“But what interested you about that state? Do you know someone there?”
“Something like that.” How could he explain ten years of seeming idleness, retracing the various routes of a native son?
She didn’t press him. “I should show you the infirmary, too; Brad did mention that. I suppose he wants you to be able to describe it accurately to Schön.”
They traveled on. Ivo wondered what was supposed to be so important about the infirmary, but was content to wait upon her explanation. He was learning more about her every moment, and positive or negative, he was eager for the information.
“One thing I don’t understand,” Afra fretted, “is why Schön was in that other project. He should have been with Brad.”
“He was hiding. Do you know the parable about the good fish?”
“The good fish?” Her brow furrowed prettily.
“The good fish that the fisherman caught in the net and gathered into vessels, while the bad were cast away. Matthew XIII:48.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. What is the relevance?”
“If you were one of the fish in that lake, which kind would you want to be?”
“A good one, naturally. The whole point of the parable is that the good people shall find favor with God, while the bad ones will perish.”
“But what happens, literally, to the good fish?”
“Why, they are taken to the market and—” She paused. “Well, at least they aren’t wasted.”
“While the bad fish continue to swim around the lake, just as they always did, because no fisherman wants them. I’d rather be one of them.”
“I suppose so, if you take it that way. But what has that to do with—” She broke off again. “What did they do with the geniuses in Brad’s project?”
“Well, I wasn’t involved in that. But I would guess Schön wanted to live his own life, unsupervised by the experimenters. So he hid where they would never find him. A bad fish.”
“Brad had no trouble. I know he didn’t fool them any more than he fooled me. He’s a lot more intelligent than he says he is.”
Ivo remembered that Brad had represented himself to her as IQ 160. “That so? He always seemed pretty regular to me.”
“He’s like that. He gets along with anybody, and you really have to get to know him before you realize how deep and clever he is. He was the big success of the project — but of course you know that. Even if he does try to claim he’s stupid compared to Schön. I used to think he made Schön up, just to amuse me; but since this crisis—”
“Yeah. That’s the way it was with me too, in a way. But now I sort of have to believe in Schön, much as I might prefer to forget all about him, or there isn’t much point in hanging around.”
She smiled. “I’d tell you not to feel sorry for yourself, if I didn’t so often feel the same way. Nobody likes to feel stupid, but around Brad—”
“Yeah,” he said again.
They entered the infirmary. It carried the usual aseptic odors, the normal aura of spotless depression. “These are the — five,” she said, bringing him to a row of seated men. “Dr. Johnson, Dr. Smith, Dr. Sung, Dr. Mbsleuti and Mr. Holt. All most respected astronomers and cryptologists.”
“Johnson? Holt? Sung? I’ve heard those names before.”
“Yes, Brad would have mentioned them, if you weren’t already familiar with their reputations. The significant planets they discovered were named after them. Did Brad explain — ?”
“He showed me some planets. I didn’t realize — well, never mind. I know now.”
He looked at the seated men. Dr. Johnson was a saintly-looking man of perhaps sixty, with iron hair and brows and deep lines of character about the eves. His gaze was direct and compelling, but fixed, as though he were concentrating on some transcendent intangible.
“Doctor,” Ivo said, stepping close. “I admired your planet, with its noodle plants and yellow trees.”
The serene gray eyes refocused. The firm jaw dropped; then, after a second or two, the lips parted. “Huh-huh-huh,” Johnson said. A trace of spittle overlapped one corner of his mouth.
“Hello,” Afra said distinctly. “Hel-lo.”
Johnson smiled, not closing his mouth. A waft of ordure touched them.
“That’s what he’s trying to say,” Afra explained. “Hello. He was always courteous.” She sniffed. “Oh-oh. Nurse!”
A young man in white appeared, a male nurse. “I’ll take care of it, Miss Summerfield,” he said. “Perhaps you’d better leave now.”
“Yes.” She led the way out of the infirmary. “They don’t have much control,” she said. “We’re trying to reeducate them, but there hasn’t been enough time yet to know how far they can recover. It’s a terrible thing that happened to them, and we still don’t—”
Brad was coming swiftly down the hall. “Crisis,” he said, joining them. “There’s an American senator coming, an ornery one. Someone leaked the mind-destroyer to him, and he means to investigate.”
“Is that bad?” Ivo asked.
“Considering that we haven’t released the information yet to anyone beyond the station, yes,” Brad said. “Don’t be fooled by our candor with you, Ivo. This is super-secret stuff. We’ve been fudging reports from all five victims, just to keep up appearances while we try to break this impasse. Until we crack it, no one leaves this station — no one who knows, I mean.”
“What about that man who brought me? Groton?”
“He can keep his mouth shut. But all he knew, then, was that I needed you, where to find you, and what to say to you once he got you alone.”
That explained the stalking. Groton hadn’t wanted to make contact in the crowd, though he had finally had to.
“But don’t misjudge him,” Afra said. “Harold and Beatryx are very warm people.”
Did that mean Groton was married? Ivo had not pictured that. It proved again how far off first impressions could be.
“Here’s the situation,” Brad said, bringing them to his room. “Senator Borland is on his way. He’s class-A trouble. Borland is a first-termer, but he’s on the make already for national publicity, and he’s ruthless. He isn’t stupid; in fact, there’s a distinct possibility he’s smart enough to get hooked by the destroyer sequence. It’s certain he’ll demand to see the show, and there will be merry hell if we try to fob off a substitute.”
“But you can’t show him the destroyer!” Afra exclaimed, alarmed.
“We can’t hold it from him, if he’s determined — and he is. He knows he’s on to something big, and he means to make worldwide headlines before he finishes with us. Kovonov put it to me straight: Borland is American, so he’s my baby. I have to neutralize him somehow until we can crack this thing open and get it under control, or the whole feculent mess will erupt.”
“When’s he due?” Ivo asked.
“Six hours from now. We only got the hint when he embarked, and it took until now to pin down his purpose. He’s a real old-fashioned loudmouth, but he can keep a secret when it pays him to and he’s no political amateur. He’s obviously had this in mind for some time, and now he’s coming to milk us for that vote-getting publicity.”
“Why not tell him the truth, then? If he’s that savvy, he should be willing to do something constructive for his votes, instead of—”
“The truth without the solution would wreck us — and put Borland on his party’s next Presidential ticket. He isn’t interested in our welfare, or in the future of space exploration. He’d be delighted to take credit for pulling America out of the macroscope.”
“But the other countries of the world would keep it going, wouldn’t they? Isn’t it under nominal UN control?”