Gosseyn Three was nodding grimly. “I get the idea. Better to similarize to one of my locations on this ship, or even to one of yours out there in our own galaxy rather than get involved in the complexities of the even more enormous distance.”
“Right,” was the reply. Then, with what seemed to be a smile: “Please notice that we are mentally separating the two of us. No longer is it ‘alter ego’ but ‘my’ and ‘your.’ It will be interesting to see how that comes out. Perhaps we shall presently become two different people.”
The mental dialogue had been at the speed of thinking; and all the while he had been walking with the new arrivals into the new set of rooms. And so, he stood, apparently casual, as the new people walked farther into the big living room of the apartment. Gosseyn Three took his extra-brain “photograph” just inside the entrance.
Standing there, he was aware that five of the newcomers had immediately started exploring the place, and they essentially had their backs to him. Bedroom doors were being opened.
What happened next would probably have occurred sooner or later. Gosseyn was about to walk away, when John Prescott said something to his wife, Amelia.
That brought a thought; and Gosseyn went over to where the Prescotts had paused, and said with a faint frown, “Just a minute, my last clear recollection of Mrs. Prescott is that she was lying dead on earth in the City of the Games Machine. The way you knew she was dead was that, when you gave her an injection of what was, presumably, a reviving chemical, her lips remained pale instead of turning bluish.”
Prescott was a husky man with thick, blonde hair, and his wife was a slender brunette. Now, the man merely smiled, and glanced questioningly at his wife. The slim woman smiled also. “Mr. Gosseyn Three,” she said, “the wife of a Venusian Null-A, who is playing a game inside the ranks of the enemy, often has to brace herself. What you’re remembering was a very unpleasant experience; but remember that a statement such as if-her-lips-don’t-turn-blue-then-she’s-dead is merely interesting, in terms of General Semantics. Simply saying it doesn’t make it so.”
She smiled again, and finished, “If you’ll consult the joint Gosseyn memory you’ll discover we had a much shorter conversation about this with Gosseyn Two.” The memory was there after moments only. Somewhere, during the frantic fight to save Venus, the Prescotts had crossed paths with the incredibly active Gosseyn Two—who was jumping from one 20-decimal location to another at the time, battling at virtually every stop. So that, when the couple had recently re-appeared in the company of Eldred and Patricia Crang, no additional explanation was requested, or given.
“Oh!” said Gosseyn Three, remembering. “Yes.” He added, “I’m glad.”
They turned away, and so did he. But, seconds later, when he glanced back, he saw that they had disappeared into one of the bedrooms, leaving in view only Leej, the Predictor woman.
She had paused, and now she stood looking directly at him. There was a faint smile on her distinctive, even-featured countenance.
Leej, the predictor woman from the planet, Yalerta; Leej, the dark-haired, who might be able to tell him a little about what the future held. Even as he had that thought, she parted her lips, and spoke:
There’s a period of about twelve minutes after you leave here,” she said, “and then you use your extra brain again. Which cuts off my view of your future right there.”
The shortness of the time brought a mild shock. “Twelve minutes!” he echoed.
He was abruptly fascinated. This was his own first experience with a predictor; and here she was, friendly and volunteering information.
He said, “Any clues as to what leads up to my action?”
“You’ve left the imperial apartment,” she replied, with that man.” She hesitated, then made the identification: “Breemeg.” She finished, “You’re walking along. And, suddenly, you’re aware of something. And that’s it. For my special ability, blankness.”
Gosseyn stayed where he was; and the predictor woman must have expected it, because she didn’t move either. Gosseyn said, “I’ve had another thought.”
She smiled. “I know. But say it—thoughts are not as clear as words in a prediction situation.”
Gosseyn nodded, and said, “When you were predicting in connection with Gosseyn Two and the others on the intended big jump, what exactly was your role?” Once again, the reply was prompt. “I decided—we decided—that I would try to predict exactly what would be the exact atomic-molecular-particle configuration of some habitable area in that other galaxy. We accepted that nothingness separated the two universes. On the basis of that prediction Gosseyn Two took an extrabrain ‘photograph’ of my entire brain, including the prediction, and tried to similarize all of us over there in one jump. In a way it must have worked.”
Gosseyn Three was thoughtful. “I had all those memories in my mind, of course. But they seemed so complex that I couldn’t quite get the picture. In other words—” with a smile—“pointing alone, the General Semantics ideal, meaning in this instance, my memory of the event, did not quite do the job of picturing the whole event. Words do have their value.”
He finished: “What do you think went wrong?”
“You.” It was her turn to smile. “Picture you in that capsule receiving all of those thoughts without anyone being aware of you. So, as it turned out, you were the most receptive part, of the whole process.”
“But in reverse,” he pointed out.
There was no answer. The woman just stood there. “Thank you,” said Gosseyn. With that he went back through the door, and then the alcove, to where the emperor’s mother was talking with a strange, excited, little man.
Not wanting to intrude, Gosseyn stopped. At which moment he heard the woman say, “But I don’t understand. What are you saying? Enin what?”
As Gosseyn stood there, out of sight just inside the alcove through which he had taken the others, the little man said in a shaking voice: “He disappeared! In front of my eyes!” He jabbered on, “You know how he is when I’m giving him lessons. Quiet for a while. Then he becomes restless. Talks back. Jumps up. Gets himself a drink. No manners. But he learns. This time he was just sitting. And, poof! he was gone!”
It took a minute for the meaning to come through from the stuttering voice. But, finally, the picture being verbally presented by this highly disturbed individual was unmistakable.
The little guy was the young emperor’s teacher. And, during the course of the lesson he had been giving the boy, he claimed to have been actually staring at his pupil when he, literally, blinked into non-existence.
It occurred to Gosseyn Three, as he listened to the account, that the timing of the startling event could have coincided with the arrival of Eldred Crang and the others. Accordingly, Gosseyn Three communicated to his Alter Ego: “Do you think there was some overlap, whereby Enin was automatically transmitted somewhere else?”
“I seem to remember,” came the reply, “that at the time of transmission you were recalling several 20-decimal locations of the past of Gosseyn One and myself. Did you think of the boy as you did that? That I can’t recall.”
It was not a good moment for trying to remember those details. Because he saw that the woman had become aware of him, and that she was turning toward him, and that she was in a shaken condition.
“Is it possible,” she asked uncertainly, “that all this that has happened?—”
Gosseyn had recovered. “It sounds like what happened to him—before. I’ll see what I can do. I—”
They had both ignored the emperor’s teacher, almost as if he did not exist. And if there had been any possibility of Gosseyn eventually taking notice of the little man, it ended because as he spoke the first word of what might have been another statement, there was a buzzing sound.