Pebble in the Sky (15 page)

Balkis smiled softly and tolerantly. “Shekt invented the Synapsifier and still represents the one man truly experienced in its operation. He has always been watched, and will now be watched more closely than ever. Do not forget that a traitor within our ranks,
known to us,
can do more harm to the enemy than a loyal man can do good to us.

“Now, let us continue to deal with the facts. Shekt has Synapsified an Outsider. Why? There is only one reason why a Synapsifier can possibly be used—to improve a mind. And why that? Because only so can the minds of our scientists, already improved by Synapsification, be overtaken. Eh? This means that the Empire has at least a faint suspicion of what is going on upon Earth. Is that minor, Your Excellency?”

There was a scattered dew on the High Minister’s forehead. “Do you really think so?”

“The facts are a jigsaw puzzle that can fit only one way.
The Outsider so treated was a man of undistinguished, even contemptible, appearance. A good stroke, too, since a bald and fat old man can still be the Empire’s most skilled espionage agent. Oh yes. Yes. Who else could be trusted on a mission such as this? . . . But we have followed this stranger, whose alias, by the way, is Schwartz, as far as we can. Let us take this second file of reports.”

The High Minister cast an eye upon them. “The ones concerning Bel Arvardan?”

“Dr. Bel Arvardan,” assented Balkis, “eminent archaeologist of the gallant Sirian Sector, those worlds of brave and chivalrous bigots.” He spat the last out. Then, “Well, never mind. In any case, we have here a queer mirror image to Schwartz, an almost poetic contrast. He is not unknown, but, instead, a famous figure. He is not a secret intruder, but one who comes floating on a tidal wave of publicity. We are warned of him not by an obscure technician, but by the Procurator of Earth himself.”

“Do you think there is a connection, Balkis?”

“Your Excellency may suppose it possible that one may be designed to distract our attention from the other. Or else, since the ruling classes of the Empire are skilled enough in intrigue, we have an example of two methods of camouflage. In the case of Schwartz, the lights are put out. In the case of Arvardan, the lights are flashed in our eyes. In neither case are we intended to see anything? . . . Come, of what did Ennius warn us concerning Arvardan?”

The High Minister rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Arvardan, he said, was on an archaeological expedition under Imperial sponsorship and wished to enter the Forbidden Areas for scientific purposes. No sacrilege, he said, was intended, and if we could stop him in gentle fashion, he would back our action to the Imperial Council. Something like that.”

“So then we will watch Arvardan closely, but for what purpose? Why, to see that he makes no unauthorized entry into
the Forbidden Areas. Here’s the head of an archaeological expedition without men, ships, or equipment. Here’s an Outsider who does not remain at Everest, where he belongs, but wanders about Earth, for some reason—and goes to Chica first. And how is our attention distracted from all these most curious and suspicious circumstances? Why, by urging us to watch carefully something that is of no importance.

“But notice, Your Excellency, that Schwartz was kept hidden in the Institute for Nuclear Research for six days. And then he escaped. Isn’t that strange? The door, suddenly, wasn’t locked. The corridor, suddenly, wasn’t guarded. What queer negligence. And on what day was it that he escaped? Why, on the same day that Arvardan arrived at Chica. A second peculiar coincidence.”

“You think, then . . .” said the High Minister tensely.

“I think that Schwartz is the Outsider agent on Earth, that Shekt is the contact man with the Assimilationist traitors among us, and that Arvardan is the contact man with the Empire. Observe the skill with which the meeting between Schwartz and Arvardan was arranged. Schwartz is allowed to escape, and after an appropriate interval his nurse—Shekt’s daughter, by a not-too-surprising additional coincidence—is out after him. If anything were to go wrong with their split-second timetable, it is obvious that she would have found him suddenly; that he would have become a poor, sick patient for the benefit of anyone’s curiosity; that he would have been brought back to safety for another attempt later. In fact, two overcurious cabbies were told that he was a sick man, and that, ironically enough, backfired upon them.

“Follow it closely, now. Schwartz and Arvardan meet first in a Foodomat. They are, apparently, unaware of each other’s existence. It is a preliminary meeting, designed, simply, to indicate that all has gone well so far and that the next step may be taken. . . . At least they don’t underestimate us, which is gratifying.

“Then Schwartz leaves; a few minutes later Arvardan leaves and the Shekt girl meets him. It is stop-watch timing. Together, after playing a little part for the benefit of the aforementioned cabbies, they head for the Dunham department store, and now all three are together. Where else but a department store? It is an ideal meeting place. It has a secrecy no cave in the mountains could duplicate. Too open to be suspected. Too crowded to be stalked. Wonderful—wonderful—I give credit to my opponent.”

The High Minister writhed in his chair. “If our opponent deserves too much credit, he will win.”

“Impossible. He is already defeated. And in that respect we must give credit to the excellent Natter.”

“And who is Natter?”

“An insignificant agent who must be used to the limit after this. His actions yesterday could not have been improved upon. His long-range assignment has been to watch Shekt. For the purpose, he keeps a fruit stand across the street from the Institute. For the last week he has been specifically instructed to watch the development of the Schwartz affair.

“He was on hand when the man, known to him through photographs and through a glimpse at the time he was first brought to the Institute, escaped. He observed every action, himself unobserved, and it is his report that details yesterday’s events. With incredible intuition, he decided that the entire purpose of the ‘escape’ was to arrange a meeting with Arvardan. He felt himself to be not in a position, single-handed, to exploit that meeting, so he decided to prevent it. The cabbies, to whom the Shekt girl had described Schwartz as being sick, speculated on Radiation Fever. Natter seized on that with the swiftness of genius. As soon as he observed the meeting in the department store, he reported the case of fever and the local authorities at Chica were, praised be Earth, intelligent enough to co-operate quickly.

“The store was emptied, and the camouflage which they
counted upon to hide their conversation was stripped from them. They were alone and very conspicuous in the store. Natter went further. He approached them and talked them into allowing him to escort Schwartz back to the Institute. They agreed. What could they do? . . . So that the day ended without a single word passing between Arvardan and Schwartz.

“Nor did he commit the folly of arresting Schwartz. The two are still in ignorance of their detection and will yet lead us to bigger game.

“And Natter went further still. He notified the Imperial garrison, and that is beyond praise. It presented Arvardan with a situation he could not possibly have counted upon. He must either reveal himself to be an Outsider and destroy his usefulness, which apparently depends upon conducting himself upon Earth as though he were an Earthman, or he must keep the fact secret and subject himself to whatever unpleasantness might result. He took the more heroic alternative, and even broke the arm of an officer of the Empire, in his passion for realism. That, at least, must be remembered in his favor.

“It is significant that his actions were as they were. Why should he, an Outsider, expose himself to the neuronic whip for an Earthgirl if the matter at stake was not supremely important?”

Both fists of the High Minister were on the desk before him. He glowered savagely, the long, smooth lines of his face crumpled in distress. “It is well for you, Balkis, from such meager details, to construct the spider web you do. It is skillfully done, and I feel that it is as you say. Logic leaves us no other alternative. . . . But it means that they are too close, Balkis. They are too close. . . . And they will have no mercy this time.”

Balkis shrugged. “They cannot be too close, or, in a case of such potential destructiveness for all the Empire, they would have already struck. . . . And their time is running short. Arvardan must still meet with Schwartz if anything is to be accomplished, and so I can predict for you the future.”

“Do so—do so.”

“Schwartz must be sent away now and events allowed to quiet down from their current high pitch.”

“But where will he be sent?”

“We know that too. Schwartz was brought to the Institute by a man, obviously a farmer. Descriptions reached us from both Shekt’s technician and from Natter. We went through the registration data of every farmer within sixty miles of Chica, and Natter identified one Arbin Maren as the man. The technician supported that decision independently. We investigated the man quietly, and it seems that he is supporting a father-in-law, a helpless cripple, in evasion of the Sixty.”

The High Minister pounded the table. “Such cases are entirely too frequent, Balkis. The laws must be tightened—”

“It is not now the point, Your Excellency. What is important is the fact that since the farmer is violating the customs, he can be blackmailed.”

“Oh . . .”

“Shekt, and his Outsider allies, need a tool for just such a case—that is, where Schwartz must remain in seclusion for a longer period than he can safely stay hidden in the Institute. This farmer, probably helpless and innocent, is perfect for the purpose. Well, he will be watched. Schwartz will never be out of sight. . . . Now, eventually another meeting between him and Arvardan will have to be arranged, and that time we will be prepared. Do you understand everything now?”

“I do.”

“Well, praise Earth. Then I will leave you now.” And, with a sardonic smile, he added, “With your permission, of course.”

And the High Minister, completely oblivious to the sarcasm, waved a hand in dismissal.

The Secretary, on his way to
his own small office, was alone, and, when alone, his thoughts sometimes escaped from beneath his firm control and disported themselves in the secrecy of his mind.

They concerned themselves very little with Dr. Shekt, Schwartz, Arvardan—least of all with the High Minister.

Instead there was the picture of a planet, Trantor—from whose huge, planet-wide metropolis all the Galaxy was ruled. And there was the picture of a palace whose spires and sweeping arches he had never seen in reality; that no other Earthman had ever seen. He thought of the invisible lines of power and glory that swept from sun to sun in gathering strings, ropes, and cables to that central palace and to that abstraction, the Emperor, who was, after all, merely a man.

His mind held that thought fixedly—the thought of that power which could alone bestow a divinity during life—concentrated in one who was merely human.

Merely human! Like himself!

He could be—

The coming of the change was
dim in Joseph Schwartz’s mind. Many times, in the absolute quiet of the night—how much more quiet the nights were now; were they ever noisy and bright and clanging with the life of energetic millions?—in the new quiet, he traced it back. He would have liked to say that here, here was the moment.

There was first that old, shattering day of fear when he was alone in a strange world—a day as misty in his mind now as the memory of Chicago itself. There was the trip to Chica, and its strange, complicated ending. He thought of that often.

Something about a machine—pills he had taken. Days of recuperation and then the escape, the wandering, the inexplicable events that last hour in the department store. He couldn’t
possibly remember that part correctly. Yet, in the two months since, how clear everything was, how unfaulted his memory.

Even then, things had begun to seem strange. He had been sensitive to atmosphere. The old doctor and his daughter had been uneasy, even frightened. Had he known that then? Or had it just been a fugitive impression, strengthened by the hindsight of his thoughts since?

But then, in the department store, just before that big man had reached out and trapped him—just
before
that—he had become conscious of the coming snatch. The warning had not been soon enough to save him, but it was a definite indication of the change.

And, since then, the headaches. No, not quite headaches. Throbbings, rather, as though some hidden dynamo in his brain had started working and, with its unaccustomed action, was vibrating every bone of his skull. There had been nothing like it in Chicago—supposing his fantasy of Chicago had meaning—or even during his first few days here in reality.

Had they done something to him that day in Chica? The machine? The pills—that had been anesthetic. An operation? And his thoughts, having reached that point for the hundredth time, stopped once more.