so, from totally opposing premises, the Cauldwellites and the WOGs arrived at the same conclusion: The human race should not attempt to escape its destiny. All starships should be destroyed.
Perhaps it was fortunate that the two rival cults were so bitterly opposed that they could not cooperate even towards a goal that they both shared. In fact, after the death of President Windsor their hostility turned to internecine violence. The rumour was started – almost certainly by the World Security Bureau, though Bey’s colleagues had never admitted it to him – that the bomb had been planted by the WOGs and its timer sabotaged by the Cauldwellites. The exactly opposite version was also popular; one of them might even have been true.
All this was history, now known only to a handful of men besides himself and soon to be forgotten. Yet how strange that Magellan was once again threatened by sabotage.
Unlike the WOGs and the Cauldwellites, the Sabras were highly competent and not unhinged by fanaticism. They could therefore be a more serious problem, but Captain Bey believed he knew how to handle it.
“You’re a good man, Owen Fletcher,” he thought grimly. “But I’ve killed better ones in my time. And when there was no alternative, I’ve used torture.”
He was more than a little proud of the fact that he had never enjoyed it; and this time, there was a better way.
43. Interrogation
And now Magellan had a new crewmember, untimely awakened from his slumber and still adjusting to the realities of the situation – as Kaldor had done a year ago. Nothing but an emergency justified such action. But according to the computer records only Dr. Marcus Steiner, once Chief Scientist of the Terran Bureau of Investigation, possessed the knowledge and skills that, unfortunately, were needed now.
Back on Earth, his friends had often asked him why he had chosen to become a professor of criminology. And he had always given the same answer: “The only alternative was to become a criminal.”
It had taken Steiner almost a week to modify the sickbay’s standard encephalographic equipment and to check the computer programs. Meanwhile, the four Sabras remained confined to their quarters and stubbornly refused to make any admission of guilt.
Owen Fletcher did not look very happy when he saw the preparations that had been made for him; there were too many similarities to electric chairs and torture devices from the bloodstained history of earth. Dr. Steiner quickly put him at ease with the synthetic familiarity of the good interrogator.
“There’s nothing to be alarmed at, Owen – I promise you won’t feel a thing. You won’t even be aware of the answers you’re giving me – but there’s no way you can hide the truth. Because you’re an intelligent man, I’ll tell you exactly what I’m going to do. Surprisingly enough, it helps me do my job; whether you like it or not, your subconscious mind will trust me – and cooperate.”
What nonsense, thought Fletcher; surely he doesn’t think he can fool me as easily as that! But he made no reply, as he was seated in the chair and the orderlies fastened leather straps loosely around his forearms and waist. He did not attempt to resist; two of his largest ex-colleagues were standing uncomfortably in the background, carefully avoiding his eye.
“If you need a drink or want to go to the toilet, just say so. This first session will take exactly one hour; we may need some shorter ones later. We want to make you relaxed and comfortable.”
In the circumstances, this was a highly optimistic remark, but no one seemed to think it at all funny.
“Sorry we’ve had to shave your head, but scalp electrodes don’t like hair. And you’ll have to be blind
folded, so we don’t pick up confusing visual inputs … Now you’ll start getting drowsy, but you’ll remain conscious … We’re going to ask you a series of questions which have just three possible answers – Yes, No, Don’t Know. But you won’t have to reply; your brain will do it for you, and the computer’s trinary logic system will know what it’s saying.
“And there’s absolutely no way you can lie to us; you’re very welcome to try! Believe me, some of the best minds of Earth invented this machine – and were never able to fool it. If it gets ambiguous answers, the computer will simply reframe the questions. Are you ready? Very well… Recorder on high, please … Check gain on Channel 5 … Run program.”
YOUR NAME IS OWEN FLETCHER … ANSWER YES … OR NO…
YOUR NAME IS JOHN SMITH … ANSWER YES … OR NO …
YOU WERE BORN IN LOWELL CITY, MARS … ANSWER YES…OR NO….
YOUR NAME IS JOHN SMITH … ANSWER YES … OR NO …
YOU WERE BORN IN AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND… ANSWER YES … OR NO …
YOUR NAME IS OWEN FLETCHER …
YOU WERE BORN ON 3 MARCH 3585 …
YOU WERE BORN ON 31 DECEMBER 3584 …
The questions came at such short intervals that even if he had not been in a mildly sedated condition, Fletcher would have been unable to falsify the answers. Nor would it have mattered had he done so; within a few minutes, the computer had established the pattern of his automatic responses to all the questions whose answers were already known.
From time to time the calibration was rechecked (YOUR NAME IS OWEN FLETCHER … YOU WERE BORN IN CAPETOWN, ZULULAND …), and questions were occasionally repeated to confirm answers already given. The whole process was completely automatic, once the physiological constellation of YES – NO responses had been identified.
The primitive “lie detectors” had tried to do this with fair success – but seldom complete certainty. It had taken no more than two hundred years to perfect the technology and thereby to revolutionize the practice of law, both criminal and civil, to the point when few trials ever lasted more than hours.