A dozen connections, probing through skin to the fissures, through the tightness of which could be felt the delicate shadow echoes of the microcurrents that surged from cell to cell in the brain.
Carefully they watched the delicate ammeters stir and leap, as the connections were made and broken. The tiny needlepoint recorders traced their delicate spider webs across the graphed paper in irregular peaks and troughs.
Then the graphs were removed and placed on the illuminated opal glass. They bent low over it, whispering.
Arbin caught disjointed flashes: “. . . remarkably regular . . . look at the height of the quinternary peak . . . think it ought to be analyzed . . . clear enough to the eye . . .”
And then, for what seemed a long time, there was a tedious adjustment of the Synapsifier. Knobs were turned, eyes on vernier adjustments, then clamped and their readings recorded. Over and over again the various electrometers were checked and new adjustments were made necessary.
Then Shekt smiled at Arbin and said, “It will all be over very soon.”
The large machinery was advanced upon the sleeper like a slow-moving and hungry monster. Four long wires were dangled to the extremities of his limbs, and a dull black pad of something that looked like hard rubber was carefully adjusted at the back of his neck and held firmly in place by clamps that fitted over the shoulders. Finally, like two giant mandibles, the opposing electrodes were parted and brought downward over the pale, pudgy head, so that each pointed at a temple.
Shekt kept his eyes firmly on the chronometer; in his other hand was the switch. His thumb moved; nothing visible happened—not even to the fear-sharpened sense of the watching Arbin. After what might have been hours, but was actually less than three minutes, Shekt’s thumb moved again.
His assistant bent over the still-sleeping Schwartz hurriedly, then looked up triumphantly. “He’s alive.”
There remained yet several hours, during which a library of recordings were taken, to an undertone of almost wild excitement. It was well past midnight when the hypodermic was pressed home and the sleeper’s eyes fluttered.
Shekt stepped back, bloodless but happy. He dabbed at his forehead with the back of a hand. “It’s all right.”
He turned to Arbin firmly. “He must stay with us a few days, sir.”
The look of alarm grew madly in Arbin’s eyes. “But—but—”
“No, no, you must rely on me,” urgently. “He will be safe; I will stake my life on it. I am staking my life on it. Leave him to us; no one will see him but ourselves. If you take him with you now, he may not survive. What good will that do you? . . . And if he does die, you may have to explain the corpse to the Ancients.”
It was the last that did the trick. Arbin swallowed and said. “But look, how am I to know when to come and take him? I won’t give you my name!”
But it was submission. Shekt said, “I’m not asking you for your name. Come a week from today at ten in the evening. I’ll be waiting for you at the door of the garage, the one we took in your biwheel at. You must believe me, man; you have nothing to fear.”
It was evening when Arbin arrowed out of Chica. Twenty-four hours had passed since the stranger had pounded at his door, and in that time he had doubled his crimes against the Customs. Would he ever be safe again?
He could not help but glance over his shoulder as his biwheel sped along the empty road. Would there be someone to follow? Someone to trace him home? Or was his face already recorded? Were matchings being leisurely made somewhere in the distant files of the Brotherhood at Washenn, where all living Earthmen, together with their vital statistics, were listed, for purposes of the Sixty?
The Sixty, which must come to all Earthmen eventually. He had yet a quarter of a century before it came to him, yet he lived daily with it on Grew’s account, and now on the stranger’s account.
What if he never returned to Chica?
No! He and Loa could not long continue producing for three, and once they failed, their first crime, that of concealing Grew, would be discovered. And so crimes against the Customs, once begun, must be compounded.
Arbin knew that he would be back, despite any risk.
It was past midnight before Shekt thought of retiring, and then only because the troubled Pola insisted. Even then he did not sleep. His pillow was a subtle smothering device, his sheets a pair of maddening snarls. He arose and took his seat by the window. The city was dark now, but there on the horizon, on the side opposite the lake, was the faint trace of that blue glow of death that held sway over all but a few patches of Earth.
The activities of the hectic day just past danced madly before his mind. His first action after having persuaded the frightened farmer to leave had been to televise the State House. Ennius must have been waiting for him, for he himself had answered. He was still encased in the heaviness of the lead-impregnated clothing.
“Ah, Shekt, good evening. Your experiment is over?”
“And nearly my volunteer as well, poor man.”
Ennius looked ill. “I thought well when I thought it better not to stay. You scientists are scarcely removed from murderers, it seems to me.”
“He is not yet dead, Procurator, and it may be that we will save him, but—” And he shrugged his shoulders.
“I’d stick to rats exclusively henceforward, Shekt. . . . But you don’t look at all your usual self, friend. Surely you, at least, must be hardened to this, even if I am not.”
“I am getting old, my Lord,” said Shekt simply.
“A dangerous pastime on Earth,” was the dry reply. “Get you to bed, Shekt.”
And so Shekt sat there, looking out at the dark city of a dying
