And, before his eyes, a passage dealing with him; his own name leaped up to stun him, to hold and transmute his faculties of attention.
"You, too," the 'pape vendor announced, "can play a vital role in the development of this fine virgin colonial world with its near-infinite promise of cultural and spiritual reward. In fact it is a distinct possibility that you are already mentioned; why not consult the index and thereby scout out your own name? Take a chance, Mr. — "
"Hennen," he murmured. "Or Hendren; whichever it is." Automatically obeying the firm promptings of the vendor he turned to the index, glanced up and down the H's, then realized with a start that he had already been doing exactly that: reading about himself, but under his real name. With a grunt of irritation he swept the useless pages aside, sought his actual, correct name in the index.
After the entry Ferry, Theodoric, he found virtually unending citations; the page he had formerly been reading consisted of but one out of many.
On impulse he chose the first entry, that with the lowest page number.
Early in the morning Theodoric Ferry, chief of the vast economic and political entity Trails of Hoffman Limited, got out of bed, put on his clothes and walked into the living room.
Damned dull stuff, he decided in bewilderment. Is this book full of everything about me? Even the most trivial details? For some strange and obscure reason, this rubbed him the wrong way; once more he sought the index and this time selected a much later entry.
That early evening when Theo Ferry entered the Telpor station under the false code-ident, that of one Mike Hennen, he little glimpsed the fateful events which would in only a short time transpire in his already baroque and twisted
"For godsake," he complained hoarsely. They already knew; already had hold of his cover name — in fact had had time to print it up and run off this weird book concerning him. Slander! "Listen," he said severely to the alert 'pape vendor, "my private life is my own business; there's no valid reason in the galaxy why my doings should be listed here." I ought to bust this outfit, he decided. Whoever these people are who put together this miserable book. Eighteenth edition? Good lord, he realized; it must have been kicking around for one hell of a long time... but maybe lacking some of these entries about me. In fact it would have to lack this entry if for no other reason than that I just within the last day or so hit on my name-cover.
"One poscred, sir," the vendor said politely. "And the book becomes yours to keep."
Gruffly, he handed over the money; the vendor, pleased, wheeled off into the clouds of debris created by the warfare taking place a few blocks off. The book carefully gripped, Theo Ferry sprinted sure-footedly for the security of a nearby semi-ruined housing structure; there, crouched down among the fragmented blocks of building-plastic, he once more resumed his intent reading. Fully absorbed in the peculiar text he became totally oblivious to the noises and movements around him; all that existed for him now was the printed page held motionless before his intense scrutiny.
I'm damn near the main character in this tract, he realized. Myself, Matson, that Rachmael ben Applebaum, this girl named Freya something and of course Lupov — naturally Lupov. On impulse he looked up a citation regarding Dr. Lupov; a moment later he found himself engrossed in that particular section of the text, even though admittedly it did not deal with himself at all.
Peering tautly into the small vid screen, Dr. Lupov said to the sharp-featured young man beside him, "Now is the time, Jaimé. Either Theo Ferry examines the Bloode text or else he never does. If he turns to page one-forty-nine, then we have a real chance of — "
"He won't," Jaimé Weiss said fatalistically. "The chances are against it. In my opinion he must somehow be maneuvered very clearly and directly into turning to that one particular page; somehow an instrument or method must be employed which will first of all provide him with that page number out of all possible page numbers, and, when that's done, somehow his curiosity must
Hands shaking, Theo Ferry leafed through the book to page one hundred and forty-nine. And, compulsively, unblinkingly, studied the text before him.
With a snort of exultation, Jaimé Weiss said, "He did it. Dr. Lupov — I was absolutely right." Gleefully, he slapped at the series of meters, switches and dials before the two of them. But of course the ploy had succeeded because of the 'wash psychiatrist's accurate diagnosis of all the passive factors constellating in Theo Ferry's psyche. Inability to resist danger... the suggestion that it constituted a hazard, his turning to that one page: the very notion that an extreme risk was involved had caused Ferry to thumb frantically in that direction.
He had gone unresistingly to that page — and he would not be coming back out.
"Sir," one of Lupov's assistants said suddenly, startling both Weiss and the psychiatrist, "we've just picked up something deadly on the scope. A detonation-foil tropic to both of you has passed through the Telpor gate that we made use of to reach Greg Gloch in his chamber." The man's face shone pale and damp with fright.
Jaimé Weiss and Dr. Lupov looked at each other wordlessly.
"I would say," Lupov said presently, his voice shaking, "that everything now depends on how rapidly the foil moves, how accurate it is, and — " He gestured convulsively at the micro-screen before them. " — and how long it takes Mr. Ferry to succumb to the 'wash instructions on the page."
"How long," Jaimé said carefully, "would you estimate it would take for a man of Ferry's caliber to succumb?"
After briefly calculating, Lupov said huskily, "At least an hour."
"Too long," Jaime said.
Lupov, woodenly, nodded slowly, up and down.
"If the foil reaches us first," Jaimé said then, "and takes both of us out, will Ferry's pattern be altered?" What a waste, he thought; what a dreadful, impossible waste, if not. Everything we set up: the pseudo-worlds, the fake class of "weevils," everything — with no result. And to be so close, so incredibly close! Again he turned his attention to the small screen; he deliberately forgot everything else. Why not? he asked himself bitterly. After all, there was nothing they could do, now that the defense-foil from von Einem's lab had passed through the gate and had come here to Fomalhaut IX.
"I can't predict," Lupov said, half to himself in a drab mutter, "what Ferry will do, if you and I are — "
The back of the bunker burst in a shower of murdering white and green sparks. Jaimé Weiss shut his eyes.
Studying the page before him, Theo Ferry, engrossed, failed to hear the buzzer at his neck-com the first time. At last, however, he became aware of it, grasped the fact that von Einem was attempting to reach him. "Yes," he said brusquely. "What is it, Sepp?"
"You are in extreme danger," the distant, faded voice came to him, a tinny, gnat-like dancing whisper from many light years off. "Throw away that thing you have, whatever it is; it's a Lupov invention — the 'wash technique strictured for you, sir! Hurry!"
With unbelievable effort Theo Ferry managed to close the book. The page of print vanished... and as soon as it did so he felt strength return to his arms; volition flooded back and he at once jumped up, dropping the book. It tumbled wildly to the ground, pages fluttering; Theo Ferry at once jumped on it, ground his heel into the thing — hideously, it emitted a shrill living cry, and then became silent.
Alive, he thought. An alien life form; no wonder it could deal with my recent activities; the page actually contained nothing — it was no book at all, only one of those awful Ganymede life-mirrors that Lupov was supposed to use. That entity that reflects back to you your own thoughts. Ugh. He winced with aversion. And it almost got me, he said to himself. Close.