Ivo hadn’t seen it that way before, but it made sense to him now. What he was experiencing here, with Harold and Beatryx and Afra herself, was actually a family situation. Already it had stimulated him to performance far beyond anything he had approached before. And — he liked it. Argument, danger, grueling work and continued friction there might be — but they were all pulling together, and it was better than the life he had known on Earth.
“Didn’t that adult-baiting game bore Schön pretty soon too? What did he do about it?”
Back to specifics. “He left.”
“From a monitored dormitory? An enclosed camp? Where did he go?”
“Nobody knew, exactly. He was just gone.”
“You’re lying again. Brad knew.”
“I guess so.”
“And you — you knew. You still know! Even Brad couldn’t fetch him, but you could — except you wouldn’t!”
Ivo did not answer.
“And it’s all tied in somehow with that poem of yours, and the planet Neptune, and that damned pinned pawn.”
Had she assembled the puzzle? Schön evidently wanted her to. Did she know how readily she could summon the genie, knew she but its abode? Could she suspect the consequence of too rash a conjuration?
The pyramid — actually a tetrahedron — became a splendid center under the patter of little metal feet supervised by instructions from space. One face was flush with the ground, and a triangle of triangles pointed at Neptune. Dull, impervious blocks on the outside gave way to twenty-first century comfort on the inside. Each person had a room — Groton and Beatryx an apartment, with electric accommodations and sophisticated plumbing. Spongy warm rugs lined the floors, and the walls were painted attractively.
With power and a machine shop, and the incoming galactic program, Groton directed an irregular stream of wonders. He produced a device that converted Tritonian soil into protein, and another that generated a field of force that would enclose a larger area outside the tetrahedron and retain an Earthlike atmosphere. Yet another served to focus gravity and bring their weight, in this limited area of the planet, up to Earth-normal.
Matter-conversion, force-field, gravity control — these things staggered Ivo’s imagination. They had assumed that galactic technology would exceed that of Earth, but the fact was somewhat overwhelming. How many decades — how many centuries — would be required for Earth to develop such things on its own? The proboscoids of Sung had never achieved this level. They, of course, had not been able to penetrate the destroyer and receive the programs beyond it. Otherwise, many of their problems could have been materially alleviated.
The recurring question: why, then, did the destroyer exist? And the recurring answer: data insufficient.
Ivo tried to compliment Groton on his achievements. “I’m just an engineer following instructions,” the man said blithely. It was to a considerable extent the truth, since his position had become analogous to that of a child turning on a television set and sitting back to watch experts at work. But however detailed the program, Groton deserved credit for making it applicable to their situation. It was his heyday.
No longer were they required to walk the barren surface in space suits. An artificial sun replaced the minuscule original star in the sky, and light and heat blazed down upon the landscape twelve hours of each twenty-four, riding the fringe of the force-field. Beatryx planted beans from the ship’s food supplies, and they sprouted in a garden stocked with the protein soil-mockup beside a reservoir of H2O — i.e., a genuine crescent-lake.
Ivo, for his contribution to the good life, arranged to photograph images on the main screen of the macroscope, and made regular prints of Earth newspapers, magazines and books. These the others could read without danger of encroachment by the destroyer, since only its “live” image killed. Far from being a lonely, frozen exile, their stay on Triton had become, in a few active months, an independent vacation.
Groton finally took his turn with Ivo at the macroscope, refusing to claim indefinitely the privilege of moon-side duty that his continuing performance had warranted. “Do the machines good to have time off,” he remarked. “I told ’em to be back on the job 8 a.m. Monday and sober.” For the first time since the onset of this adventure, the two men were together privately when there was time to converse.
Ivo suspected there was a reason for it, since Groton still had important other chores to do and had already proven himself to be an indefatigable worker. Afra had been overshadowed and relegated to the role of technical assistant, and of course Beatryx had been the chief babysitter. Had Groton made time now for a reason?
He had. “You remember I’m interested in astrology,” he said.
That was not the subject Ivo had anticipated. “Yes, you took my birth date and a significant experience.” So long ago, it seemed! Back the other side of the melting — a whole separate existence, receding into memory. And did it make a difference, for the astrological discipline, that the childhood Ivo had made his own was that of Sidney Lanier? He felt a twinge of guilt, but was afraid that an explanation at this point would be awkward. “I also overheard you discussing it with Afra, way back when.”
“Yes. Brilliant girl, but her mind is resistant to certain concepts.” Ivo had become aware of that, too. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t require that anyone else accept my values, and I am confident that astrology can stand on its own merits. But I have been casting horoscopes for each of the members of this party, and there is a certain mystery about you.”
Ivo wondered when the man had found time for this, in the face of the colossal job he had been doing on Triton. Here he shared Afra’s perplexity: how was it that such a competent and realistic engineer was able to take a pseudo-science seriously? Groton did not seem to differentiate between the real and the unreal, yet his approach to all things seemed to be totally practical.
“If you don’t mind,” Groton said after an interval, “I’d like to discuss this with you.”
“Why not? I can’t say I believe in astrology any more than Afra does, but I don’t mind questions.”
“Can you say you know enough about astrology to believe or disbelieve intelligently?”
Ivo smiled. “No. So I guess I’m neutral.”
“It is surprising how certain most people are about what they like or don’t like, or believe or don’t believe, when their information is really too scanty for any meaningful decision. If I had chosen before the fact to disbelieve in the possibility of a signal from space that could build advanced machinery, our residence on Triton would be less comfortable than it is. Prejudice is often expensive.”
It occurred to Ivo that he had just had another lesson in open-mindedness. He had objected to Afra’s views on race, but his own mind had been as one-sided in the matter of astrology. And, like Afra, he still couldn’t reverse his standing attitudes; astrology, to him, was essentially fakery. He was as prejudiced as she.
“Still, that’s irrelevant,” Groton said. “What I want to do is give you portions of two descriptions, and have you judge which one fits you best. It’s a kind of psychological exercise — but don’t misunderstand. I’m not trying to psychoanalyze you. This may help me to clear up my problem, and perhaps show you a little of what astrology is in practice.”
“Fire at will.”