remembered an unkind and probably inaccurate comment of a friend in the U.S. State Department. “The French produce the best second-raters in the world.”
Duval was the sort of man who supported that statement.
The physicist nodded to himself in satisfaction, leaned forward and pointed his pencil at Stormgren.
“What makes you think, Rikki,” he asked, “that Karellen's vision-screen, as you call it, really is what it pretends to be?”
“I've always taken it for granted; it looks exactly like one. What else would it be, anyway?”
“When you say that it looks like a vision-screen, you mean, don't you, that it looks like one of ours?”
“Of course.”
“I find that suspicious in itself. I'm sure the Overlord's own apparatus won't use anything so crude as an actual physical screen—they'll probably materialize images directly in space. But why should Karellen bother to use a TV system, anyway?
The simplest solution is always best. Doesn't it seem far more probable that your `vision-screen' is really nothing more complicated than a sheet of one-way glass?”
Stormgren was so annoyed with himself that for a moment he sat in silence, retracing the past. From the beginning, he had never challenged Karellen's story—yet now he came to look back, when had the Supervisor ever told him that he was using a TV system? He had simply taken it for granted; the whole thing had been a piece of psychological trickery, and he had been completely deceived. Always assuming, of course, that Duval's theory was correct. But he was jumping to conclusions again; no one had proved anything yet.
“If you're right,” he said, “all I have to do is to smash the glass—” Duval sighed.
“These unscientific laymen! Do you think it'll be made of anything you could smash without explosives? And if you succeeded, do you imagine that Karellen is likely to breathe the same air that we do? Won't it be nice for both of you if he flourishes in an atmosphere of chlorine?”
Stormgren felt a little foolish. He should have thought of that.
“Well, what do you suggest?” he asked with some exasperation.
“I want to think it over. First of all we've got to find if my theory is correct, and if so learn something about the material of that screen. I'll put a couple of my men on the job. By the way, I suppose you carry a brief-case when you visit the Supervisor? Is it the one you've got there?”
“Yes.”
“It should be big enough. We don't want to attract attention by changing it for another, particularly if Karellen's grown used to it.”
'What do you want me to do?” asked Stormgren. “Carry a concealed X-ray set?” The physicist grinned.
“I don't know yet, but we'll think of something. I'll let you know what it is in a fortnight's time.”
He gave a little laugh.
“Do you know what all this reminds me of?”
“Yes,” said Stormgren promptly, “the time you were building illegal radio sets during the German occupation.”
Duval looked disappointed.
“Well, I suppose I have mentioned that once or twice before. But there's one other thing—”
“What's that?”
“When you are caught, I didn't know what you wanted the gear for.”
“What, after all the fuss you once made about the scientist's social responsibility for his inventions? Really, Pierre, I'm ashamed of you!” Stormgren laid down the thick folder of typescript with a sigh of relief.
“Thank heavens that's settled at last,” he said. “It's strange to think that these few hundred pages hold the future of mankind. The World State! I never thought I would see it in my lifetime!”
He dropped the file into his brief-case, the back of which was no more than ten centimetres from the dark rectangle of the screen. From time to nine his fingers played across the locks in a half-conscious nervous reaction, but he had no intention of pressing the concealed switch until the meeting was over. There was a chance that something might go wrong: though Duval had sworn that Karellen would detect nothing, one could never be sure.
“Now, you said you'd some news for me,” Stormgren continued, with scarcely concealed eagerness. “Is it about—”
“Yes,” said Karellen. “I received a decision a few hours ago.”
What did he mean by that? wondered Stormgren. Surely it was not possible for the Supervisor to have communicated with his distant home, across the unknown numbers of light years that separated him from his base. Or perhaps—this was van Ryberg's theory—he had merely been consulting some vast computing machine which could predict the outcome of any political action.
“I don't think,” continued Karellen, “that the Freedom League and its associates will be very satisfied, but it should help to reduce the tension. We won't record this, by the way.
“You've often told me, Rikki, that no matter how unlike you we are physically, the human race would soon grow accustomed to us. That shows a lack of imagination on your part. It would probably be true in your case, but you must remember that most of the world is still uneducated by any reasonable standards, and is riddled with prejudices and superstitions that may take decades to eradicate.
“You will grant that we know something of human psychology. We know rather accurately what would happen if we revealed ourselves to the world in its present state of development. I can't go into details, even with you, so you must accept my analysis on trust. We can, however, make this definite promise, which should give you some satisfaction. In fifty years—two generations from now—we will come down from our ships and humanity will at last see us as we are.”
Stormgren was silent for a while, absorbing the Supervisor's words. He felt little of the satisfaction that Karellen's statement would once have given him. Indeed, he was somewhat confused by his partial success, and for a moment his resolution faltered. The truth would come with the passage of time: all his plotting was unnecessary and perhaps unwise. If he still went ahead, it would be only for the selfish reason that he would not be alive in fifty years. Karellen must have seen his irresolution, for he continued:
“I'm sorry if this disappoints you, but at least the political problems of the near future won't be your responsibility. Perhaps you will think that our fears are unfounded, but believe me we've had convincing proofs of the danger of any other course.”
Stormgren leaned forward, breathing heavily.
“So you have been seen by Man!”
“I didn't say that,” Karellen answered promptly. “Your world isn't the only planet we've supervised.”
Stormgren was not to be shaken off so easily.
“There have been many legends suggesting that Earth has been visited in the past by other races.”
“I know; I've read the Historical Research Section's report. It makes Earth look like the crossroads of the Universe.”
“There may have been visits about which you know nothing,” said Stormgren, still angling hopefully. “Though since you must have been observing us for thousands of years, I suppose that's rather unlikely.”
“I suppose it is,” replied Karellen, in his most unhelpful manner. And at that moment Stormgren made up his mind.
“Karellen,” he said abruptly, “I'll draft out the statement and send it up to you for approval. But I reserve the right to continue pestering you, and if I see any opportunity, I'll do my best to learn your secret.”
“I'm perfectly well aware of that,” replied the Supervisor, with a slight chuckle.
“And you don't mind?”
“Not in the least—though I draw the line at nuclear weapons, poison gas, or anything else that might strain our friendship.”
Stormgren wondered what, if anything, Karellen had guessed. Behind the Supervisor's banter he had recognized the note of understanding, perhaps—who could tell? — even of encouragement.
“I'm glad to know it,” Stormgren replied in as level a voice as he could manage. He rose to his feet, bringing down the cover of his case as he did so. His thumb slid along the catch.
“I'll draft that statement at once,” he repeated, “and send It up on the teletype later today.”
While he was speaking, he pressed the button—and knew that all his fears had been groundless. Karellen's
