“Uh-huh. Here’s the explanation as I see it. The Society includes a lot of races. One of those races is Thryman. Probably they’re not officially from Thrym. They could have been planted on a similar world, maybe with some slight surgical changes in their appearance, and passed themselves off as natives. They got members into the nomad bureaucracy by the normal process of promotion and, being very able, eventually these members got high enough to learn the truth—that the Technon was behind the whole show.
“What a windfall for them! They must have infiltrated the Society on general principles, to get control of still another human group, but found they’d also gotten a line into the Technon itself. They can doctor the reports it gets from the Society—not every report, but enough. That power has to be saved for special occasions, because the machine must have data-comparison units, it must be capable of ‘suspicion’, to do its job. This is a special occasion.
“Chanthavar, Brannoch, and Valti were all acting at cross purposes because there hadn’t been time to consult the Technon; otherwise it would normally have told Valti to keep hands off the affair, or at least to cooperate with Chanthavar. When it was informed, you know, it ordered Valti’s release.
“But then the Thrymans got busy. Even imprisoned, they must have been in touch with their agents outside, including high-ranking Thrymans in the Society.
“I don’t know exactly what story has been fed the Technon. At a guess. I’d suggest something like this: A trading ship has just come back with news of a new planet inhabited by a race having Saris” abilities. They were studied, and it turned out that there is no way to duplicate that nullifying effect artificially. The Thrymans are perfectly capable of cooking up such a report complete with quantitative data and mathematical theory, I’ll bet.
“All right. This report, supposedly from its own good, reliable Society, reaches the Technon. It makes a very natural decision: let the Centaurians have Saris, let them waste their time investigating a blind alley. It has to look real, so that Brannoch won’t suspect; therefore, work through Valti without informing Chanthavar.
“So... the end result is that Centauri does get the nullifier! And the first news the Technon has of this is when the invading fleet arrives able to put every ship in the Solar System out of action!”
Marin made no reply for a while. Then she nodded. “That sounds logical,” she said. “I remember now... when I was at Brannoch’s, just before coming to you, he spoke with that tank, mentioned something about Valti being troublesome and ripe for assassination, and the tank forbade him to do it. Shall we tell Chanthavar?”
“No,” said Langley.
“But do you want the Centaurians to win?”
“Emphatically not. I don’t want a war at all, and letting this information out prematurely would be a sure way to start one. Can’t you see the wild scramble to cover up, purge, strike at once lest you be further subverted?
“The fact that Brannoch himself is in the dark, that he knows nothing about this supremely important Society business, indicates to me that Thrym doesn’t exactly have the interests of the League at heart either. The League is only a means to a much bigger and deadlier end.”
He lifted his head. “So far, darling, my attempts to sit in on this game have been pretty miserable flops. I’m risking both our lives against what I think is the future of the human race. It sounds rather silly, doesn’t it? One little man thinking he can change history all by his lonesome. A lot of trouble has been caused by that delusion.
“I’m gambling that this time, for once, it’s not a mistake -that I really can carry off something worth while. Do you think I’m right? Do you think I even have a right to try?”
She came to him and laid her cheek against his. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, my dearest.”
19
Langley didn’t exactly smuggle Marin back to his apartment—if she were noticed, it wouldn’t excite much comment—but he did try to be discreet about it. Then he surprised himself by sleeping better than he had done for weeks.
On the following day, he took microcopies of all the library data on the Society, as well as having the robot prepare a summary, and stuck the spool in his purse. It was dismaying to reflect what a series of thin links his hopes depended on. Valti’s character was one; he thought the trader could shake off a lifetime’s conditioning enough to look a few facts and a little reasoning in the face, but was he sure?
Mardos had him in for another interview. The historian was getting eager, as one unknown datum after another emerged. Some of his careful cynicism dropped off: “Think of it! The very dawn of the technological and space-travel era—the most crucial epoch since man invented agriculture—and you lived in it! You know, you’ve already upset a dozen well-established theories. We had no idea that there was so much cultural difference between nations, then, for instance. It explains a good many puzzling features of later history.”
“So you’ll write a book?” asked Langley. He was having a hard time keeping up the act, it was all he could do not to pace the floor and chain-smoke as he waited for evening.
“Oh, yes... yes.” Mardos got a shy look on his face. “And yet... well, I started out with the notion that I might get some small fame and an upgrading out of this. Now I don’t care. It’s only the job itself, the learning, that matters. You ... you’ve shown me a little of what it must have been like in your age, the feeling of discovery. I’ve never known what real happiness was before.”
“Uh—”
“It’ll take years to build up a coherent picture. What you can tell us will have to be correlated with the archeological evidence. No hurry, no need to rush you. Why not come to my place for dinner tonight? We’ll relax, maybe have a few drinks and some music—”
“Uh... no. No, thanks. I’m busy.”
“Tomorrow, then? My wife would like to meet you. Father knows I’ve been talking of nothing else at home.”
“All right.” Langley felt like a skunk. When the interview was over, he had to restrain himself from saying good-bye.
The sun slipped down under the horizon. Langley and Marin ate supper in the apartment without tasting it. Her eyes were thoughtful as they looked across a twilit world.
“Will you miss Earth?” he asked.
She smiled gently. “A little. Now and then. But not too much, with you around.”
He got up and took a gown from the clothes chute for her. With its cowl over her hair, she had an appealing boyish look, a very youthful student. “Let’s go,” he said.
They went out the hall, to the flange and the moving bridgeway. A crowd laughed and chattered around them, gaily dressed, off on a restless hunt for pleasure. The lights were a hectic rainbow haze.
Langley tried to suppress the tension within himself. There was nothing to be gained by this jittering wonder about the forces leagued against him. Relax, breathe deep, savor the night air and the vision of stars and spires. Tomorrow you may be dead.
He couldn’t. He hoped his wire-taut nerves weren’t shown by his face. Walk slowly, gravely, as befits a man of learning. Forget that you have a gun under your arm.
The Twin Moons was a fairly well-known tavern of the slightly shady kind, nestled on the roof above low-level, just under the giant leap of metal which was Interplanetary Enterprises Tower. Walking in, Langley found himself in a Martian atmosphere, deep greenish-blue sky, a modern canal and an ancient fragment of red desert. There was a blur of scented smoke and the minor-key whine of a Martian folk song. Private booths were arranged along one wall with the appearance of caves in a tawny bluff; opposite was a bar and a stage, on which a shapely ecdysiast was going through her contortions in a bored fashion. The timeless hum and clatter of a well-filled inn was low under the music.