Adam Stone had to be at Chief Downport.
Adam Stone had to be there.
Wouldn’t Adam Stone be surprised in the night? Surprised to meet the strangest of beings, the first renegade among Scanners. (Martel suddenly appreciated that it was of himself he was thinking. Martel the Traitor to Scanners! That sounded strange and bad. But what of Martel, the Loyal to Mankind? Was that not compensation? And if he won, he won Luci. If he lost, he lost nothing—an unconsidered and expendable haberman. It happened to be himself. But in contrast to the immense reward, to Mankind, to the Confraternity, to Luci, what did that matter?)
Martel thought to himself: “Adam Stone will have two visitors tonight. Two Scanners, who are the friends of one another.” He hoped that Parizianski was still his friend.
“And the world,” he added, “depends on which of us gets there first.”
Multifaceted in their brightness, the lights of Chief Downport began to shine through the mist ahead. Martel could see the outer towers of the city and glimpsed the phosphorescent Periphery which kept back the wild, whether Beasts, Machines, or the Unforgiven.
Once more Martel invoked the lords of his chance: “Help me to pass for an Other!”
V
Within the Downport, Martel had less trouble than he thought. He draped his aircoat over his shoulder so that it concealed the instruments. He took up his scanning mirror, and made up his face from the inside, by adding tone and animation to his blood and nerves until the muscles of his face glowed and the skin gave out a healthy sweat. That way he looked like an ordinary man who had just completed a long night flight.
After straightening out his clothing, and hiding his tablet within his jacket, he faced the problem of what to do about the Talking Finger. If he kept the nail, it would show him to be a Scanner. He would be respected, but he would be identified. He might be stopped by the guards whom the Instrumentality had undoubtedly set around the person of Adam Stone. If he broke the Nail—But he couldn’t! No Scanner in the history of the Confraternity had ever willingly broken his Nail. That would be Resignation, and there was no such thing. The only way out, was in the Up-and Out! Martel put his finger to his mouth and bit off the nail. He looked at the now-queer finger, and sighed to himself.
He stepped toward the city gate, slipping his hand into his jacket and running up his muscular strength to four times normal. He started to scan, and then realized that his instruments were masked. Might as well take all the chances at once
, he thought.
The watcher stopped him with a searching Wire. The sphere thumped suddenly against Martel’s chest.
“Are you a Man?” said the unseen voice. (Martel would have known that as a Scanner in haberman condition, his own field-charge would have illuminated the sphere.)
“I am a Man.” Martel knew that the timbre of his voice had been good; he hoped that it would not be taken for that of a Manshonjagger or a Beast or an Unforgiven one, who with mimicry sought to enter the cities and ports of Mankind.
“Name, number, rank, purpose, function, time departed.”
“Martel.” He had to remember his old number, not Scanner 34. “Sunward 4234, 182nd Year of Space. Rank, rising Subchief.” That was no lie, but his substantive rank. “Purpose, personal and lawful within the limits of this city. No function of the Instrumentality. Departed Chief Outport 2019 hours.” Everything now depended on whether he was believed, or would be checked against Chief Outport.
The voice was flat and routine: “Time desired within the city.”
Martel used the standard phrase: “Your Honorable sufferance is requested.”
He stood in the cool night air, waiting. Far above him, through a gap in the mist, he could see the poisonous glittering in the sky of Scanners. The stars are my enemies, he thought: I have mastered the stars but they hate me. Ho, that sounds Ancient! Like a Book. Too much cranching
.
The voice returned: “Sunward 4234 dash 182 rising Subchief Martel, enter the lawful gates of the city. Welcome. Do you desire food, raiment, money, or companionship?” The voice had no hospitality in it, just business. This was certainly different from entering a city in a Scanner’s role! Then the petty officers came out, and threw their beltlights in their fretful faces, and mouthed their words with preposterous deference, shouting against the stone deafness of a Scanner’s ears. So that was the way that a Subchief was treated: matter of fact, but not bad. Not bad.
Martel replied: “I have that which I need, but beg of the city a favor. My friend Adam Stone is here. I desired to see him, on urgent and personal lawful affairs.”
The voice replied: “Did you have an appointment with Adam Stone?”
“No.”
“The city will find him. What is his number?”
“I have forgotten it.”
“You have forgotten it? Is not Adam Stone a Magnate of the Instrumentality? Are you truly his friend?”
“Truly.” Martel let a little annoyance creep into his voice. “Watcher, doubt me and call your Subchief.”
“No doubt implied. Why do you not know the number? This must go into the record,” added the voice.
“We were friends in childhood. He has crossed the—” Martel started to say “the Up-and-Out” and remembered that the phrase was current only among Scanners. “He has leapt from Earth to Earth, and has just now returned. I knew him well and I seek him out. I have word of his kith. May the Instrumentality protect us!”
“Heard and believed. Adam Stone will be searched.”
At a risk, though a slight one, of having the sphere sound an alarm for nonhuman, Martel cut in on his Scanner speaker within his jacket. He saw the trembling needle of light await his words and he started
