At the same time it acutely resembled a voice he knew. A voice he could however not identify, to save his life. He had the intuition, then, that this voice had deliberately been disguised; he would need a video breakdown by which to identify it. And that would take time, precious time which no one, at this moment in the struggle over Whale's Mouth, could afford to spare — least of all he.
Pressing a command key, von Einem said, "Emergency call. I want an immediate trace put on the audio signal reaching Herr Gloch. Notify me of the origin-point, then if you must, obtain a video pic of the voice-pattern and inform me of the caller's identity." He paused, pondering; it was, to say the least, a decision of gravity which he now entertained. "Once you have the locus detailed," he said slowly, "run a homotropic foil along the line. We can obtain the voice-ident afterwards."
The microscopic feedback circuit within his ear spluttered, "Herr Doktor — you mean take out the caller before identification? Das ist gar unmöglich — gar!"
Von Einem rasped, "It is distinctly not out of the question; in fact it is essential." For, underneath, he had an intuition as to who the disguised voice consisted of. It could only be one person.
Jaimé Weiss. The enfant terrible of the UN, probably operating in conjunction with his brother-in-law, the 'wash psychiatrist Lupov. Thinking that, von Einem felt nausea rise like a gray tide within him. Them, he reflected bitingly; the worst pair extant. Probably in orbit in a sealed sat at Whale's Mouth... transmitting either at faster-than-light directly to our system or worse stilclass="underline" feeding their lines during routine traffic through one of our own Telpor stations.
Savagely, he said to the technician brought into contact by means of the command key at his disposal, "There is an exceedingly meager latitude for the performance of successful action against this party, Mein Herr; or don't you believe me? You suppose I am mistaken? I know who has infiltrated the anti-prolepsis tank of poor Herr Gloch; mach' snell!"And you had damn well better be successful, he said to himself as he released his command key and walked moodily to the chamber to look directly at his protégé to discern Gloch's difficulty with his own eyes.
I wonder, he thought to himself as he watched the youth's face twist with discomfort, if I shouldn't obliterate the alien audio signal that's so successfully jamming the orderly process within the chamber. Or at least reroute it so that I receive it but Gloch does not.
However, it appeared to von Einem that the interloping audio transmission had already done its job; Greg Gloch's face was a mass of confusion and turbulence. Whatever ideas Gloch had entertained for a counter-weapon against Bertold had long since evaporated. Zum Teufel, von Einem said to himself in a near-frenzied spasm of disappointment — as well as an ever-expanding sense that the Augenblick, the essential instant, had somehow managed to elude him. Somehow? Again he listened to the disruptive voice plaguing Gregory Gloch. Here it was; this was the malefactionary disturbance. This: Jaimé Weiss himself, wherever in the galaxy he had now located himself and his fawning sycophantic retinue.
Can Gloch hear me now? he wondered. Can he hear anything beyond that damned voice?
As an experiment, he cautiously addressed Gloch — by means of the customary time-rephasing constructs built into the chamber. "Greg! Kannst hör'?" He listened, waited; after a time he heard his words reeled off to the man within the chamber at appropriate velocity. Then the lips of the man moved, and then, to his relief, a sentence by Gloch was spewed out by the transmitter of the chamber.
"Oh. Yes, Herr von Einem." The voice had a vague quality about it, a preoccupation; Greg Gloch heard, but did not really seem able to focus his faculties. "I was... um... daydreaming or... some darn thing. Ummp!" Gloch noisily cleared his throat. "What, ah, can I, eh, do for you, sir? Um?"
"Who's that constantly addressing you, Greg? That irritating voice which impedes every attempt you make to perform your assigned tasks?"
"Oh. Well. I believe — " For almost an entire minute Gloch remained silent; then, at last, like a rewound toy, he managed to continue. "Seems to me he identified himself as Charley Falks' little boy Martha. Yes; I'm certain of it. Ol' Charley Falks' little boy — "
"Das kann nicht sein,"von Einem snarled. "It simply can't be! No one's little boy is named Martha; das weis' Ich ja."He lapsed into brooding, introverted contemplation, then. A conspiracy, he decided. And one that's working. Our only recourse is the homotropic weapon released to follow the carrier wave of this deceptive transmission back to its source; I hope it is already in motion.
Grimly, he strode back to the command key, punched it down.
"Yes, Herr Doktor."
"The homotropic foil; has it — "
"On its way, sir," the technician informed him brightly. "As you instructed: released before ident." The technician added in a half-aside, "I do hope, sir, that it's not someone you have positive inclinations toward."
"It can't be," von Einem said, and released the key with an abiding sense of satisfaction. But then an alternate — and not so pleasing — thought came to him. The homotropic foil, until it reached its target, could act as a dead giveaway regarding its own origin. If the proper monitoring equipment were put in use — or already had been put in functioning condition — then the foil would accomplish a handy, quick task for the enemy: it would tell him — or both of them — where the disruptive signal entitling itself "ol' Charley Falks' little boy Martha" et cetera had gone... gone and accomplished vast damage in respect to von Einem and THL in general.
I wish Herr Ferry were immediately here, von Einem growled to himself gloomily; he picked at a poison-impregnated false tooth mounted in his upper left molars, wondering if the time might come when he would be required by obtaining conditions to do away with himself.
But Theodoric Ferry busied himself at this moment preparing for a long-projected trip via Telpor to Whale's Mouth. A most important journey, too, inasmuch as there he would complete the formulation of contemplated final schemes: this was the moment in which the vise of history would clamp shut on the unmen such as Rachmael ben Applebaum and his doxie Miss Holm — not to mention Herr Glazer-Holliday who might in fact well already be now dead... or however it was phrased.
"There," von Einem mused, "is a no-good individual, that Matson person, that slobbering hyphenater." His disgust — and satisfaction at either the already-accomplished or proposed taking-out of Glazer-Holliday — knew no limit; both emotions expanded like a warm, unclouded sun.
On the other hand, what if Weiss and Lupov managed to obtain the reverse trace on the homotropic foil now dispatched them-wards? An unease-manufacturing thought, and one which he still did not enjoy. Nor would he until the manifold success of the foil had been proclaimed.
He could do nothing but wait. And meanwhile, hope that Herr Ferry's journey to Whale's Mouth would accomplish all that it entertained. Because the import of that sally remained uncommonly vast — to say the least.
In his ear the monitor covering aud transmissions entering Gloch's anti-prolepsis tank whined, "Say, you know? An interesting sort of game showed up among us kids the other day; might interest you. Thingisms, it's called. Ever hear of it?"
"No," Gloch answered, briefly; his retort, too, reached the listening Herr von Einem.
"Works like this. I'll give you this example; then maybe you can think up a few of your own. Get this: 'The hopes of the woolen industry are threadbare.' Haw haw haw! You get it? Woolen, threadbare — see?"
"Umm," Gloch said irritably.
"And now, little ol' Greg," the voice intoned, "how 'bout a Thingism from you'all? Eh?"