“Something you ought to know about,” Voysey rumbled. “Our shipmate Barrow, here…’
Surgenor caught his arm. “Wait a minute, Vic.”
Voysey shook himself free impatiently. “…went into your room yesterday, took your Trance-Port, made a dozen copies of it and slipped it under all our pillows. We all got it last night. That’s what’s going on here, Bernie.”
Hilliard flinched as though he had been struck and the colour faded from his cheeks. He stared at Barrow, who was nodding eagerly, and then turned to Surgenor.
“Is this true, Dave?”
“It’s true.” Surgenor looked into the boy’s eyes, thought of Julie as she moved her nakedness against him beneath the warm jets, and turned his gaze away, feeling guilty and embarrassed. Hilliard looked around the rest of the group, shaking his head and moving his lips. The others shuffled their feet, unwilling to face him.
“I did you all a favour,” Barrow said. “A girl like that Julie ought to be public property.”
Voysey stepped behind Barrow and, with an abrupt movement, pinned his arms. “Come on, kid,” he said to Hilliard. “Wreck his face. Get my axle wrench and pulp him up—he deserves it.”
Barrow struggled to get free, but Voysey held him easily while a bleak-eyed Hilliard moved closer and bunched his knuckles. Surgenor knew he should intervene, yet found himself unwilling to do so. Hilliard measured his distance with ritual slowness, drew back his fist, hesitated, and then turned away.
Voysey pleaded with him. “Come on, kid—you’re entitled!”
“Why should I?” Hilliard’s lips stretched into a smile which was anything but a smile. “Tod’s right in what he says—a guy would be real mean if he didn’t want to share a good whore with his friends.”
But Julie’s not like that! The protest was in Surgenor’s mind, and he had almost spoken it, when he realized he was on the verge of making a fool of himself. They were not talking about a real woman, dressed in yellow and gold, who had sat with him at breakfast and smiled with the sharing of memories. The subject under discussion was only a complex of patterns on a magnetic tape.
“Let the man go,” Hilliard said, taking a seat at the table. “Now, what’s for breakfast? After the night I had I need some solid nourishment inside me. Know what I mean?” He winked at the man nearest to him. Surgenor looked at Hilliard with a sudden and irrational dislike, then turned back to Barrow.
“You’re not getting away with this,” Surgenor said, and—filled with a rage he did not want to acknowledge or understand—walked away from the mess table and headed for the solitude of his room.
“Hear these words.”
“I’m listening to you, David.”
Surgenor lay still on his bed, trying to marshal his thoughts. “I’m reporting to you, officially, that the fire on the hangar deck yesterday was started by Tod Barrow. Deliberately. He has just admitted to doing it.” Surgenor went on to describe the subjective events as objectively as he could.
“I see,” Aesop commented when he had finished. “Do you think there will be more trouble between Barrow and Hilliard?”
“I…’ Surgenor considered building another case for aborting the mission, but similar arguments had always failed with Aesop. “I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble. It seems to me they’ve burned themselves out.”
“Thank you, David.” There was a brief silence, then Aesop said, “You will be interested to learn that I have decided to terminate the mission. That means you can be back on Earth before the twenty-fifth of December, as you wished.”
“What?”
“You will be interested to learn that I have…’
“Don’t go over it again—I got you.” Surgenor sat up on the bed, almost afraid to believe what he had heard. “What made you change your mind?”
“The circumstances have changed.”
“In what way?”
There was another silence. “Barrow is more unpredictable than you think, David.”
“Go on.”
“He has interfered with my memory and logic. In my judgement it is necessary for me to return to the nearest regional HQ so that certain readjustments, which are beyond my capabilities, can be carried out as soon as possible.”
“Aesop, I don’t understand you.” Surgenor stared at the speaker grille on the wall. “What did Barrow actually do?”
“He made an extra copy of Hilliard’s Trance-Port tape and fed it into one of my data inputs.”
The words were almost an obscenity to Surgenor. “But…I didn’t think that sort of thing was possible.”
“It is possible to a properly qualified man. In the future the Cartographical Service will place an upper limit on the amount of experience survey crew members have in certain fields. Also, they will probably discontinue the Trance-Port experiment.”
“This is weird,” Surgenor said, still trying to grasp the full implications of what he had been told. “I mean, was the tape even compatible with your internal languages?”
“To a large extent. I am very versatile, which in this case represents an area of vulnerability. For example, I have decided to abort this mission…but I am not entirely certain that my decision is based on pure logic.”
“It seems perfectly logical to me—somebody as dangerous as Barrow needs treatment as soon as possible.”
“Correct, but the fact that I am alert to him vastly reduces his potential for harm. It may be that I now understand your desire to return to your home, and that I am being influenced by it in a non-logical manner.”
“That’s highly unlikely, Aesop. Believe me, this is one subject on which I’m better informed than you.” Surgenor got to his feet and walked to the door of his room. “Do you mind if I break the news to the men before you speak to them?”
“I have no objection, as long as you do not discuss the real reasons for the decision.”
“I won’t.” Surgenor was opening the door when Aesop spoke again. “David, before you go…’ the disembodied voice was strangely hesitant “…the data on Hilliard’s tape…is it an accurate portrayal of the human male–female relationship?”
“It is highly idealized,” Surgenor said slowly, “but it can be like that.”
“I see. Do you think Julie really exists somewhere?”
“No. Only on tape.”
“David, to me everything exists only on tape.”
“I can’t help you, Aesop.” Surgenor looked around the metal walls, behind every one of which were the myriad copper skeins of Aesop’s nervous system, and he felt a curious emotion. Pity compounded with distaste. He tried to think of something relevant and meaningful to say, but the words which emerged were trite and utterly incongruous.
“You had better forget her.”
“Thank you for the advice,” Aesop said, “but I have the perfect memory.”
That’s tough, Surgenor thought as he closed the door of his room behind him and hurried in the direction of the mess with the good news. Already, as is the way with human beings, the images of Julie Cornwallis were fading from his mind, to be replaced by pleasurable thoughts about the precious fleeting afternoons of winter on Earth, about football matches and cigar stores and women at supper tables, and about the deep comforts of families drawing together at Christmas.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mike Targett stared morosely into the forward view screens of Module Five. The vehicle was travelling at a height of one metre—and at its maximum survey speed—across a flat brown desert. Apart from the plume of dust which rolled constantly in the rear screen, there was no sign of movement anywhere on the broad face of Horta VII. And no sign of life.