The words of the SP man, Carter, kept drumming mechanically in his brain. “Five years ago when we were serving together in the Syrtis Insurrection. . . . Five years ago when we. . . .” He pressed his palms over his ears, trying to shut out their persistent echo.
“Lies! All lies!” Mantell heard himself shout. It had been only an SP trick, a last-minute attempt to escape the doom that Thurdan had decreed for the Earth prisoners.
Leaning there, still sucking air into his burning lungs, a strange hallucination came over him. For an instant he seemed transported, as in a dream, to another world, another time. He was crawling through the blood-red yambo forest floor on his stomach and elbows, the long nozzle of the blaster held before him, attached by a flexible tube to the magna-energy tank strapped to his back. Somewhere ahead, hidden by the twisted scarlet trunks, lay the secret spacefield they had to capture. Suddenly the entire forest came alive with scarlet-skinned Syrtians, their fanglike tusks glittering. He pressed the activator button of his blaster. Then abrupdy the entire forest and himself along with it seemed to dissolve into nothingness. With recurrent flashes of consciousness, he remembered being dragged by his legs, and much later, a tall man grinning down at him, saying they’d secured the spacefield. . . .
He shook his head, shutting his eyes; his respiration steadying down. . . . And another vision rose before him, clearer and more real than the first one.
He was on the warm golden sands of Mulciber. On the broad raised walk before him, he looked up at the patronizing smug faces of the tourists. A fat man dressed in a loose chiton-like garment of red and yellow checks, laughed, pointed, and threw out some coins. Mantell knew what they were waiting to see; knew the show he was expected to put on.
So he raced, sand flying, on his hands and knees, scrabbling hungrily into the sand for the coins, while his ears burned with the laughter of the Earth tourists. . . .
“Five years ago when we were serving in the Syrtis Insurrection . . .”
A hallucination! A he! Mulciber was true; that was a direct recall. But that fight for the spacefield in the blood-red yambo forest? Only a dream, a fantasy that had no relation to actuality.
“Five years ago when we . . .”
The recurrent words and the deep voice kept up its measured, mechanical beat, like a pounding drum inside his head, interminably, torturingly.
And at last, as Mantell still stood there, doubt, like a hungry rodent, started gnawing at his mind. A hallucination? Yes. But whose? Carters—or his own?
He shook uncontrollably and sobbed. Once again, compulsively, he started to run, hearing only the pound of his feet against the floor, seeing nothing, not knowing where he was heading.
He ran into something hard and rebounded, halfstunned. He looked up, thinking he had collided with the wall or with a door. He hadn’t.
He stared up into the sculptured face of Ben Thur-dan. It looked as bleak and as baleful as it had at the moment of the SP attack. He reached out and grasped Mantell’s shoulder with an iron grip.
“Come on in my office a second, Mantell. I want to talk to you.”
Numb inside, and chilled, Mantell faced Thurdan across the width of his office. The door was locked and sealed. Myra stood far off near the window, staring palely at him, then at the glowering Thurdan.
Thurdan said, “I didn’t like the way you were talking when you went out of here, Mantell. I couldn’t trust you. It was the first time I felt that way about you.”
“Ben, I—”
“Keep quiet. I didn’t trust you and I couldn’t allow four SP men to run around Starhaven unchecked. So I used this”—he indicated a switch-studded control panel behind his desk—“and monitored your conversation all the way down into the room at the end- of the hall.”
Mantell tried to look cool. “What are you trying to say, Ben? The Space Patrol men are dead, aren’t they?”
“They are. No thanks to you. Ledru and his men finished the job while you were dashing away at top speed up the hall. But listen to this.”
Thurdan flipped a switch and a recorder unit came to life on playback. Mantell heard Carter’s voice say, “In the Patrol, of course! Five years ago, when we were serving in the Syrtis Insurrection! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that so soon, Johnny!”
Thurdan clicked the playback off and said, “What was that all about?”
“It’s a trick,” Mantell said calmly, blotting out his inner panic and confusion. “The Patrol is good at that, as you ought to know. He was trying to confuse us all and perhaps escape. And you—”
“I don’t necessarily believe what an SP man says,” Thurdan broke in. “You were psychprobed when you got here, and the probe said you had lived on Mulciber. It didn’t say anything about your being in the Space Patrol.” Thurdan’s dark eyes narrowed and bored high-intensity holes through Mantell. “But just suppose maybe the psychprobe was wrong, though.”
“How could that be?”
Thurdan shrugged. “Maybe the SP has discovered ways of planting fake memories good enough to fool a psychprobe. Or maybe my operator deliberately altered the readings for some reason of his own. Or he just bungled it out of sheer old age.” Thurdan turned to Myra and said, “Send in Dr. Harmon.”
A few moments passed, and then the spare figure of Harmon appeared at the door, withered-looking, mumbling to himself. He looked ancient.
He was ancient, Mantell thought—well over a hundred, certainly. Even modern techniques of gerontology weren’t able to keep a man young and hale past eighty-five or so, and Harmon looked his age.
He said, “Something the matter, Ben?”
Thurdan glared at him. “Maybe or maybe not. I’m not sure. It seems one of the SP men Bentley captured today recognized Mantell here; claimed to have served with him five years ago!”
“Served with… but that’s impossible, Ben. I probed Mantell myself. He hadn’t been off Mulciber in seven years. That’s what his chart says. And surely if I had seen anything about the Space Patrol there, don’t you think I would have told you?”
“You’re an old man, Erik. You were old when you ran into that vivisection scandal and had to come here, and you haven’t been getting any younger since. Maybe you didn’t do a very good job of probing Mantell. Maybe you overlooked some facts here and there.”
Harmon went chalk-white and began to sputter incoherent angry phrases.
Annoyed, Mantell said, “Look here, Ben. Just because an SP man pulls a crazy desperate stunt to keep himself alive a few minutes more, that’s no—”
“Shut up, Johnny. That SP man sounded convincing to me. I want to clear this business up to my own satisfaction right here and now.”
Harmon said, “But how can you—?”
Thurdan snapped, “Harmon, set up your equipment. We’re going to probe Mantell again.”
There was an instant of dead silence in the room.
Myra and Mantell reached the same conclusion at the same split second, and looked at each, other in that identical second, eyes wide with horror.
Mantell knew the consequences of his getting probed again. This time, they would discover the conspiracy against Thurdan. That hadn’t been in his mind the last time Harmon had peered in it.
But now it was, and it would be curtains for Mantell and Myra the moment the delicate needles of the probe hit the surface of his cerebrum.
Myra reacted first. She came forward and gripped Thurdan’s thick arm with her hand.
“Ben, you’re not being fair. Johnny was just probed a few weeks ago. You’re not supposed to probe a human being twice in the same month—if you do, you can damage his brain. Isn’t that right, Dr. Harmon?”
“Indeed it is, and—”