Alfred van Vogt: The World of Null-A

I am concerned, we're in the same predicament, and our only purpose right now is to find a place where we can spend the night.”

She made a sound. To Gosseyn it seemed like a muffled laugh, but when he whirled on her, her face was averted from the nearest street light and he couldn't be sure. She turned a moment later to face him, and he had his first real look at her. She was young, with thin but heavily tanned cheeks. Her eyes were dark pools, her lips parted. She wore makeup, but it wasn't a good job and added nothing to her beauty. She didn't look as if she had laughed at anything or anybody for a long time. Gosseyn's suspicion faded. But he was aware that he was back where he had started, protector of a girl whose individuality had not yet shown itself in any tangible form.

The vacant lot, when they came opposite it, made Gosseyn pause thoughtfully. It was dark, and there was brush scattered over it. It was an ideal hiding place for marauders of the night. But, looked at from another angle, it was also a possible shelter for an honest man and his protégée, provided they could approach it without being seen. He noticed after a brief survey that there was a back alley leading to the rear of the vacant lot, and a space between two stores through which they could get to the alley.

It took ten minutes to locate a satisfactory patch of grass under a low, spreading shrub.

“We'll sleep here,” Gosseyn whispered.

She sank down. And it was the wordlessness of her acquiescence that brought the sudden realization that she had come with him too easily. He lay thoughtful, eyes narrowed, pondering the possible dangers.

There was no moon, and the darkness under the overhanging bush was intense. After a while, a long while, Gosseyn could see the shadowlike figure of her in a splash of dim light reflections from a distant street lamp. She was more than five feet from him, and all those first minutes that he watched her she didn't move perceptibly. Studying the shadow shape of her, Gosseyn grew increasingly conscious of the unknown factor she represented. She was at least as unknown as he himself. His speculation ended as the young woman said softly, “My name is Teresa Clark. What's yours?”

What indeed? Gosseyn wondered. Before he could speak, the girl added, “Are you here for the games?”

“That's right,” said Gosseyn.

He hesitated. It was he who ought to be asking the questions.

“And you?” he said. “Are you here for the games, too?”

It took a moment to realize that he had propounded a leading question. Her answer was bitter-voiced. “Don't be funny. I don't even know what null-A stands for.”

Gosseyn was silent. There was a humility here that embarrassed him. The girl's personality was suddenly clearer: a twisted ego that would shortly reveal a complete satisfaction with itself. A car raced past on the near-by street, ending the need for comment. It was followed rapidly by four more. The night was briefly alive with the thrum of tires on pavement. The sound faded. But vague echoes remained, distant throbbing noises which must have been there all the time but which now that his attention had been aroused became apparent.

The young woman's voice intruded; she had a nice voice, though there was a plaintive note of self-pity in it that was not pleasant. “What is all this games stuff, anyway? In a way, it's easy enough to see what happens to winners who stay on Earth. They get all the juicy jobs; they become judges, governors, and such. But what about the thousands who every year win the right to go to Venus? What do they do when they get there?”

Gosseyn was noncommittal. “Personally,” he said, “I think I'll be satisfied with the presidency.”

The girl laughed. “You'll have to go some,” she said, “to beat the Hardie gang.”

Gosseyn sat up. “To beat whom?” he asked.

“Why, Michael Hardie, president of Earth.”

Slowly, Gosseyn sank back to the ground. So that was what Nordegg and the others at the hotel had meant. His story must have sounded like the ravings of a lunatic. President Hardie, Patricia Hardie, a palatial summer home at Cress Village-and every bit of information in his brain about that absolutely untrue.

Who could have planted it there? The Hardies?

“Could you,” came Teresa Clark's voice slowly, “teach me how to win some minor job through the games?”

“What's that?” In the darkness Gosseyn stared at her. His astonishment yielded to a kindlier impulse. “I don't see how it could be done,” he said. “The games require knowledge and skill integrated over a long period. During the last fifteen days, they require such flexibility of understanding that only the keenest and most highly developed brains in the world can hope to compete.”

“I'm not interested in the last fifteen days. If you reach the seventh day, you get a job. That's right, isn't it?”

“The lowest job competed for in the games,” Gosseyn explained gently, “pays ten thousand a year. The competition, I understand, is slightly terrific.”

“I'm pretty quick,” said Teresa Clark. “And I'm desperate. That should help.”

Gosseyn doubted it, but he felt sorry for her.

“If you wish,” he said, “I'll give you a very brief resume.”

He paused. She said quickly, “Please go on.”

Gosseyn hesitated. He felt foolish again at the thought of talking to her on the subject. He began reluctantly, “The human brain is roughly divided into two sections, the cortex and the thalamus. The cortex is the center of discrimination, the thalamus the center of the emotional reactions of the nervous system.” He broke off. “Ever been to the Semantics building?”

“It was wonderful,” said Teresa Clark. “All those jewels and precious metals.”

Gosseyn bit his lip. “I don't mean that. I mean the picture story on the walls. Did you see that?”

“I don't remember.” She seemed to realize she was not pleasing him. “But I saw the bearded man-what's his name?-the director?”

“Lavoisseur?” Gosseyn frowned into the darkness. “I thought he was killed in an accident a few years ago. When did you see him?”

“Last year. He was in a wheel chair.”

Gosseyn frowned. Just for a moment he had thought his memory was going to play him false again. It seemed odd, though, that whoever had tampered with his mind had not wanted him to know that the almost legendary Lavoisseur was still alive. He hesitated, then returned to what he had been saying earlier.

“Both the cortex and the thalamus have wonderful potentialities. Both should be trained to the highest degree, but particularly they should be organized so that they will work in co-ordination. Wherever such co-ordination, or integration, does not occur, you have a tangled personality-over-emotionalism and, in fact, all variations of neuroticism. On the other hand, where cortical-thalamic integration has been established, the nervous system can withstand almost any shock.”

Gosseyn stopped, recalling the shock his own brain had suffered a short time before. The girl said quickly, “What's the matter?”

“Nothing.” Gruffly. “We can talk about it again in the morning.”

He was suddenly weary. He lay back. His last thought before he drifted into sleep was wonder as to what the lie detector had meant when it said, “There is an aura of unique strength about him.”

When he wakened, the sun was shining. Of Teresa Clark there was no sign.

Gosseyn verified her absence by a quick search through the brush. Then he walked to the sidewalk a hundred feet away, and glanced along the street, first north, then south.

The sidewalks and the road were alive with traffic. Men and women, gaily dressed, hurried along past where Gosseyn stood. The sound of many voices and many machines made a buzz and a roar and a hum. It was suddenly exciting. To Gosseyn there came exhilaration and, stronger now, the realization that he was free. Even the girl's departure proved that she was not the second step in some fantastic plan that had begun with the attack on his memory. It was a relief to have her off his hands.