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Sucker Bait
By Isaac Asimov
THE ship Triple G flashed silently out of the nothingness of hyperspace and into the all-ness of space-time. It emerged into the glitter of the great star-cluster of Hercules.
It poised gingerly in space, surrounded by suns and suns and suns, each centering a gravitational field that wrenched at the little bubble of metal. But the shipÆs computers had done well and it had pin-pricked squarely into position. It was within a dayÆs journeyùordinary spacedrive journeyùof the Lagrange System.
This fact had varying significance to the different men aboard ship. To the crew it was another dayÆs work and another dayÆs flight pay and then shore rest. The planet for which they were aiming was uninhabited but shore rest could be a pleasant interlude even on an asteroid. They did not trouble themselves concerning a possible difference of opinion among the passengers.
The crew, in fact, were rather contemptuous of the passengers, and avoided them.
Eggheads!
And so they were, every one of them but one. Scientists, in
pouter termsùand a heterogeneous lot. Their nearest approach to a common emotion at that moment was a final anxiety for their instruments, a vague desire for a last check.
And perhaps just a small increase of tension and anxiety. It was an uninhabited planet. Each had expressed himself as firmly of that belief a number of times. Still, each manÆs thoughts are his own.
As for the one unusual man on board shipùnot a crewman and not really a scientistùhis strongest feeling was one of bone-weariness. He stirred to his feet weakly and fought off the last dregs of spacesickness. He was Mark Annuncio, and he had been in bed now for four days, feeding on almost nothing, while the ship wove in and out of the Universe, jumping its light-years of space.
But now he felt less certain of imminent death and he had to answer the summons of the captain. In his inarticulate way, Mark resented that summons. He was used to having his own way, seeing what he felt like seeing. Who was the captain toù The impulse kept returning to tell Dr. Sheffield about this and let it rest there.
But Mark was curious, so he knew he would have to go.
It was his one great vice. Curiosity!
It also happened to be his profession, and his mission in life.
CAPTAIN Follenbee of the Triple G was a hard-headed man. It was how he habitually thought of himself. He had made government-sponsored runs before. For one thing, they were profitable. The Confederacy didnÆt haggle. It meant a complete overhaul of his ship each time, replacement of defective parts, liberal terms for the crew. It was good business. Damned good business.
This run, of course, was a little different.
It wasnÆt so much the particular gang of passengers he had taken aboard. (He had expected temperament, tantrums and unbearable foolishness but it turned out that eggheads were much like normal people.) It wasnÆt that half his ship had been torn down and rebuilt into what the contract called a ôuniversal central-access laboratory.ö
Actually, and he hated the thought, it was ôJunioröùthe planet that lay ahead of them.
The crew didnÆt know, of course, but he, himself, hard-head and all, was beginning to find the matter unpleasant.
But only beginningù At the moment, he told himself, it was this Mark Annuncio,
if that was the name, who was annoying him. He slapped the back of one hand against the palm of the other and thought angrily about it. His large, round face was ruddy with annoyance.
Insolence!
A boy of not more than twenty, with no position that he knew of among the passengers, to make a request like that.
What was behind it? That at least ought to be straightened out.
In his present mood, he would like to straighten it out by means of a jacket collar twisted in a fist and a rattle of teeth, but better notù After all, this was a curious kind of flight for the Confederacy of Worlds to sponsor, and a twenty-year-old, over-curious rubberneck might be an integral part of the strangeness. What was he on board for? There was this Dr. Sheffield, for instance, who seemed to have no job but to play nursemaid for the boy. Now why was that? Who was this Annuncio?
He had been spacesick for the entire trick, or was that just a device to keep to his cabinù There was a light burning as the door-signal sounded.
It would be the boy.
Easy now, thought the captain. Easy now.
MARK Annuncio entered the captainÆs cabin and licked his lips in a futile attempt to get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth. He felt lightheaded and heavyhearted.
At the moment he would have given up his Service status to be back on Earth.
He thought wishfully of his own familiar quarters; small but private; alone with his own kind. It was just a bed, desk, chair, and closet, but he had all of Central Library on free call. Here there was nothing. He had thought there would be a lot to learn on board ship. He had never been on board ship before. But he hadnÆt expected days and days of spacesickness.
He was so homesick he could cry, and he hated himself because he knew that his eyes were red and moist and that the captain would see it. He hated himself because he wasnÆt large and wide; because he looked like a mouse.
In a word, that was it. He had mouse-brown hair with nothing but silken straightness to it; a narrow, receding chin, a small mouth and a pointed nose. All he needed were five or six delicate vibrissae on each side of the nose to make the illusion complete. And he was below average in height.
And then he saw the star-field in the captainÆs observation port and the breath went out of him.
Stars!
Stars as he had never seen them.
Mark had never left the planet Earth before. (Dr. Sheffield told him that was why he was spacesick. Mark didnÆt believe him. He had read in fifty different books that spacesickness was psychogenic. Even Dr. Sheffield tried to fool him sometimes.)
He had never left Earth before, and he was used to EarthÆs sky. He was accustomed to viewing two thousand stars spread over half a celestial sphere with only ten of the first magnitude.
But here they crowded madly. There were ten times the number in EarthÆs sky in that small square alone. And bright!
He fixed the star-pattern greedily in his mind. It overwhelmed him. He knew the figures on the Hercules cluster, of course. It contained between one million and ten million stars
ùno exact census had been taken as yetùbut figures are one thing and stars are another.
He wanted to count them. It was a sudden overwhelming desire. He was curious about the number. He wondered if they all had names; if there were astronomic data on all of them. LetÆs seeù He counted them in groups of hundreds. TwoùthreeùHe might have used the mental pattern alone, but he liked to watch the actual physical objects when they were so startlingly beautiful. Sixùsevenù The captainÆs hearty voice splattered over him and brought him back to shipÆs interior.
ôMr. Annuncio. Glad to meet you.ö
Mark looked up, startled, resentful. Why was his count being interrupted?
He said, irritably, ôThe stars!ö and pointed.
The captain turned to stare. ôWhat about them? WhatÆs wrong?ö
Mark looked at the captainÆs wide back and his overdeveloped posterior. He looked at the gray stubble that covered the captainÆs head, at the two large hands with thick fingers that clasped one another in the small of the captainÆs back and flapped rhythmically against the shiny plastex of his jacket.
Mark thought: What does he care about the stars? Does he care about their size and brightness and spectral classes?
His lower lip trembled. The captain was just one of the noncompos. Everyone on ship was a noncompos. ThatÆs what they called them back in the Service. Noncompos. All of them. CouldnÆt cube fifteen without a computer.
Mark felt very lonely.
He let it goùno use trying to explainùand said, ôThe stars get so thick here. Like pea soup.ö
ôAll appearance, Mr. Annuncio.ö (The captain pronounced the ôcö in MarkÆs name like an ôsö rather than a ôtsö and the sound grated on MarkÆs ear.) ôAverage distance between stars in the thickest cluster is over a light-year. Plenty of room, eh? Looks thick, though. Grant you that. If the lights were out, theyÆd shine like a trillion Chisholm points in an oscillating force-field.ö
But he didnÆt offer to put the lights out and Mark wasnÆt going to ask him to.
THE captain said, ôSit down, Mr. Annuncio. No use standing, eh? You smoke? Mind if I do? Sorry you couldnÆt be here this morning. Had an excellent view of Lagrange I and II at six space-hours. Red and green. Like traffic lights, eh? Missed you all trip. Space-legs need strengthening, eh?ö
He barked out his ôehÆsö in a high-pitched voice that Mark found devilishly irritating.
Mark said in a low voice, ôIÆm all right now.ö
The captain seemed to find that unsatisfactory. He puffed at his cigar and stared down at Mark with eyebrows hunched down over his eyes. He said, slowly, ôGlad to see you now,
anyway. Get acquainted a little. Shake hands. The Triple GÆs been on a good many government-chartered cruises. No trouble. Never had trouble. WouldnÆt want trouble. You understand.ö
Mark didnÆt. He was tired of trying to. His eyes drifted back hungrily to the stars. The pattern had changed a little.
The captain caught his eyes for a moment. He was frowning and his shoulders seemed to tremble at the edge of a shrug. He walked to the control panel, and like a gigantic eyelid, metal slithered across the studded observation port.
Mark jumped up in a fury, shrieking, ôWhatÆs the idea? IÆm counting them, you fool.ö
ôCountingùö The captain flushed, but maintained a quality of politeness in his voice. He said, ôSorry! Little matter of business we must discuss.ö
He stressed the word ôbusinessö lightly.
Mark knew what he meant. ôThereÆs nothing to discuss. I want to see the shipÆs log. I called you hours ago to tell you that. YouÆre delaying me.ö
The captain said, ôSuppose you tell me why you want to see it, eh? Never been asked before. WhereÆs your authority?ö
Mark felt astonished. ôI can look at anything I want to. IÆm in Mnemonic Service.ö
The captain puffed strongly at his cigar. (It was a special grade manufactured for use in space and on enclosed spaceobjects. It had an oxidant included so that atmospheric oxygen was not consumed.)
He said, cautiously, ôThat so? Never heard of it. What is it?ö Mark said indignantly, ôItÆs the Mnemonic Service, thatÆs all. ItÆs my job to look at anything I want to and to ask anything I want to. And IÆve got the right to do it.ö
ôCanÆt look at the log if I donÆt want you to.ö
ôYouÆve got no say in it, you . . . you noncompos.ö
The captainÆs coolness evaporated. He threw his cigar down violently and stamped at it, then picked it up and poked it carefully into the ash vent.
ôWhat the Galactic Drift is this?ö he demanded. ôWho are you, anyway? Security agent? WhatÆs up? LetÆs have it straight. Right now.ö
ôIÆve told you all I have to.ö
ôNothing to hide,ö said the captain, ôbut IÆve got rights.ö
ôNothing to hide?ö squeaked Mark. ôTherL why is this ship called the Triple G?ö
ôThatÆs its name.ö
ôGo on. No such ship with an Earth registry. I knew that before I got on. IÆve been waiting to ask you.ö
The captain blinked. He said, ôOfficial name is George G. Grundy. Triple G is what everyone calls it.ö
Mark laughed. ôAll right, then. And after I see the log book, I want to talk to the crew. I have the right. You ask Dr. Sheffield.ö
ôThe crew too, eh?ö the captain seethed. ôLetÆs talk to Dr. Sheffield, and then letÆs keep you in quarters till we land. Sprout!ö
He snatched at the intercom box.
THE scientific complement of the Triple G were few in number for the job they had to do, and, as individuals, young. Not as young as Mark Annuncio, perhaps, who was in a class by himself, but even the oldest of them, Emmanuel George Cimonùastrophysicistùwas not quite thirty-nine. And with his dark, unthinned hair and large, brilliant eyes, he looked still younger. To be sure, the optic brilliance was partly due to the wearing of contact lenses.
Cimon, who was perhaps overconscious of his relative age, and of the fact that he was the titular head of the expeditionù a fact most of the others were inclined to ignoreùusually affected an undramatic view of the mission. He ran the dotted tape through his fingers, then let it snake silently back into its spool.
ôRun of the mill,ö he sighed, seating himself in the softest chair in the small passengerÆs lounge. ôNothing.ö
He looked at the latest color photographs of the Lagrange binary and was impervious to their beauty. Lagrange I, smaller and hotter than EarthÆs own sun, was a brilliant green-blue, with a pearly green-yellow corona surrounding it like the gold setting of an emerald. It appeared to be the size of a lentil or of a ball bearing out of a Lenser-ratchet. A short distance awayùas distances go on a photographùwas Lagrange II. It appeared twice the size of Lagrange I, due to its
position in space. (Actually, it was only four-fifths the diameter of Lagrange I, half its volume and two-thirds its mass.) Its orange-red, toward which the film was less sensitive, comparatively, than was the human retina, seemed dimmer than ever against the glory of its sister sun.
Surrounding both, undrowned by the near-by suns, as the result of the differentially-polarized lens specifically used for the purpose, was the unbelievable brilliance of the Hercules cluster. It was diamond dust, scattered thickly, yellow, white, blue, and red.
ôNothing,ö said Cimon.
ôLooks good to me,ö said the other man in the lounge. He was Groot Knoevenaagleùphysicianùshort, plump, and known to man by no name other than Novee.
He went on to ask, ôWhereÆs Junior?ö then bent over CimonÆs shoulder, peering out of slightly myopic eyes.
Cimon looked up and shuddered, ôItÆs name is not Junior. You canÆt see the planet, Troas, if thatÆs what you mean, in this wilderness of stars. This picture is Scientific Earthman material. It isnÆt particularly useful.ö
ôOh, Space and back!ö Novee was disappointed.
ôWhat difference is it to you, anyway?ö demanded Cimon. ôSuppose I said one of those dots was Troasùany one of them. You wouldnÆt know the difference and what good would it do you?ö
ôNow wait, Cimon. DonÆt be so superior. ItÆs legitimate sentiment. WeÆll be living on Junior for a while. For all we know, weÆll be dying on it.ö
ôThereÆs no audience, Novee, no orchestra, no mikes, no trumpets, so why be dramatic. We wonÆt be dying on it. If we do, itÆll be our own fault, and probably as a result of overeating.ö He said it with the peculiar emphasis men of small appetite use when speaking to men of hearty appetite, as though a poor digestion was something that came only of rigid virtue and superior intellect.
ôA thousand people did die,ö said Novee, softly.
ôSure. About a billion men a day die all over the galaxy.ö
ôNot this way.ö
ôNot what way?ö
With an effort, Novee kept to his usual drawl. ôNo discussions except at official meetings. That was the decision.ö
ôIÆll have nothing to discuss,ö said Cimon, gloomily. ôTheyÆre just two ordinary stars. Damned if I know why I volunteered. I suppose it was just the chance of seeing an abnormally large Trojan system from close up. It was the thought of looking at a habitable planet with a double sun. I donÆt know why I should have thought thereÆd be anything amazing about it.ö
ôBecause you thought of a thousand dead men and women,ö said Novee, then went on hastily. ôListen, tell me something, will you? WhatÆs a Trojan planet, anyway?ö
The physician bore the otherÆs look of contempt for a moment, then said, ôAll right. All right. So I donÆt know. You donÆt know everything either. What do you know about ultrasonic incisions?ö
Cimon said, ôNothing, and I think thatÆs fine. ItÆs my opinion that information outside a professional manÆs specialty is useless and a waste of psycho-potential. SheffieldÆs point of view leaves me cold.ö
ôI still want to know. That is, if you can explain it.ö
ôI can explain it. As a matter of fact, it was mentioned in the original briefing, if you were listening. Most multiple stars, and that means one third of all stars, have planets of a sort. The trouble is that the planets are never habitable. If theyÆre far enough away from the center of gravity of the stellar system to have a fairly circular orbit, theyÆre cold enough to have helium oceans. If theyÆre close enough to get heat, their orbit is so erratic that at least once in each revolution, they get close enough to one or another of the stars to melt iron.
ôHere in the Lagrange System, however, we have an unusual case. The two stars, Lagrange I and Lagrange II, and the planet, Troasùalong with its satellite, Iliumùare at the corners of an imaginary equilateral triangle. Got that? Such an arrangement happens to be a stable one, and for the sake of anything you like, donÆt ask me to tell you why. Just take it as my professional opinion.ö
Novee muttered under his breath, ôI wouldnÆt dream of doubting it.ö
Cimon looked displeased and continued, ôThe system revolves as a unit. Troas is always a hundred million miles from
each sun, and the suns are always a hundred million miles from one another.ö
Novee rubbed his ear and looked dissatisfied. ôI know all that. I was listening at the briefing. But why is it a Trojan planet? Why Trojan?ö
CimonÆs thin lips compressed for a moment as though holding back a nasty word by force. He said, ôWe have an arrangement like that in the Solar System. The sun, Jupiter and a group of small asteroids form a stable equilateral triangle. It so happens that the asteroids had been given such names as Hector, Achilles, Ajax and other heroes of the Trojan war, henceùor do I have to finish?ö
ôIs that all?ö said Novee.
ôYes. Are you through bothering me?ö
ôOh, boil your head.ö
NOVEE rose to leave the indignant astrophysicist but the door slid open a moment before his hand touched the activator and Boris Vernadskyùgeochemist; dark eyebrows, wide mouth, broad face and with an inveterate tendency to polka-dot shirts and magnetic clip-ons in red plasticùstepped in.
He was oblivious to NoveeÆs flushed face and CimonÆs frozen expression of distaste.
He said, lightly, ôFellow scientists, if you listen very carefully you will probably hear an explosion to beat the Milky Way from up yonder in captainÆs quarters.ö
ôWhat happened?ö asked Novee.
ôThe captain got hold of Annuncio, SheffieldÆs little pet wizard, and Sheffield went charging up-deck, bleeding heavily at each eyeball.ö
Cimon, having listened so far, turned away, snorting.
Novee said, ôSheffield! The man canÆt get angry. IÆve never even heard him raise his voice.ö
ôHe did this time. When he found out the kid had left his cabin without telling him and that the captain was bullyragging himùWow! Did you know he was up and about, Novee?ö
ôNo, but IÆm not surprised. Spacesickness is one of those things. When you have it, you think youÆre dying. In fact, you can hardly wait. Then, in two minutes itÆs gone and you feel all right. Weak, but all right. I told Mark this morning weÆd be landing next day and I suppose it pulled him through. The thought of a planetary surface in clear prospect does wonders for spacesickness. We are landing soon, arenÆt we, Cimon?ö
The astrophysicist made a peculiar sound that could have been interpreted as a grunt of assent. At least, Novee so interpreted it.
ôAnyway,ö said Novee, ôwhat happened?ö
Vernadsky said, ôWell, SheffieldÆs been bunking with me since the kid twirled on his toes and went over backward with spacesickness and heÆs sitting there at the desk with his charts and his Fist computer chug-chugging away, when the roomphone signals and itÆs the captain. Well, it turns out heÆs got the boy with him and he wants to know what the blanketyblank and assorted dot-and-dash the government means by planting a spy on him. So Sheffield yells back at him that heÆll stab him with a Collamore macro-leveling-tube if heÆs been fooling with the kid and off he goes leaving the phone activated and the captain frothing.ö
ôYouÆre making this up,ö said Novee. ôSheffield wouldnÆt say anything like that.ö
ôWords to that effect.ö
Novee turned to Cimon. ôYouÆre heading our group. Why donÆt you do something about this?ö
Cimon snarled, ôIn cases like this, IÆm heading the group. My responsibilities always come on suddenly. Let them fight it out. Sheffield talks an excellent fight and the captain never takes his hands out of the small of his back. VernadskyÆs jitterbugging description doesnÆt mean thereÆll be physical violence.ö
ôAll right, but thereÆs no point in having feuds of any kind in an expedition like ours.ö
ôYou mean our mission!ö Vernadsky raised both hands in mock-awe and rolled his eyes upward. ôHow I dread the time when we must find ourselves among the rags and bones of the first expedition.ö
And as though the picture brought to mind by that was not one that bore levity well after all, there was suddenly nothing to say. Even the back of CimonÆs head which was all that showed over the back of the easy-chair seemed a bit the stiffer for the thought.
0SWALD Mayer Sheffieldùpsychologist, thin as a string and as tall as a good length of it, and with a voice that could be used either for singing an operatic selection with surprising virtuosity or for making a point of argument softly but with stinging accuracyùdid not show the anger one would have expected from VernadskyÆs account.
He was even smiling when he entered the captainÆs cabin.
The captain broke out mauvely, as soon as he entered. ôLook here, Sheffieldùö
ôOne minute, Captain Follenbee,ö said Sheffield. ôHow are you, Mark?ö
MarkÆs eyes fell and his words were muffled. ôAll right, Dr. Sheffield.ö
ôI wasnÆt aware youÆd gotten out of bed.ö
There wasnÆt the shade of reproach in his voice, but Mark grew apologetic. ôI was feeling better, Dr. Sheffield, and I feel bad about not working. I havenÆt done anything in all the time IÆve been on the ship. So I put in a call to the captain to ask to see the log book and he had me come up here.ö
ôAll right. IÆm sure he wonÆt mind if you go back to your room now.ö
ôOh, wonÆt I?ö began the captain.
SheffieldÆs mild eyes rose to meet the captain. ôIÆm responsible for him, sir.ö
And somehow the captain could think of nothing further to say.
Mark turned obediently and Sheffield watched him leave and waited till the door was well-closed behind him.
Then he turned again to the captain. ôWhatÆs the bloody idea, captain?ö
The captainÆs knees bent a little, then straightened and bent again with a sort of threatening rhythm. The invisible slap of his hands, clasped behind his back, could be heard distinctly. ôThatÆs my question. IÆm captain here, Sheffield.ö
ôI know that.ö
ôKnow what it means, eh? This ship, in Space, is a legally recognized planet. IÆm absolute ruler. In Space, what I say
goes. Central Committee of the Confederacy canÆt say otherwise. IÆve got to maintain discipline and no~spyùö
ôAll right, and now let me teliyou something, captain. YouÆre charted by the Bureau of Outer Provinces to carry a government-sponsored research expedition to the Lagrange System, to maintain it there as long as research necessity requires and the safety of the crew and vessel permits, and then to bring us home. YouÆve signed that contract and youÆve assumed certain obligations, captain or not. For instance, you canÆt tamper with our instruments and destroy their research usefulness.ö
ôWho in Space is doing that?ö The captainÆs voice was a blast of indignation.
Sheffield replied calmly, ôYou are. Hands off Mark Annuncio, captain. Just as youÆve got to keep your hands off CimonÆs monochrome and VailleuxÆs microptics, youÆve got to keep your hands off my Annuncio. And that means each one of your ten four-striped fingers. Got it?ö
The captainÆs uniformed chest expanded. ôI take no order on board my own ship. Your language is a breach of discipline, Mister Sheffield. Any more like that and itÆs cabin arrestùyou and your Annuncio. DonÆt like it, then speak to Board of Review back on Earth. Till then, itÆs tongue behind teeth.ö
ôLook, captain, let me explain something. Mark is in the Mnemonic Serviceùö
ôSure, he said so. Nummonic Service. Nummonic Service. ItÆs plain secret police as far as IÆm concerned. Well, not on board my ship, eh?ö
ôMnemonic Service,ö said Sheffield, patiently. ôEmm-enneee-emm-oh-enn-eye-see Service. You donÆt pronounce the first emm. ItÆs from a Greek word meaning memory.ö
The captainÆs eyes narrowed. ôHe remembers things?ö
ôCorrect, captain. Look, in a way this is my fault. I should have briefed you on this. I would have, too, if the boy hadnÆt gotten so sick right after the take-off. It drove most other matters out of my mind. Besides, it didnÆt occur to me that he might be interested in the workings of the ship itself. Space knows why not. He should be interested in everything.ö
ôHe should, eh?ö The captain looked at the timepiece on the wall. ôBrief me now, eh? But no fancy words. Not many of any other kind, either. Time limited.ö
ôIt wonÆt take long, I assure you. Now youÆre a space-going man, captain. How many inhabited worlds would you say there were in the Confederation?ö
ôEighty thousand,ö said the captain, promptly.
ôEighty-three thousand two hundred,ö said Sheffield. ôWhat do you suppose it takes to run a political organization that size?ö
Again the captain did not hesitate. ôComputers,ö he said.
ôAll right. ThereÆs Earth, where half the population works for the government and does nothing but compute and there are computing subcenters on every other world. And even so data gets lost. Every world knows something no other world knowsùalmost every man. Look at our little group. Vernadsky doesnÆt know any biology and I donÆt know enough chemistry to stay alive. ThereÆs not one of us can pilot the simplest spacecruiser, except for Fawkes. So we work together, each one supplying the knowledge the others lack.
ôOnly thereÆs a catch. Not one of us knows exactly which of our own data is meaningful to the other under a given set of circumstances. We canÆt sit and spout everything we know. So we guess, and sometimes we donÆt guess right. Two facts, A and B, can go together beautifully sometimes. So Person A, who knows Fact A, says to Person B, who knows Fact B, æWhy didnÆt you tell me this ten years ago?Æ and Person B answers, æI didnÆt think it was important,Æ or æI thought everyone knew that.Æö
The captain said, ôThatÆs what computers are for.ö
Sheffield said, ôComputers are limited, captain. They have to be asked questions. WhatÆs more the questions have to be the kind that can be put into a limited number of symbols. WhatÆs more computers are very literal minded. They answer exactly what you ask and not what you have in mind. Sometimes it never occurs to anyone to ask just the right question or feed the computer just the right symbols, and when that happens the computer doesnÆt volunteer information.
ôWhat we need . . . what all mankind needs . . . is a computer that is nonmechanical; a computer with imagination. ThereÆs one like that, captain.ö The psychologist tapped his temple. ôIn everyone, captain.ö
ôMaybe,ö grunted the captain, ôbut IÆll stick to the usual, eh? Kind you punch a button.ö
ôAre you sure? Machines donÆt have hunches. Did you ever have a hunch?ö
ôIs this on the point?ö The captain looked at the timepiece again.
Sheffield said, ôSomewhere inside the human brain is a record of every datum that has impinged upon it. Very little of it is consciously remembered, but all of it is there, and a small association can bring an individual datum back without a personÆs knowing where it comes from. So you get a æhunchÆ or a æfeeling.Æ Some people are better at it than others. And some can be trained. Some are almost perfect, like Mark Annuncio and a hundred like him. Some day, I hope, thereÆll be a billion like him, and weÆll really have a Mnemonic Service.
ôAll their lives,ö Sheffield went on, ôthey do nothing but read, look, and listen. And train to do that better and more efficiently. It doesnÆt matter what data they collect. It doesnÆt have to have obvious sense or obvious significance. It doesnÆt matter if any man in the Service wants to spend a week going over the records of the space-polo teams of the Canopus Sector for the last century. Any datum may be useful some day. ThatÆs the fundamental axiom.
ôEvery once in a while, one of the Service may correlate across a gap no machine could possibly manage. The machine would fail because no one machine is likely to possess those two pieces of thoroughly unconnected information; or else, if the machine does have it, no man would be insane enough to ask the right question. One good correlation out of the Service can pay for all the money appropriated for it in ten years or more.ö
The captain raised his broad hand. He looked troubled. He said, æWait a minute. He said no ship named Triple G was under Earth registry. You mean he knows all registered ships by heart?ö
ôProbably,ö said Sheffield. ôHe may have read through the Merchantship Register. If he did, he knows all the names, tonnages, years of construction, ports of call, numbers of crew and anything else the Register would contain.ö
ôAnd he was counting stars.ö
ôWhy not? ItÆs a datum.ö
ôIÆm damned.ö
ôPerhaps, captain. But the point is that a man like Mark is different from other men. HeÆs got a queer, distorted upbringing and a queer, distorted view on life. This is the first time heÆs been away from Service grounds, since he entered them at the age of five. HeÆs easily upsetùand he can be ruined. That mustnÆt happen, and IÆm in charge to see it doesnÆt. HeÆs my instrument; a more valuable instrument than everything else on this entire ship baled into a neat little ball of plutonium wire. There are only a hundred like him in all the Milky Way.ö
Captain Follenbee assumed an air of wounded dignity. ôAll right, then. Log book. Strictly confidential, eh?ö
ôStrictly. He talks only to me, and I talk to no one unless a correlation has been made.ö
The captain did not look as though that fell under his classification of the word, strictly, but he said, ôBut no crew.ö He paused significantly. ôYou know what I mean.ö
Sheffield stepped to the door. ôMark knows about that. The crew wonÆt hear about it from him, believe me.ö
And as he was about to leave, the captain called out, ôSheffield!ö
ôYes?ö
ôWhat in Space is a ænoncomposÆ?ö
Sheffield suppressed a smile. ôDid he call you that?ö
ôWhat is it?ö
ôJust short for non compos mentis. Everyone in the Service uses it for everyone not in the Service. YouÆre one. IÆm one. ItÆs Latin for ænot of sound mind.Æ And you know, captainùI think theyÆre quite right.ö
He stepped out the door quickly.
MARK Annuncio went through the shipÆs log in some fifteen seconds. He found it incomprehensible, but then most of the material he put into his mind was that. That was no trouble. Nor was the fact that it was dull. The disappointment was that it did not satisfy his curiosity, so he left it with a mixture of relief and displeasure.
He had then gone into the shipÆs library and worked his way through three dozen books as quickly as he could work the scanner. He had spent three years of his early teens learning how to read by total gestalt and he still recalled proudly that he had set a school record at the final examinations.
Finally, he wandered into the laboratory sections of the ship and watched a bit here and a bit there. He asked no questions and he moved on when any of the men cast more than a casual glance at him.
He hated the insufferable way they looked at him as though he were some sort of queer animal. He hated their air of knowledge, as though there were something of value in spending an entire brain on one tiny subject and remembering only a little of that.
Eventually, of course, he would have to ask them questions. It was his job, and even if it werenÆt, curiosity would drive him. He hoped, though, he could hold off till they had made planetary surface.
He found it pleasant that they were inside a stellar system. Soon he would see a new world with new sunsùtwo of themù and a new moon. Four objects with brand-new information in each; immense storehouses of facts to be collected lovingly and sorted out.
It thrilled him just to think of the amorphous mountain of data waiting for him. He thought of his mind as a tremendous filing system with index, cross-index, cross-cross-index. He thought of it as stretching indefinitely in all directions. Neat. Smooth. Well oiled. Perfect precision.
He thought of the dusty attic that the noncompos called minds and almost laughed. He could see it even talking to Dr. Sheffield, who was a nice fellow for a noncompos. He tried hard and sometimes he almost understood. The others, the men on board shipùtheir minds were lumberyards. Dusty lumberyards with splintery slats of wood tumbled every which way; and only whatever happened to be on top could be reached.
The poor fools! He could be sorry for them, if they werenÆt so Sloppy-nasty. If only they knew what they were like. If only they realized.
WHENEVER he could, Mark haunted the observation posts and watched the new worlds come closer.
They passed quite close to the satellite, ôIlium.ö (Cimon, the astrophysicist, was very meticulous about calling their planetary destination ôTroasö and the satellite ôIlium,ö but everyone else aboard ship called them ôJuniorö and ôSister,ö respectively.) On the other side of the two suns, in the opposite Trojan position, were a group of asteroids. Cimon called them ôLagrange Epsilonö but everyone else called them ôThe Puppies.ö
Mark thought of all this with vague simultaneity at the moment the thought ôIliumö occurred to him. He was scarcely conscious of it, and let it pass as material of no immediate interest. Still more vague, and still further below his skin of mental consciousness were the dim stirrings of five hundred such homely misnomers of astronomical dignities of nomenclature. He had read about some, picked up others on subetheric programs, heard about still others in ordinary conversation, come across a few in news reports. The material might have been told him directly, or it might have been a carelessly overheard word. Even the substitution of Triple G for George G. Grundy had its place in the shadowy file.
Sheffield had often questioned him about what went on in his mindùvery gently, very cautiously.
ôWe want many more like you, Mark, for the Mnemonic Service. We need millions. Billions, eventually, if the race fills up the entire galaxy, as it will some day. But where do we get them. Relying on inborn talent wonÆt do. We all have that more or less. ItÆs the training that counts and unless we find out a little about what goes on, we wonÆt know how to train.ö
And urged by Sheffield, Mark had watched himself, listened to himself, turned his eyes inward and tried to become aware. He learned of the filing cases in his head. He watched them marshal past. He observed individual items pop up on call, always tremblingly ready. It was hard to explain, but he did his best.
His own confidence grew with it. The anxieties of his childhood, those first years in Service, grew less. He stopped waking in the middle of the night, perspiration dripping, screaming with fear that he would forget. And his headaches stopped.
HE watched Ilium as it appeared in the viewport at closest approach. It was brighter than he cou~d imagine a moon to be. (Figures for albedoes of three hundred inhabited planets marched through his mind, neatly arrayed in decreasing order. It scarcely stirred the skin of his mind. He ignored them.)
The brightness he blinked at was concentrated in the vast, irregular patches that Cimon saidùhe overheard him, in weary response to anotherÆs questionùhad once been sea bottom. A fact popped into MarkÆs mind. The original report of Hidosheki Makoyama had given the composition of those bright salts as 78.6% sodium chloride, 19.2% magnesium carbonate, 1.4% potassium sulfùThe thought faded out. It wasnÆt necessary.
Ilium had an atmosphere. A total of about 100 mm. of mercuryùa little over an eighth of EarthÆs, ten times Mars, 0.254 that of Coralemon, 0.1376 that of Aurora. Idly he let the decimals grow to more places. It was a form of exercise, but he grew bored. Instant arithmetic was fifth-grade stuff. Actually, he still had trouble with integrals and wondered if that was because he didnÆt know what an integral was. A half dozen definitions flashed by, but he had never had enough mathematics to understand the definitions, though he could quote them well enough.
At school, they had always said, ôDonÆt ever get too interested in any one thing or group of things. As soon as you do that, you begin selecting your facts and you must never do that. Everything, anything is important. As long as you have the facts on file, it doesnÆt matter whether you understand them or not.ö
But the noncompos didnÆt think so. Arrogant minds with holes in them!
They were approaching Junior itself now. It was bright, too, but in a different way. It had ice caps north and south. (Textbooks of EarthÆs paleoclimatology drifted past and Mark made no move to stop them.) The ice caps were retreating. In a million years, Junior would have EarthÆs present climate. It was just about EarthÆs size and mass and it rotated in a period of thirty-six hours.
It might have been EarthÆs twin. What differences there were, according to MakoyamaÆs reports, were to JuniorÆs ad-
vantage. There was nothing on Junior to threaten mankind as far as was known. Nor would anyone imagine there possibly might be were it not for the fact that humanityÆs first colony on the planet had been wiped out to the last soul.
What was worse, the destruction had occurred in such a way that a study of all surviving information gave no reasonable clue whatever as to what had happened.
SHEFFIELD entered MarkÆs cabin and joined the boy two hours before landing. He and Mark had originally been assigned a room together. That had been an experiment. Mnemonics didnÆt like the company of noncompos, even the best of them. In any case, the experiment had failed. Almost immediately after take-off, MarkÆs sweating face and pleading eyes made privacy absolutely essential for him.
Sheffield felt responsible. He felt responsible for everything about Mark whether it was actually his fault or not. He and men like himself had taken Mark and children like him and trained them into personal ruin. They had been force-grown. They had been bent and molded. They had been allowed no normal contact with normal children lest they develop normal mental habits. No Mnemonic had contracted a normal marriage, even within the group.
It made for a terrible guilt-feeling on SheffieldÆs part.
Twenty years ago there had been a dozen lads trained at one school under the leadership of U Karaganda, as mad an Asiatic as had ever roused the snickers of a group of interviewing newsmen. Karaganda had committed suicide eventually, under some vague motivation, but other psychologists, Sheffield for one, of greater respectability and undoubtedly of lesser brilliance, had had time to join him and learn of him.
The school continued and others were established. One was even founded on Mars. It had an enrollment of five at the moment. At latest count, there were one hundred and three living graduates with full honorsùnaturally, only a minority of those enrolled actually absorbed the entire course. Five years ago, the Terrestrial planetary governmentùnot to be confused with the Central Galactic Committee, based on Earth, and ruling the Galactic Confederationùallowed the
establishment of the Mnemonic Service as a branch of the Department of the Interior.
It had already paid for itself many times over, but few people knew that. Nor did the Terrestrial government advertise the fact, or any other fact about the Mnemonics. It was a tender subject with them. It was an ôexperiment.ö They feared that failure might be politically expensive. The oppositionù with difficulty prevented from making a campaign issue out of it as it wasùspoke at the planetary conferences of ôcrackpotismö and ôwaste of the taxpayersÆ money.ö And the latter despite the existence of documentary proof of the precise opposite.
In the machine-centered civilization that filled the galaxy, it was difficult to learn to appreciate the achievements of naked mind without a long apprenticeship.
Sheffield wondered how long.
But there was no use being depressed in MarkÆs company. Too much danger of contagion. He said, instead, ôYouÆre looking fine, sport.ö
Mark seemed glad to see him. He said, thoughtfully, ôWhen we get back to Earth, Dr. Sheffieldùö
He stopped, flushed slightly, and said, ôI mean, supposing we get back, I intend to get as many books and films as I can on folkways. IÆve hardly read anything on that subject. I was down in the shipÆs library and they had nothingùabsolutely nothing.ö
ôWhy the interest?ö
ôItÆs the captain. DidnÆt you say he told you that the crew were not to know we were visiting a world on which the first expedition had died?ö
ôYes, of course. Well?ö
ôBecause spacemen consider it bad luck to touch on a world like that, especially one that looks harmless. æSucker bait,Æ they call it.ö
ôThatÆs right.ö
"So the captain says. It 5 just that I don t see how that can be true. I can think of seventeen habitable planets from which the first expedition never returned and never established residence. And each one was later colonized and now is a member of the Federation. Sarmatia is one of them, and itÆs a pretty big world now.ö
ôThere are planets of continuous disaster, too.ö Sheffield deliberately put that as a declarative statement.
(Never ask informational questions. That was one of the Rules of Karaganda. Mnemonic correlations werenÆt a matter of the conscious intelligence; they werenÆt volitional. As soon as a direct question was asked, the resultant correlations were plentiful but only such as any reasonably informed man might make. It was the unconscious mind that bridged the wide, unlikely gaps.)
MARK, as any Mnemonic would, fell into the trap. He said, energetically, ôNo, IÆve never heard of one. Not where the planet was at all habitable. If the planet is solid ice, or complete desert, thatÆs different. Junior isnÆt like that.ö
ôNo it isnÆt,ö agreed Sheffield.
ôThen why should the crew be afraid of it? I kept thinking about that all the time I was in bed. ThatÆs when I thought of looking at the log. IÆd never actually seen one, so it would be a valuable thing to do in any case. And certainly, I thought, I would find the truth there.ö
ôUh huh,ö said Sheffield.
ôAnd, wellùI may have been wrong. In the whole log the purpose of the expedition was never mentioned. Now that wouldnÆt be so unless the purpose were secret. It was as if he were even keeping it from the other ship officers. And the name of the ship is given as the George G. Grundy.ö
ôIt would be, of course,ö said Sheffield.
ôI donÆt know; I suspected that business about Triple G,ö said Mark, darkly.
Sheffield said, ôYou seem disappointed that the captain wasnÆt lying.ö
ôNot disappointed. Relieved, I think. I thought . . . I thoughtùö He stopped and looked acutely embarrassed, but Sheffield made no effort to rescue him. He was forced to continue, ôI thought everyone might be lying to me, not just the captain. Even you might, Dr. Sheffield. I thought you just didnÆt want me to talk to the crew for some reason.ö
Sheffield tried to smile and managed to succeed. The occu
pational disease ofthe Mnemonic Service was suspicion. They were isolated, these Mnemonics, and they were different. Cause and effect were obvious.
Sheffield said lightly, ôI think youÆll find in your reading on folkways that these superstitions are not necessarily based on logical analysis. A planet which has become notorious has evil expected of it. The good which happens is disregarded; the bad is cried up, advertised, and exaggerated. The thing snowballs.ö
He moved away from Mark. He busied himself with an inspection of the hydraulic chairs. They would be landing soon. He felt unnecessarily along the length of the broad webbing of the straps, keeping his back to the youngster. So protected, he said, almost in a whisper, ôAnd, of course, what makes it worse is that Junior is so different.ö
(Easy now, easy. DonÆt push. He had tried that trick before this andù)
Mark was saying, ôNo, it isnÆt. Not a bit. The expeditions that failed were different. ThatÆs true.ö
Sheffield kept his back turned. He waited.
Mark said, ôThe seventeen other expeditions that failed on planets that are now inhabited were all small exploring expeditions. In sixteen of the cases the cause of death was shipwreck of one sort or another and in the remaining case, Coma Minor that one was, the failure resulted from a surprise attack by indigenous life-forms, not intelligent, of course. I have the details on all of themùö
(Sheffield couldnÆt forebear holding his breath. Mark could give the details on all of them. All the details. It was as easy for him to quote all the records on each expedition, word for word, as it was to say yes or no. And he might well choose to. A Mnemonic had no selectivity. It was one of the things that made ordinary companionship between Mnemonics and ordinary people impossible. Mnemonics were dreadful bores by the nature of things. Even Sheffield, who was trained and inured to listen to it all, and who had no intention of stopping Mark if he were really off on a talk-jag, sighed softly.)
ôBut whatÆs the use,ö Mark continued, and Sheffield felt rescued from a horror. ôTheyÆre just not in the same class with the Junior expedition. That consisted of an actual settlement of seven hundred eighty-nine men, two hundred seven women and fifteen children under the age of thirteen. In the course of the next year, three hundred fifteen women, nine men and two children were added by immigration. The settlement survived almost two years and the cause of death isnÆt known, except that from their report, it might be disease.
ôNow that part is different. But Junior itself has nothing unusual about it, except, of courseùö
Mark paused as though the information were too unimportant to bother with and Sheffield almost yelled. He forced himself to say calmly, ôThat difference. Of course.ö
Mark said, ôWe all know about that. It has two suns and the others only have one.ö
The psychologist could have cried his disappointment. Nothing!
But what was the use. Better luck next time. If you donÆt have patience with a Mnemonic, you might as well not have a Mnemonic.
He sat down in the hydraulic chair and buckled himself in tightly. Mark did likewise. (Sheffield would have liked to help, but that would have been injudicious.) He looked at his watch. They must be spiraling down even now.
Under his disappointment, Sheffield felt a stronger disturbance. Mark Annuncio had acted wrongly in following up his own hunch that the captain and everybody else had been lying. Mnemonics had a tendency to believe that because their store of facts was great, it was complete. This, obviously, is a prime error. It is therefore necessaryùthus spake Karaganda
ùfor them to present their correlations to properly constituted authority and never to act upon it themselves.
Well, how significant was this error of MarkÆs? He was the first Mnemonic to be taken away from Service headquarters; the first to be separated from all of his kind; the first to be isolated among noncompos. What did that do to him? What would it continue to do to him? Would it be bad? If so, how to stop it?
To all of which questions, Dr. Oswald Mayer Sheffield knew no answer.
THE men at the controls were the lucky ones. They and, of course, Cimon who, as astrophysicist and director of the expedition, joined them by special dispensation. The others of the crew had their separate duties, while the remaining scientific personnel preferred the relative comfort of their hydraulic seats during the spiral around and down to Junior.
It was while Junior was still far enough away to be seen as a whole that the scene was at its grandest.
North and south, a third of the way to the equator, lay the ice caps, still at the start of their millennial retreat. Since the Triple G was spiraling on a north-south great circleùdeliberately chosen for the sake of viewing the polar regions, as Cimon, at the cost of less than maximum safety, insistedùeach cap in turn was laid out below them.
Each burnt equally with sunlight, the consequence of JuniorÆs untilted axis. And each cap was in sectors, cut like a pie with a rainbowed knife.
The sunward third of each was illuminated by both suns simultaneously into a brilliant white that slowly yellowed westward, and as slowly greened eastward. To the east of the white sector lay another, half as wide, which was reached by the light of Lagrange I only, and the snow there blazed a response of sapphire beauty. To the west, another half-sector, exposed to Lagrange II alone, shone in the warm orange-red of an Earthly sunset. The three colors graded into one another band-wise, and the similarity to a rainbow was increased thereby.
The final third was dark in contrast, but if one looked carefully enough, it, too, was in partsùunequal parts. The smaller portion was black indeed, but the larger portion had a faint milkiness about it.
Cimon muttered to himself, ôMoonlight. Of course.ö Then looked about hastily to see if he were overheard. He did not like people to observe the actual process by which conclusions were brought to fruition in his mind. Rather they were to be presented to his students and listeners, to all about him in short, in a polished perfection that showed neither birth nor growth.
But there were only spacemen about and they did not hear him. Despite all their space-hardening, they were fixing whatever concentration they could spare from their duties and instruments upon the wonder before them.
The spiral curved, veered way from north-south to northeast-southwest, finally to the east-west in which a safe landing was most feasible. The dull thunder of atmosphere carried into the pilot room, thin and shrill at first, but gathering body and volume as the minutes passed.
Until now, in the interests of scientific observationùand to the considerable uneasiness of the captainùthe spiral had been tight, deceleration slight, and the planetary circumnavigations numerous. As they bit into JuniorÆs air-covering, however, deceleration pitched high and the surface rose to meet them.
The ice caps vanished on either side and there began an equal alternation of land and water. A continent, mountainous on either seacoast and flat in between, like a soup plate with two ice-topped rims, flashed below at lengthening intervals. It spread halfway around Junior and the rest was water.
Most of the ocean at the moment was in the dark sector, and what was not lay in the red-orange light of Lagrange II. In the light of that sun, the waters were a dusky purple with a sprinkling of ruddy specks that thickened north and south. Icebergs!
The land was distributed at the moment between the redorange half-sector and the full white light. Only the eastern seacoast was in the blue-green. The eastern mountain range was a startling sight, with its western slopes red and its eastern slopes green.
The ship was slowing rapidly now; the final trip over ocean was done.
Nextùlanding!
THE first steps were cautious enough. Slow enough, too. Cimon inspected his photochromes of Junior as taken from space with minute care. Under protest, he passed them among the others of the expedition and more than a few groaned inwardly at the thought of having placed comfort before a chance to see the original of that.
Boris Vernadsky bent over his gas-analyzer interminably, a symphony in loud clothes and soft grunts.
ôWeÆre about at sea level, I should judge,ö he said, ôgoing by the value of g.ö
Then, because he was explaining himself to the rest of the group, he added negligently, ôThe gravitational constant, that is,ö which didnÆt help most of them.
He said, ôThe atmospheric pressure is just about eight hundred millimeters of mercury which is about five per cent higher than on Earth. And two hundred forty millimeters of that is oxygen as compared to only one hundred fifty on Earth. Not bad.ö
He seemed to be waiting for approval, but scientists found it best to comment as little as possible on data in another manÆs specialty.
He went on, ôNitrogen, of course. Dull, isnÆt it, the way Nature repeats itself like a three-year-old who knows three lessons, period. Takes the fun away when it turns out that a water world always has an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere. Makes the whole thing yawn-worthy.ö
ôWhat else in the atmosphere?ö asked Cimon, irritably. ôSo far all we have is oxygen, nitrogen, and homely philosophy from kindly Uncle Boris.ö
Vernadsky hooked his arm over his seat and said, amiably enough, ôWhat are you? Director or something?ö
Cimon, to whom the directorship meant little more than the annoyance of preparing composite reports for the Bureau flushed and said, grimly, ôWhat else in the atmosphere, Dr. Vernadsky?ö
Vernadsky said, without looking at his notes, ôUnder one per cent and over a hundredth of one per cent: hydrogen, hehum, and carbon dioxide in that order. Under a hundredth of one per cent and over a ten thousandth of one per cent: methane, argon, and neon in that order. Under a ten thousandth of one per cent and over a millionth of a per cent: radon, krypton, and xenon in that order.
ôThe figures arenÆt very informative. About all I can get out of them is that Junior is going to be a happy hunting ground for uranium, that itÆs low in potassium and that itÆs no wonder itÆs such a lovely little double ice cap of a world.ö
He did that deliberately, so that someone could ask him how he knew, and someone, with gratifying wonder, inevitably did.
Vernadsky smiled blandly and said: ôAtmospheric radon is ten to a hundred times as high here as on Earth. So is helium. Both radon and helium are produced as by-products of the radioactive breakdown of uranium and thorium. Conclusion:
Uranium and thorium minerals are ten to a hundred times as copious in JuniorÆs crust as in EarthÆs.
ôArgon, on the other hand, is over a hundred times as low as on Earth. Chances are Junior has none of the argon it originally started with. A planet of this type has only the argon which forms from the breakdown of K40, one of the potassium isotopes. Low argon; low potassium. Simple, kids.ö
One of the assembled groups asked, ôWhat about the ice caps?ö
Cimon, who knew the answer to that, asked, before Vernadsky could answer the other, ôWhatÆs the carbon dioxide content exactly?ö
ôZero point zero one six emm emm,ö said Vernadsky.
Cimon nodded, and vouchsafed nothing more.
ôWell?ö asked the inquirer impatiently.
ôCarbon dioxide is only about half what it is on Earth, and itÆs the carbon dioxide that gives the hothouse effect. It lets the short waves of sunlight pass through to the planetÆs surface, but doesnÆt allow the long waves of planetary heat to radiate off. When carbon dioxide concentration goes up as a result of volcanic action, the planet heats up a bit and you have a carboniferous age with oceans high and land surface at a minimum. When carbon dioxide goes down as a result of the vegetation refusing to let a good thing alone, fattening up on the good old see-oh-two and losing its head about it, temperature drops, ice forms, a vicious cycle of glaciation starts, and voilαùö
ôAnything else in the atmosphere?ö asked Cimon.
ôWater vapor and dust. I suppose there are a few million airborne spores of various virulent diseases per cubic centimeter in addition to that.ö He said it lightly enough, but there was a stir in the room. More than one of the bystanders looked as though he were holding his breath.
Vernadsky shrugged and said, ôDonÆt worry about it for now. My analyzer washes out dust and spores quite thoroughly. But then, thatÆs not my angle. I suggest Rodriguez grow his cultures under glass right away. Good thick glass.ö
MARK Annuncio wandered everywhere. His eyes shone as he listened, and he pressed himself forward to hear better. The group suffered him to do so with various degrees of reluctance, in accordance with individual personalities and temperaments. None spoke to him.
Sheffield stayed close to Mark. He scarcely spoke, either. He bent all his effort on remaining in the background of MarkÆs consciousness. He wanted to refrain from giving Mark the feeling of being haunted by himself give the boy the illusion of freedom, instead. He wanted to seem to be there, each time, by accident only.
It was a most unsuccessful pretense, he felt, but what could he do? He had to keep the kid from getting into trouble.
MIGUEL Antonio Lopez y Rodriguezùmicrobiologist; small, tawny, with intensely black hair which he wore rather long, and with a reputation which he did nothing to discourage, of being a Latin in the grand style as far as the ladies were concernedùcultured the dust from VernadskyÆs gas-analyzer trap with a combination of precision and respectful delicacy.
ôNothing,ö he said, eventually. ôWhat foolish growths I get look harmless.ö
It was suggested that JuniorÆs bacteria need not necessarily look harmful; that toxins and metabolic processes could not be analyzed by eye, even by microscopic eye.
This was met with hot contempt, as almost an invasion of professional function. He said, with an eyebrow lifted, ôOne gets a feeling for these things. When one has seen as much of the microcosm as I have, one can sense dangerùor lack of danger.ö
This was an outright lie, and Rodriguez proved it by carefully transferring samples of the various germ colonies into buffered, isotonic media and injecting hamsters with the concentrated result. They did not seem to mind.
Raw atmosphere was trapped in large jars and several specimens of minor animal life from Earth and other planets were
allowed to disport themselves within. None of them seemed to mind, either.
NEVILE Fawkesùbotanist; a man who appreciated his own handsomeness by modeling his hair style after that shown on the traditional busts of Alexander the Great, but from whose appearance the presence of a nose, far more aquiline than Alexander ever possessed, noticeably detractedù was gone for two days, by Junior chronology, in one of the Triple GÆs atmospheric coasters. He could navigate one like a dream and was, in fact, the only man outside the crew who could navigate one at all, so he was the natural choice for the task. Fawkes did not seem noticeably overjoyed about that.
He returned, completely unharmed and unable to hide a grin of relief. He submitted to irradiation for the sake of sterilizing the exterior of his flexible air-suitùdesigned to protect men from the deleterious effect of the outer environment where no pressure differential existed; the strength and jointedness of a true spacesuit being obviously unnecessary within an atmosphere as thick as JuniorÆs. The coaster was subjected to a more extended irradiation, and pinned down under a plastic cover-all.
Fawkes flaunted color photographs in great number. The central valley of the continent was fertile almost beyond Earthly dreams. The rivers were mighty, the mountains rugged and snow-coveredùwith the usual pyrotechnic solar effects. Under Lagrange II alone, the vegetation looked vaguely repellant, seeming rather dark, like dried blood. Under Lagrange I, however, or under the suns together, the brilliant, flourishing green and the glisten of the numerous lakesùparticularly north and south along the dead rims of the departing glaciersùbrought an ache of homesickness to the hearts of many.
Fawkes said, ôLook at these.ö
He had skimmed low to take a photochrome of a field of huge flowers, dripping with scarlet. In the high-ultraviolet radiation of Lagrange I, exposure times were of necessity extremely short and despite the motion of the coaster, each blossom stood out as a sharp blotch of strident color.
ôI swear,ö said Fawkes, ôeach one of those was six feet across.ö
They admired the flowers unrestrainedly.
Fawkes then said, ôNo intelligent life whatever, of course.ö
Sheffield looked up from the photographs, with instant sharpness. Life and intelligence, after all, were by way of being his province. ôHow do you know?ö
ôLook for yourself,ö said the botanist. ôThere are the photos. No highways, no cities, no artificial waterways, no signs of anything manmade.ö
ôNo machine civilization,ö said Sheffield. ôThatÆs all.ö
ôEven ape-men would build shelters and use fire,ö said Fawkes, offended.
ôThe continent is ten times as large as Africa and youÆve been over it for two days. ThereÆs a lot you could miss.ö
ôNot as much as youÆd think,ö was the warm response. ôI followed every sizable river up and down and looked over both seacoasts. Any settlements are bound to be there.ö
ôIn allowing seventy-two hours for two eight-thousand-mile seacoasts ten thousand miles apart, plus how many thousand miles of river, that had to be a pretty quick lookover.ö
Cimon interrupted, ôWhatÆs this all about? Homo sapiens is the only intelligence ever discovered in the galaxy through a hundred thousand and more explored planets. The chances of Troas possessing intelligence is virtually nil.ö
ôYes?ö said Sheffield. ôYou could use the same argument to prove thereÆs no intelligence on Earth.ö
ôMakoyama,ö said Cimon, ôin his report mentioned no intelligent life.ö
ôAnd how much time did he have? It was a case of another quick feel through the haystack with one finger and a report of no needle.ö
ôWhat the eternal universe,ö said Rodriguez, waspishly.
ôWe argue like madmen. Call the hypothesis of indigenous intelligence unproven and let it go. We are not through investigating yet, I hope.ö
COPIES of those first pictures of JuniorÆs surface were added to what might be termed the open files. After a
second trip, Fawkes returned in more somber mood and the meeting was correspondingly more subdued.
New photographs went from hand to hand and were then placed by Cimon himself in the special safe that nothing could open short of CimonÆs own hands or an all-destroying nuclear blast.
Fawkes said, ôThe two largest rivers have a generally northsouth course along the eastern edges of the western mountain range. The larger river comes down from the northern ice cap, the smaller up from the southern one. Tributaries come in westward from the eastern range, interlacing the entire central plain. Apparently, the central plain is tipped, the eastern edge being higher. ItÆs what ought to be expected maybe. The eastern mountain range is the taller, broader and more continuous of the two. I wasnÆt able to make actual measurements, but I wouldnÆt be surprised if they beat the Himalayas. In fact, theyÆre a lot like the Wu ChÆao range on Hesperus. You have to hit the stratosphere to get over them, and ruggedùWow!
ôAnyway,ö he brought himself back to the immediate subject at hand, with an effort, ôthe two main rivers join about a hundred miles south of the equator and pour through a gap in the western range. They make it to the ocean after that in just short of eighty miles.
ôWhere it hits the ocean is a natural spot for the planetary metropolis. The trade routes into the interior of the continent have to converge there so it would be the inevitable emporium for space-trade. Even as far as surface trade is concerned, the continental east coast has to move goods across the ocean. Jumping the eastern range isnÆt worth the effort. Then, too, there are the islands we saw when we were landing.
ôSo right there is where I would have looked for the settlement even if we didnÆt have a record of the latitude and longitude. And those settlers had an eye for the future. ItÆs where they set up shop.ö
Novee said in a low voice, ôThey thought they had an eye for the future, anyway. There isnÆt much left of them, is there?ö
Fawkes tried to be philosophic about it. ôItÆs been over a century. What do you expect? ThereÆs a lot more left of them than I honestly thought there would be. Their buildings were mostly prefab. TheyÆve tumbled and vegetation has forced its way over and through them. The fact that the climate of Junior is glacial is whatÆs preserved it. The treesùor the objects that rather look like tree sùare~ small and obviously very slowgrowing.
ôEven so, the clearing is gone. From the air, the only way you could tell there had once been a settlement in that spot was that the new growth had a slightly different color and and, well, texture, than the surrounding forests.ö
He pointed at a particular photograph. ôThis is just a slag heap. Maybe it was machinery once. I think those are burial mounds.ö
Novee said, ôAny actual remains? Bones?ö
Fawkes shook his head.
Novee said, ôThe last survivors didnÆt bury themselves, did they?ö
Fawkes said, ôAnimals, I suppose.ö He walked away, his back to the group. ôIt was raining when I poked my way through. It went splat, splat on the flat leaves above me and the ground was soggy and spongy underneath. It was dark, gloomyùThere was a cold wind. The pictures I took didnÆt get it across. I felt as though there were a thousand ghosts, waitingùö
The mood was contagious.
Cimon said, savagely, ôStop that!ö
In the background, Mark AnnuncioÆs pointed nose fairly quivered with the intensity of his curiosity. He turned to Sheffield, who was at his side, and whispered, ôGhosts? No authentic case of seeingùö
Sheffield touched MarkÆs thin shoulder lightly. ôOnly a way of speaking, Mark. But donÆt feel badly, that he doesnÆt mean it literally. YouÆre watching the birth of a superstition, and thatÆs something, isnÆt it?ö
A semi-sullen Captain Follenbee sought out Cimon the evening after FawkesÆ second return, and said in his harumphy way, ôNever do, Dr. Cimon. My men are unsettled. Very unsettled.ö
The port-shields were open. Lagrange I was six hours gone, and Lagrange IIÆs ruddy light, deepened to crimson in setting,
flushed the captainÆs face and tinged his short gray hair with red.
Cimon, whose attitude toward the crew in general and the captain in particular was one of controlled impatience, said, ôWhat is the trouble, captain?ö
ôBeen here two weeks, Earth-time. Still no one leaves without suits. Always irradiate before you come back. Anything wrong with the air?ö
ôNot as far as we know.ö
ôWhy not breathe it then?ö
ôCaptain, thatÆs for me to decide.ö
The flush on the captainÆs face became a real one. He said, ôMy papers say I donÆt have to stay if shipÆs safety is endangered. A frightened and mutinous crew is something I donÆt want.ö
ôCanÆt you handle your own men?ö
ôWithin reason.ö
ôWell, what really bothers them? This is a new planet and weÆre being cautious. CanÆt they understand that?ö
ôTwo weeks and still cautious. They think weÆre hiding something. And we are. You know that. Besides, surface leave is necessary. CrewÆs got to have it. Even if itÆs just on a bare rock a mile across. Gets them out of the ship. Away from the routine. CanÆt deny them that.ö
ôGive me till tomorrow,ö said Cimon, contemptuously.
THE scientists gathered in the observatory the next day. Cimon said, ôVernadsky tells me the data on air is still negative, and Rodriguez has discovered no airborne pathogenic organism of any type.ö
There was a general air of dubiety over the last statement. Novee said, ôThe settlement died of disease. IÆll swear to that.ö
ôMaybe so,ö said Rodriguez at once, ôbut can you explain how? ItÆs impossible. I tell you that and I tell you. See here. Almost all Earth-type planets give birth to life and that life is always protein in nature and always either cellular or virus in organization. But thatÆs all. There the resemblance ends.
ôYou laymen think itÆs all the same; Earth or any planet. Germs are germs and viruses are viruses. I tell you, you donÆt understand the infinite possibilities for variation in the pro-
tein molecule. Even on Earth, every species has its own diseases. Some may spread over several species but there isnÆt one single pathogenic life form ~ any type on Earth that can attack all other species.
ôYou think that a virus or a bacterium developing independently for a billion years on another planet with different amino-acids, different enzyme systems, a different scheme of metabolism altogether, is just going to happen to find Homo sapiens succulent like a lollipop. I tell you it is childishness.ö
Novee, his physicianÆs soul badly pierced at having been lumped under the phrase, ôyou laymen,ö was not disposed to let it go that easily. ôHomo sapiens brings its own germs with it wherever it goes, Rod. WhoÆs to say the virus of the common cold didnÆt mutate under some planetary influence into something that was suddenly deadly. Or influenza. Things like that have happened even on Earth. The 2755 para-measùö
ôI know all about the 2755 para-measles epidemic,ö said Rodriguez, ôand the 1918 influenza epidemic, and the Black Death, too. But when has it happened lately? Granted the settlement was a matter of a century and more ago; still that wasnÆt exactly pre-atomic times, either. They included doctors. They had supplies of antibiotics and they knew the techniques of antibody induction. TheyÆre simple enough. And there was the medical relief expedition, too.ö
Novee patted his round abdomen and said, stubbornly, ôThe symptoms were those of a respiratory infection; dyspneaùö
ôI know the list; but I tell you it wasnÆt a germ disease that got them. It couldnÆt be.ö
ôWhat was it, then?ö
ôThatÆs outside my professional competence. Talking from inside, I tell you it wasnÆt infection. Even mutant infection. It couldnÆt be. It mathematically couldnÆt be.ö He leaned heavily on the adverb.
There was a stir among the listeners as Mark Annuncio shoved his thin body forward into the space immediately before Rodriguez.
For the first time, he spoke at one of these gatherings.
ôMathematically?ö he asked, eagerly.
Sheffield followed after, his long body all elbows and knees as he made a path. He murmured ôSorryö half a dozen times.
Rodriguez, in an advanced stage of exasperation thrust out his lower lip and said, ôWhat do you want?ö
Mark flinched. Less eagerly, he said, ôYou said you knew it wasnÆt infection mathematically. I was wondering how .
mathematicsùö He ran down.
Rodriguez said, ôI have stated my professional opinion.ö
He said it formally, stiltedly, then turned away. No man questioned anotherÆs professional opinion unless he was of the same specialty. Otherwise the implication, clearly enough, was that the specialistÆs experience and knowledge was sufficiently dubious to be brought into question by an outsider.
Mark knew this, but then he was of the Mnemonic Service. He tapped RodriguezÆs shoulder, while the others standing about listened in stunned fascination, and said, ôI know itÆs your professional opinion, but still IÆd like to have it explained.ö
He didnÆt mean to sound peremptory. He was just stating a fact.
Rodriguez whirled. ôYouÆd like to have it explained? Who the eternal Universe are you to ask me questions?ö
Mark was startled at the otherÆs vehemence, but Sheffield had reached him now, and he gained courage and with it, anger. He disregarded SheffieldÆs quick whisper and said shrilly, ôIÆm Mark Annuncio of Mnemonic Service and IÆve asked you a question. I want your statement explained.ö
ôIt wonÆt be explained. Sheffield, take this young nut out of here and tuck him into bed, will you? And keep him away from me after this. Young jackass.ö The last was a clearly-heard aside.
Sheffield took MarkÆs wrist but it was wrenched out of his grasp. The young Mnemonic screamed, ôYou stupid noncompos. You . . . you moron. You forgettery on two feet. Sievemind. Let me go, Dr. SheffieldùYouÆre no expert. You donÆt remember anything youÆve learned, and you havenÆt learned much in the first place. YouÆre not a specialist; none of youùö
ôFor spaceÆs sake,ö cried Cimon, ôtake the young idiot out of here, Sheffield.ö
Sheffield, his long cheeks burning, stooped and lifted Mark bodily into the air. Holding him close, he made his way out of the room.
Tears squeezed out of MarkÆs eyes and just outside the door, he managed to speak with difficulty. ôLet me down, I want to hearùI want to hear what they say.ö
Sheffield said, ôDonÆt go back in. Please, Mark.ö
ôI wonÆt. DonÆt worry. Butùö He didnÆt finish the but.
INSIDE the observatory room, Cimon, looking haggard, said, ôAll right. All right. LetÆs get back to the point. Come on, now. Quiet! IÆm accepting RodriguezÆs viewpoint. ItÆs good enough for me and I donÆt suppose thereÆs anyone else here who questions RodriguezÆs professional opinion.ö
(ôBetter not,ö muttered Rodriguez, his dark eyes hot with sustained fury.)
Cimon went on. ôAnd since thereÆs nothing to fear as far as infection is concerned, IÆm telling Captain Follenbee that the crew may take surface leave without special protection against the atmosphere. Apparently the lack of surface leave is bad for morale. Are there any objections?ö
There werenÆt any.
Cimon said, ôI see no reason also why we canÆt pass on to the next stage of the investigation. I propose that we set up camp at the site of the original settlement. I appoint a committee of five to trek out there. Fawkes, since he can handle the coaster; Novee and Rodriguez to handle the biological data; Vernadsky and myself to take care of the chemistry and physics.
ôThe rest of you will, naturally, be apprised of all pertinent data in your own specialties, and will be expected to help in suggesting lines of attack, et cetera. Eventually, we may all be out there, but for the while only this small group. And until further notice, communication between ourselves and the main group on ship will be by radio only, since if the trouble, whatever it is, turns out to be localized at settlement site, five men are enough to lose.ö
Novee said, ôThe settlement lived on Junior several years before dying outùover a year, anyway. It could be a long time before we are certain weÆre safe.ö
ôWe,ö said Cimon, ôare not a settlement. We are a group of specialists who are looking for trouble. WeÆll find it if itÆs there to find, and when we do find it, weÆll beat it. And it wonÆt take us a couple of years either. Now, are there any objections?ö
There were none, and the meeting broke up.
MARK Annuncio sat on his bunk, hands clasped about his knee, chin sunken and touching his chest. He was dryeyed now, but his voice was heady with frustration.
ôTheyÆre not taking me,ö he said. ôThey wonÆt let me go with them.ö
Sheffield was in the chair opposite the boy, bathed in an agony of perplexity. He said, ôThey may take you later on.ö
ôNo,ö said Mark, fiercely, ôthey wonÆt. They hate me. Besides, I want to go now. IÆve never been on another planet before. ThereÆs so much to see and find out. TheyÆve got no right to hold me back if I want to go.ö
Sheffield shook his head. Mnemonics were so firmly trained into this belief that they must collect facts, and that no one or nothing could or ought to stop them. Perhaps when they returned, he might recommend a certain degree of counter-indoctrination. After all, Mnemonics had to live in the real world, occasionally. More and more with each generation, perhaps, as they grew to play an increasing role in the galaxy.
He tried an experiment. He said, ôIt may be dangerous, you know.ö
ôI donÆt care. IÆve got to know. IÆve got to find out about this planet. Dr. Sheffield, you go to Dr. Cimon and tell him IÆm going along.ö
ôNow, Mark.ö
ôIf you donÆt, I will.ö He raised his small body from the bed in earnest of leaving that moment.
ôLook, youÆre excited.ö
MarkÆs fists clenched. ôItÆs not fair, Dr. Sheffield. I found this planet. ItÆs my planet.ö
SheffieldÆs conscience hit him badly. What Mark said was true in a way. No one, except Mark, knew that better than Sheffield. And no one, again except Mark, knew the history of Junior better than Sheffield.
It was only in the last twenty years that, faced with the rising tide of population pressure in the older planets and the recession of the Galactic frontier from those same older plan-
ets, that the Confederation of Worlds began exploring the galaxy systematically. Before that, human expansion went on hit or miss. Men and women in search of new land and a better life followed rumor as to the existence of habitable planets or sent out amateur groups to find something promising.
A hundred ten years before, one such group found Junior. They didnÆt report their find officially because they didnÆt want a crowd of land speculators, promotion men, exploiters and general riffraff following. In the next months, some of the unattached men arranged to have women brought in, so the settlement must have flourished for a while.
It was a year later when some had died and most or all the rest were sick and dying that they beamed a cry of help to Pretoria, the nearest inhabited planet. The Pretorian government was in some sort of crisis at the time and relayed the message to the Sector Government at Altmark. Pretoria then felt justified in forgetting the matter.
The Altmark government, acting in reflex fashion, sent out a medical ship to Junior. It dropped anti-sera and various other supplies. The ship did not land because the medical officer diagnosed the matter, from a distance, as influenza, and minimized the danger. The medical supplies, his report said, would handle the matter perfectly. It was quite possible that the crew of the ship, fearing contagion, had prevented a landing, but nothing in the official report indicated that.
There was a final report from Junior three months later to the effect that only ten people were left alive and that they were dying. They begged for help. This report was forwarded to Earth itself along with the previous medical report. The Central Government, however, was a maze in which reports regularly were forgotten unless someone had sufficient personal interest, and influence, to keep them alive. No one had much interest in a far-off, unknown planet with ten dying men and women on it.
Filed and forgottenùand for a century, no human foot was felt on Junior.
Then, with the new furore over Galactic exploration, hundreds of ships began darting through the empty vastness, probing here and there. Reports trickled in, then flooded in.
Some came from Hidosheki Mikoyama, who passed through the Hercules Cluster twiceùdying in a crash landing the second time, with his tight and despairing voice coming over the subether in a final message: ôSurface coming up fast now; ship-walls frictioning into red heùö and no more.
Last year, the accumulation of reports, grown past any reasonable human handling, was fed into the over-worked Washington computer on a priority so high that there was only a five-month wait. The operators checked out the data for planetary habitability and lo, Abou ben Junior led all the rest.
SHEFFIELD remembered the wild hurrah over it. The stellar system was enthusiastically proclaimed to the galaxy and the name, Junior, was thought up by a bright young man in the Bureau of Outer Provinces who felt the need for personal friendliness between man and world. JuniorÆs virtues were magnified. Its fertility, its climateùöa New England perpetual springöùand most of all, its vast future, were put across without any feeling of need for discretion. For the next million years, propagandists declared, Junior will grow richer. While other planets age, Junior will grow younger as the ice recedes and fresh soil is exposed. Always a new frontier; always untapped resources.
For a million years!
It was the BureauÆs masterpiece. It was to be the tremendously successful start of a program of government-sponsored colonization. It was to be the beginning, at long last, of the scientific exploitation of the galaxy for the good of humanity.
And then came Mark Annuncio, who heard much of all this and was as thrilled at the prospect as any Joe Earthman, but who one day thought of something he had seen while sniffing idly through the ôdead-matterö files of the Bureau of Outer Provinces. He had seen a medical report about a colony on a planet of a system whose description and position in space tallied with that of the Lagrange group.
Sheffield remembered the day Mark came to him with that news.
He also remembered the face of the Secretary for the Outer Provinces when the news was passed on to him. He saw the
secretaryÆs square jaw slowly go slack and a look of infinite trouble come into his eyes.
The government was committed! It was going to ship millions of people to Junior. It was going to grant farmland and subsidize the first seed supplies, farm machinery, factories. Junior was going to be a paradise for numerous voters and a promise of more paradise for a myriad others.
If Junior turned out to be a killer planet for some reason or other, it would mean political suicide for all government figures concerned in the project. That meant some pretty big men, not least the Secretary for the Outer Provinces.
After days of checking and indecision, the secretary had said to Sheffield, ôIt looks as though weÆve got to find out what happened, and weave it into the propaganda somehow. DonÆt you think we could neutralize it that way?ö
ôIf what happened isnÆt too horrible to neutralize.ö
ôBut it canÆt be, can it? I mean, what can it be?ö The man was miserably unhappy.
Sheffield shrugged.
The secretary said, ôSee here. We can send a ship of specialists to the planet. Volunteers only and good reliable men, of course. We can give it the highest priority rating we can move, and Project Junior carries considerable weight, you know. WeÆll slow things up here, and hold on till they get back. That might work, donÆt you think?ö
Sheffield wasnÆt sure, but he got the sudden dream of going on that expedition, of taking Mark with him. He could study a Mnemonic in an off-trail environment, and if Mark should be the means of working out the mysteryù From the beginning, a mystery was assumed. After all, people donÆt die of influenza. And the medical ship hadnÆt landed; they hadnÆt really observed what was going on. It was fortunate, indeed, that that medical man was now dead thirtyseven years, or he would be slated for court-martial now.
If Mark should help solve the matter, the Mnemonic Service would be enormously strengthened. The government had to be grateful.
But nowù Sheffield wondered if Cimon knew the story of how the matter of the first settlement had been brought to light. He was fairly certain that the rest of the crew did not. It was not something the Bureau would willingly speak about.
Nor would it be polite to use the story as a lever to pry concessions out of Cimon. If MarkÆs correction of Bureau ôstupidityöùthat would undoubtedly be the oppositionÆs phrasingùwere overpublicized, the Bureau would look bad. If they could be grateful, they could be vengeful, too. Retaliation against the Mnemonic Service would not be too petty a thing to expect. StillùSheffield stood up with quick decision. ôAll right, Mark. IÆll get you out to the settlement site. IÆll get us both out there. Now you sit down and wait for me. Promise youÆll try nothing on your own.ö
ôAll right,ö said Mark. He sat down on his bunk again.
"WELL, now, Dr. Sheffield, what is it?ö said Cimon. The astrophysicist sat at his desk, on which papers and film formed rigidly arranged heaps about a small Macfreed integrator and watched Sheffield step over the threshold.
Sheffield sat carelessly down upon the tautly yanked topsheet of CimonÆs bunk. He was aware of CimonÆs annoyed glance in that direction and it did not worry him. In fact, he rather enjoyed it.
He said, ôI have a quarrel with your choice of men to go to the expedition site. It looks as though youÆve picked two men for the physical sciences, and three for the biological sciences. Right?ö
ôYes.ö
ôI suppose you think youÆve covered the ground like a Danielski ovospore at perihelion.ö
ôOh, space! Have you anything to suggest?ö
ôI would like to come along myself.ö
ôWhy?ö
ôYou have no one to take care of the mental sciences.ö
ôThe mental sciences! Good galaxy! Dr. Sheffield, five men are quite enough to risk. As a matter of fact, doctor, you and your . . . uh . . . ward were assigned to the scientific personnel of this ship by order of the Bureau of Outer Provinces without any prior consultation of myself. IÆll be frankùif I had been consulted, I would have advised against you. I donÆt see the function of mental science in an investig~ition such as this, which, after all, is purely physical. It is too bad that the Bureau wishes to experiment with Mnemonics on an occasion such as this. We canÆt afford scenes like that one with Rodriguez.ö
Sheffield decided that Cimon did not know of MarkÆs connection with the original decision to send out the expedition.
He sat upright, hands on knees, elbows cocked outward and let a freezing formality settle over him. ôSo you wonder about the function of mental science in an investigation such as this, Dr. Cimon. Suppose I told you that the end of the first settlement might possibly be explained on a simple, psychological basis.ö
ôIt wouldnÆt impress me. A psychologist is a man who can explain anything and prove nothing.ö Cimon smirked like a man who had made an epigram and was proud of it.
Sheffield ignored it. He said, ôLet me go into a little detail. In what way is Junior different from every one of the eightythree thousand inhabited worlds?ö
ôOur information is as yet incomplete. I cannot say.ö
ôOh, cobber-vitals. You had the necessary information before you ever came here. Junior has two suns.ö
ôWell, of course.ö But the astrophysicist allowed a trace of discomfiture to enter his expression.
ôColored suns, mind you. Colored suns. Do you know what that means? It means that a human being, yourself or myself, standing in the full glare of the two suns, would cast two shadows. One blue-green, one red-orange. The length of each would naturally vary with the time of day. Have you taken the trouble to verify the color distribution in those shadows? The what-do-you-call-emùreflection spectrum?ö
ôI presume,ö said Cimon, loftily, ôtheyÆd be about the same as the radiation spectra of the suns. What are you getting at?ö
ôYou should check. WouldnÆt the air absorb some wavelengths? And the vegetation? WhatÆs left? And take JuniorÆs moon, Sister. IÆve been watching it in the last few nights. ItÆs in colors, too, and the colors change position.ö
ôWell, of course. It runs through its phases independently with each sun.ö
ôYou havenÆt checked its reflection spectrum, either, have you?ö
ôWe have that somewhere. There are no points of interest about it. Of what interest is it to you, anyway?ö
ôMy dear Dr. Cimon. It is a well established psychological fact that combinations of red and green colors exert a deleterious effect on mental stability. We have a case here where the red-green chromopsychic picture-to use a technical termùis inescapable and is presented under circumstances which seem most unnatural to the human mind. It is quite possible that chromopsychosis could reach the fatal level by inducing hypertrophy of the trinitarian follicles with consequent cerebric catatonia.ö
Cimon looked floored. He said, ôI never heard of such a thing.ö
ôNaturally not,ö said Sheffieldùit was his turn to be lofty. ôYou are not a psychologist. Surely you are not questioning my professional opinion.ö
ôNo, of course not. But itÆs quite plain from the last reports of the expedition that they were dying of something that sounded like a respiratory disease.ö
ôCorrect, but Rodriguez denies that and you accepted his professional opinion.ö
ôI didnÆt say it was a respiratory disease. I said it sounded like one. Where does your red-green cromothingumbob come in?ö
Sheffield shook his head. ôYou laymen have your misconceptions. Granted that there is a physical effect, it still does not imply that there may not be a mental cause. The most convincing point about my theory is that red-green chromopsychosis has been recorded to exhibit itself first as a psychogenic respiratory infection. I take it you are not acquainted with psychogenics.ö
ôNo. ItÆs out of my field.ö
ôWell, yes. I should say so. Now my own calculations show me that under the heightened oxygen tension of this world the psychogenic respiratory infection is both inevitable and partic
ularly severe. For instance, youÆve observed the moonùSister, I meanùin the last few nights.ö
ôYes, I have observed Ilium.ö~ Cimon did not forget SisterÆs official name, even now.
ôYou watched it closely and over lengthy periods? Under magnification?ö
ôYes.ö Cimon was growing uneasy.
ôAh,ö said Sheffield, ônow the moon colors in the last few nights have been particularly virulent. Surely you must be noticing just a small inflammation of the mucous membrane of the nose, a slight itching in the throat. Nothing painful yet, I imagine. Have you been coughing or sneezing? Is it a little hard to swallow?ö
ôI believe Iùö Cimon swallowed, then drew in his breath sharply. He was testing.
Then he sprang to his feet, fists clenched and mouth working. ôGreat galaxy, Sheffield, you had no right to keep quiet about this. I can feel it now. What do I do, Sheffield? ItÆs not incurable, is it? Damn it, Sheffieldöùhis voice went shrillù ôwhy didnÆt you tell us this before?ö
ôBecause,ö said Sheffield, calmly, ôthereÆs not a word of truth in anything IÆve said. Not one word. ThereÆs no harm in colors. Sit down, Dr. Cimon. YouÆre beginning to look rather foolish to say the least.ö
ôYou said,ö said Cimon, thoroughly confused, and in a voice that was beginning to strangle, ôthat it was your professional opinion thatùö
ôMy professional opinion! Space and little comets, Cimon, whatÆs so magic about a professional opinion? A man can be lying or he can just plain be ignorant, even about the final details of his own specialty. A professional can be wrong because heÆs ignorant of a neighboring specialty. He may be certain heÆs right and still be wrong.
ôLook at you. You know all about what makes the universe tick and IÆm lost completely except that I know that a star is something that twinkles and a light-year is something thatÆs long. And yet youÆll swallow gibberish-psychology that a freshman student of mentics would laugh his head off at. DonÆt you think, Cimon, itÆs time we worried less about professional opinion and more about over-all co-ordination?ö
THE color washed slowly out of CimonÆs face. It turned waxy-pale. His lips trembled. He whispered, ôYou used professional status as a cloak to make a fool of me.ö
ôThatÆs about it,ö said Sheffield.
ôI have never, neverùö Cimon gasped and tried a new start. ôI have never witnessed anything as cowardly and unethical.ö
ôI was trying to make a point.ö
ôOh, you made it. You made it.ö Cimon was slowly recovering; his voice approaching normality. ôYou want me to take that boy of yours with us.ö
ôThatÆs right.ö
ôNo. No. Definitely no. It was no before you came in here and itÆs no a million times over now.ö
ôWhatÆs your reason? I mean, before I came in.ö
ôHeÆs psychotic. He canÆt be trusted with normal people.ö
Sheffield said, grimly, ôIÆll thank you not to use the word, æpsychotic.Æ You are not competent to use it. If youÆre so precise in your feeling for professional ethics, remember to stay out of my specialty in my presence. Mark Annuncio is perfectly normal.ö
ôAfter that scene with Rodriguez? Yes. Oh, yes.ö
ôMark had the right to ask his question. It was his job to do so and his duty. Rodriguez had no right to be boorish about it.ö
ôIÆll have to consider Rodriguez first, if you donÆt mind.ö
ôWhy? Mark Annuncio knows more than Rodriguez. For that matter, he knows more than you or I. Are you trying to bring back an intelligent report or to satisfy a petty vanity?ö
ôYour statements about what your boy knows do not impress me. I am quite aware he is an efficient parrot. He understands nothing, however. It is my duty to see to it that data are made available to him, because the Bureau has ordered that. They did not consult me, but very well. I will co-operate that far. He will receive his data here in the ship.ö
Sheffield said, ôNot adequate, Cimon. He should be on the spot. He may see things our precious specialists will not.ö
Cimon said, freezingly, ôVery likely. The answer, Sheffield, is no. There is no argument that can possibly persuade me.ö The astrophysicistÆs nose was pinched and white.
ôBecause I made a fool of you?ö
ôBecause you violated the most fundamental obligation of a
professional man. No respectable professional would ever use his specialty to prey on the innocence of a non-associate professional.ö
ôSo I made a fool of you.ö
Cimon turned away. ôPlease leave. There will be no further communication between us, outside the most necessary business, for the duration of the trip.ö
ôIf I go,ö said Sheffield, ôthe rest of the boys may get to hear about this.ö
Cimon started. ôYouÆre going to repeat our little affair?ö A cold smile rested on his lips, then went its transient and contemptuous way. ôYouÆll broadcast the dastard you were.ö
ôOh, I doubt theyÆll take it seriously. Everyone knows psychologists will have their little jokes. Besides, theyÆll be so busy laughing at you. You knowùthe very impressive Dr. Cimon scared into a sore throat and howling for mercy after a few mystic words of gibberish.ö
ôWhoÆd believe you?ö cried Cimon.
Sheffield lifted his right hand. Between thumb and forefinger was a small rectangular object, studded with a line of control toggles.
ôPocket recorder,ö he said. He touched one of the toggles and CimonÆs voice was suddenly saying, ôWell, now, Dr. Sheffield, what is it?ö
It sounded pompous, peremptory, and even a little smug.
ôGive me that!ö Cimon hurled himself at the lanky psychologist.
Sheffield held him off. ôDonÆt try force, Cimon. I was in amateur wrestling not too long ago. Look, IÆll make a deal with you.ö
Cimon was still writhing toward him, dignity forgotten, panting his fury. Sheffield kept him at armÆs length, backing slowly.
Sheffield said, ôLet Mark and myself come along and no one will ever see or hear this.ö
Slowly, Cimon simmered down. He gasped, ôWill you let me have it, then?ö
ôAfter Mark and I are out at the settlement site.ö
ôIÆm to trust you.ö He seemed to take pains to make that as offensive as possible.
ôWhy not? You can certainly trust me to broadcast this if you donÆt agree. IÆll play it off for Vernadsky first. HeÆll love it. You know his corny sense of humor.ö
Cimon said in a voice so low it could hardly be heard, ôYou and the boy can come along.ö Then, vigorously, ôBut remember this, Sheffield. When we get back to Earth, IÆll have you before the Central Committee of the G.A.A.S. ThatÆs a promise. YouÆll be de-professionalized.ö
Sheffield said, ôIÆm not afraid of the Galactic Association for the Advancement of Science.ö He let the syllables resound. ôAfter all, what will you accuse me of? Are you going to play this recording before the Central Committee as evidence? Come, come, letÆs be friendly about this. You donÆt want to broadcast your own . . . uh . . . mistake before the primmest stuffed shirts in eighty-three thousand worlds.ö
Smiling gently, he backed out the door.
But when he closed the door between himself and Cimon, his smile vanished. He hadnÆt liked to do this. Now that he had done it, he wondered if it were worth the enemy he had made.
SEVEN tents had sprung up near the site of the original settlement on Junior. Nevile Fawkes could see them all from the low ridge on which he stood. They had been there seven days now.
He looked up at the sky. The clouds were thick overhead and pregnant with rain. That pleased him. With both suns behind those clouds, the diffused light was gray-white. It made things seem almost normal.
The wind was damp and a little raw, as though it were April in Vermont. Fawkes was a New Englander and he appreciated the resemblance. In four or five hours, Lagrange I would set and the clouds would turn ruddy while the landscape would become angrily dim. But Fawkes intended to be back in the tents by then.
So near the equator, yet so cool! Well, that would change with the millennia. As the glaciers retreated, the air would warm up and the soil would dry out. Jungles and deserts would make their appearance. The water level in the oceans would slowly creep higher, wiping out numberless islands. The two large rivers would become an inland sea, changing the
configuration of JuniorÆs one large continent; perhaps making several smaller ones out of it.
He wondered if the settlement site would be drowned. Probably, he decided. Maybe that would take the curse off it.
He could understand why the Confederation were so anxious to solve the mystery of that first settlement. Even if it were a simple matter of disease, there would have to be proof. Otherwise, who would settle the world? The ôsucker baitö superstition held for more than merely spacemen.
He, himselfùWell, his first visit to the settlement site hadnÆt been so bad, though he had been glad to leave the rain and the gloom. Returning was worse. It was difficult to sleep with the thought that a thousand mysterious deaths lay all about, separated from him only by that insubstantial thing, time.
With medical coolness, Novee had dug up the moldering graves of a dozen of the ancient settlers. (Fawkes could not and did not look at the remains.) There had been only crumbling bones, Novee had said, out of which nothing could be made.
ôThere seem to be abnormalities of bone deposition,ö he said. Then on questioning, he admitted that the effects might be entirely owing to a hundred yearsÆ exposure to damp soil.
Fawkes had constructed a fantasy that followed him even into his waking hours. It concerned an elusive race of intelligent beings dwelling underground, never being seen but haunting that first settlement a century back with a deadly perseverance.
He pictured a silent bacteriological warfare. He could see them in laboratories beneath the tree roots, culturing their molds and spores, waiting for one that could live on human beings. Perhaps they captured children to experiment upon.
And when they found what they were looking for, spores drifted silently out over the settlement in venomous cloudsù Fawkes knew all this to be fantasy. He had made it up in the wakeful nights out of no evidence but that of his quivering stomach. Yet alone in the forest, he whirled more than once in a sudden horror-filled conviction that bright eyes were staring out of the duskiness of a treeÆs Lagrange I shadow.
FawkesÆ botanistÆs eye did not miss the vegetation he
passed, absorbed as he was. He had deliberately struck out from camp in a new direction, but what he saw was what he had already seen. JuniorÆs forests were neither thick nor tangled. They were scarcely a barrier to travel. The small treesù few were higher than ten feet, although their trunks were nearly as thick as the average Terrestrial treeùgrew with considerable room between them.
Fawkes had constructed a rough scheme for arranging the plant-life of Junior into some sort of taxonomic order. He was not unaware of the fact that he might be arranging for his own immortality.
There was the scarlet ôbayonet tree,ö for instance. Its huge, scarlet flowers attracted insectlike creatures that built small nests within it. Thenùat what signal or what impulse Fawkes had not divinedùall the flowers on some one given tree would grow a glistening white pistil over night. Each pistil stood two feet high, as though every bloom had been suddenly equipped with a bayonet.
By the next day, the flower had been fertilized, and the petals closed shutùabout pistil, insects and all. The explorer, Makoyama, had named it the ôbayonet tree,ö but Fawkes had made so bold as to rename it Migrania Fawkesii.
ONE thing the trees had in common. Their wood was incredibly tough. It would be the task of the biochemist to determine the physical state of the cellulose molecule and that of the biophysicist to determine how water could be transported through the woodÆs impervious texture. What Fawkes knew from experience was that blossoms would break if pulled, that stems would bend only with difficulty and break not at all. His pocketknife was blunted without as much as making a scratch.
The original settlers, in order to clear land, had obviously had to dig out the trees, root and all.
Compared to Earth, the woods were almost free of animal life. That might be due to the glacial slaughter. Fawkes didnÆt know.
The insectlike creatures were all two winged. And those wings were feathery little fronds that beat noiselessly. None, apparently, was a bloodsucker.
The only major experience with animals that they had had was the sudden appearance of a large flying creature over the camp. It took high-speed photography td reveal the actual shape of the beast, for the specimen they observed, apparently overcome with curiosity, swooped low over the tents, again and again, at speeds too great for comfortable, naked-eye observation.
It was four-winged, the forward wings terminating in powerful claws, being membranous and nearly naked, serving the office of gliding planes. The hind pair, covered with a hairlike fuzz, beat rapidly.
Rodriguez suggested the name Tetrapierus.
Fawkes paused in his reminiscence to look at a variety of grass he had not seen before. It grew in a dense patch and each stem forked in three toward the top. He brought out his magnifying glass, and felt one of the stems gingerly with his finger. Like other grasses on Junior, itù It was here that he heard the rustle behind himùunmistakable. He listened for a moment, his own heartbeat drowning the sound, then whirled. A small manlike object dodged behind a tree.
FawkesÆ breathing nearly stopped. He fumbled for the blaster he wore and his hand seemed to be moving through molasses.
Was his fantasy no fantasy at all? Was Junior inhabited after all?
Numbly, Fawkes found himself behind another tree. He couldnÆt leave it at this. He knew that. He could not report to the rest: I saw something alive. It might have been the answer to everything. But I was afraid and let it get away.
He would have to make some attempt.
There was a ôchalice treeö just behind the tree that hid the creature. It was in bloom, the white and cream flowers lifted turgidly upward, waiting to catch the rain that would soon fall. There was the sharp tinkle of a breaking flower and cream slivers twisted and turned downward.
It wasnÆt imagination. Something was behind the tree.
Fawkes took a deep breath and dashed out, holding his blaster before him, nerving himself to shoot at the slightest sign of danger.
But a voice called out, ôDonÆt. ItÆs only I.ö A frightened, but definitely human face looked out from behind the tree.
It was Mark Annuncio.
Fawkes stopped in mid-stride and stared. Finally, he managed to croak, ôWhat are you doing here?ö
Mark said, staring at the blaster in the otherÆs hand, ôI was following you.ö
ôWhy?ö
ôTo see what you would do. I was interested in what you might find. I thought if you saw me, you would send me away.ö
Fawkes became conscious of the weapon he was still holding and put it away. It took three tries to get it into the holster.
The first fat drops of rain began to fall. Fawkes said, harshly, ôDonÆt say anything about this to the others.ö
He glared hostilely at the youngster and they walked back to camp separately and in silence.
A central hall of pre-fab had been added to the seven tents now, and the group was together within it, sitting about the long table.
It was a great moment, but a rather subdued one. Vernadsky, who had cooked for himself in his college days, was in charge. He lifted the steaming stew off the short-wave heater and said, ôCalories, anyone?ö
He ladled the stuff lavishly.
ôIt smells very good,ö said Novee, doubtfully.
He lifted a piece of meat with his fork. It was purplish and still felt tough despite internal heating. The shredded herbs that surrounded it seemed softer, but looked less edible.
ôWell,ö said Vernadsky, ôeat it. Put it in your mouth. IÆve tasted it and itÆs good.ö
He crammed his mouth and chewed. He kept on chewing. ôTough, but good.ö
Fawkes said, gloomily, ôItÆll probably kill us.ö
ôNuts,ö said Vernadsky. ôThe rats have been living on it for two weeks.ö
ôTwo weeks isnÆt much,ö said Novee.
Rodriguez said, ôWell, one bite wonÆt kill. Say, it is good.ö And it was. They all agreed, eventually. So far, it seemed that whenever JuniorÆs life could be eaten at all, it was good.
The grains were almost impossible to grind into flour, but that done, a protein-high cake could be baked. There was some on the table now; dark and heavy.. It wasnÆt ba~d, either.
Fawkes had studied the herb life on Junior and come to the conclusion that an acre of JuniorÆs surface, properly seeded and watered, could support ten times the number of grazing animals that an acre of Earthly alfalfa could.
Sheffield had been impressed; spoke of Junior as the granary of a hundred worlds, but Fawkes dismissed his own statements with a shrug.
He said, ôSucker bait.ö
About a week earlier, the party had been agitated by the sudden refusal of the hamsters and white rats to touch certain new herbs Fawkes had brought in. Mixing small quantities with regular rations had resulted in the death of those that fed on it.
Solution?
Not quite. Vernadsky came in a few hours later and said, calmly, ôCopper, lead, and mercury.ö
ôWhat?ö said Cimon.
ôThose plants. TheyÆre high in heavy metals. Probably an evolutionary development to keep from being eaten.ö
ôThe first settlersùö began Cimon.
ôNo. ThatÆs impossible. Most of the plants are perfectly all right. Just these, and no one would eat them.ö
ôHow do you know?ö
ôThe rats didnÆt.ö
ôTheyÆre just rats.ö
It was what Vernadsky was waiting for. He said, dramatically, ôYou may hail a modest martyr to science. I tasted the stuff.ö
ôWhat?ö yelled Novee.
ôJust a lick. DonÆt worry. IÆm the careful-type martyr. Anyway, the stuff is as bitter as strychnine. What do you expect? If a plant is going to fill itself with lead just to keep the animals off, what good does it do the plant to have the animal find out by dying after heÆs eaten it? A little bitter stuff in addition acts as a warning. The combination warning and punishment does the trick.ö
ôBesides,ö said Novee, ôit wasnÆt heavy metal poisoning that killed the settlers. The symptoms arenÆt right for it.ö
The rest knew the symptoms well enough. Some in lay terms and some in more technical language. Difficult and painful breathing that grew steadily worse. ThatÆs what it amounted to.
Fawkes put down his fork. ôLook here, suppose this stuff contains some alkaloid that paralyzes the nerves that control the lung muscles.ö
ôRats have lung muscles,ö said Vernadsky. ôIt doesnÆt kill them.ö
ôMaybe itÆs a cumulative thing.ö
ôAll right. All right. Any time your breathing gets painful, go back to ship rations and see if you improve. But no fair counting psychosomatics.ö
Sheffield grunted, ôThatÆs my job. DonÆt worry about it.ö
Fawkes drew a deep breath, then another. Glumly, he put another piece of meat into his mouth.
At one corner of the table, Mark Annuncio, eating more slowly than the rest, thought of Norris VinogradÆs monograph on ôTaste and Smell.ö Vinograd had made a taste-smell classification based on enzyme inhibition patterns within the taste buds. Annuncio did not know what that meant exactly but he remembered the symbols, their values, and the descriptive definitions.
While he placed the taste of the stew to three subclassifications, he finished his helping. His jaws ached faintly because of the difficult chewing.
EVENING was approaching and Lagrange I was low in the sky. It had been a bright day, reasonably warm, and Boris Vernadsky felt pleased. He had made interesting measurements and his brilliantly colored sweater had showed fascinating changes from hour to hour as the sunsÆ positions shifted.
Right now, his shadow was a long red thing, with the lowest third of it gray, where the Lagrange II shadow coincided. He held out one arm and it cast two shadows. There was a smeared orange one some fifteen feet away and a denser blue
one in the same direction but only five feet away. If he had time, he could work out a beautiful set of shadowgrams.
He was so pleased with the thought that he felt no resentment at seeing Mark Annuncio skirting his trail in the distance.
He put down his nucleometer and waved his hand. ôCome here!ö
The youngster approached diffidently. ôHello.ö
ôWant something?ö
ôJust . . . just watching.ö
ôOh? Well, go ahead and watch. Do you know what IÆm doing?ö
Mark shook his head.
ôThis is a nucleometer,ö said Vernadsky. ôYou jab it into the ground like this. ItÆs got a force-field generator at the top so it will penetrate any rock.ö He leaned on the nucleometer as he spoke, and it went two feet into the stony outcropping. ôSee?ö
MarkÆs eyes shone, and Vernadsky felt pleased. The chemist said, ôAlong the sides of the uniped are microscopic atomic furnaces, each of which vaporizes about a million molecules or so in the surrounding rock and decomposes them into atoms. The atoms are then differentiated in terms of nuclear mass and charge and the results may be read off directly on the dials above. Do you follow all that?ö
ôIÆm not sure. But itÆs a good thing to know.ö
Vernadsky smiled, and said, ôWe end up with figures on the different elements in the crust. ItÆs pretty much the same on all oxygenlwater planets.ö
Mark said, seriously, ôThe planet with the most silicon I know of is Lepta with 32.765 per cent. Earth is only 24.862. ThatÆs by weight.ö
VernadskyÆs smile faded. He said, dryly, ôYou have the figures on all the planets, pal?ö
ôOh, no. I couldnÆt. I donÆt think theyÆve all been surveyed. Bischoon and SpenglowÆs æHandbook of Planetary CrustsÆ only lists figures for twenty-one thousand eight hundred and fiftyfour planets. I know all those, of course.ö
Vernadsky, with a definite feeling of deflation, said, ôNow Junior has a more even distribution of elements than is usually met up with. Oxygen is low. So far my average is a lousy
42.113. So is silicon, with 22.722. The heavy metals are ten to a hundred times as concentrated as on Earth. ThatÆs not just a local phenomenon, either, since JuniorÆs over-all density is five per cent higher than EarthÆs.ö
Vernadsky wasnÆt sure why he was telling the kid all this. Partly, he felt, because it was good to find someone who would listen. A man gets lonely and frustrated when there is no one of his own field to talk to.
He went on, beginning to relish the lecture. ôOn the other hand, the lighter elements are also better distributed. The ocean solids arenÆt predominantly sodium chloride as on Earth. JuniorÆs oceans contain a respectable helping of magnesium salts. And take what they call the ærare lights.Æ Those are the elements lithium, beryllium, and boron. TheyÆre lighter than carbon, all of them, but they are of very rare occurrence on Earth, and in fact, on all planets. Junior, on the other hand, is quite rich in them. The three of them total almost fourtenths of a per cent of the crust as compared to about fourthousandths on Earth.ö
Mark plucked at the otherÆs sleeve. ôDo you have a list of figures on all the elements? May I see?ö
ôI suppose so.ö He took a folded piece of paper out of his hippocket.
He grinned as Mark took the sheet and said, ôDonÆt publish those figures before I do.ö
Mark glanced at them once and returned the paper.
ôAre you through?ö asked Vernadsky in surprise.
ôOh, yes,ö said Mark, thoughtfully, ôI have it all.ö He turned on his heel and walked away with no word of parting.
The last glimmer of Lagrange I faded below the horizon.
Vernadsky gazed after Mark and shrugged. He plucked his nucleometer out of the ground, and followed after, walking back toward the tents.
SHEFFIELD was moderately pleased. Mark had been doing better than expected. To be sure, he scarcely talked but that was not very serious. At least, he showed interest and didnÆt sulk. And he threw no tantrums.
Vernadsky was even telling Sheffield that last evening Mark had spoken to him quite normally, without raised voices on
either side, about planetary crust analyses. Vernadsky had laughed a bit about it, saying that Mark knew the crust analyses of twenty thousand planets and some day heÆd have the boy repeat them all just to see how long it would take.
Mark, himself, had made no mention of the matter. In fact, he had spent the morning sitting in his tent. Sheffield had looked in, seen him on his cot, staring at his feet, and had left him to himself.
What he really needed at the moment, Sheffield felt, was a bright idea for himselfùa really bright one.
So far, everything had come to nothingùa whole month of everything. Rodriguez held fast against any infection. Vernadsky absolutely barred food poisoning. Novee shook his head with vehement negativeness at suggestions of disturbed metabolism. ôWhereÆs the evidence?ö he kept saying.
What it amounted to was that every physical cause of death was eliminated on the strength of expert opinion. But men, women, and children had died. There must be a reason. Could it be psychological?
He had satirized the matter to Cimon for a purpose before they had come out here, but it was now time and more than time to be serious about it. Could the settlers have been driven to suicide? Why? Humanity had colonized tens of thousands of planets without its having seriously affected mental stability. In fact, the suicide rate, as well as the incidence of psychoses, were higher on Earth than anywhere else in the galaxy.
Besides, the settlement had called frantically for medical help. They didnÆt want to die.
Personality disorders? Something peculiar to that one group? Enough to affect over a thousand people to the death? Unlikely. Besides, how could any evidence be uncovered? The settlement site had been ransacked for any films or records, even the most frivolous. Nothing. A century of dampness left nothing so fragile as purposeful records.
So he was working in a vacuum. He felt helpless. The others, at least, had data; something to chew on. He had nothing.
He found himself at MarkÆs tent again and looked inside automatically. It was empty. He looked about and spied Mark walking out of the camp and into the woods.
Sheffield cried out after him, ôMark! Wait for me!ö
Mark stopped, made as though to go on, thought better of it, and let SheffieldÆs long legs consume the distance between them.
Sheffield said, ôWhere are you off to?ö (Even after running, it was unnecessary to pant in JuniorÆs rich atmosphere.)
MarkÆs eyes were sullen. ôTo the air-coaster.ö
ôOh?ö
ôI havenÆt had a chance to look at it.ö
ôWhy, of course youÆve had a chance,ö said Sheffield. ôYou were watching Fawkes like a hawk on the trip over.ö
Mark scowled. ôEveryone was around. I want to see it for myself.ö
Sheffield felt disturbed. The kid was angry. HeÆd better tag along and try to find out what was wrong. He said, ôCome to think of it, IÆd like to see the coaster myself. You donÆt mind having me along, do you?ö
Mark hesitated. Then he said, æWe-ell. If you want to.ö It wasnÆt exactly a gracious invitation.
Sheffield said, ôWhat are you carrying, Mark?ö
ôTree branch. I cut it off with the buzz-field gun. IÆm taking it with me just in case anyone wants to stop me.ö He swung it so that it whistled through the thick air.
ôWhy should anyone want to stop you, Mark? IÆd throw it away. ItÆs hard and heavy. You could hurt someone.ö
Mark was striding on. ôIÆm not throwing it away.ö Sheffield pondered briefly, then decided against a quarrel at the moment. It would be better to get to the basic reason for this hostility first. ôAll right,ö he said.
The air-coaster lay in a clearing, its clear metal surface throwing back green highlights. (Lagrange II had not yet risen.)
Mark looked carefully about.
ôThereÆs no one in sight, Mark,ö said Sheffield. They climbed aboard. It was a large coaster. It had carried seven men and the necessary supplies in only three trips.
Sheffield looked at its control panel with something quite close to awe. He said, ôImagine a botanist like Fawkes learning to run one of these things. ItÆs so far outside his specialty.ö
ôI can run one,ö said Mark, suddenly.
Sheffield stared at him in surprise. ôYou can?ö
ôI watched Dr. Fawkes when we came. I know everything he did. And he has a repair manual for the coaster. I sneaked that out once and read it.ö
Sheffield said lightly, ôWell, thatÆs very nice. We have a spare navigator for an emergency, then.ö
He turned away from Mark then, so he never saw the tree limb as it came down on his head. He didnÆt hear MarkÆs troubled voice saying, ôIÆm sorry, Dr. Sheffield.ö He didnÆt even, properly speaking, feel the concussion that knocked him out.
IT was the jar of the coasterÆs landing, Sheffield later thought, that first brought consciousness back. It was a dim aching sort of thing that had no understanding in it at first.
The sound of MarkÆs voice was floating up to him. That was his first sensation. Then as he tried to roll over and get a knee beneath him, he could feel his head throbbing.
For a while, MarkÆs voice was only a collection of sounds that meant nothing to him. Then they began to coalesce into words. Finally, when his eyes fluttered open and light entered stabbingly so that he had to close them again, he could make out sentences. He remained where he was, head hanging, one quivering knee holding him up.
Mark was saying in a breathless, high-pitched voice, ô. . . A thousand people all dead. Just graves. And nobody knows why.ö
There was a rumble Sheffield couldnÆt make out. A hoarse deep voice.
Then Mark again, ôItÆs true. Why do you suppose all the scientists are aboard?ö
Sheffield lifted achingly to his feet and rested against one wall. He put his hand to his head and it came away bloody. His hair was caked and matted with it. Groaning, he staggered toward the coasterÆs cabin door. He fumbled for the hook and yanked it inward.
The landing ramp had been lowered. For a moment, he stood there, swaying, afraid to trust his legs.
He had to take in everything by installments. Both suns were high in the sky and a thousand feet away, the giant steel
cylinder of the Triple G reared its nose high above the runty trees that ringed it.
Mark was at the foot of the ramp, semicircled by members of the crew. The crewmen were stripped to the waist and browned nearly black in the ultraviolet of Lagrange I. (Thanks only to the thick atmosphere and the heavy ozone coating in the upper reaches for keeping UV down to a livable range.)
The crewman directly before Mark was leaning on a baseball bat. Another tossed a ball in the air and caught it. Many of the rest were wearing gloves.
ôFunny,ö thought Sheffield, erratically, ôMark landed right in the middle of a ball park.ö
Mark looked up and saw him. He screamed, excitedly, ôAll right, ask him. Go ahead, ask him. Dr. Sheffield, wasnÆt there an expedition to this planet once and they all died mysteriously?ö
Sheffield tried to say: Mark, what are you doing? He couldnÆt. When he opened his mouth only a moan came out.
The crewman with the bat said, ôIs this little gumboil telling the truth, mister?ö
Sheffield held on to the railing with two perspiring hands. The crewmanÆs face seemed to waver. The face had thick lips on it and small eyes buried under bristly eyebrows. It wavered very badly.
Then the ramp came up and whirled about his head. There was ground gripped in his hands suddenly and a cold ache on his cheekbone. He gave up the fight and let go of consciousness again.
HE came awake less painfully the second time. He was in bed now and two misty faces leaned over him. A long, thin object passed across his line of vision and a voice, just heard above the humming in his ears, said, ôHeÆll come to now, Cimon.ö
Sheffield closed his eyes. Somehow he seemed to be aware of the fact that his skull was thoroughly bandaged.
He lay quietly for a minute, breathing deeply. When he opened his eyes again, the faces above him were clear. There was NoveeÆs round face, a small, professionally-serious line
between his eyes that cleared away when Sheffield said, ôHello, Novee.ö
The other man was Cimon, jaws set and angry, yet with a look of something like satisfaction in his eyes.
Sheffield said, ôWhere are we?ö
Cimon said, coldly, ôIn space, Dr. Sheffield. Two days out in space.ö
ôTwo days, outùö SheffieldÆs eyes widened and he tried to rise.
Novee interposed. ôYouÆve had a bad concussion, nearly a fracture, Sheffield. Take it easy.ö
ôWell, what hapùWhereÆs Mark? WhereÆs Mark ?ô
ôEasy. Easy now.ö Novee put a hand on each of SheffieldÆs shoulders and pressed him down.
Cimon said, ôYour boy is in the brig. In case you want to know why, he deliberately caused mutiny on board ship, thus endangering the safety of five men. We were almost marooned at our temporary camp, because the crew wanted to leave immediately. He persuaded them, the captain did, to pick us up.Æ,
Sheffield remembered now, very vaguely. There was just that fuzzy memory of Mark and a man with a bat. Mark saying ô...A thousand people all deadùö
The psychologist hitched himself up on one elbow with a tremendous effort. ôListen, Cimon, I donÆt know why Mark did it, but let me talk to him. IÆll find out.ö
Cimon said, ôNo need of that. It will all come out at the trial.ö
Sheffield tried to brush NoveeÆs restraining arm to one side. ôBut why make it formal? Why involve the Bureau? We can settle this among ourselves.ö
ôThatÆs exactly what we intend to do. The captain is empowered by the laws of space to preside over trials involving crimes and misdemeanors in deep space.ö
ôThe captain. A trial here? On board ship? Cimon, donÆt let him do it. It will be murder.ö
ôNot at all. It will be a fair and proper trial. IÆm in full agreement with the captain. Discipline demands a trial.ö
Novee said, uneasily, ôLook, Cimon, I wish you wouldnÆt. HeÆs in no shape to take this.ö
ôToo bad,ö said Cimon.
Sheffield said, ôBut you donÆt understand. IÆm responsible for the boy.ö
ôOn the contrary, I do understand,ö said Cimon. ôItÆs why weÆve been waiting for you to regain consciousness. YouÆre standing trial with him.ö
ôWhat!ö
ôYou are generally responsible for his actions. Specifically, you were with him when he stole the air-coaster. The crew saw you at the coasterÆs cabin door while Mark was inciting mutiny.ö
ôBut he cracked my skull in order to take the coaster. CanÆt you see thatÆs the act of a seriously disturbed mind? He canÆt be held responsible.ö
ôWeÆll let the captain decide, Sheffield. You stay with him, Novee.ö He turned to go.
Sheffield called on what strength he could muster. ôCimon,ö he shouted, ôyouÆre doing this to get back at me for the lesson in psychology I taught you. YouÆre a narrow . . . pettyùö
He fell back on his pillow, breathless.
Cimon, from the door, said, ôAnd by the way, Sheffield, the penalty for inciting mutiny on board ship is death!ö
WELL, it was a kind of trial, Sheffield thought grimly. Nobody was following accurate legal procedure, but then, the psychologist felt certain, no one knew the accurate legal procedure, least of all the captain.
They were using the large assembly room where, on ordinary cruises, the crew got together to watch subetheric broadcasts. At this time, the crew was rigidly excluded, though all the scientific personnel were present.
Captain Follenbee sat behind a desk just underneath the subetheric reception cube. Sheffield and Mark Annuncio sat by themselves at his left, faces toward him.
The captain was not at ease. He alternated between informal exchanges with the various ôwitnessesö and sudden super-judicial blasts against whispering among the spectators.
Sheffield and Mark, having met one another in the ôcourtroomö for the first time since the flight of the air-coaster, shook hands solemnly on the formerÆs initiative. Mark had hung back at first, looking up briefly at the crisscross of tape still present on the shaven patch oh SheffieldÆs skull.
ôIÆm sorry, Dr. Sheffield. IÆm very sorry.ö
ôItÆs all right, Mark. How have they been treating you?ö
ôAll right, I guess.ö
The captainÆs voice boomed out, ôNo talking among the accused.ö
Sheffield retorted in a conversational tone, ôListen, captain, we havenÆt had lawyers. We havenÆt had time to prepare a case.ö
ôNo lawyers necessary,ö said the captain. ôThis isnÆt a court trial on Earth. CaptainÆs investigation. Different thing. Just interested in facts, not legal fireworks. Proceedings can be reviewed back on Earth.ö
ôAnd we can be dead by then,ö said Sheffield, hotly.
ôLetÆs get on with it,ö said the captain, banging his desk with an aluminum T-wedge.
Cimon sat in the front row of the audience, smiling thinly. It was he that Sheffield watched most uneasily.
The smile never varied as witnesses were called upon to state that they had been informed that the crew was on no account to be told of the true nature of the trip; that Sheffield and Mark had been present when told. A mycologist testified to a conversation he had had with Sheffield which indicated the latter to be well aware of the prohibition.
It was brought out that Mark had been sick for most of the trip out to Junior, that he had behaved erratically after they had landed on Junior.
ôHow do you explain all that?ö asked the captain.
From the audience, CimonÆs calm voice suddenly sounded. ôHe was frightened. He was willing to do anything that would get him off the planet.ö
Sheffield sprang to his feet. ôHis remarks are out of order. HeÆs not a witness.ö
The captain banged his T-wedge and said, ôSit down!ö
The trial went on. A crew member was called in to testify that Mark had informed him of the first expedition and that Sheffield had stood by while that was done.
Sheffield cried, ôI want to cross-examine!ö
The captain said, ôYouÆll get your chance later.ö The crewman was shooed out.
SHEFFIELD studied the audience. It seemed obvious that their sympathy was not entirely with the captain. He was psychologist enough to be able to wonder, even at this point, how many of them were secretly relieved at having left Junior, and actually grateful to Mark for having precipitated the matter as he did. Then, too, the obvious kangaroo nature of the court didnÆt sit well with them. Vernadsky was frowning darkly, while Novee stared at Cimon with obvious distaste.
It was Cimon who worried Sheffield. He, the psychologist felt, must have argued the captain into this and it was he who might insist on the extreme penalty. Sheffield was bitterly regretful of having punctured the manÆs pathological vanity.
But what really puzzled Sheffield above all was MarkÆs attitude. He was showing no signs of spacesickness or of unease of any kind. He listened to everything closely but seemed moved by nothing. He acted as though nothing mundane concerned him at the moment; as though certain information he himself held made everything else of no account.
The captain banged his T-wedge and said, ôI guess we have it all. Facts all clear. No argument. We can finish this.ö
Sheffield jumped up again. ôHold on. ArenÆt we getting our turn?ö
ôQuiet,ö ordered the captain.
ôYou keep quiet.ö Sheffield turned to the audience. ôListen, we havenÆt had a chance to defend ourselves. We havenÆt even had the right to cross-examine. Is that just?ö
There was a murmur that buzzed up above the sound of the T-wedge.
Cimon said, coldly, ôWhatÆs there to defend?ö
ôMaybe nothing,ö shouted back Sheffield, ôin which case what have you to lose by hearing us? Or are you afraid we have considerable to defend?ö
Individual calls from the audience were sounding now. ôLet him talk!ö
Cimon shrugged. ôGo ahead.ö
The captain said, sullenly, ôWhat do you want to do?ö
Sheffield said, ôAct as my own lawyer and call Mark Annuncio as my principal witness.ö
Mark stood up, calmly enough. Sheffield turned his chair to face the audience and motioned him down again.
Sheffield decided there was no use in trying to imitate the courtroom dramas he had watched on the subether. Pompous questions on name and condition of past life would get nowhere. Better to be direct.
So he said, ôMark, did you know what would happen when you told the crew about the first expedition?ö
ôYes, Dr. Sheffield.ö
ôWhy did you do it then?ö
ôBecause it was important that we all get away from Junior without losing a minute. Telling the crew the truth was the fastest way of getting us off the planet.ö
Sheffield could feel the bad impression that answer made on the audience, but he could only follow his instinct. That, and his psychologistÆs decision that only special knowledge could make Mark or any Mnemonic so calm in the face of adversity. After all, special knowledge was their business.
He said, ôWhy was it important to leave Junior, Mark?ö
Mark didnÆt flinch. He looked straight at the watching scientists. ôBecause I know what killed the first expedition, and it was only a question of time before it killed us. In fact, it maybe too late already. We may be dying now. We may, every one of us, be dead men.ö
Sheffield let the murmur from the audience well up and subside. Even the captain seemed shocked into T-wedge immobility while CimonÆs smile grew quite faint.
For the moment, Sheffield was less concerned with MarkÆs ôknowledge,ö whatever it was, than that he had acted independently on the basis of it. It had happened before. Mark had searched the shipÆs log on the basis of a theory of his own. Sheffield felt pure chagrin at not having probed that tendency to the uttermost then and there.
So his next question, asked in a grim enough voice, was, ôWhy didnÆt you consult me about this, Mark?ö
Mark faltered a trifle. ôYou wouldnÆt have believed me. ItÆs why I had to hit you to keep you from stopping me. None of them would have believed me. They all hated me.ö
ôWhat makes you think they hated you?ö
ôWell, you remember about Dr. Rodriguez.ö
ôThat was quite a while ago. The others had no arguments with you.ö
ôI could tell the way Dr. Cimon looked at me. And Dr. Fawkes wanted to shoot me with a blaster.ö
ôWhat?ö Sheffield whirled, forgetting in his own turn any formality due the trial. ôSay, Fawkes, did you try to shoot him?ö
Fawkes stood up, face crimson, as all turned to look at him. He said, ôI was out in the woods and he came sneaking up on me. I thought it was an animal and took precautions. When I saw it was he, I put the blaster away.ö
Sheffield turned back to Mark. ôIs that right?ö
Mark turned sullen again. ôWellùI asked Dr. Vernadsky to see some data he had collected and he told me not to publish it before he did. He tried to make out that I was dishonest.ö
ôFor the love of Earth, I was only joking,ö came a yell from the audience.
Sheffield said, hurriedly, ôVery well, Mark, you didnÆt trust us and you felt you had to take action on your own. Now, Mark, letÆs get to the point. What did you think killed the first settlers?ö
Mark said, ôIt might have killed the explorer Makoyama, too, for all I know except that he died in a crash two months and three days after reporting on Junior, so weÆll never know.ö
ôAll right, but what is it youÆre talking about?ö
A hush fell over everyone.
Mark looked about and said, ôThe dust.ö
Sheffield said, ôWhat do you mean?ö
ôThe dust! The dust in the air. It has beryllium in it. Ask Dr. Vernadsky.ö
Vernadsky stood up and pushed his way forward. ôWhatÆs this?ö
ôSure,ö said Mark. ôIt was in the data you showed me. Beryllium was very high in the crust, so it must be in the dust in the air as well.ö
Sheffield said, ôWhat if beryllium is there? Let me ask the questions, Vernadsky. Please.ö
ôBeryllium poisoning, thatÆs what. If you breathe beryllium
dust, non-healing granulomata, whatever they are, form in the lungs. Anyway, it gets hard to breathe and then you die.ö
A new voice, quite agitated, joined the melee. ôWhat are you talking about? YouÆre no physician.ö
ôI know that,ö said Mark, earnestly, ôbut I once read a very old book about poisons. It was so old, it was printed on actual sheets of paper. The library had some and I went through them, because it was such a novelty, you know.ö
ôAll right,ö said Novee, ôwhat did you read? Can you tell me?ö
MarkÆs chin lifted, ôI can quote it. Word for word. æA surprising variety of enzymatic reactions in the body are activated by any of a number of divalent metallic ions of similar ionic radius. Among these activators are magnesium, manganous zinc, ferrous, cobaltous, and nickelous ions, as well as others. Against all of these, the beryllium ion, which has a similar charge and size, acts as an inhibitor. Beryllium, therefore, serves to derange a number of enzyme-catalyzed reactions. Since the lungs have, apparently, no way of excreting beryllium, diverse metabolic derangements causing serious illness and death can result from inhaling dust containing certain beryllium salts. Cases exist in which one known exposure has resulted in death. The onset of symptoms is insidious, being delayed sometimes for as long as three years after exposure. Prognosis is not good.Æö
The captain leaned forward in agitation. ôNovee, is he making sense?ö
Novee said, ôI donÆt know if heÆs right or not, but thereÆs nothing absurd in what heÆs saying.ö
Sheffield said sharply, ôYou mean you donÆt know if beryllium is poisonous or not.ö
ôNo, I donÆt,ö said Novee.
ôIsnÆt beryllium used for anything?ö Sheffield turned to Vernadsky. ôIs it?ö
Vernadsky said in vast surprise, ôNo, it isnÆt. Damn it, I canÆt think of a single use. I tell you what, though. In the early days of atomic power, it was used in the primitive uranium piles as a neutron decelerator, along with other things like paraffin and graphite. IÆm almost sure of that.ö
ôIt isnÆt used now, though?ö asked Sheffield.
An electronics man said, quite suddenly, ôI think beryllium-zinc coatings were used in the first fluorescent lights.ö
ôNo more, though?ö asked Sheffield.
"No."
Sheffield said, ôWell, then, listen, all of you. In the first place, anything Mark quotes is accurate. ThatÆs what the book said, if he says so. ItÆs my opinion that beryllium is poisonous. In ordinary life it doesnÆt matter because the beryllium content of the soil is so low. When man concentrates beryllium to use in nuclear piles or in fluorescent lights or even in alloys, he comes across the toxicity and looks for substitutes.
ôHe finds substitutes, forgets about beryllium, and eventually forgets about its toxicity. And then we come across an unusual beryllium-rich planet like Junior and we canÆt figure out what hits us. It takes a Mnemonic to remember the old, forgotten data.ö
Cimon didnÆt seem to be listening. He said, in a low voice, ôWhat does that mean, æprognosis is not goodÆ?ö
Novee said, abstractedly, ôIt means that if youÆve got beryllium poisoning, you wonÆt recover.ö
Cimon fell back in his chair, chewing his lip.
Novee said to Mark, ôI suppose the symptoms of beryllium poisoningùö
Mark said at once, ôI can give you the full list. I donÆt understand the words butùö
ôWas one of them ædyspneaÆ?ö
ôYes.ö
Novee sighed and said, ôI say that we get back to Earth as quickly as possible and get under medical investigation.ö
Cimon said, weakly, ôBut if we wonÆt recover, what use is it?ö
Novee said, ôMedical science has advanced since the days of books printed on paper. Besides, we may not have received the toxic dose. The first settlers survived for over a year of continuous exposure. WeÆve had only a month, thanks to Mark AnnuncioÆs quick and drastic action.ö
Fawkes, miserably unhappy, yelled, ôCaptain, get us back to Earth.ö
It amounted to the end of the trial. Sheffield and Mark walked out among the first.
Cimon was the last, with thegait of a man already dead in all but fact.
THE Lagrange system was only a star lost in the receding cluster. Sheffield looked at that large patch of light and said, ôSo beautiful a planet.ö He sighed. ôWell, letÆs hope we live. In any case, the government will watch out for berylliumhigh planets in the future. ThereÆll be no catching mankind with that particular variety of sucker bait any more.ö
Mark did not respond to that idealism. The trial was over; the excitement was gone. There were tears in his eyes. He could only think that he might die; and that if he did, there were so many things, so many, many things in the universe that he would never learn.
