20 (AUG. 10, SUN.)
Me seemes the world is runne quite out of square,From the first point of his appointed sourse,And being once amisse growes daily wourse and wourse.
—Edmund Spenser
"Don't bother me," I said, pulling the sheet back up. "This is a day of rest."
"Not for the unrighteous," Stew Macon said, yanking the sheet down again. "Come on, Sam—there are forty-'leven reporters out there with umpty-two thousand questions to ask. They hear you got a fill-in last night and they're mad because you didn't tell them right away."
"I had my reasons," I said, sitting up. "The chief one being that I was dead tired. Earth's in one piece, isn't it? What more do they want?"
"They want a Monday paper story, what else? They said maybe you ought to have a whiff of that conscience gas yourself."
"All right." I got up and started to dress.
"Don't waste time shaving," Stew said. "They can stand you the way you are."
I shaved anyway, using the time to sort out what I was going to tell them.
They were there with their notebooks and sheafs of copy paper and lapel tape recorders and cameras, gathered impatiently in one of Ultra's big conference rooms. There was a magnificent close-up view of the moon through a transparent section of the hull, but no one was paying any attention to it.
My confrères, the British, French, Russian and other information officers or press secretaries, were seated behind a long table on a dais. An empty chair near the center of the table was flanked by Joy Linx and that Monolithian, Frij, who masqueraded as Addison Madison.
I took my seat and the UPI man jumped up and said, "Can we start now? Sam, tell us more about this conscience gas. How did it get to Domingo Sanchez? Was it dropped over his capital or piped into his office through the air conditioning, or what?"
That was an easy one. Frij had briefed me fully on that the night before.
"Simple," I said. "They rigged his microphone. You know the one he goes to every day to harangue the multitude and blast the big powers."
"Of course we know," the UPI said, "buthow?"
"An American technician did it. Despite his anti-U.S. diatribes, Domingo Sanchez still needs American help locally. The technician sprayed the microphone with the gas, using a sort of pocket atomizer. Domingo breathed in the fumes his own moist breath activated."
"What does the gas do," a network correspondent asked; "affect the nerve centers of the brain?"
"Something like that. It makes the subject acutely aware of any suffering he is capable of causing. It has the psychological effect of making him actually feel the hurt he intends before he inflicts it. The more drastic the act he contemplates, the greater his pain. He can relieve the pain only by a clear-cut decision not to inflict the hurt."
"How long does this effect last?" a science writer asked. "Can't Domingo send the planes back up again when it wears off?"
I looked at Frij, but Joy had already shoved a piece of paper across to me. I read it quickly.
"No," I said. "The effect is permanent."
There was a stir in the room, and someone asked, "You mean Domingo Sanchez, erstwhile scourge of the Caribbean, is now and forever more on the side of the angels?"
I waited for the laughter to die down and said, "That's right. There shouldn't be any more trouble from El Spaniola—as long as the present regime lasts."
"Oh," the UPI man said, "then this gas was used only on Domingo Sanchez. It's not transferable? You know what I mean—contagious, like a cold?"
"It's not communicable in the way a disease is, but it doesn't necessarily have to be administered individually. One pellet no bigger than the end of my thumb, for example, would be enough to gas everybody in this room. I have a fact-sheet on the gas that I'll hand out to you after the press conference. I think it will answer most of the technical questions you may have. Its formula, of course, remains a Monolithian secret."
The Reuters man had a question for the British press officer: "Now that the Spaniola threat is ended, when does the super-summit meeting start and what's it all about? What's the agenda?"
"The conference is already in progress," the Briton said.
"How long will it last? What are they discussing?"
"They are discussing the future of mankind and it will go on as long as is necessary."
"Who represents Monolithia?" a French correspondent asked.
The French press officer shrugged and turned to Frij who, in his best Addison Madison manner, smiled and said, "That's a good question, old man. They haven't lifted the veil on that one."
"What are we going to call him in our stories? At least give us his title."
"I'll try to pry it out of them," Frij said. "Meanwhile, why not call him Mr. M.? That stands for Monolithia, I hasten to add. It isn't necessarily his initial."
That was about as far as anyone went. There were a few more questions, which drew vague or uninformative replies, and then the briefing ended with the promise that the press would be informed when the super-summit conference was over and that any communiqué would be expedited.
I hurried after the UPI man to ask about something that had been puzzling me. "Hey," I said, "where's the AP?"
"In his cabin, sick as a dog. His old intestinal trouble's acting up again. He never should have come on this junket."
"What about his story?" I asked. "Anybody going to file for him?"
"Don't worry. As soon as we get our own stories off, we're going to chip in and do one under his byline."
"That's damn nice of you."
"Nuts," the UPI said. "You've done the same thing in your time."
The way he put it made me realize how far out of things I was. I was beginning to feel like the tiresome old P.R. man who keeps telling people how he used to be a newspaper man himself.
The reporters had all gone off to file their stories and the only ones left in the conference room were Frij, Joy and the press officers. Frij and Joy were talking by themselves. I wandered over.
"I suppose you've got lots of this conscience gas," Joy was saying.
"Sufficient unto our needs," Frij said in his irritating way.
"Is there any here on Ultra?" I asked him. "I'd like to see what it looks like."
"Like many gases, it's invisible, as well as being odorless and tasteless. Joy, why don't you take our curious young man on a guided tour of Ultra? He's been so busy since he arrived that he hasn't had a chance to give it more than a once-over."
When we were out of earshot Joy said, "I guess you don't like Frij much, either."
"He's the first of them to rub me that way," I said. "Most of them are quite charming."
"It's my personal opinion they're all queer," Joy said.
"You mean homosexuals?"
"Either that or the Monolithian equivalent. Maybe I put it too strongly, but there's something wrong with them."
"Well, they're aliens, after all. You can't expect them to be just like us."
"No, but I've taken that into consideration. They don't have any women."
"Most explorers don't. Columbus didn't. The women come later, when the men have made things easier for them."
"Ha!" Joy said. "Go tell that to the Israeli women."
"You know what I mean."
We had made our way up the inner spiral ramp to the top-most part of the sphere.
"I guess I'm supposed to show you the view," Joy said. "Behold the moon. And, yonder, the stars. We don't seem to be able to see Earth from here. I hope it's still intact.... Who's that?"
It was a man kneeling close to the transparent outer edge of the corridor. We had startled him. He got to his feet, guiltily, then saw who we were.
"Oh, hello, Sam. Hello, Joy." It was Rod Harris of the AP. "Come here. Have a look at this."
"I thought you were sick," I said.
"I must be sick," Rod said. "I'm seeing double."
"Let me feel your head," Joy said. "I'll bet you have a fever."
"By all means feel my head. A pleasure. But that isn't what's the matter with me. Look out there. See those shiny things fastened to the hull at the ends of those long rods?"
"I see them," Joy said. "They're like silver Christmas tree ornaments. What are they?"
"I don't know what they're for," Rod said. "Maybe they're solar batteries or radar. Anyway they act just like mirrors. Look in that one. See? It lets you see right into one of the rooms. It's hard to tell at first, but I think I've got it figured out that the room's on the level just below us—what they call B Deck."
"I see it now. There must be a dozen or more people in there. Hey, they must be the VIPs! There's Gov, and the Russian and the Indian——"
"That's who they are, Joy. Can you make out what they're doing?"
"As far as I can see they're not doing a thing except lounging back in big chairs. They don't seem to be talking. I can't even tell if they've got their eyes open."
"They haven't," Rod said. "They're all asleep—or unconscious. Okay? Now look at that reflector—over there, to the left. No, higher. There. Now what do you see?"
"That's Gov! The President again!"
"Good. Now look in the next room. The man with the mustache—who's that?"
"The British Prime Minister?"
"Right," Rod said excitedly. "Now look into the room on the other side of Gov's. Here, shift over this way a little. There."
"That must be my room," I said. "Hey, there's somebody in it. Going through my suitcase. He won't find much. He looks vaguely familiar but I can't make out who he is."
"No wonder he looks familiar, Sam," Joy said. "That's you!"
"She's right, Sam," Rod said. "That's either you or your double. Do you have any idea what the hell's going on?"
It was me, all right—or my double. If you've ever seen yourself in a home movie or on a TV monitor you know how it takes a second or so for you to recognize yourself on the screen—probably because you're so used to full-face reversed image you get in the bathroom mirror every morning. My double, apparently having found nothing in my things, took a last look around and let himself out into the corridor, where we lost sight of him.
"Well?" Rod said. "Want to chase him with me?"
"No," I said. "It wouldn't do any good. He's a Monolithian. So are all the other duplicates."
"Well," Rod said. "I see where you and I ought to have a good long talk. You know all this for a fact?"
I nodded. "Yes. All right, Rod. If I tell you what I know—and what I'm beginning to suspect—will you print it?" The fact that my duplicate was here in Ultra and not down in Bethesda where he would be capable of hurting Mae had something to do with my decision to spill to the AP.
"Every damn word, Sam," Rod Harris said.
Joy shrieked when the interior wall of the corridor slid back, revealing a Monolithian pointing a weapon of some sort at us.
The Monolithian smiled. "Miss Linx and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that censorship has just been imposed."