That won’t work, he thought, and had a moment’s panic until he found his comb, which had a sharp enough tooth to write. He wrote: “Emergency none. Martel Scanner calling Parizianski Scanner.”
The needle quivered and the reply glowed and faded out: “Parizianski Scanner on duty and D.C. Calls taken by Scanner Relay.”
Martel cut off his speaker.
Parizianski was somewhere around. Could he have crossed the direct way, right over the city wall, setting off the alert, and invoking official business when the petty officers overtook him in midair? Scarcely. That meant that a number of other Scanners must have come in with Parizianski, all of them pretending to be in search of a few of the tenuous pleasures which could be enjoyed by a haberman, such as the sight of the newspictures or the viewing of beautiful women in the Pleasure Gallery. Parizianski was around, but he could not have moved privately, because Scanner Central registered him on duty and recorded his movements city by city.
The voice returned. Puzzlement was expressed in it. “Adam Stone is found and awakened. He has asked pardon of the Honorable, and says he knows no Martel. Will you see Adam Stone in the morning? The city will bid you welcome.”
Martel ran out of resources. It was hard enough mimicking a man without having to tell lies in the guise of one. Martel could only repeat: “Tell him I am Martel. The husband of Luci.”
“It will be done.”
Again the silence, and the hostile stars, and the sense that Parizianski was somewhere near and getting nearer; Martel felt his heart beating faster. He stole a glimpse at his chestbox and set his heart down a point. He felt calmer, even though he had not been able to scan with care.
The voice this time was cheerful, as though an annoyance had been settled: “Adam Stone consents to see you. Enter Chief Downport, and welcome.”
The little sphere dropped noiselessly to the ground and the wire whispered away into the darkness. A bright arc of narrow light rose from the ground in front of Martel and swept through the city to one of the higher towers—apparently a hostel, which Martel had never entered. Martel plucked his aircoat to his chest for ballast, stepped heel-and-toe on the beam, and felt himself whistle through the air to an entrance window which sprang up before him as suddenly as a devouring mouth.
A tower guard stood in the doorway. “You are awaited, sir. Do you bear weapons; sir?”
“None,” said Martel, grateful that he was relying on his own strength.
The guard let him past the check-screen. Martel noticed the quick flight of a warning across the screen as his instruments registered and identified him as a Scanner. But the guard had not noticed it.
The guard stopped at a door. “Adam Stone is armed. He is lawfully armed by authority of the Instrumentality and by the liberty of this city. All those who enter are given warning.”
Martel nodded in understanding at the man and went in.
Adam Stone was a short man, stout and benign. His grey hair rose stiffly from a low forehead. His whole face was red and merry looking. He looked like a jolly guide from the Pleasure Gallery, not like a man who had been at the edge of the Up-and-Out, righting the Great Pain without haberman protection.
He stared at Martel. His look was puzzled, perhaps a little annoyed, but not hostile.
Martel came to the point. “You do not know me. I lied. My name is Martel, and I mean you no harm. But I lied. I beg the Honorable gift of your hospitality. Remain armed. Direct your weapon against me—”
Stone smiled: “I am doing so,” and Martel noticed the small Wirepoint in Stone’s capable plump hand.
“Good. Keep on guard against me. It will give you confidence in what I shall say. But do, I beg you, give us a screen of privacy. I want no casual lookers. This is a matter of life and death.”
“First: whose life and death?” Stone’s face remained calm, his voice even.
“Yours, and mine, and the worlds’.”
“You are cryptic but I agree.” Stone called through the doorway: “Privacy please.” There was a sudden hum, and all the little noises of the night quickly vanished from the air of the room.
Said Adam Stone: “Sir, who are you? What brings you here?”
“I am Scanner Thirty-four.”
“You a Scanner. I don’t believe it.”
For answer, Martel pulled his jacket open, showing his chestbox. Stone looked up at him, amazed. Martel explained:
“I am cranched. Have you never seen it before?”
“Not with men. On animals. Amazing! But—what do you want?”
“The truth. Do you fear me?”
“Not with this,” said Stone, grasping the Wirepoint. “But I shall tell you the truth.”
“Is it true that you have conquered the Great Pain?”
Stone hesitated, seeking words for an answer.
“Quick, can you tell me how you have done it, so that I may believe you?”
“I have loaded the ships with life.”
“Life?”
“Life. I don’t know what the great pain is, but I did find that in the experiments, when I sent out masses of animals or plants, the life in the center of the mass lived longest. I built ships—small ones, of course—and sent them out with rabbits, with monkeys—”
“Those are Beasts?”
“Yes. With small Beasts. And the Beasts came back unhurt. They came back because the walls of the ships were filled with life. I tried many kinds, and finally found a sort of life which lives in the waters. Oysters. Oyster-beds. The outermost oyster died in the Great Pain. The inner ones lived. The passengers were unhurt.”
“But they were Beasts?”
“Not only Beasts. Myself.”
“You!”
“I came through Space alone. Through what you call the Up-and-Out, alone. Awake and sleeping. I am unhurt. If you do not believe me, ask your brother Scanners. Come and see my ship in the morning. I will be glad to see you then, along with your brother Scanners. I am going to demonstrate before the Chiefs of the
