probably right. He would like to find some convincing proof. That is why he Is always carrying out these experiments, even though he pretends that they are only games.”
“You are sure he doesn't suspect that your interest is more than academic?”
“Quite sure. In many ways Boyce is remarkably obtuse and simple-minded. That makes his attempts to do research in this, of all fields, rather pathetic. There is no need to take any special action regarding him.”
“I see. And what about the girl who fainted?”
“This is the most exciting feature of the entire affair. Jean Morrel was, almost certainly, the channel through which the information came. But she is twenty-six—far too old to be a prime contact herself, judging by all our previous experience. It must, therefore, be someone closely linked to her. The conclusion is obvious. We cannot have many more years to wait. We must transfer her to Category Purple: she may be the most important human being alive.”
“I will do that. And what of the young man who asked the question? Was it random curiosity, or did he have some other motive?”
“It was chance that brought him there—his sister has just married Rupert Boyce. He had never met any of the other guests before. I am sure the question was unpremeditated, being inspired by the unusual conditions— and probably by my presence. Given these factors, it is hardly surprising that he acted in the way he did. His great interest is astronautics: he is secretary of the space-travel group at Cape Town University, and obviously intends to make this field his life study.”
“His career should be interesting. Meanwhile, what action do you think he will take, and what shall we do about him?”
“He will undoubtedly make some checks as soon as he can. But there is no way in which he can prove the accuracy of his information, and because of its peculiar origin he is hardly likely to publish it. Even if he does, will it affect matters in the slightest?”
“I will have both situations evaluated,” Karellen replied. “Though it is part of our Directive not to reveal our base, there is no way in which the information could be used against us.”
“I agree. Rodricks will have some information which is of doubtful truth, and of no practical value.”
“So it would seem,” said Karellen. “But let us not be too certain. Human beings are remarkably ingenious, and often very persistent. It is never safe to underrate them, and it will be interesting to follow Mr. Rodricks' career. I must think about this further.”
Rupert Boyce never really got to the bottom of it. When his guests had departed, rather less boisterously than usual, he had thoughtfully rolled the table back into its corner. The mild alcoholic fog prevented any profound analysis of what had happened, and even the actual facts were already slightly blurred. He had a vague idea that something of great but elusive importance had happened, and wondered if he should discuss it with Rashaverak. On second thought, he decided it aught be tactless. After all, his brother-in-law had caused the trouble, and Rupert felt vaguely annoyed with young Jan. But was it Jan's fault? Was it anybody's fault? Rather guiltily, Rupert remembered that it had been his experiment. He decided, fairly successfully, to forget the whole business. Perhaps he might have done something if the last page of Ruth's notebook could have been found, but it had vanished in the confusion. Jan always feigned innocence—and, well, one could hardly accuse Rashaverak. And no one could ever remember exactly what had been spelled out, except that it didn't seem to make any sense.
The person most immediately affected had been George Greggson. He could never forget his feeling of terror as Jean pitched into his arms. Her sudden helplessness transformed her in that moment from an amusing companion to an object of tenderness and affection. Women had fainted—not always without forethought—since time immemorial, and men had invariably responded in the desired way. Jean's collapse was completely spontaneous, but it could not have been better planned. In that instant, as he realized later, George came to one of the most important decisions of his life. Jean was definitely the girl who mattered, despite her queer ideas and queerer friends. He had no intention of totally abandoning Naomi or Joy or Elsa or—what was her name? — Denise; but the time had come for something more permanent. He had no doubt that Jean would agree with him, for her feelings had been quite obvious from the start. Behind his decision there was another factor of which, he was unaware. Tonight's experience had weakened his contempt and skepticism for Jean's peculiar interests. He would never recognize the fact, but it was so—and it had removed the last barrier between them.
He looked at Jean as she lay, pale but composed, in the reclining chair of the flyer. There was darkness below, stars above. George had no idea, to within a thousand kilometres, where they might be—nor did he care. That was the business of the robot that was guiding them homewards and would land them in, so the control board announced, fifty-seven minutes from now.
Jean smiled back at him and gently dislodged her hand from his.
“Just let me restore the circulation,” she pleaded, rubbing her fingers. “I wish you'd believe me when I tell you I'm perfectly all right now.”
“Then what do you think happened? Surely you remember something?”
“No—it's just a complete blank. I heard Jan ask his question—and then you were all making a fuss over me. I'm sure it was some kind of trance. After all—”
She paused, then decided not to tell George that this sort of thing had happened before. She knew how he felt about these matters, and had no desire to upset him further—and perhaps scare him away completely.
“After all—what?” asked George.
“Oh, nothing. I wonder what that Overlord thought about the whole business. We probably gave him more material than he bargained for.”
Jean shivered slightly, and her eyes clouded.
“I'm afraid of the Overlords, George. Oh, I don't mean they're evil, or anything foolish like that. I'm sure they mean well and are doing what they think is best for us. I wonder just what their plans really are?” George shifted uncomfortably.
“Men have been wondering that ever since they came to Earth,” he said.
“They'll tell us when we're ready for it—and, frankly, I'm not inquisitive. Besides, I've got more important things to bother about.” He turned towards Jean and grasped her hands.
“What about going to Archives tomorrow and signing a contract for—let's say—five years?”
Jean looked at him steadfastly, and decided that, on the whole, she liked what she saw.
“Make it ten,” she said.
Jan bided his time. There was no hurry, and he wanted to think. It was almost as if he feared to make any checks, lest the fantastic hope that had come into his mind be too swiftly destroyed. While he was still uncertain, he could at least dream.
Moreover, to take any further action he would have to see the Observatory librarian. She knew him and his interests too well, and would certainly be intrigued by his request. Probably it would make no difference, but Jan was determined to leave nothing to chance. There would be a better opportunity in a week. He was being super- cautious, he knew, but that added a schoolboy zest to the enterprise. Jan also feared ridicule quite as much as anything that the Overlords might conceivably do to thwart him. If he was embarking on a wild-goose chase, no one else would ever know.
He had a perfectly good reason for going to London; the arrangements had been made weeks ago. Though he way too young and too unqualified to be a delegate, he was one of the three students who had managed to attach themselves to the official party going to the meeting of the International Astronomical Union. The vacancies had been there, and it seemed a pity to waste the opportunity, as he had not visited London since his childhood. He knew that very few of the dozens of papers to be delivered to the I.A.U. would be of the slightest interest to him, even if he could understand them. Like a delegate to any scientific congress, he would attend the lectures that looked promising, and spend the rest of the time talking with fellow enthusiasts, or simply sightseeing.
London had changed enormously in the last fifty years. It now contained scarcely two million people, and a hundred times as many machines. It was no longer a great port, for with every country producing almost all its needs, the entire pattern of world trade had been altered. There were some goods that certain countries still made best, but they went directly by air to their destinations. The trade routes that had once converged on the great harbours, and later on the great airports, had finally dispersed into an intricate web-work covering the whole world with no major nodal points.
Yet some things had not altered. The city was still a centre of administration, of art, of learning. In these matters, none of the continental capitals could rival it—not even Paris, despite many claims to the contrary. A
