The Werewolf Principle (23 page)

“I understand,” said Horton, “that it was a matter of basic deduction, based on intensive observation and research. But we'd not got anywhere without the Brownies' help.”

So that was it, thought Blake. The Brownies once again.

“They were interested in you,” said Horton. “They're interested, it seems, in everything alive. Meadow mice, insects, porcupines—even human beings. I suppose you could call them psychologists. Although that's not the proper word. Their ability goes far beyond psychology.”

“It wasn't me, of course,” said Blake. “Not Andrew Blake, I mean.”

“No. As Andrew Blake, you were just another human. But they sensed the three of you—long before we knew about the three of you, although we eventually would have known. They spent a lot of time with Thinker. Just squatting there and looking at him, although I suspect they were doing more than looking.”

“So between the two of you, the humans and the Brownies, you got the basic facts.”

“Not all of them,” said Horton, “but enough to know the abilities you possessed and what you could do with them. We realized those capabilities must not be wasted. You had to have a chance to use them. And we suspected, too, that you could not use them here on Earth. That's when Space decided to let you have the ship.”

“So it boils down to this,” said Blake. “I have a job to do. Whether I want to or not, there's a job to do.”

Horton said, a little stiffly: “I suppose it's up to you.”

“It was not a job I asked for.”

“No,” Horton agreed. “No, I guess you didn't. But there must be some satisfaction in its magnitude.”

They sat for a moment, silent, both of them uneasy at how the talk had turned. Horton finished the brandy and set the glass aside. Blake reached for the bottle.

Horton shook his head. “No, thank you. I must be going soon. But before I go, there is a question. It's this: What do you expect to find out there? What do you know already?”

“As to what we expect,” said Blake, “I have no idea. As to what we know—a lot of things that add up to nothing.”

“No hint? No idea of what it might all add up to? No pattern starting to emerge?”

“There's one indication. Not too strong, but there. A universal mind.”

“You mean a mind that operates the universe—that pushes all the necessary buttons?”

“Maybe,” said Blake. “Maybe something like that.”

Horton let out his breath. “Oh, my God!” he said.

“Yes—oh, my God,” said Blake, not mocking, but very close to mockery.

Horton rose stiffly. “I must go,” he said. “Thank you for the drink.”

“Senator,” said Blake, “I sent a message to Elaine and there was no answer. I tried to telephone.”

“Yes,” said Horton. “I am aware of that.”

“I must see her, sir. Before I go. There are certain things I want to say to …”

“Mr. Blake,” said Horton, “my daughter does not wish to see you, nor to speak with you.”

Blake rose slowly to face him. “But what is the reason? Can you tell me why?”

“I should think,” said Horton, “even to you, the reason must be obvious.”

34

The shadows crept into the room and Blake still sat upon the couch, unstirring, his brain still beating its weary circle about the one uncompromising fact.

She did not want to see or talk with him—and it had been the memory of her face that had finally brought him surging up out of the darkness and the quiet. If what the senator had said was true, then all the longing and the effort had been for nothing. He might better have stayed where he was until Thinker had finished with his cogitation and his calculation, lying there and healing.

But had the senator spoken the truth? Did he harbor some resentment for the part that Blake had played in the defeat of the bioengineering project? Had he taken this way to pay back, at least in part, the disappointment he had suffered?

This did not seem too likely, Blake told himself, for the senator surely knew enough of politics to have realized that the bioengineering business had been a gamble at the best. And there was something strange about it all. To start with, Horton had been affable and had brushed off mention of the referendum, then suddenly had turned brusque and cold. Almost as if he had been playing a part well thought-out beforehand, although such a thing as that simply made no sense.

—You are taking it most excellently, said Thinker. No pulling of the hair, no gnashing of the teeth, no moaning.

—Oh, shut up! snapped Quester. Leave the man alone.

—I but sought to pay a compliment, persisted Thinker, and to offer moral support. He approaches it on a high, cerebral level, without emotional outburst. That is the only way to bring solution to a problem such as this.

Thinker gave a mental sigh.

—Although, he said, I must admit I cannot untangle the importance of this problem.

—Don't pay attention to him, Quester said to Blake. Any decision that you come to will be O.K. with me. If you wish to remain on this planet for a time, I would not mind at all. We could manage it.

—Oh, surely, Thinker said. There would be no problem. What is one human lifetime? You would not want to stay more than one human lifetime, would you?

“Sir,” asked the Room, “shall I turn on the lights?”

“No,” said Blake. “Not yet.”

“But it is becoming dark, sir.”

“I do not mind the dark,” said Blake.

“Would you care for supper, then?”

“Not at the moment, thank you.”

“Kitchen could make whatever you might like.”

“In a while,” said Blake. “I am not hungry yet.”

They had said that they would not mind if he should want to stay on Earth, if he should decide to have a try at becoming human, but what would be the use?

—You could try, said Quester. The female human might decide to change her mind.

—I don't think she will, said Blake.

And that, of course, was the worst of it, that he could understand why she wouldn't change her mind, why she should want nothing to do with a being such as he.

But it was not Elaine only, although she was, he knew, the greater part of it. It was, as well, the matter of cutting the final tie with these people to whom he could claim a kinship, the hankering for the home that he had never had, but that the humanity which was in him cried out should be his, of being forced to give up a birthright before he had a chance to claim it. And that was it, he told himself—the home, the birthright and the kinfolk were the more precious to him because, deep within his heart, he knew that he could never have them.

A bell tinkled softly.

The Room said, “The phone is ringing, sir.”

He slid along the sofa until he was in front of it. His hand reached out and flipped the toggle. The screen flickered and kept on flickering, but there was no image.

“This call,” said the voice of the operator, “must be made without visual transmission. It is within your right to refuse acceptance of it.”

“No,” said Blake. “Go ahead. It makes no difference to me.”

A voice, concise and frosty, speaking flat words, with no hint of intonation, said: “This is the mind of Theodore Roberts speaking. You are Andrew Blake?”

“Yes,” said Blake. “How are you, Dr. Roberts?”

“I am all right. How could I be otherwise?”

“I am sorry. I forgot. I did not think.”

“You had not contacted me, so I am contacting you. I think that we should talk. I understand you will be leaving soon.”

“The ship,” said Blake, “is almost ready for me.”

“You go to learn.”

“That is right,” said Blake.

“The three of you?”

“The three of us,” said Blake.

“I have thought of that often,” said the mind of Theodore Roberts, “ever since I was informed of your situation. The day will come, of course, when there'll not be three of you, but one.”

“I had thought that, too,” said Blake. “It will take a long, long time.”

“Time has no meaning to you,” said the mind of Theodore Roberts. “To either of us. You have an immortal body that can only die by violence. I have no body and thus am immune to violence. The only thing that can kill me is the failure of the technology that supports my mind.

“And Earth has no meaning, either. I think it is important for you to recognize this fact. Earth is no more than a point in space—a tiny point in space, and insignificant.

“There is so little in this universe, once you think of it, that really matters. When you sit down to the bottom of it, all that really counts is intelligence. If you are looking for a common denominator in the universe, seek intelligence.”

“The human race?” asked Blake. “Humanity? It does not matter, either?”

“The human race,” said the precise, frosty voice, “is a splinter of intelligence, not as a human being, not as any kind of being.”

“But intelligence …” Blake began, then stopped.

It was useless, he told himself, to try to present another viewpoint to this thing with which he spoke, not a man, but a disembodied mind which was as biased in its environment as a being of flesh and blood would be biased by its environment. Lost to the physical world, remembering the physical world as dimly, perhaps, as a grown man might recall his babyhood, the mind of Theodore Roberts existed in a world of only one dimension. A small world with flexible parameters, but a world in which nothing happened except it happened as an intellectual exercise.

“What was that you said—or meant to say?”

“I suppose,” said Blake, ignoring the question, “that you tell me this …”

“I tell you this,” said Theodore Roberts, “because I know you must be sorely tried and very greatly puzzled. And since you are part of me …”

“I am not a part of you,” said Blake. “You gave me a mind, two centuries ago. That mind has changed. It's not your mind any more.”

“I had thought …” said Theodore Roberts.

“I know. It was kind of you. But it isn't any good. I stand on my two feet. I have to. There is no choice. Too many people had a hand in me and I can't tear myself apart to give each one of them their due—not you, not the biologists who drew the blueprints, not the technicians who formed the bone and flesh and nerve.”

There was a silence then and Blake said, quickly: “I'm sorry. Perhaps I should not have said that. I hope you are not angry.”

“Not angry,” said the mind of Theodore Roberts. “Gratified, perhaps. Now I need no longer worry, wondering if my biases and my prejudices might be of disservice to you. But I have allowed myself to ramble on too much. There was something that I meant to tell you, something I think that you should know.

“There was another one of you. Another synthetic man sent out on another ship …”

“Yes, I knew about that,” said Blake. “I've often wondered—what do you know of him?”

“He came back,” said the mind of Theodore Roberts. “Brought back. Much the same as you …”

“You mean suspended animation?”

“Yes. But this time the ship came home. A few years after it went out. The crew was frightened by what had happened and …”

“So I was no great surprise?”

“Yes, I am inclined to think you were. No one tied you up with what had happened so long ago. Not too many people in Space knew about it. It wasn't until shortly before you escaped from the hospital, after the bioengineering hearing, that anyone began to wonder if you might not be the other one. But before anything could be done about it, you had disappeared.”

“This other one? He is still on Earth? Space had him?”

“I don't think so,” said the mind of Theodore Roberts. “I don't really know. He disappeared. I know that much …”

“He disappeared! You mean they destroyed him!”

“I don't know.”

“Damn it, you must know,” screamed Blake. “Tell me! I'll go out there and tear the place apart. I'll find him …”

“It's no use,” said Theodore Roberts. “He isn't there. Not any more.”

“But when? How long ago?”

“Several years ago. Well before you were brought back from space.”

“Look—how do you know? Who told you …”

“There are thousands of us here,” said Theodore Roberts. “What one knows is available to all. There's little that one misses.”

Blake felt the freezing breath of futility closing in upon him. The other man had disappeared, Theodore Roberts said, and undoubtedly he should know. But where? Dead? Hidden away somewhere? Sent out into space again?

The one man, the only other being in the universe to which he could have felt close kinship—and now that man was gone.

“You're sure?”

“I'm sure,” said Theodore Roberts.

After a silence, Roberts asked, “You're going back to space? You have decided to?”

“Yes,” said Blake. “Yes, I think I have. There's nothing here on Earth.”

And there was, he knew, nothing here on Earth. If the other man was gone, there was nothing left on Earth. Elaine Horton had refused to talk with him and her father, once so friendly, had been cold and formal when he said good-bye, and Theodore Roberts was a frosty voice speaking from the emptiness of one dimension.

“When you come back,” said Theodore Roberts, “I'll still be here. You will phone me, please. You will get in touch?”

If I come back, thought Blake. If you still are here. If there is anybody here. If Earth is worth the coming back to.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, of course, I'll phone you.”

He reached out and flipped the toggle to break communication.

And sat, unstirring, in the dark and silence, feeling the Earth drawing back and away from him, flowing outward in an expanding circle that left him alone.