III
Eric Reinhart examined the vidsender box carefully, turning it aroundand around.
"Then he did escape from the blast," Dixon admitted reluctantly. "Hemust have leaped from the cart just before the concussion."
Reinhart nodded. "He escaped. He got away from you--twice." He pushedthe vidsender box away and leaned abruptly toward the man standinguneasily in front of his desk. "What's your name again?"
"Elliot. Richard Elliot."
"And your son's name?"
"Steven."
"It was last night this happened?"
"About eight o'clock."
"Go on."
"Steven came into the house. He acted queerly. He was carrying hisinter-system vidsender." Elliot pointed at the box on Reinhart's desk."That. He was nervous and excited. I asked what was wrong. For awhilehe couldn't tell me. He was quite upset. Then he showed me thevidsender." Elliot took a deep, shaky breath. "I could see right awayit was different. You see I'm an electrical engineer. I had opened itonce before, to put in a new battery. I had a fairly good idea how itshould look." Elliot hesitated. "Commissioner, it had been _changed_.A lot of the wiring was different. Moved around. Relays connecteddifferently. Some parts were missing. New parts had been jury riggedout of old. Then I discovered the thing that made me call Security.The vidsender--it really _worked_."
"Worked?"
"You see, it never was anything more than a toy. With a range of a fewcity blocks. So the kids could call back and forth from their rooms.Like a sort of portable vidscreen. Commissioner, I tried out thevidsender, pushing the call button and speaking into the microphone.I--I got a ship of the line. A battleship, operating beyond ProximaCentaurus--over eight light years away. As far out as the actualvidsenders operate. Then I called Security. Right away."
For a time Reinhart was silent. Finally he tapped the box lying on thedesk. "You got a ship of the line--with _this_?"
"That's right."
"How big are the regular vidsenders?"
Dixon supplied the information. "As big as a twenty-ton safe."
"That's what I thought." Reinhart waved his hand impatiently. "Allright, Elliot. Thanks for turning the information over to us. That'sall."
Security police led Elliot outside the office.
Reinhart and Dixon looked at each other. "This is bad," Reinhart saidharshly. "He has some ability, some kind of mechanical ability.Genius, perhaps, to do a thing like this. Look at the period he camefrom, Dixon. The early part of the twentieth century. Before the warsbegan. That was a unique period. There was a certain vitality, acertain ability. It was a period of incredible growth and discovery.Edison. Pasteur. Burbank. The Wright brothers. Inventions andmachines. People had an uncanny ability with machines. A kind ofintuition about machines--which we don't have."
"You mean--"
"I mean a person like this coming into our own time is bad in itself,war or no war. He's too different. He's oriented along differentlines. He has abilities we lack. This fixing skill of his. It throwsus off, out of kilter. And with the war....
"Now I'm beginning to understand why the SRB machines couldn't factorhim. It's impossible for us to understand this kind of person. Winslowsays he asked for work, any kind of work. The man said he could doanything, fix anything. Do you understand what that means?"
"No," Dixon said. "What does it mean?"
"Can any of us fix anything? No. None of us can do that. We'respecialized. Each of us has his own line, his own work. I understandmy work, you understand yours. The tendency in evolution is towardgreater and greater specialization. Man's society is an ecology thatforces adaptation to it. Continual complexity makes it impossible forany of us to know anything outside our own personal field--I can'tfollow the work of the man sitting at the next desk over from me. Toomuch knowledge has piled up in each field. And there's too manyfields.
"This man is different. He can fix anything, do anything. He doesn'twork with knowledge, with science--the classified accumulation offacts. He _knows_ nothing. It's not in his head, a form of learning.He works by intuition--his power is in his hands, not his head.Jack-of-all-trades. His hands! Like a painter, an artist. In hishands--and he cuts across our lives like a knife-blade."
"And the other problem?"
"The other problem is that this man, this variable man, has escapedinto the Albertine Mountain range. Now we'll have one hell of a timefinding him. He's clever--in a strange kind of way. Like some sort ofanimal. He's going to be hard to catch."
Reinhart sent Dixon out. After a moment he gathered up the handful ofreports on his desk and carried them up to the SRB room. The SRB roomwas closed up, sealed off by a ring of armed Security police. Standingangrily before the ring of police was Peter Sherikov, his beardwaggling angrily, his immense hands on his hips.
"What's going on?" Sherikov demanded. "Why can't I go in and peep atthe odds?"
"Sorry." Reinhart cleared the police aside. "Come inside with me. I'llexplain." The doors opened for them and they entered. Behind them thedoors shut and the ring of police formed outside. "What brings youaway from your lab?" Reinhart asked.
Sherikov shrugged. "Several things. I wanted to see you. I called youon the vidphone and they said you weren't available. I thought maybesomething had happened. What's up?"
"I'll tell you in a few minutes." Reinhart called Kaplan over. "Hereare some new items. Feed them in right away. I want to see if themachines can total them."
"Certainly, Commissioner." Kaplan took the message plates and placedthem on an intake belt. The machines hummed into life.
"We'll know soon," Reinhart said, half aloud.
Sherikov shot him a keen glance. "We'll know what? Let me in on it.What's taking place?"
"We're in trouble. For twenty-four hours the machines haven't givenany reading at all. Nothing but a blank. A total blank."
Sherikov's features registered disbelief. "But that isn't possible._Some_ odds exist at all times."
"The odds exist, but the machines aren't able to calculate them."
"Why not?"
"Because a variable factor has been introduced. A factor which themachines can't handle. They can't make any predictions from it."
"Can't they reject it?" Sherikov said slyly. "Can't they just--just_ignore_ it?"
"No. It exists, as real data. Therefore it affects the balance of thematerial, the sum total of all other available data. To reject itwould be to give a false reading. The machines can't reject any datathat's known to be true."
Sherikov pulled moodily at his black beard. "I would be interested inknowing what sort of factor the machines can't handle. I thought theycould take in all data pertaining to contemporary reality."
"They can. This factor has nothing to do with contemporary reality.That's the trouble. Histo-research in bringing its time bubble backfrom the past got overzealous and cut the circuit too quickly. Thebubble came back loaded--with a man from the twentieth century. A manfrom the past."
"I see. A man from two centuries ago." The big Pole frowned. "And witha radically different Weltanschauung. No connection with our presentsociety. Not integrated along our lines at all. Therefore the SRBmachines are perplexed."
Reinhart grinned. "Perplexed? I suppose so. In any case, they can't doanything with the data about this man. The variable man. No statisticsat all have been thrown up--no predictions have been made. And itknocks everything else out of phase. We're dependent on the constantshowing of these odds. The whole war effort is geared around them."
"The horse-shoe nail. Remember the old poem? 'For want of a nail theshoe was lost. For want of the shoe the horse was lost. For want ofthe horse the rider was lost. For want--'"
"Exactly. A single factor coming along like this, one singleindividual, can throw everything off. It doesn't seem possible thatone person could knock an entire society out of balance--butapparently it is."
"What are you doing about this man?"
"The Security police are organized in a mass search fo
r him."
"Results?"
"He escaped into the Albertine Mountain Range last night. It'll behard to find him. We must expect him to be loose for anotherforty-eight hours. It'll take that long for us to arrange theannihilation of the range area. Perhaps a trifle longer. Andmeanwhile--"
"Ready, Commissioner," Kaplan interrupted. "The new totals."
The SRB machines had finished factoring the new data. Reinhart andSherikov hurried to take their places before the view windows.
For a moment nothing happened. Then odds were put up, locking inplace.
Sherikov gasped. 99-2. In favor of Terra. "That's wonderful! Now we--"
The odds vanished. New odds took their places. 97-4. In favor ofCentaurus. Sherikov groaned in astonished dismay. "Wait," Reinhartsaid to him. "I don't think they'll last."
The odds vanished. A rapid series of odds shot across the screen, aviolent stream of numbers, changing almost instantly. At last themachines became silent.
Nothing showed. No odds. No totals at all. The view windows wereblank.
"You see?" Reinhart murmured. "The same damn thing!"
Sherikov pondered. "Reinhart, you're too Anglo-Saxon, too impulsive.Be more Slavic. This man will be captured and destroyed within twodays. You said so yourself. Meanwhile, we're all working night and dayon the war effort. The warfleet is waiting near Proxima, taking uppositions for the attack on the Centaurans. All our war plants aregoing full blast. By the time the attack date comes we'll have afull-sized invasion army ready to take off for the long trip to theCentauran colonies. The whole Terran population has been mobilized.The eight supply planets are pouring in material. All this is going onday and night, even without odds showing. Long before the attack comesthis man will certainly be dead, and the machines will be able to showodds again."
Reinhart considered. "But it worries me, a man like that out in theopen. Loose. A man who can't be predicted. It goes against science.We've been making statistical reports on society for two centuries. Wehave immense files of data. The machines are able to predict what eachperson and group will do at a given time, in a given situation. Butthis man is beyond all prediction. He's a variable. It's contrary toscience."
"The indeterminate particle."
"What's that?"
"The particle that moves in such a way that we can't predict whatposition it will occupy at a given second. Random. The randomparticle."
"Exactly. It's--it's _unnatural_."
Sherikov laughed sarcastically. "Don't worry about it, Commissioner.The man will be captured and things will return to their naturalstate. You'll be able to predict people again, like laboratory rats ina maze. By the way--why is this room guarded?"
"I don't want anyone to know the machines show no totals. It'sdangerous to the war effort."
"Margaret Duffe, for example?"
Reinhart nodded reluctantly. "They're too timid, theseparliamentarians. If they discover we have no SRB odds they'll want toshut down the war planning and go back to waiting."
"Too slow for you, Commissioner? Laws, debates, council meetings,discussions.... Saves a lot of time if one man has all the power. Oneman to tell people what to do, think for them, lead them around."
Reinhart eyed the big Pole critically. "That reminds me. How is Icaruscoming? Have you continued to make progress on the control turret?"
A scowl crossed Sherikov's broad features. "The control turret?" Hewaved his big hand vaguely. "I would say it's coming along all right.We'll catch up in time."
Instantly Reinhart became alert. "Catch up? You mean you're stillbehind?"
"Somewhat. A little. But we'll catch up." Sherikov retreated towardthe door. "Let's go down to the cafeteria and have a cup of coffee.You worry too much, Commissioner. Take things more in your stride."
"I suppose you're right." The two men walked out into the hall. "I'mon edge. This variable man. I can't get him out of my mind."
"Has he done anything yet?"
"Nothing important. Rewired a child's toy. A toy vidsender."
"Oh?" Sherikov showed interest. "What do you mean? What did he do?"
"I'll show you." Reinhart led Sherikov down the hall to his office.They entered and Reinhart locked the door. He handed Sherikov the toyand roughed in what Cole had done. A strange look crossed Sherikov'sface. He found the studs on the box and depressed them. The boxopened. The big Pole sat down at the desk and began to study theinterior of the box. "You're sure it was the man from the past whorewired this?"
"Of course. On the spot. The boy damaged it playing. The variable mancame along and the boy asked him to fix it. He fixed it, all right."
"Incredible." Sherikov's eyes were only an inch from the wiring. "Suchtiny relays. How could he--"
"What?"
"Nothing." Sherikov got abruptly to his feet, closing the boxcarefully. "Can I take this along? To my lab? I'd like to analyze itmore fully."
"Of course. But why?"
"No special reason. Let's go get our coffee." Sherikov headed towardthe door. "You say you expect to capture this man in a day or so?"
"_Kill_ him, not capture him. We've got to eliminate him as a piece ofdata. We're assembling the attack formations right now. No slip-ups,this time. We're in the process of setting up a cross-bombing patternto level the entire Albertine range. He must be destroyed, within thenext forty-eight hours."
Sherikov nodded absently. "Of course," he murmured. A preoccupiedexpression still remained on his broad features. "I understandperfectly."
* * * * *
Thomas Cole crouched over the fire he had built, warming his hands. Itwas almost morning. The sky was turning violet gray. The mountain airwas crisp and chill. Cole shivered and pulled himself closer to thefire.
The heat felt good against his hands. _His hands._ He gazed down atthem, glowing yellow-red in the firelight. The nails were black andchipped. Warts and endless calluses on each finger, and the palms. Butthey were good hands; the fingers were long and tapered. He respectedthem, although in some ways he didn't understand them.
Cole was deep in thought, meditating over his situation. He had beenin the mountains two nights and a day. The first night had been theworst. Stumbling and falling, making his way uncertainly up the steepslopes, through the tangled brush and undergrowth--
But when the sun came up he was safe, deep in the mountains, betweentwo great peaks. And by the time the sun had set again he had fixedhimself up a shelter and a means of making a fire. Now he had a neatlittle box trap, operated by a plaited grass rope and pit, a notchedstake. One rabbit already hung by his hind legs and the trap waswaiting for another.
The sky turned from violet gray to a deep cold gray, a metallic color.The mountains were silent and empty. Far off some place a bird sang,its voice echoing across the vast slopes and ravines. Other birdsbegan to sing. Off to his right something crashed through the brush,an animal pushing its way along.
Day was coming. His second day. Cole got to his feet and began tounfasten the rabbit. Time to eat. And then? After that he had noplans. He knew instinctively that he could keep himself aliveindefinitely with the tools he had retained, and the genius of hishands. He could kill game and skin it. Eventually he could buildhimself a permanent shelter, even make clothes but of hides. Inwinter--
But he was not thinking that far ahead. Cole stood by the fire,staring up at the sky, his hands on his hips. He squinted, suddenlytense. Something was moving. Something in the sky, drifting slowlythrough the grayness. A black dot.
He stamped out the fire quickly. What was it? He strained, trying tosee. A bird?
A second dot joined the first. Two dots. Then three. Four. Five. Afleet of them, moving rapidly across the early morning sky. Toward themountains.
Toward him.
Cole hurried away from the fire. He snatched up the rabbit and carriedit along with him, into the tangled shelter he had built. He wasinvisible, inside the shelter. No one could find him. But if they hadseen the fire--
/> He crouched in the shelter, watching the dots grow larger. They wereplanes, all right. Black wingless planes, coming closer each moment.Now he could hear them, a faint dull buzz, increasing until the groundshook under him.
The first plane dived. It dropped like a stone, swelling into a greatblack shape. Cole gasped, sinking down. The plane roared in an arc,swooping low over the ground. Suddenly bundles tumbled out, whitebundles falling and scattering like seeds.
The bundles drifted rapidly to the ground. They landed. They were men.Men in uniform.
Now the second plane was diving. It roared overhead, releasing itsload. More bundles tumbled out, filling the sky. The third planedived, then the fourth. The air was thick with drifting bundles ofwhite, a blanket of descending weed spores, settling to earth.
On the ground the soldiers were forming into groups. Their shoutscarried to Cole, crouched in his shelter. Fear leaped through him.They were landing on all sides of him. He was cut off. The last twoplanes had dropped men behind him.
He got to his feet, pushing out of the shelter. Some of the soldiershad found the fire, the ashes and coals. One dropped down, feeling thecoals with his hand. He waved to the others. They were circling allaround, shouting and gesturing. One of them began to set up some kindof gun. Others were unrolling coils of tubing, locking a collection ofstrange pipes and machinery in place.
Cole ran. He rolled down a slope, sliding and falling. At the bottomhe leaped to his feet and plunged into the brush. Vines and leavestore at his face, slashing and cutting him. He fell again, tangled ina mass of twisted shrubbery. He fought desperately, trying to freehimself. If he could reach the knife in his pocket--
Voices. Footsteps. Men were behind him, running down the slope. Colestruggled frantically, gasping and twisting, trying to pull loose. Hestrained, breaking the vines, clawing at them with his hands.
A soldier dropped to his knee, leveling his gun. More soldiersarrived, bringing up their rifles and aiming.
Cole cried out. He closed his eyes, his body suddenly limp. He waited,his teeth locked together, sweat dripping down his neck, into hisshirt, sagging against the mesh of vines and branches coiled aroundhim.
Silence.
Cole opened his eyes slowly. The soldiers had regrouped. A huge manwas striding down the slope toward them, barking orders as he came.
Two soldiers stepped into the brush. One of them grabbed Cole by theshoulder.
"Don't let go of him." The huge man came over, his black beard juttingout. "Hold on."
Cole gasped for breath. He was caught. There was nothing he could do.More soldiers were pouring down into the gulley, surrounding him onall sides. They studied him curiously, murmuring together. Cole shookhis head wearily and said nothing.
The huge man with the beard stood directly in front of him, his handson his hips, looking him up and down. "Don't try to get away," the mansaid. "You can't get away. Do you understand?"
Cole nodded.
"All right. Good." The man waved. Soldiers clamped metal bands aroundCole's arms and wrists. The metal dug into his flesh, making him gaspwith pain. More clamps locked around his legs. "Those stay there untilwe're out of here. A long way out."
"Where--where are you taking me?"
Peter Sherikov studied the variable man for a moment before heanswered. "Where? I'm taking you to my labs. Under the Urals." Heglanced suddenly up at the sky. "We better hurry. The Security policewill be starting their demolition attack in a few hours. We want to bea long way from here when that begins."
* * * * *
Sherikov settled down in his comfortable reinforced chair with a sigh."It's good to be back." He signalled to one of his guards. "All right.You can unfasten him."
The metal clamps were removed from Cole's arms and legs. He sagged,sinking down in a heap. Sherikov watched him silently.
Cole sat on the floor, rubbing his wrists and legs, saying nothing.
"What do you want?" Sherikov demanded. "Food? Are you hungry?"
"No."
"Medicine? Are you sick? Injured?"
"No."
Sherikov wrinkled his nose. "A bath wouldn't hurt you any. We'llarrange that later." He lit a cigar, blowing a cloud of gray smokearound him. At the door of the room two lab guards stood with gunsready. No one else was in the room beside Sherikov and Cole.
Thomas Cole sat huddled in a heap on the floor, his head sunk downagainst his chest. He did not stir. His bent body seemed moreelongated and stooped than ever, his hair tousled and unkempt, hischin and jowls a rough stubbled gray. His clothes were dirty and tornfrom crawling through the brush. His skin was cut and scratched; opensores dotted his neck and cheeks and forehead. He said nothing. Hischest rose and fell. His faded blue eyes were almost closed. He lookedquite old, a withered, dried-up old man.
Sherikov waved one of the guards over. "Have a doctor brought up here.I want this man checked over. He may need intravenous injections. Hemay not have had anything to eat for awhile."
The guard departed.
"I don't want anything to happen to you," Sherikov said. "Before we goon I'll have you checked over. And deloused at the same time."
Cole said nothing.
Sherikov laughed. "Buck up! You have no reason to feel bad." He leanedtoward Cole, jabbing an immense finger at him. "Another two hours andyou'd have been dead, out there in the mountains. You know that?"
Cole nodded.
"You don't believe me. Look." Sherikov leaned over and snapped on thevidscreen mounted in the wall. "Watch, this. The operation shouldstill be going on."
The screen lit up. A scene gained form.
"This is a confidential Security channel. I had it tapped severalyears ago--for my own protection. What we're seeing now is being pipedin to Eric Reinhart." Sherikov grinned. "Reinhart arranged what you'reseeing on the screen. Pay close attention. You were there, two hoursago."
Cole turned toward the screen. At first he could not make out what washappening. The screen showed a vast foaming cloud, a vortex of motion.From the speaker came a low rumble, a deep-throated roar. After a timethe screen shifted, showing a slightly different view. Suddenly Colestiffened.
He was seeing the destruction of a whole mountain range.
The picture was coming from a ship, flying above what had once beenthe Albertine Mountain Range. Now there was nothing but swirlingclouds of gray and columns of particles and debris, a surging tide ofrestless material gradually sweeping off and dissipating in alldirections.
The Albertine Mountains had been disintegrated. Nothing remained butthese vast clouds of debris. Below, on the ground, a ragged plainstretched out, swept by fire and ruin. Gaping wounds yawned, immenseholes without bottom, craters side by side as far as the eye couldsee. Craters and debris. Like the blasted, pitted surface of the moon.Two hours ago it had been rolling peaks and gulleys, brush and greenbushes and trees.
Cole turned away.
"You see?" Sherikov snapped the screen off. "You were down there, notso long ago. All that noise and smoke--all for you. All for you, Mr.Variable Man from the past. Reinhart arranged that, to finish you off.I want you to understand that. It's very important that you realizethat."
Cole said nothing.
Sherikov reached into a drawer of the table before him. He carefullybrought out a small square box and held it out to Cole. "You wiredthis, didn't you?"
Cole took the box in his hands and held it. For a time his tired mindfailed to focus. What did he have? He concentrated on it. The box wasthe children's toy. The inter-system vidsender, they had called it.
"Yes. I fixed this." He passed it back to Sherikov. "I repaired that.It was broken."
Sherikov gazed down at him intently, his large eyes bright. He nodded,his black beard and cigar rising and falling. "Good. That's all Iwanted to know." He got suddenly to his feet, pushing his chair back."I see the doctor's here. He'll fix you up. Everything you need. Lateron I'll talk to you again."
Unprotesting, Cole go
t to his feet, allowing the doctor to take holdof his arm and help him up.
After Cole had been released by the medical department, Sherikovjoined him in his private dining room, a floor above the actuallaboratory.
The Pole gulped down a hasty meal, talking as he ate. Cole satsilently across from him, not eating or speaking. His old clothing hadbeen taken away and new clothing given him. He was shaved and rubbeddown. His sores and cuts were healed, his body and hair washed. Helooked much healthier and younger, now. But he was still stooped andtired, his blue eyes worn and faded. He listened to Sherikov's accountof the world of 2136 AD without comment.
"You can see," Sherikov said finally, waving a chicken leg, "that yourappearance here has been very upsetting to our program. Now that youknow more about us you can see why Commissioner Reinhart was sointerested in destroying you."
Cole nodded.
"Reinhart, you realize, believes that the failure of the SRB machinesis the chief danger to the war effort. But that is nothing!" Sherikovpushed his plate away noisily, draining his coffee mug. "After all,wars _can_ be fought without statistical forecasts. The SRB machinesonly describe. They're nothing more than mechanical onlookers. Inthemselves, they don't affect the course of the war. _We_ make thewar. They only analyze."
Cole nodded.
"More coffee?" Sherikov asked. He pushed the plastic container towardCole. "Have some."
Cole accepted another cupful. "Thank you."
"You can see that our real problem is another thing entirely. Themachines only do figuring for us in a few minutes that eventually wecould do for our own selves. They're our servants, tools. Not somesort of gods in a temple which we go and pray to. Not oracles who cansee into the future for us. They don't see into the future. They onlymake statistical predictions--not prophecies. There's a big differencethere, but Reinhart doesn't understand it. Reinhart and his kind havemade such things as the SRB machines into gods. But I have no gods. Atleast, not any I can see."
Cole nodded, sipping his coffee.
"I'm telling you all these things because you must understand whatwe're up against. Terra is hemmed in on all sides by the ancientCentauran Empire. It's been out there for centuries, thousands ofyears. No one knows how long. It's old--crumbling and rotting. Corruptand venal. But it holds most of the galaxy around us, and we can'tbreak out of the Sol system. I told you about Icarus, and Hedge's workin ftl flight. We must win the war against Centaurus. We've waited andworked a long time for this, the moment when we can break out and getroom among the stars for ourselves. Icarus is the deciding weapon. Thedata on Icarus tipped the SRB odds in our favor--for the first time inhistory. Success in the war against Centaurus will depend on Icarus,not on the SRB machines. You see?"
Cole nodded.
"However, there is a problem. The data on Icarus which I turned overto the machines specified that Icarus would be completed in ten days.More than half that time has already passed. Yet, we are no closer towiring up the control turret than we were then. The turret bafflesus." Sherikov grinned ironically. "Even _I_ have tried my hand at thewiring, but with no success. It's intricate--and small. Too manytechnical bugs not worked out. We are building only one, youunderstand. If we had many experimental models worked out before--"
"But this is the experimental model," Cole said.
"And built from the designs of a man dead four years--who isn't hereto correct us. We've made Icarus with our own hands, down here in thelabs. And he's giving us plenty of trouble." All at once Sherikov gotto his feet. "Let's go down to the lab and look at him."
They descended to the floor below, Sherikov leading the way. Colestopped short at the lab door.
"Quite a sight," Sherikov agreed. "We keep him down here at the bottomfor safety's sake. He's well protected. Come on in. We have work todo."
In the center of the lab Icarus rose up, the gray squat cylinder thatsomeday would flash through space at a speed of thousands of timesthat of light, toward the heart of Proxima Centaurus, over four lightyears away. Around the cylinder groups of men in uniform were laboringfeverishly to finish the remaining work.
"Over here. The turret." Sherikov led Cole over to one side of theroom. "It's guarded. Centauran spies are swarming everywhere on Terra.They see into everything. But so do we. That's how we get informationfor the SRB machines. Spies in both systems."
The translucent globe that was the control turret reposed in thecenter of a metal stand, an armed guard standing at each side. Theylowered their guns as Sherikov approached.
"We don't want anything to happen to this," Sherikov said. "Everythingdepends on it." He put out his hand for the globe. Half way to it hishand stopped, striking against an invisible presence in the air.
Sherikov laughed. "The wall. Shut it off. It's still on."
One of the guards pressed a stud at his wrist. Around the globe theair shimmered and faded.
"Now." Sherikov's hand closed over the globe. He lifted it carefullyfrom its mount and brought it out for Cole to see. "This is thecontrol turret for our enormous friend here. This is what will slowhim down when he's inside Centaurus. He slows down and re-enters thisuniverse. Right in the heart of the star. Then--no more Centaurus."Sherikov beamed. "And no more Armun."
But Cole was not listening. He had taken the globe from Sherikov andwas turning it over and over, running his hands over it, his faceclose to its surface. He peered down into its interior, his face raptand intent.
"You can't see the wiring. Not without lenses." Sherikov signalled fora pair of micro-lenses to be brought. He fitted them on Cole's nose,hooking them behind his ears. "Now try it. You can control themagnification. It's set for 1000X right now. You can increase ordecrease it."
Cole gasped, swaying back and forth. Sherikov caught hold of him. Colegazed down into the globe, moving his head slightly, focussing theglasses.
"It takes practice. But you can do a lot with them. Permits you to domicroscopic wiring. There are tools to go along, you understand."Sherikov paused, licking his lip. "We can't get it done correctly.Only a few men can wire circuits using the micro-lenses and the littletools. We've tried robots, but there are too many decisions to bemade. Robots can't make decisions. They just react."
Cole said nothing. He continued to gaze into the interior of theglobe, his lips tight, his body taut and rigid. It made Sherikov feelstrangely uneasy.
"You look like one of those old fortune tellers," Sherikov saidjokingly, but a cold shiver crawled up his spine. "Better hand it backto me." He held out his hand.
Slowly, Cole returned the globe. After a time he removed themicro-lenses, still deep in thought.
"Well?" Sherikov demanded. "You know what I want. I want you to wirethis damn thing up." Sherikov came close to Cole, his big face hard."You can do it, I think. I could tell by the way you held it--and thejob you did on the children's toy, of course. You could wire it upright, and in five days. Nobody else can. And if it's not wired upCentaurus will keep on running the galaxy and Terra will have to sweatit out here in the Sol system. One tiny mediocre sun, one dust moteout of a whole galaxy."
Cole did not answer.
Sherikov became impatient. "Well? What do you say?"
"What happens if I don't wire this control for you? I mean, whathappens to _me_?"
"Then I turn you over to Reinhart. Reinhart will kill you instantly.He thinks you're dead, killed when the Albertine Range wasannihilated. If he had any idea I had saved you--"
"I see."
"I brought you down here for one thing. If you wire it up I'll haveyou sent back to your own time continuum. If you don't--"
Cole considered, his face dark and brooding.
"What do you have to lose? You'd already be dead, if we hadn't pulledyou out of those hills."
"Can you really return me to my own time?"
"Of course!"
"Reinhart won't interfere?"
Sherikov laughed. "What can he do? How can he stop me? I have my ownmen. You saw them. They landed all around you
. You'll be returned."
"Yes. I saw your men."
"Then you agree?"
"I agree," Thomas Cole said. "I'll wire it for you. I'll complete thecontrol turret--within the next five days."