couch.
For a while he waited until he had recovered his breath; then he uttered a single, heart-felt syllable:
“Well?”
“I'm sorry I couldn't rescue you before. But you see how very important it was to wait until all the leaders had gathered here.”
“Do you mean to say,” spluttered Stormgren, “that you knew where I was all the time? If I thought—”
“Don't be too hasty,” answered Karellen, “at least, let me finish explaining.”
“Very well,” said Stormgren darkly, “I'm listening.” He was beginning to suspect that he had been no more than bait In an elaborate trap.
“I've had a—perhaps 'tracer' is the best word for it—on you For some time,” began Karellen. “Though your late friends were correct in thinking that I couldn't follow you underground, I was able to keep track until they brought you to the nine. That transfer in the tunnel was ingenious, but when the first car ceased to react it gave the plan away and I soon located you again. Then it was merely a matter of waiting. I knew that once they were certain I'd lost you, the leaders would come here and I'd be able trap them all.”
“But you're letting them go!”
“Until now,” said Karellen, “I had no way of telling who of the two and a half billion men on this planet were the real heads of the organization. Now that they're located, I can trace their movements anywhere on Earth, and can watch their actions in detail if I want to. That's far better than locking them up. If they make any moves, they'll betray their remaining comrades. They're effectively neutralized, and they know it. Your rescue will be completely inexplicable to them, for you must have vanished before their eyes.” That rich laugh echoed round the tiny room.
“In some ways the whole affair was a comedy, but it had a serious purpose. I'm not merely concerned with the few score men in this organization—I have to think of the moral effect on other groups that exist elsewhere.” Stormgren was silent for a while. He was not altogether satisfied, but he could see Karellen's point of view, and some of his anger had evaporated.
“It's a pity to do it in my last few weeks of office,” he said finally, “but from now on I'm going to have a guard on my house. Pieter can be kidnapped next time. How has he managed, by the way?”
“I've watched him carefully this last week, and have deliberately avoided helping him. On the whole he's done very well—but he's not the man to take your place.”
“That's lucky for him,” said Stormgren, still somewhat aggrieved. “And by the way, have you had any word yet from your superiors—about showing yourself to us? I'm sure now that it's the strongest argument your enemies have. Again and again they told me, 'We'll never trust the Overlords until we can see them. “ Karellen sighed.
“No. I've heard nothing. But I know what the answer must be.” Stormgren did not press the matter. Once he might have done so, but now for the first time the faint shadow of a plan was beginning to take shape in his mind. The words of his interrogator passed again through his memory. Yes, perhaps instruments could be devised….
What he had refused to do under duress, he might yet attempt of his own free will.
4
It would never have occurred to Stormgren, even a few days before, that he could seriously have considered the action he was planning now. This ridiculously melodramatic kidnapping, which in retrospect seemed like a third-rate TV drama, probably had a great deal to do with his new outlook. It was the first time in his life that Stormgren had ever been exposed to violent physical action, as opposed to the verbal battles of the conference room. The virus must have entered his bloodstream; or else he was merely approaching second childhood more quickly than he had supposed.
Sheer curiosity was also a powerful motive, and so was a determination to get his own back for the trick that had been played upon him. It was perfectly obvious now that Karellen had used him as a bait, and even if this had been for the best of reasons, Stormgren did not feel inclined to forgive the Supervisor at once.
Pierre Duval showed no surprise when Stormgren walked unannounced into his office. They were old friends and there was nothing unusual in the Secretary-General paying a personal visit to the Chief of the Science Bureau. Certainly Karellen would not think it odd, if by any chance he—or one of his underlings—turned his instruments of surveillance upon this spot.
For a while the two men talked business and exchanged political gossip; then, rather hesitantly, Stormgren came to the point. As his visitor talked, the old Frenchman leaned back in his chair and his eyebrows rose steadily, millimetre by millimetre, until they were almost entangled in his forelock. Once or twice he seemed about to speak, but each time thought better of it.
When Stormgren had finished, the scientist looked nervously around the room.
“Do you think he's listening?” he said.
“I don't believe he can. He's got what he calls a tracer on me, for my protection. But it doesn't work underground, which is one reason why I came down to this dungeon of yours. It's supposed to be shielded from all forms of radiation, isn't it? Karellen's no magician. He knows where I am, but that's all.”
“I hope you're right. Apart from that, won't there be trouble when he discovers what you're trying to do? Because he will, you know.”
“I'll take that risk. Besides, we understand each other rather well.” The physicist toyed with his pencil and stared into space for a while.
“It's a very pretty problem. I like it,” he said simply. Then he dived into a drawer and produced an enormous writing-pad, quite the biggest that Stormgren had ever seen.
“Right,” he began, scribbling furiously in what seemed to be some private shorthand. “Let me make sure I have all the facts. Tell me everything you can about the room in which you have your interviews. Don't omit any detail, however trivial it seems.”
“There isn't much to describe. It's made of metal, and is about eight metres square and four high. The vision screen is about a metre on a side and there's a desk immediately beneath it—here, it will be quicker if I draw it for you.”
Rapidly Stormgren sketched the little room he knew so well, and pushed the drawing over to DuvaL As he did so, he recalled, with a slight shiver, the last time he had done this sort of thing. He wondered what had happened to the blind Welsh-man and his confederates, and how they had reacted to his abrupt departure.
The Frenchman studied the drawing with a puckered brow.
“And that's all you can tell me?” Duval snorted in disgust.
“What about lighting? Do you sit in total darkness? And how about ventilation, heating. .
Stormgren smiled at the characteristic outburst.
“The whole ceiling is luminous, and as far as I can tell the air comes through the speaker grille. I don't know how it leaves; perhaps the stream reverses at intervals, but I haven't noticed it. There's no sign of any heater, but the room is always at normal temperature.”
“Meaning, I suppose, that the water vapour has frozen out, but not the carbon dioxide.”
Stormgren did his best to smile at the well-worn joke.
“I think I've told you everything,” he concluded. “As for the machine that takes me up to Karellen's ship, the room in which I travel is as featureless as an elevator cage. Apart from he couch and table, it might very well be one.” There was silence for several minutes while the physicist embroidered his writing-pad with meticulous and microscopic doodles. As he watched, Stormgren wondered why it was that a man like Duval—whose mind was incomparably more brilliant than his own—had never made a greater mark in the world of science. He
