Un-Man Page 8

  Orders came the following day. Naysmith was bundled into another jet and flown eastward. Near the destination, the jet was traded for an ordinary, inconspicuous airboat. They landed after dark on the grounds of a large new mansion in western Pennsylvania—Naysmith recalled that Roger Wade lived here—and he was led inside. There was a soundproofed room with a full battery of interrogation machines under the residential floors. The prisoner was put into a chair already equipped with straps, fastened down, and left for a while to ponder his situation.

  He sighed and attempted to relax, leaning back against the metal of the chair. It was an uncomfortable seat, cold and stiff as it pressed into his naked skin. The room was long and low-ceilinged, barren in the white glare of high-powered fluoros, and the utter stillness of it muffled his breath and heartbeat. The air was cool, but somehow that absorbent quiet choked him. He faced the impassive dials of a lie detector and an electric neurovibrator, and the silence grew and grew.

  His head ached, and he longed for a cigarette. His eyelids were sandy with sleeplessness and there was a foul taste in his mouth. Mostly, though, he thought of Jeanne Donner.

  Presently the door at the end of the room opened and a group of people walked slowly toward him. He recognized Wade’s massive form in the van. Behind him trailed a bearded man with a lean, sallow face; a young chap thin as a rail, his skin dead white and his hands clenching and unclenching nervously; a gaunt and homely woman; and a squat, burly subordinate whom he did not know but assumed to be an S-man in Wade’s pay. The others were familiar to Service dossiers: Lewin, Wade’s personal physician; Rodney Borrow, his chief secretary; Marta Jennings, Americanist organizer. There was death in their eyes.

  Wade proceeded quietly up toward Naysmith. Borrow drew a chair for him and he sat down in it and took out a cigarette. Nobody spoke till he had it lighted. Then he blew the smoke in Naysmith’s direction and said gently: “According to the official records, you really are Norbert Naysmith of California. But tell me, is that only another false identity?”

  Naysmith shrugged. “Identity is a philosophical basic,” he answered. “Where does similarity leave off and identity begin?”

  Wade nodded slowly. “We’ve killed you at least once, and I suspect more than once. But are you Martin Donner, or are you his twin? And in the latter case, how does it happen that you two—or you three, four, five, ten thousand—are completely identical?”

  “Oh, not quite,” said Naysmith. “No-o-o. There are the little scars and peculiarities due to environment—and habits, language, accent, occupation. But for police purposes you and Donner are the same man. How was it done?”

  Naysmith smiled. “How much am I offered for that information?” he parried. “As well as other information you know I have?”

  “So.” Wade’s eyes narrowed. “You weren’t captured—not really. You gave yourself up.”

  “Maybe. Have you caught anyone else yet?”

  Wade traded a glance with the Security officer. Then, with an air of decision, he said briskly: “An hour ago, I was informed that a man answering your description had been picked up in Minnesota. He admitted to being one Juho Lampi of Finland,

  and I’m inclined to take his word for it though we haven’t checked port-of-entry records yet. How many more of you can we expect to meet?”

  “As many as you like,” said Naysmith. “Maybe more than that.”

  “All right. You gave yourself up. You must know that we have no reason to spare your life—or lives. What do you hope to gain?”

  “A compromise,” answered Naysmith. “Which will, of course, involve our release.”

  “How much are you willing to tell us now?”

  “As little as possible, naturally. We’ll have to bargain.”

  Stall! Stall for time! The message from

  Rio has got to come soon—it’s got to, or we’re all dead men.

  Borrow leaned over his master’s shoulder. His voice was high and cracked, stuttering just a trifle: “How will we know you’re telling the truth?”

  “How will you know that even if you torture me?” shrugged Naysmith. “Your bird dogs must have reported that I’ve been immunized to drugs.”

  “There are still ways,” said Lewin. His words fell dull in the muffling silence. “Prefrontal lobotomy is usually effective.”

  Yes, this is the enemy. These are the men of darkness. These are the men who in other days sent heretics to burning, or fed the furnaces of Belsen, or stuffed the rockets with radioactive death. Now they’re opening skulls and slashing brains across. Argue with them! Let them kick and slug and whip you, but don’t let them know—

  “Our bargain might not be considered valid if you do that.”

  “The essential element of a bargain,” said Wade pompously, “is the free will and desire of both parties. You’re not free.”

  “But I am. You’ve killed one of me and captured two others. How do you know the number of me which is still running loose, out there in the night?”

  Borrow and Jennings flickered uneasy eyes toward the smooth bare walls. The woman shuddered, ever so faintly.

  “We needn’t be clumsy about this,” said Lewin. “There’s the lie detector, first of all—its value is limited, but this man is too old to have had Synthesis training, so he can’t fool it much. Then there are instruments that make a man quite anxious to talk. I have a chlorine generator here, Naysmith. How would you like to breathe a few whiffs of chlorine?”

  “Or just a vise—applied in the right place,” snapped Jennings.

  “Hold up a minute,” ordered Wade. “Let’s find out how much he wants to reveal without such persuasion.”

  “I said I’d trade information, not give it away,” said Naysmith. He wished the sweat weren’t running down his face and body for all of them to see. The reek of primitive, uncontrollable fear was sharp in his nostrils—not the fear of death, but of the anguish and mutilation which were worse than oblivion.

  “What do you want to know?” snapped the Security officer contemptuously.

  “Well,” said Naysmith, “first off, I’d like to know your organization’s purpose.”

  “What’s that?” Wade’s heavy face blinked at him, and an angry flush mottled his cheeks. “Let’s not play crèche games. You know what we want.”

  “No, seriously, I’m puzzled.” Naysmith forced mildness into his tones. “I realize you don’t like the status quo and want to change it. But you’re all well off now. What do you hope to gain?”

  “What—That will do!” Wade gestured to the officer, and Naysmith’s head rang with a rock-fisted buffet. “We haven’t time to listen to your bad jokes.”

  Naysmith grinned viciously. If he could get them mad, play on those twisted emotions till the unreasoning thalamus controlled them—it would be hard on him, but it would delay their real aims. “Oh, I can guess,” he said. “It’s personal, isn’t it? None of you really know what’s driving you to this—except for the stupid jackals who’re in with you merely because it pays better than any work they could get on their own merits. Like you, for instance.” He glanced at the S-man and sneered deliberately.

  “Shut up!” This time the blow was to his jaw. Blood ran thinly out of his mouth, and he sagged a little against the straps that held him. But his voice lifted raggedly.

  “Take Miss Jennings, for one. Not that I would, even if you paid me. You’re all twisted up inside, aren’t you—too ugly to get a man, too scared of yourself to get a surgical remodeling. You’re trying your clumsy best to sublimate it into patriotism—and what kind of symbol is a flagpole? I notice it was you who made that highly personal suggestion about torturing me.”

  She drew back, and there was the rage of a whipped animal in her. The S-man took out a piece of hose, but Wade gestured him away. The leader’s face had gone wooden.

  “Or Lewin—another case of psychotic frustration.” Naysmith smiled, a close-lipped and unpleasant smile of bruised lips, at the doctor. “I warrant you’d
work for free if you hadn’t been hired. A two-bit sadist has trouble finding outlets these days.

  “Now we come to Rodney Borrow.”

  “Shut up!” cried the thin man. He edged forward. Wade swept him back with a heavy arm.

  “Exogene!” Naysmith’s smile grew warm, almost pitying. “It’s too bad that human exogenesis was developed during the Years of Madness, when moral scruples went to hell and scientists were as fanatical as everyone else. They grew you in a tank, Borrow, and your pre-natal life, which every inherited instinct said should be warm and dark and sheltered, was one hell of study—bright lights, probes, microslides taken of your tissues—They learned a lot about the human fetus, but they should have killed you instead of letting such a pathetic quivering mass of psychoses walk around alive. If you could call it life, Exogene.”

  Borrow lunged past Wade. There was slaver running from his lips, and he clawed for Naysmith’s eyes. The S-man pulled him back and suddenly he collapsed, weeping hysterically. Naysmith shuddered beneath his skin. There but for the grace of God—

  “And how about myself?” asked Wade. “These amateur analyses are most amusing. Please continue.”

  “Guilt drive. Overcompensation. The Service has investigated your childhood and adolescent background and—”

  “And?”

  “Come on, Roger. It’s fun. It won’t hurt a bit.”

  The big man sat stiff as an iron bar. For a long moment there was nothing, no sound except Borrow’s sobs, no movement, and his face turned gray.

  When he spoke, it was as if he were strangling: “I think you’d better start that chlorine generator, Lewin.”

  “With pleasure!”

  Naysmith shook his head. “And you people want to run things,” he murmured. “We’re supposed to turn over a world slowly recovering its sanity to the likes of you.”

  The generator began to hiss and bubble at his back. He could have turned his head to watch it, but that would have been a defeat. And he needed every scrap of pride remaining in this ultimate loneliness.

  “Let me run the generator,” whispered Borrow.

  “No,” said Lewin. “You might kill him too fast.”

  “Maybe we should wait till they bring this Lampi here,” said Jennings. “Let him watch us working Naysmith over.”

  Wade shook his head. “Maybe later,” he said.

  “I notice that you still haven’t tried to find out what I’m willing to tell you without compulsion,” interjected Naysmith.

  “Well, go ahead,” said Wade in a flat voice. “We’re listening.”

  A little time, just a little more time, if I can spin them a yarn—

  “Etienne Fourre has more resources than you know,” declared Naysmith. “A counterblow has been prepared which will cost you dearly. But since it would also put quite a strain on us, we’re willing to discuss—if not a permanent compromise, for there can obviously be none, at least an armistice. That’s why—”

  A chime sounded. “Come in,” said Wade loudly. His voice activated the door and a man entered.

  “Urgent call for you, Mr. Wade,” he reported. “Scrambled.”

  “All right.” The leader got up. “Hold off on that chlorine till I get back, Lewin.” He went out.

  When the door had closed behind him, Lewin said calmly: “Well, he didn’t tell us to refraiil from other things, did he?”

  They took turns using the hose. Naysmith’s mind grew a little hazy with pain. But they dared not inflict real damage, and it didn’t last long.

  Wade came back. He ignored Lewin, who was hastily pocketing the truncheon, and said curtly: “We’re going on a trip. All of us. Now.”

  The word had come. Naysmith sank back, breathing hard. Just at that instant, the relief from pain was too great for him to think of anything else. It took him several minutes to start worrying about whether Peter Christian’s logic had been correct, and whether the Service could fulfill its part, and even whether the orders that came to Wade had been the right ones.

  XII.

  It was late afternoon before Barney Rosenberg had a chance to talk with Jeanne Donner, and then it was she who sought him out. He had wandered from the cabin after lunch, scrambling along the mountainside and strolling through the tall forest. But Earth gravity tired him, and he returned in a few hours. Even then, he didn’t go back to the cabin, but found a log near the rim of the gorge and sat down to think.

  So this was Earth.

  It was a cool and lovely vision which opened before him. The cliffs tumbled down in a sweep of gray and slaty blue, down and down into the huge sounding canyon of the river. On the farther side, the mountain lifted in a mist of dim purple, up to its sun-blazing snow and the vastness beyond. There were bushes growing on the slopes that fell riverward, a gallantry of green blurring the severe rock, here and there a cluster of berries like fire. Behind Rosenberg and on either side were the trees, looming pine in a cavern of shadow, slim whispering beech, ash with the streaming, blinding, raining sunlight snared in its leaves. He had not remembered how much color there was on this planet.

  And it was alive with sound. The trees murmured. The noise of the river drifted up, cold and fresh and boisterous. Mosquitoes buzzed thinly around his ears. A bird was singing—he didn’t know what kind of bird, but it had a wistful liquid trill that haunted his thoughts, and another answered in whistles, and somewhere a third was chattering and chirping its gossip of the sun. A squirrel darted past like a red comet, and he heard the tiny scrabble of its claws.

  And the smells—the infinite living world of odors, pine and mold and wild flowers and the river mist! He had almost forgotten he owned a sense of smell, in the tanked sterility of Mars.

  Oh, his muscles ached and he was lonely for the grim bare magnificence of the deserts and he wondered how he would ever fit into this savage world of men against men. But still—Earth was home, and a billion years of evolution could not be denied.

  Some day Mars would be a full-grown planet and its people would be rich and free. Rosenberg shook his head, smiling a little. Poor Martians!

  There was a light footstep behind him. He turned and saw Jeanne Donner approaching. She had on a light blouse-and-slack outfit which didn’t hide the grace of her or the weariness, and the sun gleamed darkly in her hair. Rosenberg stood up with a feeling of awkwardness.

  “Please sit down.” Her voice was grave, somehow remote. “I’d like to join you for a little while, if I may.”

  “By all means.” Rosenberg lowered himself again to the mossy trunk. It was cool and yielding, a little damp, under his hand. Jeanne sat beside him, elbows on knees. For a moment she was quiet, looking over the sun-flooded land. Then she took out a pack of cigarettes and held them toward the man. “Smoke?” she asked.

  “Uh . . . no, thanks. I got out of the habit on Mars. Oxygen’s too scarce, usually—we chew instead, if we can afford tobacco at all.”

  She lit a cigarette for herself and drew hard on it, sucking in her cheeks. He saw how fine the underlying bony structure was. Well—Stef had always picked the best women, and gotten them.

  “We’ll rig a bed for you,” she said. “Cut some spruce boughs and put them under a sleeping bag. Makes a good doss.”

  “Thanks.” They sat without talking for a while. The cigarette smoke blew away in ragged streamers. Rosenberg could hear the wind whistling and piping far up the canyon.

  “I’d like to ask you some questions,” she said at last, turning her face to him. “If they get too personal, just say so.”

  “I’ve nothing to hide—worse luck.” He tried to smile. “Anyway, we don’t have those privacy notions on Mars. They’d be too hard to maintain under our living conditions.”

  “They’re a recent phenomenon on Earth, anyway,” she said. “Go back to the Years of Madness, when there was so much eccentricity of all kinds, a lot of it illegal—” She threw the cigarette to the ground and stamped it savagely out with one heel. “I’m going to forget my own conditio
ning, too. Ask me anything you think is relevant. We’ve got to get to the truth of this matter.”

  “If we can. I’d say it certainly was a thoroughly guarded secret.”

  “Listen,” she said between her teeth, “my husband was Martin Donner. We were married three and a half years—and I mean married. He couldn’t tell me much about his work, I knew he was really an Un-man and that his engineering work was only a blind, and that’s about all he ever told me. Obviously, he never said a word about having—duplicates. But leaving that aside, we were in love and we got to know each other as well as two people can in that length of time. More than just physical appearance—it was also a matter of personality, reaction-patterns, facial expressions, word-configuration choices, manner of moving and working, all the million little things which fit into one big pattern. An overall gestalt, understand?

  “Now this man . . . what did you say his name was—?”

  “Naysmith. Norbert Naysmith. At least, that’s what he told me. The other fellow was called Lampi.”

  “I’m supposed to believe that Martin died and that this—Naysmith—was substituted for him,” she went on hurriedly. “They wanted to get me out of the house fast, couldn’t stop to argue with me, so they sent in this ringer. Well, I saw him there in the house. He escaped with me and the boy. We had a long and uneasy flight together up here . . . you know how strain will bring out the most basic characteristics of a person. And he fooled me completely. Everything about him was Martin. Everything! Oh, I suppose there were minor variations, but they must have been very minor indeed. You can disguise a man these days, with surgery and cosmetics and whatnot, so that he duplicates almost every detail of physique. But can surgery give him the same funny slow way of smiling—the same choice of phrases—the same sense of humor—the same way of picking up his son and talking to him—the same habit of quoting Shakespeare, and way of taking out a cigarette and lighting it one-handed, and corner-cutting way of piloting an airboat—the same soul? Can they do that?”