The Programmed Man Page 5

  "Men, instruments, machines -- it's like one unit."

  "That's the way it has to be," replied Benbow. "The only place we're charitable with space is in our own quarters." York wondered if he detected a note of bitterness but decided not.

  Tregaski winked at York. "The doc's quarters are almost as large as the skipper's. He should complain."

  "Merely an observation," Benbow returned smilingly. He led them into his surgical and dental room, displaying his equipment with relish. "Everything, or almost everything, that the base hospital has, except on a smaller scale." He waved toward a door. "I have a small office there, a small library, study -- "

  "The probe room," Tregaski broke in.

  "Probe room?" asked York.

  "The doc's a psychomedician. Didn't you know? Flip, and he puts you on the couch, wrings you out."

  "It's not quite that way," Benbow defended.

  The lieutenant looked at York. "Just stay out of there," he warned ominously.

  "Mr. York appears stable enough to me," Benbow observed.

  "Not too stable." York grinned. "If I were, I wouldn't be here."

  Benbow stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose that goes for all of us," he answered.

  From the hospital Tregaski led York through gleaming washrooms, sleeping quarters and into the crew's mess hall, which also served as a recreational lounge. En route, he introduced him to several officers as "Mr. York, an inspector for the Bureau of Colonial Planets."

  York saw the quick question that popped into their eyes. Tregaski noticed it, too, for later he explained, "They're wondering what you're doing on the Draco."

  "As long as they just wonder," York murmured. The lieutenant shook his head without answering.

  They descended a ladder and turned into a small compartment. A crewman rose at their entrance. "The air-purification and circulation room," Tregaski explained. "This is Jona Norden, our maintenance chief. How's the air today, Jona?"

  "Fine, Lieutenant. Pure for the pure of heart." He laughed, showing even rows of flashing teeth that appeared all the brighter for his narrow, sallow face.

  "I shouldn't be breathing," Tregaski grunted.

  "Is this the central distribution point for air for the entire ship?" asked York. He faced Norden, trying to discern his race. His eyes were dark, squinty, but that was common to spacemen. His slight body build and height revealed nothing.

  "It's distributed from here and returns here," answered Norden. His eyes searched York's face curiously. "We're continually taking in air, analyzing its content, purifying and recirculating it. It's a never-ending cycle."

  "Must require a crew," York commented.

  Norden agreed. "I have several men," he said.

  Passing through the engine compartment, York saw two Alphans huddled over a Krabacci board, a national game among the planets of the Alphan suns. "Beating him, Wong?" Tregaski called.

  The younger of the two, a dark, slender man with short-cropped black hair, glanced toward them with a bright smile. "No one beats Singkai, Lieutenant."

  "Just keep trying, Wong."

  "I have been, for two years," Wong remarked. As they passed from the room, York noted that the man called Singkai had never lifted his eyes from the board. He mentioned it.

  "He never does," Tregaski returned. "Krabacci's like a religion to him. The ship could burn around him, and he wouldn't look up -- not when he's playing that game."

  "You seem to know them fairly well."

  "That's my business. I know every man in the crew fairly well," Tregaski replied. He stopped suddenly and turned, his face flooded with suspicion. He said raspingly, "If you're thinking what I think you are, you're wrong. They might be Alphans, but they're loyal. I'd stake my life on that."

  "I'm the suspicious sort," York returned calmly.

  "Because they're Alphans?"

  "Yes." He eyed the lieutenant steadily.

  "That's not much to go on," Tregaski grated.

  "No," York answered, "it isn't."

  Tregaski shook his head. "I suppose it's your job. Perhaps I'd feel the same if I were in your place. But you're wrong, York, absolutely and completely wrong. You can take my word for that."

  "If I'm wrong, it won't be the first time," York replied. "But being suspicious in itself does no harm. It's sort of a warning system that keeps the mind on edge, a reminder that there is danger."

  "You can't be just suspicious," Tregaski said sourly. "You have to be suspicious of someone or something. And when you are, you're slanting the odds against them."

  "I'm suspicious of everyone," York admitted. "Not Wong and Singkai in particular, but everyone. I know it sounds unreasonable, but that's the way the game's played."

  Tregaski remarked disparagingly, "What a lousy job."

  York nodded in agreement. "It certainly is, Lieutenant. You don't know how lucky you are."

  Hunched over a small desk in his cabin, York slowly sorted through the Draco's personnel records. Hull had surrendered them only reluctantly and would have refused were it not for the message from the Admiral of the Galactic Seas. York had scant doubt of that. He quickly noted that the records were those of enlisted personnel only; none of the Draco's officers were represented in the small brown folders which Tregaski had delivered to his office. He debated challenging the captain on the point but decided to let it drop. For the time being, at least, he needed Hull's full cooperation. He also decided that the Draco's captain could make an implacable enemy, one that he didn't relish having. Tregaski was of the same caliber, a hulking, formidable man who blew hot and cold according to the captain's moods.

  Putting the folders back in order, he started through them again, studying each one methodically. Occasionally he moved a folder to one side -- those of Alphans or other racial members who had been born among the planets of Prince Li-Hu's hot, white suns.

  Dexter, Lambda, Wulf, Carson...The Draco's crew was composed of men from every quarter of the Empire. He wondered if it were deliberate to prevent too heavy a concentration from any one sun system. That made sense. He noted, too, that there were no Earth-born among the Draco's enlisted men. That also made sense. The rim was not for the Earth-born. When they ventured from the home planet, it was to relax, travel, or rule. Although they staffed the Empire's far-flung administrative bureaus and high military echelons, they were above such duty as the Draco had to offer.

  Finished, he turned to the folders he had put aside. Char Wong, engine technician: born in Chufeng on the planet Pehling, second of the Alphan sun Kang. He perused the record carefully. Wong was twenty-seven standard years old, had a technical education, had enlisted four years before. He had been on the Draco for slightly over two years. His merit ratings were high. Nothing suspicious that caught York's eye. He slid the record back into the pile and went on to the next.

  Jona Norden, chief of maintenance. Tregaski had introduced him in the air-purification compartment, a slender, dark man with flashing teeth and a ready smile. The record explained the racial characteristics which had puzzled York at the time. Norden's mother had been Alphan, his father a native of one of the minor planets of Spica, which indicated Caucasian origin. Education, service record, merit ratings -- nothing unusual.

  David Apgar, deckhand: born in Fengpu. Like Norden, he was a half-breed, but with scant education. Ten years' service without progressing much beyond the lowest rating. Nothing extraordinary, nothing incriminating.

  Lu Singkai, maintenance technician: born on Ling, fourth of the Alphan sun Wansu. York recalled the older, portly figure bent over the Krabacci board and getting the impression of stolidity, inscrutability. Could he have seen Singkai's face, he reflected, it would have been a dark mask. He read the record carefully. Like Wong, he'd had a technical education, but hadn't progressed far in the ranks -- not for twenty-two years' service. At forty-eight, he'd served on both cruisers and destroyers at stations throughout the Empire. His merit ratings were good.


  Sam Wee and George Sun -- both Alphans, both deck-hands, both with standard service records. Nothing that gave even a glimmering of suspicion.

  York pushed the records aside with the feeling that he was getting nowhere. Six men in all came from the Alphan suns, but all of them had quite ordinary records. Nothing in any of them suggested intelligence training or any special aptitude that might relate to the N-bomb. But that was the most dangerous kind, he thought -- men whose records told nothing. He wondered how Tregaski would answer that logic.

  Later, in the wardroom, he found the Draco's doctor browsing through a magazine. At Benbow's invitation, he drew a cup of coffee and joined him. For a while they talked desultorily. The doctor had come from Omar, fourth of the yellow sun Pollux, and for a while he spoke longingly of it.

  "A lovely world," he said. His eyes took on a distant look. "It's been a long time."

  "How long have you been away?"

  "Twenty-five years -- nearly half of my life."

  "Haven't you ever been back?"

  "Only in memory." The doctor set down his cup and looked at York. "I passed on your request to the captain."

  "Oh?" He cocked his head.

  "He has no objections. He instructed me to assist you in any way I could. Within reason," he added.

  "I appreciate that."

  "You might as well know, he's somewhat perturbed over your suspicions."

  "The nature of my work demands suspicion."

  "Because they are Alphans? You can't indict a man because of race, York."

  "Indict? Who said anything about indictment?"

  "Suspicion...indictment," Benbow mused. "You're drawing a narrow line."

  "Perhaps, but I never cross the line -- not until I know." York studied the doctor. "How well do you know them?"

  "The Alphan crew members? I've talked with them on and off, as I have most of the crew. They appear to be like spacemen anywhere -- steady and dependable on the job, sometimes wild and raffish when in port, if I'm to judge by the cuts and broken bones I tend when they return to the ship."

  "Are you talking about the Alphans or spacemen in general?"

  "Spacemen in general." The doctor lifted his eyes. "I'll have to admit, I often think the Alphans are more complicated than the others."

  "In what way?" asked York.

  "They're rather inscrutable," Benbow explained. "As a psychomedician, I realize they don't wear their emotions or thoughts as transparently as most of us. But that's a racial characteristic."

  "I've noted that...blandness."

  "Blandness? Yes, that's an apt word." Benbow smiled. "But that doesn't mean they're masking anything."

  "I didn't say that," he objected.

  "No, you didn't." Benbow glanced at his watch. "I'm going to turn in, catch an hour or so of sleep."

  "An hour or so?" He gazed curiously at him. "What's your hurry?"

  Benbow explained, "I hate to see the universe blink out. There's something terrifying about it. But I like to see it blink back on." He glanced at his watch. "In just over two hours we're emerging from hypertime."

  Back in his small stateroom, York scrutinized the crew records for the last time before stacking them neatly in their original order. He'd learned nothing, or almost nothing, he concluded ruefully. But he did know the names and duties of the six crew members who were Alphan by race or background. He didn't believe that Hull or Tregaski would place much value in that bit of information.

  Preparing for bed, he felt a sharp pain in his nostrils and chest and gasped, reeling for support. Instinctively he held his breath and groped for the door, aware that his eyes were wet and burning. His windpipe was a tube of fire. He found the knob, twisted it and staggered out into the corridor, slamming the door behind him.

  "Gas," he croaked, "masks, masks." He leaned against the wall, pulling in great draughts of air as his mind registered the fact that it was pure. He heard feet in the corridor and saw Jan Galton, the navigator.

  "What's the difficulty?" Galton asked worriedly.

  "Gas," York gasped.

  "Gas?" Galton looked alarmed.

  "What's wrong, York?"

  He turned and saw the doctor in his nightclothes. "Gas -- my room's filled," he answered weakly. More figures came, and he recognized Hull and Tregaski.

  Benbow sniffed the air. "You must be mistaken."

  Hull broke in roughly. "What's going on, York?" His square face held suspicion.

  "Someone tried to gas me," he answered.

  "Gas?" Hull sniffed.

  "There's none in the corridor," Tregaski broke in, "and everything works off a central system."

  York drew in a deep breath, feeling his head clear. "Try my room," he suggested drily.

  Tregaski crossed the corridor, turned the knob and opened the door slightly, sniffing against the crack. He recoiled as if shot and slammed shut the door. "Flooded," he gasped. Benbow walked silently to a locker and drew out a face mask and portable oxygen tank. As he donned them, Tregaski wiped his eyes and followed suit.

  "Call maintenance," Hull instructed the person nearest him.

  "Stand back," Benbow warned in a muffled voice. Still adjusting the mask as he approached the door, he glanced back at Tregaski before turning the knob and entering. Tregaski followed at his heels, slamming the door behind him. A pungent odor filled the corridor.

  Hull looked grimly at York. "When did you notice it?"

  York said weakly, "Suddenly, as I was preparing for bed."

  "I don't see how it's possible."

  "You'll know in a moment," he promised. Hull didn't reply. They turned toward the door to watch. In the silence, York reflected that he knew just about what the doctor and Tregaski would find. But who? How? He hadn't long to wait. Tregaski came from the room first, followed by the doctor, who held something in his hand. He slammed the door behind him and pulled off his face mask.

  "Gas bomb," he told Hull. He held out his hand, displaying a small cylinder.

  Hull looked at it, his face expressionless. "But how?" he finally asked. "York was in there."

  "Some sort of a timer," Benbow answered. He studied the cylinder curiously. "There appears to be something like a gel around the cap, probably a material that melts when exposed to room temperature."

  "Why didn't it flood the system?" Galton asked.

  Benbow's voice was grim. "His vents were closed," he said. He turned to the captain. "If you don't mind, I'd like to take this to the lab, see if I can analyze the gas. I have a faint suspicion."

  "A cyanic gas," York broke in. "I recognize the odor."

  "Yes, I believe so."

  Hull turned to Tregaski. "Have maintenance decontaminate that room, and get me the name of every enlisted man who might have had access to this area tonight." He glanced at York. "We'll find the meaning of this," he promised.

  "I can tell you what it means." York eyed the captain steadily. "It means you have a murderer aboard."

  "Murder," Hull echoed. "That's difficult to believe."

  "Is it?" asked York. "You should take a whiff of that gas, Captain. It's very convincing."

  5

  HE WAS being followed!

  The knowledge came to him with a slight sense of shock as he strolled down the main thoroughfare of Rhonda, industrial capital of the planet Anhaus, third of the orange-yellow sun Arcturus.

  I am Myron Terle, and I'm being followed, he thought. By whom? Instantly the answer came: an enemy agent. He never changed his pace nor gave any sign that he knew, but he knew! The unknown sense that had alerted him had served him too well in the past to mistake the sudden awareness for anything but fact.

  He felt the excitement mount, swirling through his body. He couldn't be captured. Not now! He had too much to do; his mission was far too important to allow that. Important enough that he had submitted to deep therapy, all but robbed of his identity while Dr. G's hypnotic probes drummed into his mi
nd exactly what he had to do. Yet from moment to moment he scarcely knew; that was the damnable part of it.

  "A necessary precaution in case you're captured," Dr. G had explained. "We can't afford to let you know on this mission, Myron."

  Nor did he know. All he knew with clarity was that he was Myron Terle, and at such and such a time he had certain functions to perform. And even those remained unknown until the time came for him to perform them. At such times it was as if a small gate in his mind opened, allowing only the knowledge he needed to seep into his consciousness.

  Who was following him? The question repeated itself in his mind, over and over. An agent of Prince Li-Hu? No. He rejected the idea immediately. Li-Hu could never have traced his devious path, but August Karsh could. Karsh was a bloodhound without peer; even Dr. G conceded that. Moreover, his net was broad and deep, three-dimensional, extending throughout the entire galaxy. No place was too remote for Karsh's scrutiny; his agents were everywhere. It had to be Karsh!

  All his senses attuned, he paused from time to time to peer at the window displays, just as any tourist might. All the while the sense of danger drummed within his skull. Followed -- an agent of August Karsh. The surmise grew to certainty as the warning became a clamor in his mind.

  You can escape! The thought came, and his lips involuntarily formed the word "How?"

  Myron Terle -- teleport! That was it, he was a teleport. He could project himself into nowhere, vanish before his pursuer's eyes. He could make himself reappear in his hotel room, the spaceport, anywhere. Teleport! Teleport! Teleport! The word screamed in his mind.

  You can't teleport! The knowledge came like a voice speaking from inside his skull. You can't, you can't, you can't, can't, can't, can't...No, he couldn't, not even if he wanted to or had to. He knew that with certainty. The power had been taken away by the same hypnotic probes that had erased his memory, substituting in its place the milestones of his mission. Dr. G had explained that.

  "You can't teleport, Myron. Not on another world. It's too dangerous. We can't take a chance that August Karsh or Li-Hu might learn of that talent." No, he couldn't teleport. He could only walk, walk. He suppressed the desire to run.