The images had become queerly real. Were they all imagination?
Had Horrock brought him some information vital to the invention of a jetless drive? He couldn't recall. He fell at last into a restless sleep, into a nightmare in which he and Horrock were in flight from the Plan Police.
The next morning Ryeland went directly from his room to the space-ling's cage in the rocket pit—and stopped, appalled.
The spaceling lay crushed and bleeding in its cage.
Ryeland ran to the cage and let himself in. The creature had grown to know him. It lay wrapped in a fading glow of misty green, eyes dulled; but as he entered its eyes brightened angrily. It lifted off the floor. Suddenly apprehensive, Ryeland dodged outside and slammed the cage door —just in time. The spaceling darted toward him with flashing speed. The cage rocked as she struck the closing door. Anchor chains clanked. Fresh blood ran down the bars, and a flap of golden fur was torn loose. She collapsed again, mewing piteously.
Ryeland felt the first real rage he had known in years.
He spun on his heel. "Gottling!" he bawled. "What the devil have you been up to?"
The colonel appeared, looking sardonically self-satisfied. "Mr. Ryeland," he nodded.
Ryeland took a firm grip on himself. Gottling looked more like a skull than ever, the radar horns giving a Satanic expression to a face that was cold and cruel enough to begin with.
But those radar horns were not merely ornament. Team leader or not, Ryeland was a Risk. The cold, complacent smile that twisted the corners of Gottling's thin lips was enough of a reminder of their relative status. One touch of the radar button on Gottling's harness and it was the end of Ryeland.
But this was too much. Ryeland blazed: "You've been torturing the thing again!"
"I suppose so," Gottling agreed mildly.
"Damn you! My orders were—"
"Shut up, Risk!" There was no smile at all now. Gottling thrust a teletape at Ryeland. "Before you go too far, read this!"
Ryeland hesitated, then took the tape. It read:
Information. Agreed present line of investigation unnecessarily slow.
Information. Danger of additional accidents possibly related Ryeland method of research must be investigated. Information. Possibility Ryeland engaged in direct sabotage subtrains, reactors, ion drives. Action.
Direction of Team project returned to General Fleemer. Action. Supplementary lines to be initiated at discretion Colonel Gottling.
Ryeland stared at it, dazed. The Machine had reversed itself again!
But in truth it wasn't his own position, difficult though it had suddenly become, that concerned him. It was the spaceling. "Supplementary lines!" he thundered. "Man, you'll kill her!"
Gottling shrugged, contemplating the spaceling. It lay gasping on the steel floor, looking up at them.
"Perhaps I will not wait for her to die," the colonel said meditatively. "Pascal does not wish to perform a vivisection, but he would hardly dare refuse the orders of the Machine. Even he." He smiled frostily and commented: "You are all alike, Pascal Lescure and the Planner's daughter and you, Risk. Blood frightens you. But pain is not contagious. You need not fear to observe it in others, it will not infect you. Indeed," he beamed, "there is much to learn in the pain of others."
Ryeland said tightly: "I'm going to report this to Donna Creery."
The colonel widened his eyes. "Oh? You need the Planner's daughter to fight your battles?" He allowed a silence to hang over them for a moment. Then, forgivingly: "But it does not matter, for you will not find that possible, Ryeland. Miss Creery is on the Moon. So you see, Risk, what happens to the spaceling from now on is entirely up to me."
Ryeland flung open the door of his room and headed for the teletype in the corner. Oporto and the Togetherness girl were there. He paused, distracted for a moment; he seemed to have interrupted something, but what? It didn't matter. He barked: "Oporto! What's Donna Creery's call number?"
Oporto coughed. "Gee, Steve. I don't know. Three? Fifteen?"
"Cut it out, Oporto," Ryeland warned dangerously.
"Three." Ryeland thumped the teletype keyboard:
Query. Permission for direct hookup communication Donna Creery station 3.
The teletype hardly hesitated:
Information. Refused.
"Well," Oporto said reasonably, "what did you expect? The Machine can't have its circuits tied up with—"
"Shut up." Ryeland was typing again, demanding a connection with the Planner himself.
Information. Refused.
"You see, Steve? You aren't getting anywhere. What's got you so steamed up?"
Ryeland told him in half a dozen sentences what was getting him so steamed up. "Oh, that's too bad," murmured the Togetherness girl. "The poor thing."
Oporto seconded: "Tough. Well, what are you going to do? We're only Risks. We can't buck Gottling and all those." He sneezed, and complained: "See, Steve, you're gedding me all upset. I bet I'm catching a code."
Ryeland looked at him blankly; he had not heard what Oporto had said, and hardly knew the other two were in the room with him. What could he do? Cut off from the Planner or his daughter, he had no chance to keep Gottling from murdering the spaceling. That was the end of the project. If what the Planner had told him was true, it actually endangered the Plan itself; for the jetless drive, the spaceling's queer method of propulsion, was important to the safety of all the Plan. Yet the Planning Machine would not allow him to—
He blinked and the room came into focus. "The Planning Machine!" he said aloud.
"What? Steve,", moaned Oporto, "now what are you going to do?" But Ryeland didn't answer. He sat at the keyboard of the machine and with a steady hand tapped out an account of what had happened. Colonel Gottling had deliberately controverted the orders of Donna Creery and the Machine itself. The spaceling was in danger. The Plan itself was threatened. He finished, and waited.
And waited.
And waited for long minutes, while Oporto and the girl whispered behind him. It was incredible that the Machine should take so long to answer! Ryeland asked himself feverishly: Was it turned on, was the wire cut, could it be possible that the Machine's circuits were so overloaded that the message was not received? He was actually bending over, hardly aware of what he was doing, to be sure that the machine was properly plugged in when abruptly it whirred and rattled.
Ryeland was up like a shot.
But the message was unbelievably short. It said only: R.
"Received and understood," Oporto said sympathetically from behind him. "Gee, Steve. That's all? Well, that's the Machine for you. It isn't up to us to question—Steve. Hey. Steve! Where are you going?" But Ryeland was already gone.
Ryeland hurried down the corridors to General Fleemer's quarters. He had wasted time and it was now late; he would be waking the general up, but he didn't care about that, not now. He tapped on the door and then, without pausing, banged hard.
"A minute, a minute," mumbled a grumpy voice. A wait. Then the door was flung open.
General Fleemer was in lounging pajamas, bright purple tunic, striped purple and scarlet pants. The collar and cuffs were picked out in silver braid, and the room behind him was silver. Silver walls, silver-mounted furniture on a silvery rug. It was a startling effect. Fleemer growled irritably: "Ryeland? What the devil do you want?"
"I have to talk to you, General." He didn't wait for an invitation, but slipped past him into the room. Then something stopped him and he paused, stared, distracted even from the important mission he was on.