The Space Trilogy (49 page)

“You won’t forget to ask about Irene?”

“As soon as I get the chance. But it may take some time—I’ll have to catch Hadfield in the right mood!”

As a private detective agency, Gibson was not a success. He made two rather clumsy direct attempts before he decided that the frontal approach was useless. George the barman had been his first target, for he seemed to know everything that was happening on Mars and was one of Gibson’s most valuable contacts. This time, however, he proved of no use at all.

“Project Dawn?” he said, with a puzzled expression. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Are you quite sure?” asked Gibson, watching him narrowly.

George seemed to lose himself in deep thought.

“Quite sure,” he said at last. And that was that. George was such an excellent actor that it was quite impossible to guess whether he was lying or speaking the truth.

Gibson did a trifle better with the editor of the
Martian Times
. Westerman was a man he normally avoided, as he was always trying to coax articles out of him and Gibson was invariably behind with his terrestrial commitments. The staff of two therefore looked up with some surprise as their visitor entered the tiny office of Mars’ only newspaper.

Having handed over some carbon copies as a peace offering, Gibson sprang his trap.

“I’m trying to collect all the information I can on ‘Project Dawn,’ ” he said casually. “I know it’s still under cover, but I want to have everything ready when it can be published.”

There was dead silence for several seconds. Then Westerman remarked: “I think you’d better see the Chief about that.”

“I didn’t want to bother him—he’s so busy,” said Gibson innocently.

“Well, I can’t tell you anything.”

“You mean you don’t know anything about it?”

“If you like. There are only a few dozen people on Mars who could even tell you what it is.”

That, at least, was a valuable piece of information.

“Do you happen to be one of them?” asked Gibson.

Westerman shrugged his shoulders.

“I keep my eyes open, and I’ve done a bit of guessing.”

That was all that Gibson could extract from him. He strongly suspected that Westerman knew little more about the matter than he did himself, but was anxious to conceal his ignorance. The interview had, however, confirmed two main facts. “Project Dawn” certainly did exist, and it was extremely well hidden. Gibson could only follow Westerman’s example, keeping his eyes open and guessing what he could.

He decided to abandon the quest for the time being and to go round to the Biophysics Lab, where Squeak was the guest of honour. The little Martian was sitting on his haunches taking life easily while the scientists stood conversing in a corner, trying to decide what to do next. As soon as he saw Gibson, he gave a chirp of delight and bounded across the room, bringing down a chair as he did so but luckily missing any valuable apparatus. The bevy of biologists regarded this demonstration with some annoyance; presumably it could not be reconciled with their views on Martian psychology.

“Well,” said Gibson to the leader of the team, when he had disentangled himself from Squeak’s clutches. “Have you decided how intelligent he is yet?”

The scientist scratched his head.

“He’s a queer little beast. Sometimes I get the feeling he’s just laughing at us. The odd thing is that he’s quiet different from the rest of his tribe. We’ve got a unit studying them in the field, you know.”

“In what way is he different?”

“The others don’t show any emotions at all, as far as we can discover. They’re completely lacking in curiosity. You can stand beside them and if you wait long enough they’ll eat right round you. As long as you don’t actively interfere with them they’ll take no notice of you.”

“And what happens if you do?”

“They’ll try and push you out of the way, like some obstacle. If they can’t do that, they’ll just go somewhere else. Whatever you do, you can’t make them annoyed.”

“Are they good-natured, or just plain stupid?”

“I’d be inclined to say it’s neither one nor the other. They’ve had no natural enemies for so long that they can’t imagine that anyone would try to hurt them. By now they must be largely creatures of habit; life’s so tough for them that they can’t afford expensive luxuries like curiosity and the other emotions.”

“Then how do you explain this little fellow’s behaviour?” asked Gibson, pointing to Squeak, who was now investigating his pockets. “He’s not really hungry—I’ve just offered him some food—so it must be pure inquisitiveness.”

“It’s probably a phase they pass through when they’re young. Think how a kitten differs from a full-grown cat—or a human baby from an adult, for that matter.”

“So when Squeak grows up he’ll be like the others?”

“Probably, but it isn’t certain. We don’t know what capacity he has for learning new habits. For instance, he’s very good at finding his way out of mazes—once you can persuade him to make the effort.”

“Poor Squeak!” said Gibson. “Sometimes I feel quite guilty about taking you away from home. Still, it was your own idea. Let’s go for a walk.”

Squeak immediately hopped towards the door.

“Did you see that?” exclaimed Gibson. “He understands what I’m saying.”

“Well, so can a dog when it hears a command. It may simply be a question of habit again—you’ve been taking him out this time every day and he’s got used to it. Can you bring him back inside half an hour? We’re fixing up the encephalograph to get some EEG records of his brain.”

These afternoon walks were a way of reconciling Squeak to his fate and at the same time salving Gibson’s conscience. He sometimes felt rather like a baby-snatcher who had abandoned his victim immediately after stealing it. But it was all in the cause of science, and the biologists had sworn they wouldn’t hurt Squeak in any way.

The inhabitants of Port Lowell were now used to seeing this strangely assorted pair taking their daily stroll along the streets, and crowds no longer gathered to watch them pass. When it was outside school hours Squeak usually collected a retinue of young admirers who wanted to play with him, but it was now early afternoon and the juvenile population was still in durance vile. There was no one in sight when Gibson and his companion swung into Broadway, but presently a familiar figure appeared in the distance. Hadfield was carrying out his daily tour of inspection, and as usual he was accompanied by his pets.

It was the first time that Topaz and Turquoise had met Squeak, and their aristocratic calm was seriously disturbed, though they did their best to conceal the fact. They tugged on their leads and tried to shelter unobtrusively behind Hadfield, while Squeak took not the slightest notice of them at all.

“Quite a menagerie!” laughed Hadfield. “I don’t think Topaz and Turquoise appreciate having a rival—they’ve had the place to themselves so long that they think they own it.”

“Any news from Earth yet?” asked Gibson, anxiously.

“Oh, about your application? Good heavens, I only sent it off two days ago! You know just how quickly things move down there. It will be at least a week before we get an answer.”

The Earth was always “down,” the outer planets “up,” so Gibson had discovered. The terms gave him a curious mental picture of a great slope leading down to the Sun, with the planets lying on it at varying heights.

“I don’t really see what it’s got to do with Earth,” Gibson continued. “After all, it’s not as if there’s any question of allocating shipping space. I’m here already—in fact it’ll save trouble if I
don’t
go back!”

“You surely don’t imagine that such commonsense arguments carry much weight with the policy-makers back on Earth!” retorted Hadfield. “Oh, dear no! Everything has to go through the Proper Channels.”

Gibson was fairly sure that Hadfield did not usually talk about his superiors in this light-hearted fashion, and he felt that peculiar glow of satisfaction that comes when one is permitted to share a deliberate indiscretion. It was another sign that the C.E. trusted him and considered that he was on his side. Dare he mention the two other matters that were occupying his mind—Project Dawn and Irene? As far as Irene was concerned, he had made his promise and would have to keep it sooner or later. But first he really ought to have a talk with Irene herself—yes, that was a perfectly good excuse for putting it off.

He put it off so long that the matter was taken right out of his hands. Irene herself made the plunge, no doubt egged on by Jimmy, from whom Gibson had a full report the next day. It was easy to tell from Jimmy’s face what the result had been.

Irene’s suggestion must have been a considerable shock to Hadfield, who no doubt believed that he had given his daughter everything she needed, and thus shared a delusion common among parents. Yet he had taken it calmly and there had been no scenes. Hadfield was too intelligent a man to adopt the attitude of the deeply wounded father. He had merely given lucid and compelling reasons why Irene couldn’t possibly go to Earth until she was twenty-one, when he planned to return for a long holiday during which they could see the world together. And that was only three years away.

“Three years!” lamented Jimmy. “It might just as well be three lifetimes!”

Gibson deeply sympathized, but tried to look on the bright side of things.

“It’s not so long, really. You’ll be fully qualified then and earning a lot more money than most young men at that age. And it’s surprising how quickly the time goes.”

This Job’s comforting produced no alleviation of Jimmy’s gloom. Gibson felt like adding the comment that it was just as well that ages on Mars were still reckoned by Earth time, and not according to the Martian year of 687 days. However, he thought better of it and remarked instead: “What does Hadfield think about all this, anyway? Has he discussed you with Irene?”

“I don’t think he knows anything about it.”

“You can bet your life he does! You know, I really think it would be a good idea to go and have it out with him.”

“I’ve thought of that, once or twice,” said Jimmy. “But I guess I’m scared.”

“You’ll have to get over that some time if he’s going to be your father-in-law!” retorted Gibson. “Besides, what harm could it do?”

“He might stop Irene seeing me in the time we’ve still got.”

“Hadfield isn’t that sort of man, and if he was he’d have done it long ago.”

Jimmy thought this over and was unable to refute it. To some extent Gibson could understand his feelings, for he remembered his own nervousness at his first meeting with Hadfield. In this he had had much less excuse than Jimmy, for experience had long ago taught him that few great men remain great when one gets up close to them. But to Jimmy, Hadfield was still the aloof and unapproachable master of Mars.

“If I
do
go and see him,” said Jimmy at last, “what do you think I ought to say?”

“What’s wrong with the plain, unvarnished truth? It’s been known to work wonders on such occasions.”

Jimmy shot him a slightly hurt look; he was never quite sure whether Gibson was laughing with him or at him. It was Gibson’s own fault, and was the chief obstacle to their complete understanding.

“Look,” said Gibson. “Come along with me to the Chief’s house tonight, and have it out with him. After all, look at it from his point of view. For all he can tell, it may be just an ordinary flirtation with neither side taking it very seriously. But if you go and tell him you want to get engaged—then it’s a different matter.”

He was much relieved when Jimmy agreed with no more argument. After all, if the boy had anything in him he should make these decisions himself, without any prompting. Gibson was sensible enough to realize that, in his anxiety to be helpful, he must not run the risk of destroying Jimmy’s self-reliance.

It was one of Hadfield’s virtues that one always knew where to find him at any given time—though woe betide anyone who bothered him with routine official matters during the few hours when he considered himself off duty. This matter was neither routine nor official; and it was not, as Gibson had guessed, entirely unexpected either, for Hadfield had shown no surprise at all when he saw whom Gibson had brought with him. There was no sign of Irene, she had thoughtfully effaced herself. As soon as possible, Gibson did the same.

He was waiting in the library, running through Hadfield’s books and wondering how many of them the Chief had actually had time to read, when Jimmy came in.

“Mr. Hadfield would like to see you,” he said.

“How did you get on?”

“I don’t know yet, but it wasn’t so bad as I’d expected.”

“It never is. And don’t worry. I’ll give you the best reference I can without actual perjury.”

When Gibson entered the study, he found Hadfield sunk in one of the armchairs, staring at the carpet as though he had never seen it before in his life. He motioned his visitor to take the other chair.

“How long have you known Spencer?” he asked.

“Only since leaving Earth. I’d never met him before boarding the
Ares.
”

“And do you think that’s long enough to form a clear opinion of his character?”