Gordon Dickson - The Human Edge

One thing was certain. He was deathly afraid of his Morah pursuers; and it was not until he was shut in a room out of sight of them that he quieted down. However, nothing could bring him to say anything humanly understandable. He merely stared at the faces of all those who came close to him, and felt their clothing as someone might fondle the most precious fabric made—and whimpered a little when the questions became too insistent, trying to hide his face in his arms but not succeeding because of the surgery that had been done to him.

The Morah went back to their own ship to contact their chain of command, leading ultimately up to the Jhan; and the young Military Police captain lost no time in getting the fugitive to his Headquarters’ Section and the problem, into the hands of his own commanders. From whom, by way of natural military process, it rose through the ranks until it came to the attention of Marshal Sayers Whin.

“Hell’s Bells—” exploded Whin, on hearing it. But then he checked himself and lowered his voice. He had been drawn aside by Harold Belman, the one-star general of the Corps who was his aide; and only a thin door separated him from the box where Dormu and the Jhan sat, still watching the athletic show. “Where is the… Where is he?”

“Down in my office, sir.”

“This has got to be quite a mess!” said Whin. He thought rapidly. He was a tall, lean man from the Alaskan back country and his temper was usually short-lived. “Look, the show in there’ll be over in a minute. Go in. My apologies to the Jhan. I’ve gone ahead to see everything’s properly fixed for the meeting at lunch. Got that?”

“Yes, Marshal.”

“Stick with the Jhan. Fill in for me.”

“What if Dormu—”

“Tell him nothing. Even if he asks, play dumb. I’ve got to have time to sort this thing out, Harry! You understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said his aide.

Whin went out a side door of the small anteroom, catching himself just in time from slamming it behind him. But once out in the corridor, he strode along at a pace that was almost a run.

He had to take a lift tube down eighteen levels to his aide’s office. When he stepped in there, he found the fugitive surrounded by the officer of the day and some officers of the Military Police, including General Mack Stigh, Military Police Unit Commandant. Stigh was the ranking officer in the room; and it was to him Whin turned.

“What about it, Mack?”

“Sir, apparently he escaped from the Jhan’s ship—”

“Not that. I know that. Did you find out who he is? What he is?” Whin glanced at the fugitive who was chewing hungrily on something grayish-brown that Whin recognized as a Morah product. One of the eatables supplied for the lunch meeting with the Jhan that would be starting any moment now. Whin grimaced.

“We tried him on our own food,” said Stigh. “He wouldn’t eat it. They may have played games with his digestive system, too. No, sir, we haven’t found out anything. There’ve been a few undercover people sent into Morah territory in the past twenty years. He could be one of them. We’ve got a records search going on. Of course, chances are his record wouldn’t be in our files, anyway.”

“Stinking Morah,” muttered a voice from among the officers standing around. Whin looked up quickly, and a new silence fell.

“Records search. All right,” Whin said, turning back to Stigh, “that’s good. What did the Morah say when what’s-his-name—that officer on duty down at the docks—wouldn’t give him up?”

“Captain—?” Stigh turned and picked out a young officer with his eyes. The young officer stepped forward.

“Captain Gene McKussic, Marshal,” he introduced himself.

“You were the one on the docks?” Whin asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“What did the Morah say?”

“Just—that he wasn’t human, sir,” said McKussic. “That he was one of their own experimental pets, made out of one of their own people—just to look human.”

“What else?”

“That’s all, Marshal.”

“And you didn’t believe them?”

“Look at him, sir—” McKussic pointed at the fugitive, who by this time had finished his food and was watching them with bright but timid eyes. “He hasn’t got a hair on him, except where a man’d have it. Look at his face. And the shape of his head’s human. Look at his fingernails, even—”

“Yes—” said Whin slowly, gazing at the fugitive. Then he raised his eyes and looked around at the other officers. “But none of you thought to get a doctor in here to check?”

“Sir,” said Stigh, “we thought we should contact you, first—”

“All right. But get a doctor now! Get two of them!” said Whin. One of the other officers turned to a desk nearby and spoke into an intercom. “You know what we’re up against, don’t you—all of you?” Whin’s eyes stabbed around the room. “This is just the thing to blow Ambassador Dormu’s talk with the Morah Jhan sky high. Now, all of you, except General Stigh, get out of here. Go back to your quarters and stay on tap until you’re given other orders. And keep your mouths shut.”

“Marshal,” it was the young Military Police captain, McKussic, “we aren’t going to give him back to the Morah, no matter what, are we, sir…”

He trailed off. Whin merely looked at him.

“Get to your quarters, Captain!” said Stigh, roughly.

The room cleared. When they were left alone with the fugitive, Stigh’s gaze went slowly to Whin.

“So,” said Whin, “you’re wondering that too, are you, Mack?”

“No, sir,” said Stigh. “But word of this is probably spreading through the men like wildfire, by this time. There’ll be no stopping it. And if it comes to the point of our turning back to the Morah a man who’s been treated the way this man has—”

“They’re soldiers!” said Whin, harshly. “They’ll obey orders.” He pointed at the fugitive. “That’s a soldier.”

“Not necessarily, Marshal,” said Stigh. “He could have been one of the civilian agents—”

“For my purposes, he’s a soldier!” snarled Whin. He took a couple of angry paces up and down the room in each direction, but always wheeling back to confront the fugitive. “Where are those doctors? I’ve got to get back to the Jhan and Dormu!”

“About Ambassador Dormu,” Stigh said. “If he hears something about this and asks us—”

“Tell him nothing!” said Whin. “It’s my responsibility! I’m not sure he’s got the guts—never mind. The longer it is before the little squirt knows—”

The sound of the office door opening brought both men around.

“The little squirt already knows,” said a dry voice from the doorway. Ambassador Alan Dormu came into the room. He was a slight, bent man, of less than average height. His fading blond hair was combed carefully forward over a balding forehead; and his face had deep, narrow lines that testified to even more years than hair and forehead.

“Who told you?” Whin gave him a mechanical grin.

“We diplomats always respect the privacy of our sources,” said Dormu. “What difference does it make—as long as I found out? Because you’re wrong, you know, Marshal. I’m the one who’s responsible. I’m the one who’ll have to answer the Jhan when he asks about this at lunch.”

“Mack,” said Whin, continuing to grin and with his eyes still fixed on Dormu, “see you later.”

“Yes, Marshal.”

Stigh went toward the door of the office. But before he reached it, it opened and two officers came in; a major and a lieutenant colonel, both wearing the caduceus. Stigh stopped and turned back.

“Here’re the doctors, sir.”