Null-A Three Page 11

  . . . I made it! The method of concentrating, and shutting out side thoughts, works—“Hey, Gosseyn Two, got that? I can control that defect—”

  There was no reply from his faraway alter ego, and, in fact, no particular awareness of the other’s thoughts. So—later!

  So he looked down at the boy, and said in a chiding tone: “We’re where it’s warm. Or, would you rather be back on the ice?”

  Enin dismissed that with, apparently, no gratitude for the change. “How did we get to a place like this?” he asked in a disgusted tone.

  Gosseyn smiled. “Well, it’s like this, Enin. What I can do in making those shifts in space—which is my special thing, as you should know—”

  The twelve-year-old face that was tilted up to him held in it no criticism of how what he “could do” had on one occasion affected the emperor of the Dzan in front of his courtiers. The lips merely parted, and said, “Yeah! So—”

  Gosseyn explained: “It’s best to have places to come to where no one sees you arrive. Now, this little house is the home of a friend, and it’s located very nicely for what I just said. No one in the neighborhood can easily see how we got here. Right?”

  Presumably, the boy had already, in his initial disapproving survey, noticed those very drab details. But he seemed to be motivated to take another look. And, evidently, the analysis made sense.

  “Hey, yeah,” he nodded, “you’re right.”

  “And,” Gosseyn continued, “if you’ll look up, you’ll see that it’s still morning. And so we’ve got almost a whole day ahead of us.”

  He had already had the realization of the time of day from where the sun was in the sky. But saying that meaning aloud brought an awareness of an automatic. . . thalamic? . . . feeling inside him. The feeling was a sense of belonging, not necessarily here in this backyard, but here, everywhere, on this planet.

  He saw that the bright eyes had narrowed. “What are we going to do here?”

  That was not really a problem. The time of day it was, had evoked a thought: at last report, Dan Lyttle, the owner of the little place, had been a night clerk in a hotel. Which could mean that, at this early hour of the day, he had not yet departed for his job.

  Abruptly hopeful, Gosseyn walked forward, and knocked on the back door. He was aware of Enin coming up beside him.

  The boy’s voice came, puzzled: “You want inside? Why don’t we just go in?”

  In a way, in this instance, it was not an impossibility. If Dan Lyttle were still the owner, he would probably not be disturbed, if he was out, and returned to find who it was that had entered.

  But that wasn’t the meaning of his Imperial Majesty’s words. Shaking his head, Gosseyn turned towards the boy. “Listen,” he said in a firm tone, “we’re not on one of your planets. Here, we have to live by the local rules.” He was gazing into those youthful, unabashed eyes as he completed his admonition in the same firm voice: “You do not intrude on other people’s property without permission. Understood?”

  Fortunately, there was no time for Enin to reply. Because at that exact instant, there was a sound. And the door opened.

  The familiar, lean figure that stood there, said, “Oh, my God, it’s you!”

  It was a sentence that Gosseyn, himself, could probably have spoken. But his tone would have been one of relief. Because the individual who had uttered the exclamation was identified by the Gosseyn memory as the owner of the cottage: Dan Lyttle, in person.

  The hotel clerk, who had come into Gosseyn Two’s hotel room—and saved his life.

  His face was still as lean as it had been before. He seemed more mature than the Gosseyn memory recalled. But that was a subtle difference. Most important, he was delighted to have them as guests in his little home.

  “You came at the right time. It’s my day off. Or—” with a smile—“my night off; so I can be of some use to you, maybe. Anyway, right now I can see you two need a bath and sleep. Why don’t you and the kid take my bedroom, and any sleeping I do I’ll do on the couch out here.”

  Gosseyn Three didn’t argue. The “kid” seemed to hesitate; but then he went silently through the indicated door with Gosseyn. However, once inside, with the door closed, Enin said, “Are we really going to stay here?”

  Gosseyn pointed to the far side of the Queen-size bed. “You get your bath first, and stretch out there. And when I’ve showered, I’ll take this side.” He added, “We can decide later what we’re going to do here.” At that point Dan Lyttle brought in a long shirt for Enin and a pair of pajamas for Gosseyn. And so, presently, they slept.

  . . . Gosseyn came to, drowsily, and lay for a minute with his eyes still closed; and he was having a strange thought: That was the first normal sleep of this Gosseyn body.

  The realization held his attention briefly. For some reason, when he had lain down on this bed, earlier, it had seemed so natural, so—ordinary—that the uniqueness of it in his own existence had not occurred to him.

  Moments after that awareness, he was conscious of himself smiling. Because it was obviously a minor reality in a universe of sleeping humans.

  With that, he opened his eyes, turned over, glanced toward the other side of the bed—and sat up, frowning.

  The boy wasn’t there.

  As he swung his legs off the bed, and started to put on the slip-ons that had served him as shoes all these hours, he was mildly bemused. But there was—he noticed—a small thalamic reaction.

  He saw that the shoes were clean. And that his suit, which was neatly draped over a chair, had also been washed while he slept.

  It required a few minutes, then. First, he went over to the toilet, and experienced his very first urination. Then he stepped to the sink, picked up the brush that lay there, enticingly, and combed his hair. Next, he washed his face and hands, and used a guest towel that hung on a rack. (The previous night there had only been Lyttle’s bath towel for both of them.)

  And, as he performed his ablutions, he let his attention move purposefully to the other Gosseyn . . . out there.

  Immediately, the vague memories came of Gosseyn Two’s movements, and actions, during the past many minutes. And then—abruptly—direct contact!

  They were quick. Two said, “I know where you are. So I’m not too worried—yet.”

  Gosseyn Three replied: “I can finally review your situation. I observe that the single enemy vessel is still talking peace, but no alien has come aboard. And that what may happen on the Dzan ship from all those angry men is not yet manifesting. And Enro’s purposes may affect the overall issue. But it will take time for the problems to develop.”

  The distant alter said, “Then let’s concentrate on you. I was talking to Enro, and missed noticing any purpose you had in going to earth.”

  Gosseyn Three was rueful. “In a way it was just an accident. But, I think, a good one.” He continued his argument, “After all, the Gosseyns have a lot of hangups on earth. We need to know what happened there after you left. Who has become the government, after President Hardie was killed? What’s the status of Null-A? I could go on.” He concluded, “I seem to remember that the police and the government forces restored order, but—”

  It was a big “but”. Nevertheless, from off there in the interstellar distances, his analysis evoked a grudging agreement.

  “I suppose,” came the reply, “we should find out a few things, and do what has to be done.” The alter ego continued: “But if you’ll think about it, going to what used to be the city of the games machine, will present problems. For example, neither you nor the emperor have any money. I presume you can stay temporarily with Dan Lyttle. But you can’t expect an hotel clerk’s salary to support three people for long.”

  Gosseyn Three smiled as a thought of his own came in an instant mental reply to the other’s objection. “Did you catch that answer?” he asked.

  “Well—” impression of a responding smile—“I suppose the Gosseyns could assert an ownership, or stewardship, claim to the Institute
of General Semantics, on the grounds that “X” was a secret Gosseyn. But I don’t recall it being a place where food was immediately available.”

  Gosseyn Three replied, “The old guy had his quarters there; so there may be a food supply. And, of course, there’ll be a caretaker on the premises. Question: who has been paying his salary?”

  “What would you do? Take the place over by force?”

  “Well—” Pause. Gosseyn Three grew conscious that his was now a grimmer smile—“it’s hard for me to accept that that objection came from a Gosseyn who did not hesitate to force, or dupe, servants to feed him on Yalerta, and who always ate well wherever he went in the universe; and in no case, as I recall it, was local money available.”

  Gosseyn Two’s answering thought had a touch of resignation in it. “I can see you’re making up your mind to stay.” He seemed to utter a sigh. Then: “Okay, give Dan Lyttle my best.”

  “Well—” wryly—“that will be a little difficult. He thinks I’m you.”

  “Of course,” was the reply. “I have to admit that’s a hard reality to keep in mind: that there’re two Gosseyns now. I doubt if ‘X’ ever intended that there would be two of the same age group conscious at the same time.” The mention of “X” brought a thought. Gosseyn Three said, “All these hours I’ve been vaguely aware of such a person having existed as a sort of an ancestor. But it’s not been something that’s been to the fore of your mind. So vague is the correct description of the way it came through. Tell me more.”

  “Wel-l-l-ll!” The mental answer had in it uncertainty. “There’s reason to believe that he was in one of the original migrant ships from that other galaxy. Except—impression only—that little vessel crash-landed, damaging the male body that we later knew as ‘X’. Also damaged was the computer that had the scientific data in it. Anyway, the other man went off with the two women because, as they got out, the damaged vessel was flown by its damaged computer to some other area of earth. ‘X’ recovered to the extent that he was periodically able to re-enter the little ship and go back into suspended animation for hundreds, even thousands, of years at a time.”

  The alter ego’s account continued: “Naturally, he presently began to notice the descendants of his male companion and the two women. There had been a reversion to barbarism, which apparently even included matings with male and female apes.”

  The mental voice added, “As you have been able to observe on today’s earth, it all worked out reasonably well. But it was ‘X’ who had the ancient memory and who, by using male sperm from his own body, eventually created the Gosseyn bodies. It’s our task to make sure that the cloning system he developed is carried forward into the future. This should be one of our goals, regardless of what other actions we undertake in terms of personal association.”

  Gosseyn Two concluded, “I would guess that ‘X’s apartment should be carefully searched for hidden rooms, or secret storage places, where he may have kept a set of records, and equipment for doing what he did.” Gosseyn Three replied, “I’ll certainly take a look. And I’ll continue to consult you in any crisis.”

  “Theoretically,” came the answer from that faraway duplicate body-mind, “we’re the same person. Your judgment would probably be exactly the same as mine.” It was true. And yet—somewhere inside himself he felt very much a separate individual.

  Two grown men, the same person but, somehow, different.

  Once again came his own thought: “It will be interesting to see how the similarity works out.”

  “It sure will.” The response from Gosseyn Two was in his mind almost as if it were his own thought. But not quite.

  And it was he, here, who was washing his face and combing his hair; not Gosseyn Two. Actions and movements which he had not ceased doing during the entire high-speed, mental conversation.

  Essentially—it seemed to him, standing there, he had only one reason for worry: Earth was dangerous for a Gosseyn. At least, the part of earth to which he had come, was dangerous.

  There were people here who would recognize the Gosseyn face. And it would require only one discharge of any kind of weapon to kill this particular Gosseyn body. If that should happen, the fact that the whole memory of the experience would continue on in the mind of Gosseyn Two, was not really satisfactory.

  The Gosseyn ancestors had unquestionably bequeathed a remarkable personality maintaining technology to the descendant duplicates. But to a particular individual of the long line, the reality was that the me-ness of identity continued to reside in one living body.

  CHAPTER

  14

  As he used each item, and did each little grooming act, he found himself remembering that similar conveniences had been available for the other Gosseyn on that other occasion.

  It was not the kind of fantasy that could hold him long. Because, once again he was having fleeting thoughts about Enin . . . out there. With that, he hastily put away the electric razor. And then—

  And then, it was just a matter of slipping again into the slip-on shoes. But he had the thought that he’d better get some better clothes, somehow. And some much stronger shoes.

  Moments after that he was out of the bathroom, and heading. As he pulled at the door that led out of the bedroom into the rest of the house, he heard Enin saying, “Yes, Mr. Lyttle, but what’s an assumption?” Gosseyn slowed his action of opening the door, and stayed where he was. As he listened, then, to the voice of Dan Lyttle explain the General Semantics definition of an assumption, he felt awed . . . Of course, he thought—this attempt should be made. How it would work on a brain not yet fully grown, and with no reward that could be offered—to someone who had everything—was not clear.

  But he drew back, out of sight, Pushed the door until it was open only an inch or so. And listened.

  “You mean—why do I act the way I do?” The boyish voice showed continued puzzlement.

  “Yes.” It was Dan Lyttle’s voice. “A little while ago you came out here and ordered me to get your breakfast ready. And I did, didn’t I?”

  “So?”

  “Well—” the man’s tone was ever so slightly insistent—“you’re a guest in my house, and you treat me like I’m a servant. That’s what I mean: what’s the underlying assumption?”

  There was a momentary pause. Then: “I’m the emperor. Everybody does as I say.”

  “You mean, where you come from?—”

  “Dzan. The universe of Dzan.” It was Enin’s voice. “So,” went on Dan Lyttle, “one of your assumptions is that here on earth you should be treated the way you are treated at home?”

  “I’m emperor wherever I go.” It was insolently spoken. Gosseyn Three smiled. Grimly.

  “And—” continued the man’s voice out there in the living room—“I gather you have a number of underlying assumptions by which you believe that you are better than other people?”

  “I am better than other people. I was born to be emperor.”

  “Your assumption, then, is that, because of an accident of birth, you have a right to lord it over other human beings?”

  “Well . . . I didn’t really think about that very much before my father was killed. But when I became emperor I just treated people exactly the way he had treated them. And I’ve been doing it ever since I ascended the throne. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Well—” smiling tone—“what we General Semanticists are interested in is what kind of thinking makes people do irrational things. For example, how did your father die?”

  “He fell out of a high window.” Belligerently. “Are you suggesting that his assumptions may have had something to do with that?”

  “They might—if we knew all the details of how he got so dose to that open window. Were there witnesses?”

  “It was a top level government meeting.”

  “And he was so busy thinking, or talking, as he wandered near the window, that he didn’t notice, and fell out? Is that what the witnesses report?”

  “My mother says
that’s what happened.” Pause. “I never asked who told her.”

  “We may make the assumption, then, that everyone who was in the room with him, verified that that was what happened?”

  “Hey—” excitedly—“is that what you mean by an assumption? You didn’t see it yourself. So you have to assume that people who did see it, are giving you the facts?”

  “That’s part of it. But the assumptions you should really be interested in are those that you’ve got sitting down deep inside, and you don’t notice that they’re there, or what they are. But in life situations you act as if they’re true.”

  “Well—I am the emperor. That’s the truth.”

  “How do you treat other people?”

  “I tell them what to do. And they’d better do it.”

  “Your assumption, then, is that an emperor can act bossy with all the people that he’s emperor of—maybe be even mean and nasty.”

  “I treat ’em like my father did. And I suppose those could have been his—what did you call them?—assumptions.”

  “What you’re saying is, you didn’t ask yourself what his assumptions were? You were just a copy cat?”

  “Well—” Pause. Then, a different tone: “Maybe,” said Enin, “I ought to give you a little taste of my power—”

  There was a quality in the boy’s voice in those final words that decided Gosseyn that, perhaps, Enin’s first lesson in General Semantics had gone about as far as it could.

  Abruptly, with that thought, he pushed the bedroom door open, and walked out into the living room.

  And stopped, teetering.

  Because in that initial instant of emergence, he saw, to his left, out of the corner of his eye—

  Six men sat in a row against the left wall. Four of them were in some kind of uniform.

  As Gosseyn turned in their direction, he was already aware that the four in uniform held pistols in their hands. They were energy weapons of some kind, not identifiable at this distance; and, though they did not point at him in a fixed way, they were definitely—as the old saying went—“at the ready.”