It was the first actual verbal confirmation that he had, indeed, arrived at the first of his destinations. And that here, presumably, he would be staying while he was aboard ship. Gosseyn decided not to consider at the moment how long he would stay aboard. That decision should be discussed with his faraway alter ego.
What followed was a quick tour to, first, a bedroom, with an adjoining bath, then to a small, combination study and dining room—at least that was his silent description of the place: what made it a study was that something resembling a TV screen and other electronic equipment was either on one wall, or extended from it; and there was a chair and a desk; and at one end a glossy table that could have been a dining table. A number of chairs were spaced at intervals.
He presumed it was normal that his identifications reflected earth ideas on such matters; but then so did the apartment, with its resemblance to living quarters available all over the solar system for human occupation. The similarity extended to the fourth room, which had the look of a kitchen, complete with something that looked like a cooking surface; and a small table, with a chair in front of it, where Voice One had already set up a steaming bowl of greenish-brown soup.
There were other objects, including shelving, and drawers. But the purpose of the soup was so obvious that, as Onda indicated for him to sit down in the chair in front of the bowl, he did so automatically, and definitely expected no unpleasant surprises.
So that the words that were spoken next came as a distinct shock.
It was a question, spoken by Onda: “Perhaps, Mr. Breemeg, before we proceed, you are not able to make a comment about the defect we mentioned earlier, in relation to Mr. Gosseyn.”
The courtier, who had been standing of! to one side, came forward. “The broken connection?” he asked. “Yes, sir.”
Pause.
“General Semantics,” thought Gosseyn, ruefully, “where are you when I need you?”
His feeling: this ship and its people continued to confront him with unanticipated situations… Defect! Broken connection!—there were vague, unpleasant implications; and nothing to do but wait and Find out what they were.
He saw that Breemeg had walked to the opposite side of the table, and was gazing at him. Breemeg said, “In your opinion, are you in good health? Do you have any awareness of a weakness, or of anything missing? How are you reacting physically to so much activity after years of being in a state of suspended animation?” On the surface it seemed to be a reasonable question; and Gosseyn was aware of himself relaxing. Reasonable—he thought—except for the negative meaning of “defect” and “broken connection.”
Thinking of that, he said tentatively, “I seem to be in good physical condition. Why do you ask?”
Breemeg nodded toward Onda. “You tell him.”
The larger of the two scientists—which was what Gosseyn presumed they were—also did a nodding motion with that long head of his, saying, “One of the connections from your life support system inside the capsule was broken. Examination of the two broken ends, one of which was connected to a nerve end in your neck, would indicate that the break occurred long ago.”
“So—” he shrugged—“something that someone believed was needed to keep you in good condition in that confined area, has been missing for years.”
He broke off: “You haven’t noticed anything?” Gosseyn had already done a swift, mental survey of his actions since awakening; and so General Semantics did something for him, now, when the direct question was asked: He had no need to re-examine what had already been evaluated. He simply shook his head. “I feel alert and strong.”
“Well,” said Onda, in a doubtful tone, “it’s hard to believe that the builders of such equipment would include anything that wasn’t vital to the life process. So—” He straightened his thick body—“our advice to you is, if you notice anything at all, report it at once, and maybe we can still do something to rectify the missing element.” Gosseyn nodded. “It is to my interest to do so.”
“Something electrical involved.” Voice One spoke for the first time from where he stood in the doorway. “A neural stimulant of some kind.”
Gosseyn saw that Breemeg was getting restless; and since he had already noticed that there was a half-inch wide, ten-inch-long, plastic straw lying beside his soup bowl, he now picked it up.
What he was presently sucking up through the straw had some of the flavor of what the earlier Gosseyns might have labeled dishwater, and a vague taste of sweetness, resembling orange juice, and an impression of fatty material in small quantities.
It turned out that his stomach was able to hold down the entire liquid mixture. At which point, as he virtually drained the bowl, he looked up and saw that Breemeg was motioning at him.
The man said, “All right, Mr. Gosseyn, let’s go!…” The Place was another garden-like lead-up to a somewhat more ornate door. But the emperor himself answered the bell, or whatever signal was triggered when Breemeg touched something at one side.
Gosseyn was aware of the courtier swallowing, literally—his throat moved in the gulping movement. But before the man could recover his official aplomb, the boy said, dismissingly, “You may leave, Breemeg. I’ll take over our guest, thank you.”
He thereupon beckoned Gosseyn with a hand gesture. Moments after that, it was over; Breemeg with the door closed in his face was presumably either seething outside, or relieved to be able to depart…
CHAPTER 7
Dutifully—in at least one meaning of the word—Gosseyn followed the boy emperor across a large, tastefully decorated room. But noticed that here, also, as in his Palomar apartment, the elegance, which was here much greater, was nevertheless modified by the requirements of space flight.
The settees, and chairs, and tables, were built-in: everything was locked in position. And, through the carpet under his feet, he could feel the no-give metallic floor below.
He was surprised that the boy seemed to be alone. There were no visible servants, no sign of the mother, and no guards. There were several closed doors; but not a sound was audible from the rooms they presumably led into.
… Himself and the young emperor heading in a specific direction toward what seemed to be a decorated wall. He was not too surprised when the decoration turned out to be the field of play of the game, scroob.
What am I doing here? he wondered, ruefully.
But, of course, he knew. He had saved himself from a confrontation with a mad boy by, personally, introducing the game element. And so, that same boy was now eager to introduce him to a shining surface on the wall, whereby, when you pressed a small decoration, that part of the surface changed color. They were most of the colors that he knew; and the idea was that if you could be the first to line up one color the length of that surface either up, or sideways, then you were the winner.
When a game was won, the pattern was restored for a new game by pushing a decoration that was off to one side: a control button whereby a computer promptly set up a new, hidden, winning line and winning color.
There were supposed to be clues, as the young emperor explained it, in the color sequence that turned on whenever a decoration changed color. If you were smart you could eventually read the clues, and decide which color would be the next winner, and which direction it would win.
Gosseyn was smart, and, after he lost three games to a delighted younger winner, he saw how he could win the fourth game. After a momentary hesitation, he, in fact, decided to win it.