He remembered the girl’s name. It was Pola Shekt.
Now why had he forgotten? He felt angry and cheated. His mind was plotting against him, holding back the last name till it was too late.
But, deep underneath, something was rather glad of it.
14
Second Meeting
In the two months that had elapsed from the day that Dr. Shekt’s Synapsifier had been used on Joseph Schwartz, the physicist had changed completely. Physically not so much, though perhaps he was a thought more stooped, a shade thinner. It was his manner—abstracted, fearful. He lived in an inner communion, withdrawn from even his closest colleagues, and from which he emerged with a reluctance that was plain to the blindest.
Only to Pola could he unburden himself, perhaps because she, too, had been strangely withdrawn those two months.
“They’re watching me,” he would say. “I feel it somehow. Do you know what the feeling is like? . . . There’s been a turnover in the Institute in the last month or so, and it’s the ones I like and feel I can trust that go. . . . I never get a minute to myself. Always someone about. They won’t even let me write reports.”
And Pola would alternately sympathize with him and laugh at him, saying over and over again, “But what can they possibly have against you to do all this? Even if you did experiment on Schwartz, that’s not such a terrible crime. They’d have just called you on the carpet for it.”
But his face was yellow and thin as he muttered, “They won’t let me live. My Sixty is coming and they won’t let me live.”
“After all you’ve done. Nonsense!”
“I know too much, Pola, and they don’t trust me.”
“Know too much about what?”
He was tired that night, aching to remove the load. He told her. At first she wouldn’t believe him, and finally, when she did, she could only sit there, in cold horror.
Pola called up the State House the next day from a public Communi-wave at the other end of town. She spoke through a handkerchief and asked for Dr. Bel Arvardan.
He wasn’t there. They thought he might be in Bonair, six thousand miles away, but he hadn’t been following his scheduled itinerary very closely. Yes, they did expect him back in Chica eventually, but they didn’t know exactly when. Would she leave her name? They would try to find out.
She broke connections at that and leaned her soft cheek against the glass enclosure, grateful for the coolness thereof. Her eyes were deep with unshed tears and liquid with disappointment.
Fool. Fool!
He had helped her and she had sent him away in bitterness. He had risked the neuronic whip and worse to save the dignity of a little Earthgirl against an Outsider and she had turned on him anyway.
The hundred credits she had sent to the State House the morning after that incident had been returned without comment. She had wanted then to reach him and apologize, but she had been afraid. The State House was for Outsiders only, and how could she invade it? She had never even seen it, except from a distance.
And now—She’d have gone to the palace of the Procurator himself to—to—
Only he could help them now. He, an Outsider who could talk with Earthmen on a basis of equality. She had never guessed him to be an Outsider until he had told her. He was so tall and self-confident. He would know what to do.
And someone had to know, or it would mean the ruin of all the Galaxy.
Of course, so many Outsiders deserved it—but did all of them? The women and children and sick and old? The kind and the good? The Arvardans? The ones who had never heard of Earth? And they were humans, after all. Such a horrible revenge would for all time drown whatever justice might be—no, was—in Earth’s cause in an endless sea of blood and rotting flesh.
And then, out of nowhere, came the call from Arvardan. Dr. Shekt shook his head. “I can’t tell him.”
“You must,” said Pola savagely.
“Here? It is impossible—it would mean ruin for both.”
“Then turn him away. I’ll take care of it.”
Her heart was singing wildly. It was only because of this chance to save so many countless myriads of humans, of course. She remembered his wide, white smile. She remembered how he had calmly forced a colonel of the Emperor’s own forces to turn and bow his head to her in apology—to her, an Earthgirl, who could stand there and forgive him.
Bel Arvardan could do anything!
Arvardan could, of course, know nothing of all this. He merely took Shekt’s attitude for what it seemed—an abrupt and odd rudeness, of a piece with everything else he had experienced on Earth.
He felt annoyed, there in the anteroom of the carefully lifeless office, quite obviously an unwelcome intruder.
He picked his words. “I would never have dreamed of imposing upon you to the extent of visiting you, Doctor, were it not that I was professionally interested in your Synapsifier. I have been informed that, unlike many Earthmen, you are not unfriendly to men of the Galaxy.”
It was apparently an unfortunate phrase, for Dr. Shekt jumped at it. “Now, whoever your informant is, he does wrong to impute any especial friendliness to strangers as such. I have no likes and dislikes. I am an Earthman—”
Arvardan’s lips compressed and he half turned.
“You understand, Dr. Arvardan”—the words were hurried and whispered—“I am sorry if I seem rude, but I really cannot—”
“I quite understand,” the archaeologist said coldly, though he did not understand at all. “Good day, sir.”
Dr. Shekt smiled feebly. “The pressure of my work—”
“I am very busy too, Dr. Shekt.”
He turned to the door, raging inwardly at all the tribe of Earthmen, feeling within him, involuntarily, some of the catchwords that were bandied so freely on his home world. The
