Part 2 (1/2)
”I know Rachmael is right. I knew it when he walked in the door; I knew it from your memo. I'm not going; that's that.” She faced her employer-paramour calmly.
”Then I'll draw at random from the field-personnel pool.” He had not been serious; why should he offer his mistress as a p.a.w.n in this? But he had proved what he wished to prove: their joint fears were not merely intellectual. At this point in their thinking neither Freya nor he would risk the crossing via Telpor to Whale's Mouth, as thousands of guileless citizens of Terra, lugging their belongings and with innocent high hopes, did daily.
I hate, he thought, to turn anyone into the goat. But- ”Pete Burnside. Rep in Detroit. We'll tell him we wish to set up a Lies Incorporated branch at Whale's Mouth under a cover name. Hardware store. Or TV fixit shop. Get his folio; see what talents he has.” We'll make one of our own people, Matson thought, the victim-and it hurt, made him sick. And yet it should have been done months ago.
But it had taken bankrupt Rachmael ben Applebaum to goose them into acting, he realized. A man pursued by those monster creditor balloons that bellow all your personal defects and secrets. A man willing to undergo a thirty-six-year trip thirty-six-year trip to prove that something is foul in the land of milk and protein on the far side of those Telpor gates through which, on receipt of five poscreds, any adult Terran can avail himself for the purpose of- to prove that something is foul in the land of milk and protein on the far side of those Telpor gates through which, on receipt of five poscreds, any adult Terran can avail himself for the purpose of- G.o.d knew.
G.o.d-and the German hierarchy dominating the UN plus THL; he had no illusions about that: they they did not need to a.n.a.lyze the crowd-noise track of the time capsule ceremony at Whale's Mouth to know. did not need to a.n.a.lyze the crowd-noise track of the time capsule ceremony at Whale's Mouth to know.
As he had. And his job was investigations; he was, he realized with spurting, burgeoning horror, possibly the only individual on Terra really really in a position to push through and obtain an authentic glimpse of this. in a position to push through and obtain an authentic glimpse of this.
Short of eighteen years of s.p.a.ce flight . . . a time-period which would allow infinite millions, even a billion if the extrapolations were correct, to pa.s.s by way of Telpor constructs on that-to him- terrifying one-way trip to the colony world.
If you are wise, Matson said to himself grimly, you never take one-way trips. Anywhere. Even to Boise, Idaho . . . even across the street. Be certain, when you start, that you can scramble back that you can scramble back.
FOUR.
At one in the morning, Rachmael ben Applebaum was yanked from his sleep-this was usual, because the a.s.sorted creditor-mechanisms had been getting to him on a round-the-clock basis, now. However, this time it was no robot raptor-like creditor mechanism. This was a man. Dark, a Negro; small and shrewd-looking. Standing at Rachmael's door with i.d. papers extended.
”From Listening Instructional Educational Services,” the Negro said. He added, ”I hold a Cla.s.s-A inter-plan vehicle pilot-license.”
That woke Rachmael. ”You're going to take the Omphalos Omphalos off Luna?” off Luna?”
”If I can find her.” The dark, small man smiled briefly. ”May I come in? I'd like you to accompany me to your maintenance yard on Luna so there's no mistake: I know your employees there are armed; otherwise-” He followed Rachmael into the conapt living room- the sole room, in fact: living-conditions on Terra being what they were. ”Otherwise Trails of Hoffman would be ferrying equipment to their domes on Mars with the Omphalos Omphalos as of last month-right?” as of last month-right?”
”Right,” Rachmael said as he blearily dressed.
”My name's Al Dosker. And I did you a small side-favor, Mr. ben Applebaum. I took out a creditor-construct waiting in the hall.” He displayed, then, a side arm. ”I suppose, if it got into litigation, it'd be called 'property destruct.' Anyhow, when you and I leave, no THL device is going to monitor our path.” He added, half to himself, ”That I could detect, anyhow.” At his chest he patted a variety of bug chasers bug chasers; minned electronic instruments that recorded the presence of vid and aud receptors in the vicinity.
Shortly the two men were on their way to the roof field- And then Rachmael was back at the settlement.
”It's my food,” Fred said.
Oh G.o.d, Rachmael thought. Here I am again.
”The thing is,” Fred said amiably, as he dragged the turkey leg across the weed-pocked ground, ”that a SubInfo computer screwed up. Subliminal information, right? They're repairing it, but meanwhile it's transmitted a lot to the right hemisphere hebesphere-I forget.” He gave up trying to drag the turkey leg and extended his hand to Rachmael. ”Name's Stine,” he said. ”Lewis Stine. I've d.a.m.n near got it fixed.”
Numbly, Rachmael shook hands. He wondered what had become of Dosker.
”Want to know how I'm fixing it?” Fred said.
”I'd rather know-”
”With this,” Fred said, indicating the turkey leg. ”It's a highly specialized piece of technogonically sophisticated-”
”You're just a G.o.dd.a.m.n rat,” Rachmael said, ”and you've got about four words scrambled up together. I'm living in a rat heap with other rats.”
”No, I'm a highly skilled computer repairman,” Fred-or Lewis Stine-said, looking nettled. ”Or am I?” He contemplated the turkey leg. ”You're right. It doesn't look like something you'd fix a computer with. Maybe I should lay back for a while and think this over. The problem is, I intended to eat that turkey leg. If that's what it is. See, while I'm working on the computer-which is what I'm doing right now, although you'd never know it-my thoughts are being transmitted to you because I haven't been able to shut the computer down. I mean I can can shut it down, but that's contravindicated.” shut it down, but that's contravindicated.”
”Indicated,” Rachmael corrected him.
”Yeah; contraindicated. Thank you.” Fred eyed him. ”You a computer repairman, too?”
”G.o.d no,” Rachmael said.
”Rats are highly telepathic,” Fred said. ”This was proved back in 1978 by the Russians. They took these rats, see, and shut them inside a lead enclosure which screened out all thoughts. Then they hooked up the rats to an encephalograph. And then-” Fred grinned. ”Get this. They killed the rats. You know what the encephalogram showed?”
”Flat line,” Rachmael said.
”Right. And then they quickly brought in a psychic. The psychic thought at the dead rats, and the encephalograph showed brain-wave activity. See? Isn't that clever?”
”Fascist Russians,” Rachmael said hotly. He was not amused.
”You have to admit it's a clever way to prove that rats are telepathic,” Fred said.
”No,” Rachmael said, ”it proves that psychics are telepathic. It just showed-”
”I'll mash in your head with this crescent wrench,” Fred said, grabbing up the turkey leg as best he could. ”All the great scientific discoveries were made by rats-are made by rats.” made by rats.”
”Made by the use of rats,” Rachmael corrected. He could see that Fred would never get the turkey leg off the ground.
”Rats keep the human population down,” Fred said, abandoning his attempts to pick up the turkey leg. ”Abba explained that to us before he died. He also explained where we go when we die.”
”I know,” Rachmael said. ”I was there. I heard him.”
The roof field faded back in, replacing the weed-pocked settlement; Fred and his turkey leg vanished.
Dosker had parked his taxi-marked flapple off to one side. ”Get in,” Dosker said to him.
”Have I been here all this time?” Rachmael said.
Glancing at him, Dosker said, ”I don't get you.”
”Never mind,” Rachmael said.
How ordinary the flapple looked. But as it arced into the night sky Rachmael blinked at its velocity; he had to accept the obvious: this was not the usual thrust which now impelled them. They had hit 3.5 Machs within nanoseconds.
As Dosker piloted the flapple he reached into the glove compartment, brought out a turkey leg and began gnawing on it. Rachmael gazed at him fixedly, stricken. ”What's the matter?” Dosker said. ”Haven't you ever seen a turkey leg before?”
”It's fine,” Rachmael said. ”Fine looking turkey leg. d.a.m.n fine.” He lapsed into silence.
A computer foul-up. But being repaired. To have to be clued in by a rat . . . another rat, he realized. And the tender and wise Abba had pa.s.sed on to his celestial reward. But he would be reborn; always, Abba was reborn. Every year or so. He was their-eternal leader.
”You'll direct me,” Dosker was saying as he gnawed on the turkey leg. ”Since even we at Lies, Incorporated don't know where you've got the Omphalos Omphalos. You did a good job of berthing her, or perhaps we're beginning to slip . . . or both.”
”Okay.” At the 3-D Lunar map he took hold of the locating trailing-arm, linked the pivot in position, then swept out a route until the terminus of the arm touched the recessed locus where his technicians worked busily at . . .