distracted now.
“And of course he’s also well aware that he’ll never know what it means to be a Lithian—regardless of his shape and inheritance,” he added. “Chtexa might get a shadow of that through to him, if only they could meet—but no, they don’t even speak the same language.”
“Egtverchi’s been studying Lithian,” Michelis said. “But it’s true that he can’t speak it, not even as well as I can. He has nothing to read but your grammar—the documents are still all classified against him—and nobody to talk to. He sounds as rusty as an iron hinge. But, Ramon, you could interpret.”
“Yes, I could. But Mike, it’s physically impossible. There just isn’t time to get Chtexa here, even if we had the resources and the—authority to do it.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that. I was thinking of CirCon, d’Averoigne’s new circum-continuum radio. I don’t know what shape it’s in, but the Message Tree puts out a powerful signal—possibly d’Averoigne could pick it up. If so, you might be able to talk to Chtexa. I’ll see what I can find out, anyhow.”
“I’m willing to try,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “But it doesn’t sound very promising.”
He stopped to think, not of more answers—he had already hit his head against that wall more than often enough—but of what questions he still needed to ask, Michelis’ appearance gave him the cue. It had shocked him at first, and he could still not quite get used to it. The big chemist had aged markedly: his face was drawn, and he had deeply cut, liverish circles under his eyes. Liu looked no better; while she had not seemed to age any, she looked miserable. There was a tension in the air between them, too, as though they had failed to find in each other sufficient release from the tensions of the world around them.
“It’s possible that Agronski might know something that would be helpful,” he said, only half-aloud.
“Maybe,” Michelis said. “I’ve seen him only once—at a party, the one where Egtverchi caused such a stink. He was behaving very oddly. I’m sure he recognized us, but he wouldn’t meet our eyes, let alone come and talk to us. As a matter of fact, I can’t remember seeing him talking to anybody. He just sat in a corner and drank. It wasn’t at all like him.”
“Why did he come, do you suppose?”
“Oh, that’s not hard to guess. He’s a fan of Egtverchi’s.”
“Martin? How do you know?”
“Egtverchi bragged about it. He said he hoped to have the whole Lithia commission on his side eventually.” Michelis grimaced.
“The way Agronski was acting, he’ll be of no use to Egtverchi or anybody else.”
“And so we have still another soul on the way to damnation,” Ruiz-Sanchez said grimly. “I should have suspected it. There’s so little meaning in Agronski’s life as it is, it won’t take Egtverchi long to cut him off from any contact with reality at all. That is what evil does—it empties you.”
“I’m none too sure Egtverchi’s to blame,” Michelis said, his voice steeped in gloom. “Except as a symptom. The Earth is riddled with schizophrenics already. If Agronski had any tendency that way, and obviously he did, then all he needed was to be planted here again for the tendency to flower.”
“That wasn’t my impression of him,” Liu said. “From what little I saw of him, and from what you’ve told me, he seemed dreadfully normal—even simple-minded. I don’t see how he could get deep enough into any question to be driven insane—or how he could be tempted to fall into your theological vacuum, Ramon.”
“In this universe of discourse, Liu, we are all very much alike,” Ruiz-Sanchez said dispiritedly. “And from what Mike tells me, I think we may be already too late to do much for Martin. And he’s only-only a sample of what’s happening everywhere within the sound of Egtverchi’s voice.”
“It’s a mistake to think of schizophrenia as a disease of the wits, anyhow,” Michelis said. “Back in the days when it was first being described, the English used to call it ‘lorry-driver’s disease.’ When intellectuals get it, the results are spectacular only because they can articulate what they feel: Nijinski, van Gogh, T. E. Lawrence, Nietzsche, Wilson… it’s a long list, but it’s nothing compared to the ordinary people who’ve had it. And they get it fifty-to-one over intellectuals. Agronski is just the usual kind of victim, no more, no less.”
“What has happened to that threat you mentioned?” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “Egtverchi got on the air again last night without his being made a ward of yours. Was your friend in the complicated hat just flailing the air?”
“I think that’s partly the answer,” Michelis said hopefully. “They haven’t said another word to us, so I’m just guessing, but it may be that your arrival disconcerted them. They expected you to be publicly unfrocked—and the fact that you weren’t has thrown their schedule for announcing the Lithia decision seriously out of joint. They’re probably waiting to see what you will do now.”
“So,” Ruiz-Sanchez said grimly, “am I. I might just do nothing, which would probably be the most confusing thing I could do. I think their hands are tied, Mike. He’s never mentioned the Bifalcos’ products but that once, but obviously he must be selling them by the warehouse-load, so his sponsors won’t cut him off. Nor can I see on what grounds the UN Communications Commission can do it.” He laughed shortly. “They’ve been trying for decades to encourage more independent comment on 3-V anyhow—and Egtverchi is certainly a giant step in that direction.”
“I should think he’d be open to charges of inciting to riot,” Michelis said.
“He hasn’t incited any riots that I’ve heard about,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “The Frisco affair happened spontaneously as far as anyone could see—and I noticed that the pictures didn’t show a single one of those uniformed followers of his in the crowds.”
“But he praised the rioters’ spirit, and made fun of the police,” Liu pointed out. “He as good as endorsed it.”
“That’s not incitement,” Michelis said. “I see what Ramon means. He’s smart enough to do nothing for which he could be brought to trial—and a false arrest would be suicide, the UN would be inciting a riot itself.”
“Besides, what would they do with him if they got a conviction?” Ruiz asked. “He’s a citizen, but his needs aren’t like ours; they’d be chancing killing him with a thirty-day sentence. I suppose they could deport him, but they can’t declare him an undesirable, alien without declaring Lithia a foreign country—and until that report is released, Lithia is a protectorate, with a right to admission to the UN as a member state!”
“Small chance of that,” Michelis said. “That would mean ditching Cleaver’s project.”
Ruiz-Sanchez felt the same sinking of the heart that had overcome him when Michelis first gave him that news. “How far advanced is it now?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. All I know is that they’ve been shipping equipment to him in huge amounts. There’s another load scheduled to leave in two weeks. The scuttlebutt says that Cleaver has some kind of crucial experiment ready to go as soon as that shipment gets there. That puts it pretty close—the new ships make the trip in less than a month.”
“Betrayed again,” Ruiz-Sanchez said bitterly.
“Then is there nothing you can do, Ramon?” Liu asked.
“I’ll interpret for Egtverchi and Chtexa, if anything comes of that project.”
“Yes, but…”
“I know what you mean,” he said. “Yes, there is something decisive that I can do. And possibly it would work. In fact, it is something that I must do.”
He stared blindly at them. The buzzing of the bees, so reminiscent of the singing of the jungles of Lithia, probed insistently at him.
“But,” he said, “I don’t think that I’m going to do it.”
Michelis moved mountains. He was formidable enough under normal conditions, but when he was desperate and saw a possible way out, no bulldozer could have been more implacable in crushing through an opening.
Lucien le Comte des Bois-d’Averoigne, late Procurator of Canarsie, and always fellow in the brotherhood of science, received them all cordially in his Canadian retreat. Not even the sardonically silent figure of Egtverchi made him blink; he shook hands with the displaced Lithian as though they were old friends meeting again after a lapse of a few weeks. The count himself was a large, rotund man in his early sixties, with a protuberant belly, and he was brown all over: his remaining hair was brown, his suit was brown, he was deeply tanned, and he was smoking a long brown cigar.
The room in which he received them—Ruiz-Sanchez, Michelis, Liu, and Egtverchi—was a curious mixture of lodge and laboratory. It had an open fireplace, rough furniture, 257 mounted guns, an elk’s head, and an amazing mess of wires and apparatus.
“I am by no means sure that this is going to work,” he told them promptly. “Everything I have is still in the
