hand. 'I've got to,' he repeated. 'There's no telling what they want, but it must be something worthwhile. They're going to too much trouble to get it. It could be a weapon, or a signal device to call their planet.'
The travel chair whirred.
'Half a minute,' said Diller.
Garner turned off the motor and waited. Diller leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. His face began to change. It was no longer an expression he wore, a mirror of his personality, but a random dispersal of muscle tension. His breathing was ragged.
Finally he looked up. He started to speak and failed. He cleared his throat and tried again. 'An amplifier. The- the bastard has an amplifier buried on the eighth planet.'
'Fine! What does it amplify?'
Diller started to choke.
'Never mind,' said Garner. 'I think I know.' His chair left the room, going much too fast.
'They're both ruunin' scared,' said Luke. 'Headed for Neptune at one gee, with your husband an hour and a half behind.'
'But aren't you sending someone after him?' Judy begged. 'He isn't responsible, he doesn't know what he's doing!'
'Sure. We're sending me. He's got my partner, you know.' Seeing Mrs. Greenberg's reaction, he quickly added, 'They're in one ship. We can't protect Lloyd without protecting your husband.'
They sat in Judy's hotel room sipping Tom Collinses. It was eleven hundred of a blazing August morning.
'Do you know how he got away?' Judy asked.
'Yah. The ET knocked everybody crosseyed when he threw that tantrum at the port. Everybody but Greenberg. Your husband simply picked out a ship that was on standby and had Lloyd take it up. Lloyd knows how to fly a Navy ship, worse luck.'
'Why would Mr. Masney be taking Larry's orders?'
'Because Larry hypnotized him. I remember the whole performance.'
Judy looked down at her lap. The corners of her mouth began to twitch. She began to giggle, and then to laugh. Just as the laughter threatened to become sobs, she clenched her teeth hard, held the pose for a moment, then sagged back in her chair.
'I'm all right now,' she said. Her face held no laughter, only exhaustion.
'What was that all about?'
'It doesn't matter. Why would they be going to Neptune?'
'I don't know. We're not even sure that's where they're going. Don't you have some sort of telepathic link with your husband?'
'Not any more. Since he went into Dr. Jansky's time field I can't feel anything any more.'
'Well, it wouldn't feel like him anyway. Do you remember how you felt at twenty hours night before last?'
'At twenty? Let me see.' She closed her eyes. 'Wasn't I asleep…? Oh. Something woke me up and I couldn't go back to sleep. I had the feeling that something was terribly wrong. Monsters in the shadows. I was right, wasn't I?'
'Yes. Especially if it was Larry's mind you felt.' He gave that a moment to sink in. 'And since then?'
'Nothing.' Her small hand tapped rhythmically on the chair arm. 'Nothing! Except that I want to find him. Find him! That's all I've wanted since he took the ship! Find him before he…'
Find it! But there was no question of finding it, he told himself for the hundredth time. He had to find it first! He had to find it before Kzanol, the real Kzanol, did. And for the hundredth time he wondered if he could.
The Earth had been invisible for hours. Kzanol/Greenberg and Masney sat speechless in the control bubble, speechless and motionless. The control bubble was three quarters of the ship's living space. One could stand upright only in the airlock.
There weren't many distractions for Kzanol/Greenberg. True, he had to keep an eye on Masney. He had to do more than that. He had to know when Masney was uncomfortable, and he had to know it before Masney knew it. If Masney ever came out of hypnosis it might be difficult to get him back. So Kzanol/Greenberg had to send Masney to the lavatory; had to give him water before he was thirsty; had to exercise him before his muscles could cramp from sitting. Masney was not like the usual slave, who could take care of himself when not needed.
Other than that, the self-styled ptavv was dead weight. He spent hours at a time just sitting and thinking. Not planning, for there was nothing to plan. He either reached the eighth planet first, or he didn't. Either he put on the amplifier helmet, or the real Kzanol did, and then there would be no more planning, ever. No mind shield could face an amplifier helmet. On the other hand, the helmet would make him Kzanol's master. Using an amplifier on a thrint was illegal, but he was hardly in danger of Thrintun law.
(Would an amplifier boost the Power of a slave brain? He pushed the thought aside again.)
The far future was bleak at best. He was the last thrint; he couldn't even breed the real Kzanol to get more. Yes, he would be master of an asteroid belt and a heavily populated slave world; yes, he would be richer than even Grandfather Racarliw. But Grandfather had had hundreds of wives, a thousand children!
Kzanol/Greenberg's hundreds of wives would be human slaves, as would his thousand children. Lower- than-ptavvs, every one.
Would he find «women» beautiful? Could he mate with them? Probably. He would have to try it; but his glands were emphatically not Kzanol's glands. In any case he would choose his women by Larry Greenberg's standards of beauty- yes, Greenberg's, regardless of how he felt, for much of the glory in being rich is showing it off, and he would have nobody to impress but slaves.
A dismal prospect.
He would have liked to lose himself in memories, but something held him back. One barrier was that he knew he would nevermore see Thrintun the homeworld, nor Kzathit where he was born, nor Racarliwun, the world he had found and named. He would never look at the world through his own eye; he would see himself only from outside, if ever. This was his own body, his fleshly tomb, now and forever.
There was another barrier, a seemingly trivial matter. Several times Kzanol/Greenberg had closed his eyes and deliberately tried to visualize the happy past; and always what came to mind were whitefoods.
He believed Garner, believed him implicitly. Those films could not have been faked. Copying an ancient tnuctip inscription would not have been enough to perpetrate such a fraud. Garner would have had to
Then the bandersnatchi were intelligent; and the bandersnatchi were undeniably whitefoods. Whitefoods were intelligent, and always had been.
It was as if some basic belief had been shattered. The whitefoods were in all his memories. Whitefoods drifting like sixty-ton white clouds over the estates of Kzathit Stage Logs, and over the green-and-silver fields of other estates when little Kzanol was taken visiting. Whitefood meat in a dozen different forms, on the family table and in every restaurant waiter's memorized menu. A whitefood skeleton over every landowner's guest gate, a great archway of clean polished white bone. Why, the thrint hadn't been born who didn't dream of his own whitefood herd! The whitefood gate meant «landowner» as surely as the sunflower border.
Kzanol/Greenberg cocked his head; his lips pursed slightly, and the skin puckered between his eyebrows. Judy would have recognized the gesture. He had suddenly realized what made the intelligent whitefood so terrible.
A thiint was master over every intelligent beast. This was the Powergiver's primal decree, made before he made the stars. So said all of the twelve Thrintun religions, though they fought insanely over other matters. But if the whitefood was intelligent, then it was immune to the Power. The tnuctipun had done what the Power-giver had forbade!
If the tnuctipun were stronger than the Powergiver, and the Thrintun were stronger than the tnuctipun, and the Powergiver were stronger than the Thrintun-
Then all priests were charlatans, and the Powergiver was a folk myth.
A sentient whitefood was blasphemy.
