He thought again. From where came his conviction of the truth of the conspiracy? He was an archaeologist, given to doubting, but now—Had it been one man’s word? One girl’s kiss? Or Joseph Schwartz?
He couldn’t think! He couldn’t think!
“Well?” Ennius sounded impatient. “Have you anything to say, Dr. Shekt? Or you, Dr. Arvardan?”
But Pola’s voice suddenly pierced the silence. “Why do you ask them? Can’t you see that it’s all a lie? Don’t you see that he’s tying us all up with his false tongue? Oh, we’re all going to die, and I don’t care any more—but we could stop it, we could stop it—And instead we just sit here and—and—talk—” She burst into wild sobs.
The Secretary said, “So we are reduced to the screams of a hysterical girl. . . . Your Excellency, I have this proposition. My accusers say that all this, the alleged virus and whatever else they have in mind, is scheduled for a definite time—six in the morning, I believe. I offer to remain in your custody for a week. If what they say is true, word of an epidemic in the Galaxy ought to reach Earth within a few days. If such occurs, Imperial forces will still control Earth—”
“Earth is a fine exchange, indeed, for a Galaxy of humans,” mumbled the white-faced Shekt.
“I value my own life, and that of my people. We are hostages for our innocence, and I am prepared at this instant to inform the Society of Ancients that I will remain here for a week of my own free will and prevent any disturbances that might otherwise occur.”
He folded his arms.
Ennius looked up, his face troubled. “I find no fault in this man—”
Arvardan could stand it no more. With a quiet and deadly ferocity, he arose and strode quickly toward the Procurator. What he meditated was never known. Afterward he himself could not remember. At any rate, it made no difference. Ennius had a neuronic whip and used it.
For the third time since landing on Earth everything about Arvardan flamed up into pain, spun about, and vanished.
In the hours during which Arvardan was unconscious the six o’clock deadline was reached—
21
The Deadline That Passed
And passed!
Light—
Blurring light and misty shadows—melting and twisting, and then coming into focus.
A face—Eyes upon his—
“Pola!” Things were sharp and clear to Arvardan in a single, leaping bound. “What time is it?”
His fingers were hard upon her wirst, so that she winced involuntarily.
“It’s past seven,” she whispered. “Past the deadline.”
He looked about wildly, starting from the cot on which he lay, disregarding the burning in his joints. Shekt, his lean figure huddled in a chair, raised his head to nod in brief mournfulness.
“It’s all over, Arvardan.”
“Then Ennius—”
“Ennius,” said Shekt, “would not take the chance. Isn’t that strange?” He laughed a queer, cracked, rasping laugh. “The three of us singlehandedly discover a vast plot against humanity, singlehandedly we capture the ringleader and bring him to justice. It’s like a visicast, isn’t it, with the great all-conquering heroes zooming to victory in the nick of time? That’s where they usually end it. Only in our case the visicast went on and we found that nobody believed us. That doesn’t happen in visi-casts, does it? Things end happily there, don’t they? It’s funny—” The words turned into rough, dry sobs.
Arvardan looked away, sick. Pola’s eyes were dark universes, moist and tear-filled. Somehow, for an instant, he was lost in them—they were universes, star-filled. And toward those stars little gleaming metallic cases were streaking, devouring the light-years as they penetrated hyperspace in calculated, deadly paths. Soon—perhaps already—they would approach, pierce atmospheres, fall apart into unseen deadly rains of virus—
Well, it was over.
It could no longer be stopped.
“Where is Schwartz?” he asked weakly.
But Pola only shook her head. “They never brought him back.”
The door opened, and Arvardan was not so far gone in the acceptance of death as to fail to look up with a momentary wash of hope upon his face.
But it was Ennius, and Arvardan’s face hardened and turned away.
Ennius approached and looked momentarily at the father and daughter. But even now Shekt and Pola were primarily Earth creatures and could say nothing to the Procurator, even though they knew that short and violent as their future lives were to be, that of the Procurator would be even shorter and more violent.
Ennius tapped Arvardan on the shoulder. “Dr. Arvardan?”
“Your Excellency?” said Arvardan in a raw and bitter imitation of the other’s intonation.
“It is after six o’clock.” Ennius had not slept that night. With his official absolution of Balkis had come no absolute assurance that the accusers were completely mad—or under mental control. He had watched the soulless chronometer tick away the life of the Galaxy.
“Yes,” said Arvardan. “It is after six and the stars still shine.”
“But you still think you were right?”
“Your Excellency,” said Arvardan, “in a matter of hours the first victims will die. They won’t be noticed. Human beings die every day. In a week hundreds of thousands will have died. The percentage of recovery will be close to zero. No known remedies will be available. Several planets will send out emergency calls for epidemic relief. In two weeks scores of planets will have joined the call and States of Emergency will be declared in the nearer sectors. In a month the Galaxy will be a writhing mass of disease. In two months not twenty planets will remain untouched. In six months the Galaxy will be dead. . . . And what will you do when those first reports come in?
“Let me predict that as well. You will send out reports that the epidemics may have started on Earth. This will save no lives. You will declare war on the Ancients of Earth. This will save no lives. You will wipe the Earthman from the face of his planet. This will save no lives. . . . Or else you will act as go-between for your
