The Voyage of the Space Beagle Page 8
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
The man laughed unhappily. “I keep hearing a voice. Silly.”
“Loud?” It was not exactly the question a solicitous inquirer might normally be expected to ask, but Grosvenor was intent.
“No, it’s far away. It keeps going away, and then—”
“It’ll fade,” said Grosvenor soothingly. “You know how the mind can be overstimulated. I’ll wager it’s going away right now, just from having someone to talk to you and distract your attention.”
The man cocked his head to one side, as if he were listening. He shook his head wonderingly. “It is gone.” He straightened, and sighed with relief. “Had me worried for a while there.”
Of the other three men, two were reassured with comparative ease. But the remaining individual even with additional suggestion, continued to hear the voice. Grosvenor finally took him aside, and, under the pretence of examining his ear, removed the tiny radio. The man probably needed more training.
Grosvenor talked briefly with the other subjects. Then, satisfied, he returned to the technique room and set up a series of records to play three minutes out of every fifteen. In the outer room again, he glanced around and saw that all was well. He decided that he could safely leave the men to their work. He went out into the corridor and headed for the elevators.
A few minutes later, he entered the mathematics department and asked to see Morton. To his surprise, he was admitted at once.
He found Morton sitting comfortably behind a big desk. The mathematician indicated a chair, and Grosvenor sat down.
It was the first time he had been in Morton’s office, and he gazed around curiously. The room was large and had a view-plate occupying one whole wall. At the moment, the plate was focused on space at such an angle that the great wheeled galaxy, of which Sol was but one tiny dust mote, was visible from rim to rim. It was still near enough for innumerable individual stars to be seen, and far enough away from the misty grandeur of it to be at the peak of brilliance.
Also in the field of vision were several of the star clusters which, though outside the galaxy proper, spun with it through space. The sight of them reminded Grosvenor that the Space Beagle was at the moment passing through one of the smaller clusters.
The initial greeting being over, he asked, “Any decision yet as to whether we’re going to stop at one of the suns of this cluster?”
Morton nodded. “The decision seems to be against. I agree with that. We’re heading for another galaxy, and we’ll be away from Earth long enough as it is.”
The Director leaned forward to pick up a paper from his desk, then sank back in his chair. He said abruptly, “I hear you’ve been invaded.”
Grosvenor smiled wryly. He could imagine the satisfaction some of the members of the expedition would gain from the incident. He had made the ship’s company just aware enough of his presence to cause them to feel uneasy about what Nexialism might be able to do. Such individuals — and many of them were not yet Kent supporters — would be opposed to the Director’s interfering in the affair.
Knowing that, he had nevertheless come to find out if Morton understood the necessities of the situation. Tersely, Grosvenor described what had happened. He finished by saying, “Mr. Morton, I want you to order Kent to cease his encroachment.” He had no desire for such an order to be issued, but he wanted to see if Morton also realized the danger.
The Director shook his head, and said mildly, “After all, you do have a large space for one man. Why not share with another department?”
The answer was too noncommittal. Grosvenor had no recourse but to press on. He said firmly, “Am I to understand that it is possible for the head of any department aboard this ship to take over space in another department without permission from any authority?”
Morton did not reply immediately. There was a wry smile on his face. He toyed with a pencil as he said, finally, “I have an idea you misunderstand my position aboard the Beagle. Before making a decision involving a department head, I must consult with other department heads.” He gazed at the ceiling. “Let us suppose that I placed this matter on the agenda, and then it was decided that Kent could have that part of your department he has already taken over. The status, being affirmed, would thereafter be permanent.” He finished in a deliberate tone. “It occurred to me that you might not care to have that limitation placed upon you at this stage.” His smile broadened.
Grosvenor, his purpose accomplished, smiled back. “I am very happy to have your support in this matter. I can count on you then, not to let Kent place the matter on the agenda?”
If Morton was surprised by the swift reversal of attitude he gave no sign. “The agenda,” he said with satisfaction, “is one thing I do have considerable control over. My office prepares it. I present it. The department heads can vote to place Kent’s request on the agenda for a subsequent meeting, but not for any that is in progress.”
“I gather,” said Grosvenor, “that Mr. Kent has already made application to take over four rooms of my department.
Morton nodded. He put down the paper he had been holding and picked up a chronometer. He studied it thoughtfully. “The next meeting takes place in two days. Thereafter, every week unless I postpone them. I think” — he sounded as if he were musing aloud — “I should have no difficulty cancelling the one scheduled for twelve days hence.” He put down the chronometer and stood up briskly. “That will give you twenty-two days to defend yourself.”
Grosvenor climbed slowly to his feet, He decided not to comment on the time limit. At the moment, it seemed to be far more than adequate, but it might sound egotistical if he said so. Long before the time was up, he would either regain control of his department, or his defeat would be established.
Aloud, he said, “There’s another point I’ve been wanting to bring up. I feel I should be entitled to communicate directly with the other department heads when I am wearing a space suit.”
Morton smiled. “I am sure that is merely an oversight. The matter will be rectified.”
They shook hands and separated. As he headed back to the Nexial department, it seemed to Grosvenor that, in an extremely indirect manner, Nexialism was gaining ground.
As he entered the outer room, Grosvenor was surprised to see that Siedel was standing off to one side watching the chemists at work. The psychologist saw him and came over, shaking his head.
“Young man,” he said, “isn’t this a little unethical?”
Grosvenor guessed with a sinking sensation that Siedel had analysed what he had done to the men. He kept that awareness out of his voice as he said quickly, “Absolutely unethical, sir. I feel exactly as you would feel if your department were taken over in flagrant disregard of legal rights.”
He thought, Why is he here? Has Kent asked him to investigate?
Siedel stroked his jaw. He was a heavily built man with bright, black eyes. “That isn’t what I meant,” he said slowly. “But I see that you feel justified.”
Grosvenor changed his tactics. “Are you referring to the method of instruction I am using on these men?”
He felt no qualms of conscience. Whatever the reason this man was here, the opportunity had to be turned to his own advantage, if possible. His hope was to set up a conflict in the psychologist’s mind, to make him neutral in this fight between Kent and himself.
Siedel said, with a thinly sardonic edge to his words, “I am. At the request of Mr. Kent, I have examined those members of his staff who he thought were acting in an abnormal fashion. It is now my duty to report my diagnosis to Mr. Kent.”
“Why?” said Grosvenor. He went on earnestly. “Mr. Siedel, my department has been invaded by a man who dislikes me because I have openly stated that I will not vote for him. Since he acted in defiance of the laws of this ship, I have every right to defend myself as best I can. I beg you, therefore, to remain neutral in this purely private quarrel.”
Siedel was frowning. “You don’t understand,”
he said: “I am here as a psychologist. I regard your use of hypnosis without the permission of the subject as completely unethical. I am surprised that you expect me to associate myself with such an act.”
Grosvenor said, “I assure you that my code of ethics is just as scrupulous as your own. While I have hypnotized these men without their permission, I have carefully refrained from taking advantage of it to harm or embarrass them in the slightest degree. Under the circumstances, I cannot see that you should feel obliged to take Kent’s side.”
Siedel frowned. “This is a quarrel between you and Kent — is that right?”
Grosvenor said, “Substantially.” He could guess what was coming.
“And yet,” said Siedel, “it is not Kent you have hypnotized, but a group of innocent bystanders.”
Grosvenor remembered how the four chemist technicians had acted at his lecture. Some of them at least were not quite innocent. He said, “I’m not going to argue with you about that. I could say that, from the beginning of time, the unthinking majority has paid the price for obeying without question the commands of leaders whose motivations they didn’t trouble themselves to inquire into. But rather than go into that, I’d like to ask one question.”
“Yes?” “Did you enter the technique room?”
Siedel nodded, but said nothing.
“You saw the records?” Grosvenor persisted.
“Yes.”
“You noticed what they dealt with?”
“Information on chemistry.”
“That’s all I’m giving them,” said Grosvenor. “That’s all I intend to give them. I regard my department as an educational centre. People who force themselves in here receive an education whether they like it or not.”
“I confess,” said Siedel, “I don’t see how that will help you get rid of them. However, I shall be happy to tell Mr. Kent what you are doing. He shouldn’t have any objection to his men learning more chemistry.”
Grosvenor did not answer. He had his own opinion as to how much Kent would like having a group of his underlings know, as they shortly would, as much as he did about his own speciality.
He watched gloomily as Siedel disappeared into the corridor. The man would undoubtedly give Kent a full report, which meant a new plan would have to be worked out. Standing there, Grosvenor decided that it was too soon for drastic defence measures. It was hard to be certain that any sustained, positive action would not produce on board the ship the very situation he was supposed to prevent. Despite his own reservations about cyclic history, it was well to remember that civilizations did seem to be born, grow older, and die of old age. Before he did anything more, he’d better hive a talk with Korita and find out what pitfalls he might inadvertently be heading towards.
He located the Japanese scientist at Library B, which was on the far side of the ship, on the same floor as the Nexial department. Korita was leaving as he came up, and Grosvenor fell in step beside him. Without preamble, he outlined his problem. Korita did not reply immediately. They walked the length of the corridor before the tall historian spoke, doubtfully. “My friend,” he said, “I’m sure you realize the difficulty of solving specific problems on the basis of generalizations, which is virtually all that the theory of cyclic history has to offer.”
“Still,” Grosvenor said, “a few analogies might be very useful to me. From what I’ve read on this subject, I gather we’re in the late, or ‘winter’, period of our own civilization. In other words, right now we are making the mistakes that lead to decay. I have a few ideas about that, but I’d like more.”
Korita shrugged. “I’ll try to put it briefly.” He was silent for a while, then he said, “The outstanding common denominator of the ‘winter’ periods of civilization is the growing comprehension on the part of millions of individuals of how things work. People become impatient with superstitious or supernatural explanations of what goes on in their minds and bodies, and in the world around them. With the gradual accumulation of knowledge, even the simplest minds for the first time ‘see through’ and consciously reject the claims of a minority to hereditary superiority. And the grim battle for equality is on.”
Korita paused for a moment, then continued. “It is this widespread struggle for personal aggrandisement that constitutes the most significant parallel between all the ‘winter’ periods in the civilizations of recorded history. For better or worse, the fight usually takes place within the framework of a legal system that tends to protect the entrenched minority. The late-comer to the field, not understanding his motivations, plunges blindly into the battle for power. The result is a veritable mêlée of undisciplined intelligence. In their resentment and lust, men follow leaders as confused as themselves. Repeatedly, the resulting disorder has led by well-defined steps to the final static fellahin state.
“Sooner or later, one group gains the ascendancy. Once in office, the leaders restore ‘order’ in so savage a blood-letting that the millions are cowed. Swiftly, the power group begins to restrict activities. The licensing systems and other regulative measures necessary to any organized society become tools of suppression and monopoly. It becomes difficult, then impossible, for the individual to engage in new enterprise. And so we progress by swift stages to the familiar caste system of ancient India, and to other, less well-known but equally inflexible societies, such as that of Rome after about A.D. 300. The individual is born into his station of life and cannot rise above it…. There, does that brief summary help you?”
Grosvenor said slowly, “As I’ve already said, I’m trying to solve the problem Mr. Kent has presented me without falling into the egotistical errors of the late-civilization man you have described. I want to know if I can reasonably hope to defend myself against him without aggravating the hostilities that already exist aboard the Beagle.”
Korita smiled wryly. “It will be a unique victory if you succeed. Historically, on a mass basis, the problem has never been solved. Well, good luck, young man!”
At that moment, it happened.
CHAPTER NINE
They had paused at the “glass” room on Grosvenor’s floor. It wasn’t glass, and it wasn’t, by strict definition, a room. It was an alcove of an outer wall corridor, and the “glass” was an enormous curving plate made from a crystallized form of one of the resistance metals. It was so limpidly transparent as to give the illusion that nothing at all was there. Beyond was the vacuum and darkness of space. Grosvenor had just noticed absently that the ship was almost through the small star cluster it had been traversing. Only a few of the five thousand-odd suns of the system were still visible. He parted his lips to say, “I’d like to talk with you again, Mr. Korita, when you have time.”
He didn’t say it. A slightly blurred double image of a woman wearing a feathered hat was taking form in the glass directly in front of him. The image flickered and shimmered. Grosvenor felt an abnormal tensing of the muscles of his eyes. For a moment, his mind went blank. That was followed rapidly by sounds, flashes of light, a sharp sensation of pain. Hypnotic hallucinations! The awareness was like an electric shock.
The recognition saved him. His own conditioning enabled him instantly to reject the mechanical suggestion of the light pattern. He whirled and shouted into the nearest communicator, “Don’t look at the images! They’re hypnotic. We’re being attacked!”
As he turned away, he stumbled over Korita’s unconscious body. He stopped and knelt.
“Korita!” he said in a piercing tone, “you can hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Only my instructions influence you. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“You’re beginning to relax, to forget. Your mind is calm. The effect of the images is fading. Now it’s gone. Gone completely. Do you understand? Gone completely.”
“I understand.”
“They cannot affect you again. In fact, every time you see an image, you’re reminded of some pleasant scene from home. Is that clear?”
“Very.”
Korita opened his eyes. “What happened?” he said in a puzzled tone.
Grosvenor explained swiftly, and then said, “But now, quick, come along! The light pattern keeps pulling at my eyes in spite of counter suggestion.”
He hurried the bewildered archaeologist along the corridor toward the Nexial department. At the first corner, they came to a human body lying on the floor.
Grosvenor kicked the man, not too lightly. He wanted a shock response. “Do you hear me?” he demanded.
The man stirred, “Yes.”
“Then listen. The light images have no further effect on you. Now get up. You’re wide awake.”
The man climbed to his feet and lunged at him, swinging wildly. Grosvenor ducked, and his assailant staggered past him blindly.
Grosvenor ordered him to halt, but he kept on going without a backward glance. Grosvenor grabbed Korita’s arm. “I seem to have got to him too late.”
Korita shook his head dazedly. His eyes turned toward the wall, and it was clear from his next words that Grosvenor’s suggestion had not taken full effect, or else was already being undermined. “But what are they?” he asked.
“Don’t look at them?”
It was incredibly hard not to. Grosvenor had to keep blinking to break the pattern of light flashes that came at his eyes from other images on the walls. At first it seemed to him that the images were everywhere. Then he noticed that the womanish shapes — some oddly double, some single — occupied transparent or translucent wall sections. There were hundreds of such reflecting wall areas, but at least it was a limitation.
They saw more men. The victims lay at uneven intervals along the corridors. Twice they came upon conscious men. One stood in their path with unseeing eyes, and did not move or turn as Grosvenor and Korita hurried by. The other man let out a yell, grabbed his vibrator, and fired it. The tracer beam flashed on the wall beside Grosvenor. And then he had tackled the other and knocked him down. The man — a Kent supporter — glared at him malignantly. “You damned spy!” he said harshly. “We’ll get you yet.”