Alfred Van Vogt - Null–A Three

“They went out to eat.” The face twisted. “That friend of yours must have brought some woman in here; because that’s who he and the boy went out with.” He finished in a disapproving tone: “Dressed strange, if you ask me—that woman.”

Gosseyn, remembering the young Interstellar Marriage Club’s Strella and her wraparound dress, but already feeling relieved by the information, said, “Probably one of the new styles.”

He cautioned: “You’d better get organized. The president’s personal guard will be here shortly.”

“Huh!”

During the seconds that the caretaker stood there absorbing what seemed to be a feeling of shock, Gosseyn’s eyes turned slightly, and located a spot on the carpeted floor half a dozen feet beyond the twisted shoulder nearest him.

He made his extra-brain mental photograph of the floor surface just inside the alcove, paying no attention to the room beyond—but fleetingly aware that it was probably the living room of the caretaker’s apartment. Then: “Thank you,” he said politely.

As he stepped back, the door closed with a click. Gosseyn turned and walked away. That was in case he was being watched through a peephole.

He counted to thirty because it would take a minute or so for the older man to get to the phone. Made a mental picture of the corridor floor in that location. And then he did his twenty decimal jump to the alcove position.

As he grew aware again, he heard the caretaker’s voice saying: “Tell Mr. Gorrold that… that fellow Gosseyn is back.”

He seemed to be listening to a reply because, after a few moments more, his voice spoke an acknowledgment: “All right, all right.”

At that point Gosseyn made his jump back to the hallway location, and returned to the apartment.

As he entered Blayney was shaking hands with the men, and bowing to the women. His back was to Gosseyn as he said, “Anything you need, I’ll be in touch with Mr. Gosseyn.”

As he finished speaking, he turned and saw Gosseyn, came over, and said. “You can get through to me any time. And I suggest—” his tone was suddenly grim—“until we get those people out of this galaxy, we’d better stay in touch, and on the ball.”

Gosseyn said, “Sir, Mr. Crang and I will walk you to the front door.”

Outside in the hallway, he made his only comment on Blayney’s admonition; “I’m sure that at this moment nobody can guarantee how all this is going to come out. Just about everybody is primarily and with total determination concerned with his own situation.” With that, as they walked along, he asked a question that Gosseyn Two, out there on the Dzan battleship, wanted an answer to.

Blayney was amused.

“We picked up, and stored, all the jewels and precious metals,” he said. “What’s left is this uneven floor surface and the torn walls.”

Gosseyn said, “I’m still hoping it can be rebuilt; and although I, personally, never saw any of the valuables, I gather that what you’re saying is that they were never disposed of; never sold at auction, or to individual collectors.”

“They’re in a government security building.”

Gosseyn said, “My brother out there in space would like to have them available again. He thinks they should be returned to their legal owner: a rebuilt institute.” Blayney’s strong face relaxed into a faint smile. “It’s a very complicated subject,” he said, “I’ll think about what’s best, from my point of view.”

As, a minute later, Crang opened the front door, a roboplane was sinking to the pavement fifty feet away. As it touched the surface, a door opened, and a dozen uniformed men leaped down. They loped over and took up position beside the door. In the time-honored fashion, each man clicked his heels, and snapped his hand up to a salute.

A smiling Blayney acknowledged the salute; and then stood there with Gosseyn and Crang another four minutes before five gleaming limousines came charging down the street and through the gate into the Institute grounds. More men leaped out.

And, evidently, the time had come.

Blayney turned to Gosseyn. “Do you want me to have Dr. Kair brought over to you?”

With so many observers present, Gosseyn made his reply formal: “No, Mr. President. I’m sure I should go over to his office. That, if anywhere, is where the earlier brain photographs will be, and the equipment to deal with the situation.”

“Very good. But don’t waste any time.”

“I understand, sir. We don’t want any more incidents, or three day absences.”

“Exactly right.”

As moments later, he watched the beautiful machines drive off, what bothered Gosseyn was: it seemed too easy.

All those violent people out there were being held motionless, so to say, by some equivalent of a psychological trap they were in. There was Enro, the only human being left aboard the Troog warship because, if he were free, he could launch his huge fleet against anyone.

So there he was, apparently a prisoner, but actually in touch with his admiral who—if the prisoner were harmed—would know it instantly. It was presumed that, in such an eventuality, the great space fleet would at once attack and destroy the alien vessel.

Therefore, the Troogs, out-numbered thousands to one, would—so it was believed—restrain themselves from doing anything harmful; in fact, that was the agreement.

Here on earth, the outward appearance was that he and the others had the support of President Blayney and all his forces. It was hard to credit that the Big Business people, who were opposed to the rebuilding of the Institute and the Games Machine, would act in some violent fashion during the next two hours.

“… So I can go and see Dr. Kair—”

That was what Yona had agreed to; and, since no Troog had objected sufficiently to try a self-appointment leadership gambit, evidently all the way down the chain of Troog command there was silent acceptant agreement that something had to be done.

And, of course, here on earth was Breemeg and the trio of scientists from the Dzan battleship, each thinking their private thoughts; but having to bide their time.

As Crang and he walked back toward the apartment, Gosseyn told the Venusian detective the words he had overheard the caretaker speak on the phone to someone in Gorrold’s office.

He concluded unhappily, “My first thought is, it looks as if, when Gorrold thought it over—as he said he would do—he finally decided to get involved again.”

All those minutes, while walking along the corridor, Gosseyn had been aware of his alter ego… off there, in the remoteness of space, aboard the Dzan battleship. And, because of what was happening, he now addressed the other Gosseyn:

“So far I haven’t killed anybody.”

“Lucky you!” came the reply. “You didn’t have to fight off Enro’s attack on Venus.”

Thus reminded of Enro, Gosseyn Three commented: “He’s up there, now, on the Troog battleship.”

The reply had in it a satirical overtone: “I have a feeling that when Enro was telling you about his understanding of General Semantics, about taking all possibilities into account, he believed he knew how to do that better than anyone. But—” smile impression—“I’m deducing he forgot about your ability.” A mental shrug; then: “I say, good riddance.” The faraway communication concluded: “Remember, as things stand, the emperor’s mother is all yours—no competition now.”

“It’s interesting,” said Gosseyn Three, “that he never said a word when he discovered he was to be the hostage.”

The reply was the equivalent of a mental shrug: “I couldn’t care less.” He added, “And while I’m still here on the ship I’ll see if I can get hold of those visual materials Enro gave to your future bride.”