“You would go to the ship—if you could?”
“It’s impossible.” But he had said that before. There was something that he should remember….
“But you’d go?”
“I keep seeing the faces!” he burst out.
“Did you see anything in the ship?”
“Not the passengers or crew. But it was exactly as I remember it. There was no further deterioriation of its fabric. It’s exactly as it was when I saw it go into the Singularity—into that weird field.”
“Al, I’ve told you I truly understand. I couldn’t before. Now I know how these ideas can hold one.” Buchanan was back in time. “If I’d been able to get down to the engines—if I’d thought of wrecking the memory-banks sooner—maybe I could have worked something out!” Liz was near to weeping with pity for him. “Does it matter so much, Al? It’s all long gone!” Buchanan looked at her. There was more, she thought. Deep lines she had not seen for years were etched into his face.
“They may not have gone.”
“They?”
“Nearly seven hundred men, women, and children.”
“Al, they must have been dead for three years! You can’t help them!” Liz felt a sense of cold inevitability. A shadowy horror hung over Al Buchanan, and it was creeping out to envelop her too.
“I wasn’t going to tell you.”
“Tell me.”
“Kochan made the station possible.”
“Why?”
“His granddaughter was a passenger.”
“Tell me, Al.”
“His scientists came up with a theory about the Singularity.”
“This—tunnel?”
Buchanan told her. “Time might hold still.”
“And if it does, then she—”
“—and all the others. Still there.”
There was a horror, thought Liz. Death was the constant companion of them all. It was the thought of not dying that was peculiarly horrible.
“A theory, Al—only a theory, you say!” She was shuddering.
“I have to make sure.”
“Maran—he won’t be interested in the tunnel! You won’t be able to go to the Altair Star, Al!” Buchanan’s craggy face was ugly with bitterness. While his mind had been ranging over the amazing glimpse of the Altair Star, he had experienced one of those moments which come, with rare and fortunate intuition, to trained field men when they are faced with irreconcilable sets of data and conflicting theories. A double mystery might, just might, be explicable. Maran’s abrupt orders; the frenzied activity of the machines; the building of the eerie Quasi-warp; the time-lost tunnel which the robots would not record. Memories, ideas, projections had surged and coalesced and strayed together. Buchanan was sure of what he said.
“Maran will want to see the Altair Star.”
“What!”
“Yes, Liz.”
Staring at the man she still loved, Liz thought she would never be able to follow his thoughts. She sagged back on the couch. She might have lain until she slept had not a robotic voice called deferentially to them. A weird, over-polite invitation brought her to her feet.
“Commander Buchanan and Miss Deffant. Commander Maran presents his compliments. He would be honored if they would dine with him immediately. This system requires confirmation,” it added. Buchanan put an arm around Liz Deffant’s shoulders. “This, Liz,” he said, “will be something to tell them about when we’re back at Center.”
He could not understand why Liz began to sob uncontrollably until she said: “Tup said the same thing!” Jerkily, she went on: “It was the first time I saw Maran! He said it would be something to tell them about when I got home! And he’s dead!”
“We’re coming,” Buchanan said grimly to the servitor. There was no way to comfort Liz. She would have to learn to live with her own ghosts.
CHAPTER 18
The meal was a parody of a dinner party. The servitors passed around the food and wine with the deferential air of family retainers. Maran headed a table like some patriarch. He ate and drank with gusto, politely attentive at all times to Liz, and complimentary to Buchanan on the excellence of his judgment in selecting appetizing meal-programs. He would not allow a discussion of their future until the robots deftly flicked away the last of the dishes.
“Coffee, Miss Deffant?” he inquired. “And try some of Mr. Buchanan’s brandy. Excellent!” he added, sipping the fine liqueur. “You’ll appreciate that I have not been able to enjoy the pleasures of the table in recent months. The Enforcement Service have a puritanical approach to refreshment. Their attitude is a hangover from less enlightened times than our own.”
Buchanan cautioned himself against an outburst. Maran’s treatment of them had been utterly correct. There had been no threats, no demands. And though he had taken over the station, he had treated Liz and himself as honored guests. What could one do in the face of such unjatronizing confidence?
“No doubt you will be thinking of the time when the Service again has me in its charge?” Maran inquired, uncannily picking up Buchanan’s unspoken retort.
“I can’t see how you can evade the cruisers,” Buchanan answered. “The station has a limited capacity for life-support. The cruisers can keep on patrol in relays. As soon as the station tries to leave the peripheries of the Singularity, it can be picked up by force-screens. Your escape is temporary, Maran.” Liz Deffant looked from one man to the other. Both were impressive, both resolute and determined. She had no doubt which would triumph in any contest. Maran’s single-mindedness would be supreme. She could only be a spectator now.
Maran exerted his personality when he spoke again to Buchanan. “I have told Miss Deffant that I have the feeling that you, she, and I were predetermined to meet, Buchanan.”
“So we’ve met,” said Buchanan tightly.
Maran smiled. “Buchanan, I know the conditioning you Galactic Service personnel receive. But try to break out of it for a few moments—forget what you have heard of Maran the monster. Think of what you see before you—look!”
And Maran was a smiling, easy host, glass in hand and relaxed smile creasing his big, broad face. Liz Deffant saw the deep, hypnotic eyes and wondered at the strange influence he had over her. Since he had first explained his tormented vision, she had been unable to summon up a jot of resolution or courage. Looking at Maran was like being faced with some stupendous force of nature.
“I heard what you did,” said Buchanan. “You can’t be allowed to rip the minds from any more men and women. Even though they are willing.”
Maran nodded slowly. “My machines are crude. They are not yet ready for the delicate work oi examining the cells which carry an imprint of man’s evolutionary processes. They harm, they maim, and, regrettably, they destroy. I won’t pretend that Maran has not brought misery and death to the noble spirits who followed him. But, Buchanan, there has to be a start! We must examine the deep centers that alone carry the impression of that moment of transition that made us what we are! One day, Buchanan, cell-surgery will be a commonplace—but only if a start is made! And Maran has made the start!
And Maran will find a way through the mists of time and isolate that moment of change. Miss Deffant,” he said, turning to Liz. “You believe that Maran can do it?”
Buchanan saw the answering gleam in Liz’s eyes.
She said nothing, but he knew that she was Maran’s.
“It isn’t my decision,” Buchanan said. “But if it were, I’d stop you. And send you out to the Rim.” He paused. “If I had to, Maran, I’d destroy you.”
As he said it, he knew that, if he felt a bitter antagonism toward Maran, it was not for his treatment of those who had volunteered to take part in his strange experiments. It was more simple, more basic, than that. Maran had woven a spell on the woman Buchanan wanted more than anything in the Universe. Jealousy, he recognized. He was jealous of Maran!