Null-A Three Page 13

  “We have to remember,” was the reply, “that it’s basically a computer; and the addition of a few thousand chips, each with its protective programming, would be of great assistance to it in the future. But of course—” he spoke firmly—“no machine should ever transcend human control.”

  Abruptly, with that reply, Dan Lyttle became a special situation. It took a while, then. Even for a Gilbert Gosseyn body-and-mind the associations that came required more than one run-through.

  What had seemed coincidence . . . back there . . . with both Gosseyn One and Gosseyn Two, suddenly—what?

  Suddenly, the hotel clerk—Dan Lyttle—coming up to the room of a Gilbert Gosseyn, and saving his life, seemed to be connected with . . . with everything that had happened—

  And yet, how explain a Gosseyn renting a room in the hotel where that Very Important Clerk worked on the night shift?

  It seemed such an ordinary job, such a normal young man, with his little cottage out here, accidentally—so it seemed—located here in the hills, slightly to one side of, and above, where the Games Machine had talked every day during the games to the thousands who came periodically in the hope that their knowledge of General Semantics would win them the right to migrate to Venus. Each individual taking his tests alone in one of thousands of separate cubby holes. . .

  There had always been something about the way Lyttle held himself, his body, his head. True, knowledge of, and the daily use of General Semantics did something similar to most people.

  But here was the man that the Games Machine had, in its death throes, trusted with the part of the gigantic computer system that was . . . itself!

  And now, from that same individual, a statement with a basic related purpose.

  The explanation for the mystery of Dan Lyttle would have to wait. Right now, it was enough to recognize the man’s goals as being similar to his own. And that, accordingly, for Gosseyn Three it was the moment of decision. Silently, he gave four signals, one after the other—rapidly—to his extra-brain.

  Then he relaxed back on the couch, his eyes pointing toward the ceiling.

  There was a loud sound, then, off to his left. It was the sound of a man’s voice emitting a prolonged “Uhhhh!”

  And then: “Hey!”

  That final yelling reaction came from the spokesman for the six persons, who had, all this time, been off there to one side. Gosseyn was able to make the identification because he had once more turned his head in that direction.

  What he saw were the two men in civilian clothes. Both men were on their feet, and they were staring. It was, for them, a sideways look at the four chairs that, moments before, had been occupied by four uniformed, armed men.

  All four gunholders had disappeared.

  It was still not a good situation. A precaution, yes. But, despite his success in getting rid of the threat posed by the four gun holders, it was still far from being a normal condition for a human being.

  His legs were tied as tightly as ever; the handcuffs that encased his wrists were of metal. And he was very much acceptant of responsibility for what had hap-

  pened as a result of his arrival. Though he was not the original Gosseyn, nevertheless, he had made the decision to come here. As a consequence, Dan Lyttle and his little house were endangered. And so, Enin and he could not just take off in twenty-decimal fashion.

  It was—Gosseyn realized ruefully—not exactly the ideal moment to state a basic purpose. Nonetheless, as he gazed up at Blayney, he spoke the great words:

  “Why not,” he asked, “a return of honest government in the city of the games machine?”

  CHAPTER

  16

  Silence!

  Blayney stood there, looking down at the man he had evidently considered to be a prisoner, and not, so to speak, in name only.

  Gosseyn, having stated his bottom line, a purpose so basic that anything else at this moment—words or action—would, it seemed to him, merely confuse the issue, consciously relaxed, and lay quiet.

  It was the second of the two aides, who broke that silence. He spoke from the other side of the room, where the gun holders had been, and said in a deep baritone voice: “Sir, may we step over there, away from this Distorter area?”

  Blayney’s expression, which had been essentially that of a non-plussed individual, became grim. He said, “I think we need a more basic solution.” He pointed down at Gosseyn. “Come over here, and carry this man outside.”

  His eyes narrowed as he gazed down at Gosseyn. “Any objection?” he asked.

  Despite his lying-down position, Gosseyn actually made a shrugging movement with his shoulders. “I see no point to it,” he said. He added, “I simply wanted to ask you that one question without being in danger of getting a violent reply.”

  He shrugged again. “What about it?”

  Once more it was Civilian Number Two who spoke first. “What about—” the man waved vaguely towards the empty chairs—“our guys? Shouldn’t he, uh, produce them?”

  Blayney, who had half-turned toward the speaker, glanced back at Gosseyn. “What about them?” he asked.

  Gosseyn said, “They’re not dead. But—” he added—“they’re not on this planet.”

  “I’ve been trying,” said Blayney, “to guess where the Distorter would be located that could whisk them away. Because—” the man sounded both puzzled and impressed—“it must have taken some fine focussing to leave the chairs behind.”

  For Gosseyn, it had been a relieving interchange; for it was now obvious that Blayney knew nothing of the ability of his extra-brain, and merely believed that a hidden machine had done the nefarious deed.

  It seemed important to encourage that belief. So he commented in an even voice, “As you probably know, the interstellar contact brought a lot of scientific refinement to our little planet, along with the dangers and threats.”

  The Head of the Government of what had once been the United States of America, nodded. “I suppose that’s a good way to put it.”

  But he seemed to accept the explanation. Because, when he spoke again, it was more personal: “As for your question, let me repeat something I’ve already said.” The smile grew satirical. “Have you ever heard of political parties?”

  “In what connection?”

  “Well—” Tolerantly—“the upper echelon of a party is a gang of insiders. They occupy all the key positions.

  There’s approximately eight hundred of them, and, prior to an election, they meet in that famous, smoke-filled back room that we’ve all heard about, where the language is four-letter words. Each one of them has his own smoke-filled room, with about two hundred cursing followers; and they all get jobs, also. The upper group are alter egos of the president, and if he does something they don’t like, they start yelling.”

  Gosseyn said, “Give me the names of the inner group; and I’ll go and talk to them.”

  If ever a man had an astonished expression on his face, it was Blayney at that moment. “Talk to them!” he said. “You out of your mind?”

  “Well, not really talk.” Gosseyn did his own tolerant smile. “My real concern is to begin by re-establishing the Games Machine. Maybe you could treat that as a sort of an educational thing, or a museum, or better still, a way of getting the votes of the General Semantic nuts—you can call them that, unless you have a better four-letter word that will be more convincing to your cursing followers.”

  “But why would you want to go and see some of these people?”

  Gosseyn explained: “My interest is only in individuals who resist the re-establishment of the Institute of General Semantics, and, later on, the Games Machine.”

  “But what would you do to them?” The man’s tone had an insistent quality. “Kill them?”

  “No, I’ll just get rid of them, as I did your gunmen here.”

  Long pause. Finally, reluctantly: “Well, I have to admit that you can rig up some pretty good disappearing equipment.” He broke off: “Where would you send the
m to?”

  “I have a place in mind. But I think it would be better if you didn’t know where that was.”

  Blayney must have beckoned. Because the civilian

  Number One came over, untied Gosseyns legs, and unlocked the handcuffs. Gosseyn took them off himself, and handed them over.

  As the aide stepped back, he addressed his “boss”; “Sir, may I ask this gentleman over here a question?” He indicated Dan Lyttle.

  “Why not?” Blayney shrugged.

  The aide thereupon said to Lyttle: “That assumption business you were telling the kid—is that for grownups, also?”

  There was a faint smile on the lean face of the hotel clerk. “It’s for everybody. Why?”

  “Listening to you,” was the reply, “I got to thinking, maybe I’ve got a few assumptions I could do without.”

  Lyttle said, “Take a course in elementary General Semantics, like your, uh, boss here, did. Look where it got him.”

  There was no reply. But a faraway expression in the man’s eyes indicated that a thought had come, and was staying.

  Moments later, he was courteously opening the door for President Blayney’s departure.

  . . . As Enin and he rounded the corner, Gosseyn had this body’s first direct glimpse of the Institute of General Semantics—or rather, of what was left of it.

  What he saw was a building with a rectangular front that, except for its battered appearance, could have been what was left of an old-style bank building. Coming closer, Gosseyn saw that the look of being old was not just wear; it was tear.

  Since he knew that the decorative facade had been forcibly removed, it was evident—as he gazed now—that the concrete, which had been below and behind the facade, had been damaged, also.

  Enin and he crossed the street, and so, presently, they were at the main entrance. And he was pushing a button that had above it the word, CARETAKER. Next to the button was a small, ordinary door.

  At least two minutes went by. And then the smaller door opened; and a middle aged man stood there.

  Neither the man’s eyes nor manner had any welcome in them. However, after he had reluctantly read Blayney s authorization on its official form, he stepped aside, and pointed along a dimly lighted, pock-marked main floor that looked as if it had once been marble. He said:

  “There’s a door about two-thirds down, which has on it the word, ‘private’.” His voice sounded unhappy, as he finished: “I guess that’s what you want.”

  Gosseyn said, “We’ll also need two keys for this door, so we won’t have to bother you when we’ve been out.” He indicated the front entrance. Another memory came. He added, “I seem to recall that there’s a side door. We should probably have keys to that, also.”

  “Yeah, okay,” was the gloomy reply. And, apparently, a thought was finally coalescing inside the caretaker. “Things going to happen here?” he asked.

  “A lot,” replied Gosseyn.

  But he spoke that final comment over his shoulder, as Enin and he started walking off down the broad floor.

  After they had walked a hundred or so feet, Enin said, “Something funny about that fellow.”

  Gosseyn found himself agreeing silently that the caretaker had been singularly reluctant. Perhaps—he wondered—the man’s job was a sinecure; whereas greater activity might require him to start earning his salary.

  The man should probably be watched . . . though it was not readily apparent what inimical action such a person could take . . . unless there were others involved.

  Gosseyn grew aware that he was smiling wryly at the direction of his thoughts. The vague implication was that there might be enemies of General Semantics, somewhere in the background.

  But that really wasn’t a problem. For the most part, the vast majority of the earth population couldn’t care less. For them, Venus—where everyone had to be a self-starter—had no attraction whatsoever.

  —No jobs there!—Good God, how do they operate the place?—

  The timeless masses of earth, on whom the passage of the centuries had made no basic impact . . . except that, with the development of technology, they now pushed buttons which operated the daily machinery of their homes and their transportation on a level of underlying intricacy that the individual normally did even try to comprehend.

  So—Gosseyn’s interim conclusion, as Enin and he came to the door marked private—if the caretaker needed to be spied on, it would be for a reason that, right now, was obscure. And not analyzable in advance.

  CHAPTER

  17

  As they went through the unlocked door, marked private, Enin said, “Looks like we’re meeting nothing but crumby people and going to nothing but crumby places:” The thought which the comment evoked in Gosseyn Three brought a smile to his lips; whereupon, after a small pause, he spoke the famous General Semantics concept:

  “Enin, the map is not necessarily the territory; and, besides, you’ve got your maps slightly mixed. After all, we’ve just come from a meeting with the top government leader of this continent.”

  There was a pause. Then: “Oh, him!” Another pause, followed by a frown, and the words: “What do you mean, map?”

  “Later,” said Gosseyn, “I’ll explain.”

  But with him, also, and, with or without the aid of General Semantics’ concepts, the living quarters he was looking at, did not evoke love at first sight.

  The apartment, in which they found themselves, was large enough for their immediate purpose; but it had definitely not been well-kept. And it had, visibly, been stripped of some of its furniture.

  There was only one place in the living room to sit down: a couch. No chairs were to be seen, and only one small table, and a cabinet phone.

  In the kitchen there was a built-in breakfast nook, a built-in oven, and a large, built-in refrigerator. Missing from the surrounding built-in shelves were about three quarters of the dishes that must have been there at one time.

  There were two bedrooms, one with a single, kingsized bed and the other with twin beds; but no other furniture. Built-in clothes closets were available in both bedrooms; so at least there would be a place to store any clothing they might acquire.

  He was aware of Enin going into the smaller bedroom. So Gosseyn headed for the kitchen. In his initial search of the drawers there, he had noticed a pad and a pen. So now he sat down and began to make a list.

  It was his first quiet moment since their arrival. Sitting there, he became aware of an odd sensation inside his head and body. Gosseyn paused, pen poised, frowning . . . What, what?—

  Interruption: Enin’s voice reached to him from beyond the door: “Do you think he means it? Do you think he really going to do it?”

  “Do what?”

  His awareness of the strange internal feeling grew dim, as he called out the question, and followed it with another one:

  “And who do you mean?”

  “Mr. Blayney! Do you think he’ll really rebuild this place?”

  Gosseyn finished writing the word “milk.” Then he laid the pen down. Stood up. And walked out to the living room. As he did so he realized he was experiencing a complexity of thoughts and awareness:

  . . . Awareness that the strange sensation had been there all these minutes, maybe even hours, damped out by the demanding presence of Enin; thought about how to answer the boy’s question; vague consciousness of his alter ego, and all those realities—

  He found Enin lying on the living room floor in what could essentially be called a twisted position. But the kid seemed at ease. Gosseyn walked over, and stood looking down at the emperor of all Dzan, and spoke again in General Semantics phraseology:

  “The best answer I can give you is based on a generalized map I have inside me of the way governments work.”

  “But you said the map is not the territory.” The boy’s eyes were bright.

  The man was aware of himself smiling. “I meant the map is not necessarily the territory. And that’s particularly true when we’
re dealing with the maps we have of the way the world is and the way people are in general. Here on earth, President Blayney has a lot of money at his disposal for public spending. One or more companies will do the re-building of the institute; and they’ll receive government aid to do it. What’s important about that is, it puts the builders on our side. So—”

  At that moment the phone rang. Gosseyn walked over, lifted the receiver, and said, “Hello! Who are you calling?”

  A man’s voice said, “This is the Daynbar Construction Company. We understand you have been authorized to rebuild the institute; and we’d like to send a team over to discuss the renovation.”

  Gosseyn had his moment of awe, even though he had just predicted something basic like this. His instant deduction was that an associate of Blayney had contacted a builder who, presumably, at some later time would pay the informant for the information.

  Since it was, for him, a positive development, his reply was within the frame of business courtesy: “When can your people get over here?”

  It developed that their “team” would show up at 8 A.M. next day . . . all very normal, Gosseyn realized. But, somehow, not fast enough for the feeling of urgency that was—somehow—reaching into him from . . . somewhere.

  After he had replaced the receiver, he grew aware that Enin was up and standing in the kitchen doorway, staring at him. But the boy said nothing. Whereupon Gosseyn commented: “I hope all this is not too boring for you.”

  There was a pause, and then—of all things—a grin creased that youthful face. “I guess—” the boy said—“you’ve got some assumptions about me wanting to be back on that stupid ship with all those suck-ups.”

  “More like, maybe you want to be back with your mother,” Gosseyn answered.

  But even as he spoke, he was silently adjusting to Enin’s analysis. It was not wrong after all those boyish complaints; but he had to admit that the thought—belief in his mind had been that, to his Imperial Majesty of Dzan, a place like earth, with no one kowtowing was, well, crumby. And crumby in at least one of its meanings implied that whoever felt that way didn’t want to be here.