VI.
Guy Maynard's eyes swept about the room and saw eyes that were quiet, and if they were not openly friendly, at least they were neither hostile nor doubtful. The Board of Investigation was composed of several high officers and a civilian. He glanced at the neat pile of papers that were placed on the table before his appointed position and glanced through the names of those present, wondering about the civilian; most of the officers he knew by sight.
He nodded to himself; the civilian was Thomas Kane, a news publisher, and therefore quite natural a presence in this investigation. The fact that he was the publisher himself, and not one of his hirelings gave the investigation the air of extreme secrecy, and Guy understood that whatever went on in this gathering today would be held in the utmost confidence until the necessities of living made the publicity of the conference desirable—if ever. The public would accept the word of the publisher with more credulity than they would a prepared statement issued for common consumption by a propaganda department.
People had become used to normal propaganda, and were capable of picking it out and disregarding it. A publisher's own statements were considered to be noncontrollable since the only recourse that any Patrol investigation could take was to bar the publisher from their subsequent conferences, and to combat that the publisher could make things literally warm for any body of Patrol officers who tried to muzzle him.
The chairman, Patrol Marshal Alfred Mantley, rapped for order, and started the proceedings by telling Guy: "We have been in order for three hours, during which time we have considered the evidence presented by the log of your ... er ... journey. Also, the log has been read and digested by professional readers and pronounced authentic. The latter is not so much in defense of you, Maynard, as it is to assure us that you have not been or are not now acting under duress. You present us quite a problem, young sir. Quite a problem. Coldly and cruelly, we would find our lives less complicated if you hadn't returned," he said with a laugh. "But you are here and we are glad to have you returned. You have had quite an experience—one that is seldom enjoyed and only recorded a few times in the annals of the Terran Space Patrol. How are you feeling?"
"Quite all right."
"Fine. Now, Guy, tell us in your own words a brief account of your travels."
Guy got as far as the encounter with the Martian when he was interrupted by Patrol Marshal Jones. "How do you account for the fact that a Martian was able to penetrate to the very heart of Sahara Base?"
"I have no idea, sir. I, like the rest of us, have been led to believe that our security in the Base was perfect. Naturally I was not armed."
"No," said the chairman. "And had you been armed, I doubt that the encounter would have been different. Fighting unarmed against a Martian who is holding a MacMillan at the ready is not considered the kind of thing that any intelligent man would attempt. The fault lies with the security office, not with you."
His chief, Greggor of the Bureau of Exploration asked: "Is this an official decision? I want it made clear that my assistant is not responsible for his trouble."
"Maynard is not to be held responsible. When the word came via Senior Executive Williamson, the investigation of the kidnaping act disclosed that the blame—if any—was to lie with Security. Off the record, I can not see how any security bureau could cope with such boldness. It was born of desperation and bred of terror—and it died for lack of sheer weight and velocity."
"Thank you," said Space Marshal Greggor.
Guy went on, telling his partly-memorized tale, until he was again questioned.
"You hadn't felt the brunt of the electrolysis before the Mardinex was attacked?"
"It had just started. The final explosion broke my straps and destroyed the electrolysis equipment."
"And you couldn't make your way to a lifeship at that time?"
"I did as soon as I came to, and realized that I was alone. The least damaged lifeship required repairs that were completed several hours later. By that time we were passing through the midst of Martian territory and I thought it best to lie low."
"You preferred to take the chance of orbiting rather than running the Martian gauntlet?"
"Orbiting was no chance, sir. Running the gauntlet would have been sheer suicide since the Martians were extremely interested in the Mardinex. They had most of their grand fleet out watching. Only my velocity—which prevented any attempt to stop me—and my acceleration—which prevented any attempt to try to match my speed—got me past safely. I am certain that they put a pointer on me as we went past."
"By what reasoning?"
"I would have done it, sir, if the cases had been reversed."
"Naturally," said the chairman. "Proceed, Maynard."
"Knowing that any deviation of the Mardinex or electrical activity aboard would register at the Martian detector stations, at least until we were out of safe range, I proceeded to make the lifeship as spaceworthy and as comfortable as I could. I took plenty of spare equipment—"
"Of what sort?"
"Sheer gadgetry, sir, I've had a few ideas, and this looked as though I'd have plenty of time to try them out. I powered the lifeship far beyond her normal power because I had to get back home from a ship leaving the System at better than ten thousand miles per second."
"In order to bring out the resourcefulness of my assistant," said Greggor, "I want the record to state that he prepared for the boredom he knew would come.”
"Then, as soon as we were beyond the longest possible range of the most powerful detector-analyzers, even when aimed by a pointer, and taking into consideration that Mars might have had an observer out about even with the orbit of Pluto, I emerged from the derelict and began to decelerate."
"Good."
"Well, that's about all," he said. He felt that this was it. He was worried that the deeper discussion might bring forth errors and contradictions, and he wanted them to lead him into the initial disclosures rather than to have them add to a statement that might be straining at the truth already. "I slept. I worked. I did about everything a man can do when he's sitting in a lifeship for a solid year waiting for his home planet to come close enough to signal to. This is the hard part. Nothing of any importance happened. One hour was like the rest. I slept when I got tired and worked until I tired of it. I ate when hungry. I shaved when my beard got uncomfortable. I probably have attained a number of bad habits during my enforced hermiting, but they will be easily broken."
"Your record is quite clear," said Chairman Mantley. "Is it the agreement of this investigation that Guy Maynard's story be accepted?"
"I see no reason why it should be disputed."
"What purpose would Maynard have in lying?"
"It is truthful enough for me."
"I'm in accord."
"Let's drop this foolishness," said Kane, the publisher. "What is far more important is the public explanation for Maynard's absence."
"Our friend of the Fourth Estate is correct," said Mantley. "The log is accepted, and will be maintained in the archives under secret classification." He smiled at Maynard. "Now, young man, you force us into developing a year-long cock-and-bull story for the public."
"Sir? I don't understand."
"If you breathe a word of that story to anyone else, you'll be the direct reason for an Interplanetary War—with capital letters."
"But—"
"So it's the truth. You'll learn, young man, that there are times when the truth is not always the best. You are all right, alive and well—to say nothing of being equipped with a few brilliant ideas for your trouble. Your captors are dead and gone. Mars doesn't really know what happened to their Mardinex, and Terra doesn't really know anything about the incident. You can't be court-martialed for being Absent Without Leave for we need you and your ideas. You haven't been spacewrecked, for no ship is missing."
"How was my absence explained?" asked Guy.
"You were M-12."
"Oh?" said Guy.
"Then it's easy," said Greggor. "Has his first contact been reported yet?"
"No. I see your point. Certainly. Funny, it never has happened this way before and now that it did, I forgot the reality."
"As an M-12 case, he can make the one-year mention in his own right. It will also tend to authenticate other M-12 cases which must be false. Then after the third year—if he hasn't been returned to full duty already—he can make the third-year mention. But instead of decreasing the mention, Guy will increase it."
"Providing it is necessary. After all, we are not trying to establish a fade-out for a man killed in an incident that might lead to total war. This time the man has returned."
"How can we strengthen this contact?"
Kane spoke up cheerfully. "From the stuff in his log, I'd say that the best way would be to promote him a rank for service above and beyond the requirements of his present rank. It will also permit him to skipper a destroyer or lighter craft which was denied him by the Junior Executive's rank. I'll plant his picture in my news sheet with a vague reference to the fact that Guy Maynard has been engaged in experiments at a secret place and that his initial experiments have been so successful that he is being given the command of a small laboratory ship in order that the experiments may be tested in the prime medium."
"And then?"
"Marshal, there is nothing that sounds like truth than a lie liberally sprinkled with truth. In fact, I'd say the latter sounded even better than truth."
"Truth? Is there any in this story?"
"Maynard," asked Kane, "you said that some of these things were partially assembled and tested in that lifeship?"
"Yes. It is deplorable that they were completely destroyed."
"Not too deplorable," said Marshal Warsaw wryly. "After all, the evidence was pretty bald-faced."
"Well, his story about working in a secret laboratory is not too untrue, is it? What could have been more secret than his position? Gentlemen, no one but he knew where he was! And some of the experiments were eminently successful, were they not?"
"I believe so."
"Then his statements warrant the trust of this assemblage. What do you say, gentlemen?"
"Sounds reasonable," said the chairman. "Any dissent?"
There was none.
"Furthermore," said Kane, "I'd suggest that you have professional writers copy his log and convert it into a day-by-day account of his experiments. Use it as close to the real thing as possible so that he won't have to memorize too much. Then destroy this original."
"Excellent," said Patrol Marshal Mantley. "Maynard, you may think this cold-blooded. No doubt you want revenge. I'd want it, I know. But we're all satisfied, here. You are back, and the Martians lost their battlecraft."
"It does sound brutal," said Maynard. "And very depressing. But I do suppose that one man's loss against the loss of a heavy space craft and a partial crew can not be argued. I'll accept it."
"Then," said Mantley, "this Board of Investigation is closed and the recommendations will be followed. Maynard, your rank will be increased immediately, and until we can commission a small laboratory ship for you, you are released from active duty. You will remain in touch with this office, for you will be needed from time to time to sign papers and to requisition the materials you will require to complete your experiments. As soon as our writers have been able to copy your original log, the Bureau of Science will check it over and decide which of your experiments will be completed."
"Will I be able to work on the rest of them, sir?"
"That depends. You will probably be called upon for consultation since you developed them. But we cannot overlook the urgency of some of these."
Space Marshal Greggor came over to Guy and placed an arm over the young man's shoulders. "That was quite an experience, Guy. Far beyond the experiences of most men. I am sorry for myself, and happy for you. You'll be coming to the house?"
"As soon as I can get settled, sir. Possibly tonight."
"Excellent. I'll prepare Marian and Laura—they think you're a real M-12."
"Will it be a shock?"
"Somewhat. They aren't too certain of the M-12 business; though they do not know the blunt truth, they are aware that few men classified under the M-12 are ever heard of again. That's because they're close to the Service. M-12 is a brilliant method of permitting a man to drop from sight, since it was designed to permit a man to leave his friends gently—the so-called contacts are made by telegram and personal messenger to remove certain portions of the man's effects and to pay his rent and so on. Eventually all of his stuff is gone, his friends wonder where he is and eventually forget him.
"But your return will put faith in M-12 again. They'll both be glad to see you."
"You must do me a favor," asked Guy earnestly. "Please explain to Laura about my leaving without saying good-bye."
"I'll do that. M-12 is the roughest on the ones who are close without being blood-relations. We'll smooth it over. Now take it easy. Hello, Kane," he said looking over Guy's head. "Are you sorry we deprived you of a story?"
"Some day this young man will make me a better one," laughed Kane. "Drop up to the office tomorrow if you can. I'll buy lunch—you deserve some special treatment to pay for your year of—experimenting. He'll be safe," said Kane to Greggor.
"I know it," said the Space Marshal. "You wouldn't be permitted the inside the Council unless you were proven, you know."
"I'll do more," said Kane. "I'll have one of my boys run over the forged log for you. He can make it sound a bit more authentic. I've always thought that your logs and diaries were a little stiffish. A bit of yearning and youthful hope would lend that log a world of reality, it having been written by a lonely young scientist."
"That's a deal. Well, take it easy. And we'll see you later."
Guy Maynard arrived to find his room in order as according to the treatment given M-12 cases. He walked around the room and inspected everything there, finally dropping into the easy-chair to think. It struck him, then. For a moment he was thoughtful, and then the humor of the situation hit him like a blow.
For Ertene had prepared a world of painstaking evidence to support his tale of suffering and trouble. They gave him every bit.
And for their trouble on the lifeship, it had been destroyed without inspection because of Terran fear of discovery. Not that Terra was concerned about reprisals, but just because Terran ideas of exchange dictated that they should let a matter drop after they had received the better of the argument.
And then his story. Had he memorized that log day for day and word for word, it would have been of no use. He was ordered to forget it in every detail save those "ideas" he was supposed to have had.
How neatly had the Terrans destroyed every mite of Ertinian evidence.
All expect the scientific side.
And Ertene would roam on through the Galaxy in utter silence, having scattered the seeds of advancement upon fertile ground.
Ertene's life was not in vain.
Guy Maynard paused a moment before he pressed the doorbell. He'd been missing a long time, and he wondered just how Laura Greggor would greet him. He hoped her eagerness would match his, at least, and with that prayer he rang.
Laura came to the door herself, which lifted Guy's heart. She took him by the hand and drew him in, saying: "Teemens is busy mixing a cocktail. I had to answer myself."
Guy wanted to say "Oh" but didn't. He knew that the tone of his voice would have betrayed his feelings. And then he lifted his feelings again by main force. After all, Laura was no schoolgirl. There was no reason why she should be carried away by any cheap melodrama. She believed him to be an M-12 and as such he was doing a job. He wished he could tell her the truth; perhaps then she would be more emotional in her greeting.
So after a solid year of semi-loneliness, Guy was greeted with a carefree: "You've been gone a long time, Guy. I'm glad to see you."
"I'm more than just glad to see you," said Guy earnestly. He gave her hand an affectionate squeeze and then tried a gentle urge towards him. It was almost unnoticeable, that attempt to draw her to him; and had he not met with instant and opposite reaction—
He sighed, relinquished her hand, and then handed her the small box he held under the other arm.
Laura looked at the corsage and then said: "Wait a moment, Guy. I want to run in and put this in my hair. Make yourself comfortable."
Guy entered the large drawing room and looked around slightly in wonder. It was the same—but he hadn't remembered it as being so large. Everything was as immaculate as ever and Guy felt slightly out of place there. He knew that he was expected to sit down, but that old feeling of wondering which piece to sit upon came back to him.
He found a chair that had a minute scratch on one leg and seated himself. He wanted a cigarette, but there was no ash tray nearby and so he stifled the want. He was seated in the chair stiffly when Laura returned with the gardenia in her hair. She was smoking a cigarette and as she passed through the room she flicked the ash negligently at a large ash tray. Some of the ash missed and landed on the deep carpet. Laura didn't notice.
"My," she said. "You look slightly formal, Guy."
"Relax, Guy," her mother told him as she entered just behind Laura. "Andrew was telling me of a few of your ideas. Too bad you can't tell us more. We're interested."
"I'd like to tell you, Mrs. Greggor," said Guy shyly. "But I'm under strict orders not to disclose—"
"Pooh, orders," said Laura. "Oh well, you can have your silly secrets. I want to know, Guy; did you miss me?"
"Quite a bit," he answered, thinking that this was no time to ask a question like that. Her mother's presence took the fine edge off of his anticipated answer.
"I'd like to go out in a Patrol ship," said Laura. "This normal traveling on the beaten path doesn't seem like much fun to me."
"It's no different," said Guy. "It's the same sky, the same sun, and the same planets. They remain the same no matter what you're doing."
"Yes, but they're in different places—I mean that you aren't always going Venusward or Terraward. You change around."
"It's still similar."
"Don't be superior," Laura said. "You're just saying that because you're used to traveling in a Patrol ship."
"No," said Guy earnestly. "It is still the same sky whether you look at it from a destroyer or a luxury liner."
"Some day I shall see for myself," said Laura definitely.
A faint, male roar called Mrs. Greggor's attention to the fact that her husband had mislaid his shirt studs. "I shall have to leave," she said. "Please pardon me—?"
"Certainly," responded Guy, jumping to his feet.
She smiled at him and left immediately.
"Laura," he said. "I've brought—" and he opened the little flat plastic box and held out his senior executive's insignia.
"I'm glad," she said. "Father told me you were being raised in rank."
"That's why I'm here," he answered, a little let down that all of his surprises were more or less expected. "You'll do me the honor?"
"I'd be angry if I weren't permitted," said Laura casually. "Stand close, Guy. You're quite tall, you know."
His eyes were level with the top of her head as she stood before him, removing the junior executive's insignia from his coat lapels. She worked deftly, her face warmly placid. She placed the old, plain stars on the table beside her and picked up the rayed stars of the senior executive.
Quickly she fixed them in his lapels, and then stood back a step. She gave him a soft salute, which he returned. Then she stepped forward and kissed him chastely.
"Ah, fine!" boomed the voice of Andrew Greggor from the doorway. "The old ritual! That makes you official, Guy. Like the old superstition about a ship that is launched without a proper christening, no officer will succeed whose insignia is not first pinned on by a woman. Congratulations."
"Thank you, sir," said Guy, taking the extended hand.
"Now," said Greggor, "dinner is served. Come along, and we'll toast my loss of a fine secretarial assistant. Your swivel-chair command is over, Guy."
"We're not sorry," said Laura. "After all, what glory is there in doing space hopping in a desk-officer's job?"
"None," agreed her father.
"He'll get some now," Laura assured the men.
"If those experiments turn out correct," said Greggor to Guy Maynard over Laura's head, "you sure will. Funny, though, I still considered you as my assistant until they handed you the senior's rank."
"Still had your brand on him?" laughed Laura.
"Sort of," said Greggor. His real meaning was not lost on Guy, who knew that the girl's father was only establishing the official facts of his adventure.
The dinner was excellent, and the wines tended to loosen Guy's tongue slightly. He forgot his stiffness and began to enjoy himself. He hadn't realized how much he had missed this sort of thing in the year among the Ertinians. They treated him fine, but he missed the opportunity of mingling with people who spoke his language. He looked at the clock. There'd be dancing later—if he could break away, and he hadn't danced in a solid year.
Marian Greggor said: "You've been gone a long time, Guy. Can you tell me the tiniest thing of your adventures?"
"They were not adventures," said Guy.
"Nonsense!" boomed Malcolm Greggor. "Some of them will be out in the open soon. I'll tell you one."
"Why can't he?" asked his wife.
"He's had his fun—I'm going to have mine," said Greggor, winking at Guy. "He's developed a means of making Pluto a livable place."
"No!" breathed Laura.
"Indeed. Our trouble there has always been the utter cold. Pluto is rich in the lighter metals—lithium, beryllium, and the like. It has been a veritable wonderland for the light-metal metallurgist. But it has been one tough job to exploit. But Guy has invented a barrier of energy that prevents any radiation from leaving outward and passes energy inward. That'll heat Pluto excellently—with the unhappy result that Pluto will be hard to find save by sheer navigation."
"Oh, wonderful."
"There's another angle to that," said Guy. "It'll make Pluto harder to find for the Martians, too. Since the radiation passes inward, the incoming ship may signal with a prearranged code, and the shield may be opened long enough for the ship to get a sight on Pluto. The barrier offers no resistance to material bodies."
"Hm-m-m. We'll score another one for Guy," said Malcolm Greggor. "That'll be a nice nail in the ladder of success, young man. There's one more thing—are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Perhaps. May I speak?"
"Go ahead. Marian and Laura will not repeat it. Their interests are clear, and their trust has been accepted by the Patrol. All officials' wives are cleared to the Patrol's satisfaction since we know it is impossible to prevent us from mentioning small things from time to time."
"Yes, indeed," said Marian. "Living with a man for years and years as we do, it would be hard to keep from knowing things. We hear a hint today, another next week, and a third a month from now. Adding them to something we heard last month, and we have a good idea of what the man is thinking of."
"That's not all," laughed Greggor. "Wives have some sort of lucky mental control. Mine, confound it, can almost read my mind—and most of them can almost read their husbands' minds. So go ahead and speak."
"I was thinking of a cruiser equipped with the barrier."
"Is the equipment small enough?"
"Certainly. The size of the barrier dictates the size of the equipment—within limits. Anything from a lifeship—say fifty feet long—to a super battlecraft like the Orionad—twelve hundred feet long—can be equipped."
"Fine. And now as to this barring of radiation? How would the drive work?"
"I don't know, not having had the opportunity of trying it out. I doubt that it will work."
"Then the idea is not so good."
"I think it fair enough for a trial."
"But a ship without a drive is useless."
"It has limitations. But it is not useless. Battle conditions may be developed to take the limitations as they may exist. Look. The course of the target is determined—or wait, we must determine the course of the target first. The course of the target is found by lying in wait with detectors. The ship is concealed in the barrier-screen, and the target can not see or detect the sub-cruiser, but the detectors catch the target. The sub-cruiser must remain in the shell, so to speak, until the target is out of detection range. This gives plenty of time to plot the course of the target. Once out of range, the shell is opened and the sub-cruiser takes off on a tangent course at high acceleration. It exceeds the speed of the target, and then turns to intercept the course of the target at some distant spot—calculated on the proposition of the sub-cruiser driving powerless, or coasting. The shell is re-established, and the target and the sub-cruiser converge. At point-blank range, the sub-cruiser lets fly with interferers and torpedoes, and continues on and on until it is out of range once more.
"The target is either demolished; or missed, requiring a second try. At worst, the target knows that from out of the uninhabited sky there has come a horde of interferers and torpedoes, and there is nothing to shoot at. They still do not know which way the blast will come from next. Follow?"
"Sounds cumbersome," said Greggor. "But it may work."
"Is that what you've been working on?" asked Laura.
"Yes," said Guy.
"Sounds as though we have genius in our midst," she answered, flashing Guy a glance that made his heart leap.
"Oh, I—" started Guy, and then remembered the whole tale again. He couldn't really take credit for this. It wasn't truly his idea; that had come from Ertene. The application of the light-shield had been his, but they were giving him credit for the whole thing.
That was not fair—and yet he knew that he must take false credit or betray not only himself but Ertene, too. And now that his die was cast, he must never waver from that plan. To do so would bring the wrath of the Board of Investigation for his not telling all upon his arrival.
So he stopped the deprecatory sentence and merely smiled.
"—don't think it is too wonderful. It is, or was, but a matter of time before someone else struck the same idea."
"But you were first!" said Laura. "And we're going to celebrate. Mind if I run off with him?" she asked her parents.
She drew him from the dining room without waiting for an answer.