At the moment that young man was sitting in a hut a kilometre away, anxiously watching the inspection through field glasses. He kept telling himself that there was nothing to fear.
No inspection of the whale, however close, could reveal its secret. But there was always the chance that Karellen suspected something—and was playing with them.
It was a suspicion that was growing in Sullivan's mind as the Supervisor peered into the cavernous throat.
“In your Bible,” said Karellen, “there is a remarkable story of a Hebrew prophet, one Jonah, who was swallowed by a whale and thus carried safely to land after he had been cast from a ship. Do you think there could be any basis of fact in such a legend?”
“I believe,” Sullivan replied cautiously, “that there is one fairly well-authenticated case of a whaleman being swallowed and then regurgitated with no ill-effects. Of course, if he had been inside the whale for more than a few seconds he would have suffocated. And he must have been very lucky to miss the teeth. It's an almost incredible story, but not quite impossible.”
“Very interesting,” said Karellen. He stood for another moment staring at the great jaw, then moved on to examine the squid. Sullivan hoped he did not hear his sigh of relief.
“If I'd known what I was going to go through,” said Professor Sullivan, “I'd have thrown you out of the office as soon as you tried to infect me with your insanity.”
“I'm sorry about that,” Jan replied. “But we've got away with it.”
“I hope so. Good luck, anyway. If you want to change your mind, you've still got at least six hours.”
“I won't need them. Only Karellen can stop me now. Thanks for all that you've done. If I ever get back, and write a book about the Overlords, I'll dedicate it to you.”
“Much good that will do me,” said Sullivan gruffly. “I'll have been dead for years.” To his surprise and mild consternation, for he was not a sentimental man, he discovered that this farewell was beginning to affect him. He had grown to like Jan during the weeks they had plotted together. Moreover, he had begun to fear he might be an accessory to a complicated suicide.
He steadied the ladder as Jan climbed into the great jaw, carefully avoiding the lines of teeth. By the light of the electric torch, he saw Jan turn and wave: then he was lost in the cavernous hollow. There was the sound of the airlock hatch being opened and closed, and, thereafter, silence.
In the moonlight, that had transformed the frozen battle into a scene from a nightmare, Professor Sullivan walked slowly back to his office. He wondered what he had done, and where it would lead. But this, of course, he would never know. Jan might walk this spot again, having given no more than a few months of his life in travelling to the home of the Overlords and returning to Earth. Yet if he did so, it would be on the other side of Time's impassable barrier, for it would be eighty years in the future.
The lights went on in the tiny metal cylinder as soon as Jan had closed the inner door of the lock. He allowed himself no time for second thoughts, but began immediately upon the routine check he had already worked out. All the stores and provisions had been loaded days ago, but a final recheck would put him in the right frame of mind, by assuring him that nothing had been left undone.
An hour later, he was satisfied. He lay back on the sponge-rubber couch and recapitulated his plans. The only sound was the faint whirr of the electric calendar dock, which would warn him when the voyage was coming to its end. He knew that he could expect to feel nothing here in his cell, for whatever tremendous forces drove the ships of the Overlords must be perfectly compensated. Sullivan had checked that, pointing out that his tableau would collapse if subjected to more than a few gravities. His—clients—had assured him that there was no danger on this score.
There would, however, be a considerable change of atmospheric pressure. This was unimportant, since the hollow models could “breathe” through several orifices. Before he left his cell, Jan would have to equalize pressure, and he had assumed that the atmosphere inside the Overlord ship was unbreathable. A simple face- mask and oxygen set would take care of that: there was no need for anything elaborate. If he could breathe without mechanical aid, so much the better. There was no point in waiting any longer: it would only be a strain on the nerves. He took out the little syringe, already loaded with the carefully prepared solution. Narcosamine had been discovered during research into animal hibernation: it was not true to say—as was popularly believed—that it produced suspended animation. All it caused was a great slowing-down of the vital processes, though metabolism still continued at a reduced level. It was as if one had banked up the fires of life, so that they smouldered underground. But when, after weeks or months, the effect of the drug wore off, they would burst out again and the sleeper would revive. Narcosamine was perfectly safe. Nature had used it for a million years to protect many of her children from the foodless winter.
So Jan slept. He never felt the tug of the hoisting cables as the huge metal framework was lifted into the hold of the Overlord freighter. He never heard the hatches close, not to open again for three hundred million million kilometres. He never heard, far-off and faint through the mighty walls, the protesting scream of Earth's atmosphere, as the ship climbed swiftly back to its natural element.
And he never felt the stardrive go on.
14
The conference room was always crowded for these weekly meetings, but today it was so closely packed that the reporters had difficulty in writing. For the hundredth time, they grumbled to each other at Karellen's conservatism and lack of consideration. Anywhere else in the world they could have brought TV cameras, tape recorders, and all the other tools of their highly mechanized trade. But here they had to rely on such archaic devices as paper and pencil—and even, incredible to relate, shorthand.
There had, of course, been several attempts to smuggle in recorders. They had been successfully smuggled out again, but a single glance at their smoking interiors had shown the futility of the experiment. Everyone understood, then, why they had always been warned, in their own interest, to leave watches and other metallic objects outside the conference room.
To make things more unfair, Karellen himself recorded the whole proceedings. Reporters guilty of carelessness, or downright misrepresentation—though this was very rare—had been summoned to short and unpleasant sessions with Karellen's underlings and required to listen attentively to playbacks of what the Supervisor had really said. The lesson was not one that ever had to be repeated.
It was strange how these rumours got around. No prior announcement was made, yet there was always a full house whenever Karellen had an important statement to make—which happened, on the average, two or three times a year. Silence descended on the murmuring crowd as the great doorway split open and Karellen came forward on to the dais. The light here was dim—approximating, no doubt, to that of the Overlords' far distant sun—so that, the Supervisor for Earth had discarded the dark glasses he normally wore when in the open. He replied to the ragged chorus of greetings with a formal “Good morning, everybody,” then turned to the tall, distinguished figure at the front of the crowd. Mr. Golde, doyen of the Press Club, might have been the original inspirer of the butler's announcement: “Three reporters, m'lud, and a gentleman from the Times.” He dressed and behaved like a diplomat of the old school: no one would ever hesitate to confide in him, and no one had ever regretted it subsequently.
“Quite a crowd today, Mr. Golde. There must be a shortage of news.” The gentleman from the Times smiled and cleared his throat.
“I hope you can rectify that, Mr. Supervisor.”
He watched intently as Karellen considered his reply. It seemed so unfair that the Overlords' faces, rigid as masks, betrayed no trace of emotion. The great, wide eyes, their pupils sharply contracted even in this indifferent light, stared fathomlessly back into the frankly curious human ones. The twin breathing orifices on either cheek—if
