Isaac Asimov - Fantastic Voyage II - Destination Brain

"This kind of compartmentalization slows progress," said Morrison.

"It's the price we pay for security," said Boranova, "so if no one talks to you, it is not a personal matter. They will have no reason to talk to you."

"They'll be curious about a stranger."

"I have seen to it that they know you are an outside expert. That is all they need to know."

Morrison frowned. "How can they expect an American to be an outside expert?"

"They don't know you're an American."

"My accent will give me away at once as it did to the serving woman."

"But you will not talk to anyone, except for those to whom I will introduce you."

"As you wish," said Morrison indifferently.

He was still looking around. Since he was here, he might as well learn what he could, even if it should turn out to be trivial. When - if - he returned to the United States, he would surely be asked for every detail he had observed and he might as well have something to give them.

He said in Boranova's ear, "This must be an expensive place. What fraction of the national budget is expended here?"

"It's expensive," said Boranova, admitting nothing further, "and the government labors to limit the expense."

Dezhnev said sourly, "I had to work for an hour this morning to persuade them to allow a small additional experiment for your benefit - may the Committee catch the cholera."

Morrison said, "The cholera no longer exists, even in India."

"May it be reinstated for the Committee."

Boranova said, "Arkady, if these supposedly humorous expressions of yours get back to the Committee, it will do you no good."

"I'm not afraid of those pigs, Natasha."

"I am. What will happen to next year's budget if you infuriate them?"

Morrison said, with sudden impatience, but speaking even more softly, "What concerns me is neither the Committee nor the budget, but the simple question of what it is I am doing here."

Dezhnev said, "You are here to witness a miniaturization and to be given an explanation of why we need your help. Will that satisfy you, Comrade Am- Comrade Outside Expert?"

Morrison followed the other two to something that looked like a small old-fashioned train carriage on very narrow-gauge tracks.

Boranova placed her thumb on a smooth patch and a door slid open smoothly and without noise. "Please get in, Dr. Morrison."

Morrison held back. "Where are we going?"

"To the miniaturization chamber, of course."

"By railroad? How big is this place?"

"It is large, Doctor, but not so large. This is a matter of security. Only certain individuals can use this device and only by using it can one penetrate into the core of the Grotto."

"Are your own people so untrustworthy?"

"We live in a complex world, Dr. Morrison. Our people are trustworthy, but we do not wish to subject large numbers to temptations they need not face. And if someone persuades one of us to go - elsewhere, as we have persuaded you, it is safer if their knowledge is limited, you see. - Please get in."

Morrison entered the compact vehicle with some difficulty. Dezhnev followed him with equal trouble, saying, "Another example of senseless cheese paring. Why so small? Because the bureaucrats spend billions of rubles on a project and they feel virtuous if they save a few hundred in odd places at the cost of making hardworking people miserable."

Boranova got into the front seat. Morrison could not see how she manipulated the controls or, for that matter, if there were controls to manipulate. It was probably controlled by a computer. The carriage began to move suddenly and Morrison felt the slight backward jar that resulted.

There was a small window at eye level on either side, but not of clear glass. Morrison could see a small section of the cavern outside in a streaky, wavy, poorly focused manner. Apparently, the windows were not meant for vision, but were merely intended to reduce what might otherwise be an unacceptably tight enclosure to those with claustrophobic tendencies.

It seemed to Morrison that the individuals he could make out through the glass paid no attention to the moving carriage. Everyone here, he thought, is well-trained. To show any interest in any procedure with which you have nothing directly to do must apparently be a sign of discourtesy - or worse.

It seemed to Morrison that they were approaching the wall of the cavern and the carriage, with another small jerk, slowed. A section of the wall slid aside and the carriage, with yet another jerk, picked up speed and moved through the opening.

It grew dark almost at once and the dim light in the carriage's ceiling did little more than change night to dusk.

They were in a narrow tunnel into which the carriage fit with apparently little room to spare, except on the left side where Morrison, peering past Dezhnev, thought he could make out another pair of rails. There must be at least two such carriages, he thought, with room to pass one another in the tunnel if both were in operation.

The tunnel was as dimly lit as the carriage and it was not straight. Either it had been carved through the hill in such a way as to follow lines of least resistance in order to save money or it was curved deliberately in some dim, atavistic search for making things more secure by making them more complicated. The darkness inside and outside the carriage might serve the same purpose.

"How long will this take - uh -" asked Morrison.

Dezhnev looked at him with (in the dimness) an unreadable expression. "You don't know how to address me, I see. I do not have an academic title, so why not call me Arkady? Everyone does here and why not? My father always said, 'What counts is the person, not the name.'"

Morrison nodded. "Very well. How long will this take, Arkady?"

"Not long, Albert," said Dezhnev cheerfully - and Morrison, having been lured into first-name informality, could not object to the return.

He surprised himself a little by finding he did not wish to object. Dezhnev, even with his father's aphorisms included, seemed to be uncomplicated, at least, and, under the circumstances, Morrison welcomed a chance of refraining from the perpetual fencing match to which Boranova seemed to subject him.

The carriage could not be moving at a speed faster than a leisurely walk, but there was a small lurch each time it took a curve on the track. Apparently, petty economies included leaving the curves unbanked.

Then, with absolutely no warning, light flooded in and the carriage ground to a stop.

Morrison blinked as he stepped out. The room they were now in was not as large as the one they had left and there was virtually nothing in it. There were only the tracks under the carriage that made a wide arc and then led back toward the section of the wall from which they had emerged. He could see another small carriage disappearing into the opening and the wall closing behind it. The carriage in which they had arrived made a slow circuit of the arc and came to rest near the wall.

Morrison looked around. There were many doors and the ceiling was comparatively low. Without definite evidence of the fact, he felt that he was in a three-dimensional checkerboard, with numerous small rooms on several levels.

Boranova was waiting for him, seeming to observe his curiosity with a touch of disapproval. "Are you ready, Dr. Morrison?"

"No, Dr. Boranova," said Morrison. "Since I don't know where I'm going or what I'm doing, I'm not ready. However, if you will lead the way, I will follow."

"That is sufficiently ready. - This way, then. There is someone else you must meet."

They passed through one of the doors and into another small room. This one was very well-lit and had its walls lined with thick cables.

In the room was a young woman who looked up when they came in, pushing aside something, that seemed, from its appearance, to be some kind of technical report. She was quite pretty in a pale and vulnerable way. Her flaxen hair was cut short but with enough of a wave in it to keep her from looking too severe. The scanty cotton uniform she wore, which Morrison already knew to be universal within the Grotto, showed her to be attractively slim and shapely enough, though without Boranova's opulence. Her face was marred or perhaps enhanced (according to taste) by a tiny mole just under the left corner of her mouth. Her cheekbones were high, her hands thin-fingered and graceful, and her expression did not appear as though she were much given to smiling.