Alfred van Vogt - The World of Null-A

“That,” said Dr. Kair, “underlines with very special emphasis what our next move must be. Our future depends on whether or not we can escape from this house before dawn. And that”–he stood up with astonishingly youthful litheness–“brings us right back to our friend on the couch.”

It was easy to think again of urgent and deadly danger.

John Prescott, galactic agent. That much identification was admissible. The man lay on the couch and his eyes watched them. His blond hair seemed curiously whitish in the strong light. The faintest sneer lurked in the crinkles of his lips, in spite of the slightly bulging gag inside his mouth.

Gosseyn said with revulsion, “You know, there is something horrible here. This man allowed his wife to be murdered as a mere incident in a campaign to convince me of his bona fides. What took me in was that he had once been a partial believer in the null-A philosophy. I took it for granted, also, that his killing of 'X' and Hardie first was pure chance. But I recall now that he paused before he reached Thorson and gave me time to disarm him. In other words, he killed the two Earth men who had been used as a front by the galactic empire, which leaves only galactic people in control of the Earth government.”

Gosseyn closed his eyes. “Just a moment,” he said, “I'm thinking of something. The games. Weren't this year's games supposed to produce a successor to President Hardie?” He opened his eyes. “Who's ahead so far? Who's leading?”

Kair shrugged. “A man called Thorson.” He stopped and blinked. “You know,” he said slowly, “I didn't connect the name when you mentioned it. But there you have your answer.”

Gosseyn said nothing. There was a thought in his mind that chilled him. It had very little to do with the fact that Jim Thorson, personal representative of a galactic emperor, would be the next president of Earth. The thought had to do with the Machine. It had outlived its usefulness. It would never again be trustworthy, now that it had proved vulnerable.

It was hard to imagine Earth without the Games Machine.

Beside him, Dr. Kair said gently, “All this is unimportant now. We have our own problem. As I see it, one of us must impersonate Prescott and go outside to assess the situation.”

Gosseyn drew a deep, slow breath, and was himself. He said quickly, “What about your wife? Is she here? I've been intending to ask. And children. Any children?”

“Three but not here. Venusian-born children cannot visit Earth until they're eighteen. At the moment my wife is with them in New Chicago, Venus.”

They smiled at each other, the doctor looking gleeful. He had a right to be. The two men were alone with their great problem: one, the doctor, of great attainment in his field; the other-well, the other had still to prove himself.

They decided without argument that Dr. Kair would go out to contact the gang's agents. His white hair and his build gave him an appearance roughly similar to that of Prescott. It should suffice in the dark. Prescott's shoes, while a little too long and half a size too narrow, fitted Kair. It seemed wise to wear the shoes that contained the locator. Imitating Prescott's voice was comparatively easy. Like all trained speakers, like all Venusians, the psychiatrist had full control of the resonance chambers in his body and head. With a recent memory of Prescott's voice and with Gosseyn there to check on the subtleties of tone, he had the imitation pat in three minutes, including an identifiable whisper.

“And now,” said Gosseyn in a steely voice, “we'll find out from the gentleman himself the details of his arrangements with his friends outside.”

He bent down and removed the gag. The disgust he felt must have been in his manner, or perhaps Prescott was persuaded by a knowledge of what he would have done to secure information under similar circumstances. Whatever the reason, he said without prompting, “I have no objection to telling you that there are a dozen men outside, and they have orders to follow you, not arrest you. I was supposed to go out about now, to let them know that everything was all right. The all-clear word is 'Venus.'“

Gosseyn nodded to the psychiatrist. “All right, Doctor,” he said. “I'll expect you back in five minutes. If you're not, I'll suppress my squeamishness and put a bullet through Prescott's head.”

The doctor laughed without humor. “Maybe it would be just as well if I stayed out six or seven minutes.”

His laughter faded as he reached the door. The door moved slightly when he slipped through the opening. And then he was gone into the night and the fog.

Gosseyn glanced at his watch. “It is now ten minutes after four,” he said to Prescott, and drew his gun.

A tiny bead of perspiration started a path down Prescott's cheek. It gave Gosseyn an idea. He looked again at his watch. The second hand, which had been at ten, was now at forty-five. Thirty-five seconds had passed. “One minute,” said Gosseyn.

Physiological time was a flux of irreversible changes of the tissues and cells. But inward time depended on the human system, on variable circumstances, and on each individual. It changed under stress. Duration was as firmly wedded to man and his momentary emotions as life was to the nervous system. The second hand was twitching toward the ten, completing its first round. Accordingly, one minute had actually passed since the departure of Dr. Kair.

“Two minutes,” said Gosseyn in an implacable tone.

Prescott said in a low, harsh voice, “Unless Kair is a fool he should be back in five minutes, but the contact man out there is a talkative idiot. Take that into account, and don't be too hasty.”

By the time a minute and a half had gone by, Prescott was sweating profusely. “Three minutes,” said Gosseyn.

Prescott protested, “I told you the truth. Why shouldn't I? You can't escape our dragnet for long. One week, two weeks, three weeks-what does it matter? After listening to Kair, it's clear to me that your chance of gaining control of that extra part of your mind is almost zero. That's what we wanted to find out.”

It was curious, listening to the man talk and at the same time picturing Dr. Kair out in the fog of that pre-dawn night. His watch said that the psychiatrist had been gone only two minutes.

“Four minutes!” said Gosseyn.

It startled him a little. If a weak link was going to snap in Prescott's mind, it would have to be soon now. He leaned forward, expectant, his questions quivering on the tip of his tongue.

“Another reason I told the truth,” Prescott babbled, “is that I am no longer convinced even a superman could interfere with the interplanetary operations which are now about to be launched. The organization has been overcautious in your case.”

Gosseyn's watch showed twelve and one half minutes after four. According to the accelerated time sense working on Prescott's nervous system, the five minutes allotted for Dr. Kair's absence was up. It was too fast, it seemed to Gosseyn. By telescoping time in half, he hadn't given Prescott the opportunity to get really upset. It was too late to slow down. If the man was going to break, now was the time.

“The five minutes are up,” he said decisively. He raised the gun. Prescott's face was a strange, livid color. Gosseyn added savagely, “I'm going to give you one more minute, Prescott. And if you haven't started talking then, or if Kair isn't back, you're through. What I want to know is, where did 'X' or the gang get the instrument they use to corrupt the Games Machine? And where is that instrument now?”