all, and it was keeping her awake. She reached over to poke Tepp. The woman muttered something incomprehensible without waking, then turned over on her side. The snoring stopped.
Hilda, however, did not go immediately to sleep. Too much had been happening; her mind was racing with the memories of her first venture into space, and the way her familiar world was being remade, without her consent, by these bizarre creatures from other worlds.
Now that they had actual samples of extraterrestrial machines, and the expertise of the Doc to dissect them, the reverse engineering could start. And what then?
It was one thing to contemplate the possible uses of adding Scarecrow technology to the Bureau's already formidable capacities. That could be very fine. Capturing and bugging terrorists and dopers and turning them loose to be unwitting spies; new weapons; instant transportation anywhere by means of these portals… why, the Bureau would have more power than any organization before in the world's history…
Except that the damn UN had forced itself into the act, and those same abilities would be given to their enemies.
That thought made her scowl up at the dimly lit ceiling. There had to be some way of keeping a competitive advantage for the Bureau. Well, and for the rest of the United States, too, but the important thing was to keep the NBI several steps ahead of everybody else in the world. Was old man Krieg, the UN American delegate, skillful enough to make that happen? Probably not. Probably the Bureau would have to protect itself, as it always had…
A new sound from Merla Tepp made her turn her head and look down. It wasn't a snore this time. It was more like a sob. Astonished, she saw that Tepp's face was damp with tears.
Now, what was that all about? Was Tepp, too, worrying about the future? But then Tepp turned restlessly, still asleep, and the snoring started again.
That was insupportable. Hilda was confident there was no way she could ever get to sleep with that racket going on half a meter from her ears…but then she did.
What woke her was the deputy director's voice snapping through the aircraft's PA system. 'Wake up and get going, everybody! The UN has agreed upon a plan and distribution of the items will start in thirty minutes.'
For an old hand like Hilda thirty minutes was all the time in the world. She was down the wheeled steps of the plane in less than twenty, and she had even managed to browbeat the sleepy stewards into coffee and a couple of sweet rolls. Of course, that meant she was still wearing the slept-in clothes of the day before and she hadn't even attempted a turn at the aircraft's inadequate showers, but she was awake and ready. It was still dark in Kourou, though there was a faint early glow on the eastern horizon, and it was not yet unbearably hot.
The UN's decision had been to divide the objects from Starlab into four packets. One would go to the United States, on behalf of the whole Western Hemisphere, one to China for the mainland Asian powers, one to the Europeans, one to Australia to be shared with Japan, New Zealand, the island nations of the South Pacific and the countries of Indochina. Possession did not, however, confer ownership. So the UN's edict said firmly; research would be done under multinational supervision, with the resulting data to be made public as soon as obtained.
It was a tribute to die histrionic abilities of the experts and diplomats on the scene that not one of them was laughing out loud. Data to be made public! Hilda had no doubt that when the Bureau's technicians produced data the part that would be made public would be strictly limited, and the most valuable data would stay within the Bureau forever.
The best part was that the UN resolution clearly said the Doc was to be in charge of any real investigation… and, Hilda thought comfortably, she knew who was in charge of the Doc. She made her way to where he was being peacefully led out from the shelter in which he had spent the night by his armed guards. Had anyone bothered to tell him what he was supposed to be doing? That did not seem likely. The creature did not even seem curious as, under everyone's watchful eyes, the lucky nationals began removing the bits they had been awarded. He simply stood immobile in rest mode, still wearing the one coppery babushka with the other still held firmly in his lowest-left hand.
United Nations Security Council Resolution 4408
Under the powers vested in the Security Council by the Charter of the United Nations, as amended, the Secretary General is ordered to execute the following instructions:
1. The artifacts of alien origin are to be divided into four parts, in a manner to be chosen by the Secretary General, each part to be deposited in an appropriate research facility in one of the four specified regions of the world.
2. All investigations into the nature and functions of these artifacts are to be conducted in the presence of a representative of the United Nations and of each of the nations party to said region.
3. Investigations are to be limited to noninvasive procedures until further notice. It is contemplated that the individual identified as 'Doc' is to be present when any dismantling is undertaken, provided the individual is physically able to undertake supervision of said artifacts.
– By Order of the Security Council
But that caused a minor fracas, as one of the Indians announced that the extra babushka was definite Scarecrow technology and, as no one else had claimed it, it should be awarded to China for India to share.
Colonel duValier laughed at that. 'You want to try to take it away from him?' he sneered.
'Of course it must be taken from him,' the Indian replied indignantly. And, when no one volunteered for the job, she reached for it herself.
Well, Hilda could have told the woman that that was a mistake, but by the time Hilda opened her mouth to warn her it was too late. The Doc's eyes sprang open; one of his great upper limbs pushed the Indian delegate out of the way- not violently, but not gently, either. The woman went flying. The Doc didn't look after her. He turned and plodded away in the direction of the parked American aircraft. His armed guards raised their weapons in bafflement, but someone shouted, 'For Christ's sake, don't shoot the thing!' The Doc paid no attention to that threat, either, simply strode along with the one metal scarf on his head and the other still clutched in one arm.
'So,' the deputy director said pleasantly, to no one in particular, 'I guess that settles that.'
It did, of course-though, of course, everyone around began arguing vociferously. Hilda didn't wait to take part in the renewed bickering. She hurried after the Doc, now stolidly climbing the steps into the deputy director's jet.
By the time she got inside the Doc was in the lounge, and he was no longer in standby mode. He had commandeered some of the aircraft's monogrammed notepaper and was busily filling pages of it with his meticulous drawings. The crew was passing them around interestedly until one of them caught sight of Hilda, with the deputy director behind her. Then they passed them over to higher authority.
Hilda puzzled over them. The first sketch showed the two Docs together, both wearing shawls over their heads. The second one showed both Docs in what was recognizably a hospital room, one of them doing something surgical to the head of the other. A human woman, actually a quite good likeness of Dr. Marsha Evergood, was standing by. And in the last drawing the former surgeon Doc was himself being operated on, and Dr. Evergood was doing the surgery.
The deputy director looked up at Hilda. 'I think,' he said judiciously, 'that he's trying to tell us he wants to go back to Walter Reed Hospital.'
'Well, yes,' she said, suddenly thoughtful. 'But what's this one here?'
She was pointing to a drawing that showed a human being next to a very peculiar creature. It wasn't a Scarecrow, nor was it any of the Seven Ugly Space Dwarfs. It looked a little bit like some ancient dinosaur, one of the long-necked, long-tailed ones that they called apatosaurus, but it was standing on two legs, and its rubbery neck was hovering menacingly over the human.
'Yes, well,' Marcus Pell said, sounding unhappy, 'I was wondering about that myself. The man looks kind of like Dan Dannerman, doesn't he?'
'He does. And that other thing-could it one of those things Dopey calls a Horch?'
