The Long Result (6 page)

Chiefly, we confined ourselves to generalities. Vroazh asked where Kay Lee Wong was, of course; I explained that she was responsible for the trip only, and now the great and wealthy Bureau (I wished that were true!) had taken charge of their well-being. Did the accommodation suit them? Shvast said it did, though certain minor alterations … I agreed to put them in hand. Was the food good? Shvast said it was, though the flavour of one dish which had been offered was … I made a note to tell the biological people their synthesists weren’t infallible yet. Had their belongings reached them safely? Shvast said they had, although a very precious object had been slightly scratched and … I promised to have it repaired by first-rate craftsmen.

And that was about that. As soon as I decently could after mention of food had reminded me I’d missed my lunch, I broke it off and took my leave. Outside the airlock, bin Ishmael thanked me warmly for making his job much easier, but I thought that was pitching it too high.

‘The way I look at it,’ I said, ‘is this. If something goes wrong when it’s the Bureau’s responsibility, it’s going to be harder than it ordinarily is to say you work for it. I’m insuring against that. Take my point?’

‘You damned cynic,’ bin Ishmael said sourly, and began to help me out of my suit.

‘No, I mean it,’ I emphasized. And I did. I was rather offended when he answered :

‘Then that makes you worse than a cynic, and I don’t know a word for you. Hold still so I can unhitch this seal, will you?’

I took a minor and perverse pleasure in not going straight back to the Bureau. I felt I was entitled to my lunch even if I’d missed the conventional time of day for it. Accordingly I told the car to drop me off at a nearby restaurant and sent it back to the Bureau garage by itself.

There were at least two things I’d learned during the morning which I proposed to investigate further. Over a bowl of Israeli fruit soup I contemplated them.

The first item was perhaps the less important. It was one thing for the Bureau to soft-pedal the Starhomers’ arrogance in order not to exacerbate relations between them and Earth. It was another matter altogether when they became sufficiently cynical (and my mind flitted back to what bin Ishmael had said) to involve an alien race in a
private squabble. I made up my mind to discover why Tinescu – who must ultimately be responsible, if only because the Minister for Extra-Terrestrial Affairs would have looked to him for advice – had allowed the situation to degenerate to such a risky state.

The second item was closer to home. My reaction to the pamphlet which I’d received in my conveyor box this morning had instinctively matched both Rattray’s and bin Ishmael’s – and they were a lot more directly involved with the realities of interstellar relations than we in BuCult. To write off the Stars Are For Man League as harmless eccentrics was no longer a tenable position. Whether or not the wrecking of our alien wagon was premeditated, whether or not the three – well, slobs, to borrow Rattray’s term – had had advance information of the Tau Cetians’ arrival, was beside the point; any lunatic-fringe belief which could provoke such action was
ipso facto
dangerous.

I was going to have to file a report on the day’s activity. Somehow, by loading the terms in the report, I would have to convince Tinescu he was mistaken. It was a fascinating exercise in practical semantics. I was still deep in the phrasing of it when I approached the Bureau.

With a start, I saw Jacky Demba coming out under the high arched doorway on which the Bureau’s motto was engraved in relief – the ancient Greek instruction which has to precede any dabbling in contact with alien races:
KNOW THYSELF!
He was deep in conversation with an alien. A Regulan, to be exact – a startlingly beautiful creature like all his kind.

And the Regulan, aware of me long before Jacky because of his super-delicate senses, gave me a nod of recognition. This put me in the most embarrassing position imaginable. The differences by which Regulans recognized each other were far too subtle for any untrained human to identify. For all I knew, this might be the Regulan whom I had talked
to this morning, the one involved in last night’s rocket crash – or another entirely, whom I’d met only in passing when he came to visit the Bureau ten years back.

I smiled as though I’d instantly remembered the alien’s name, and cast myself on Jacky’s mercies. He was used to dealing with this species, and doubtless was expert at telling them apart; equally, he would realize my difficulty.

But he didn’t – not at once, at least. For he merely lifted a hand to me and said, ‘Did everything go off all right, Roald?’

‘More or less. Where are you off to?’

‘I’m finished for the day,’ he said, faintly surprised.

I checked my watch, and found it was indeed after sixteen-thirty, the usual closing-time. I hadn’t realized it was so late. I muttered a private oath.

‘Is the Chief still in?’ I demanded.

‘Yes, I think so – though not likely to stay very late. Waiting for your report, perhaps?’ Luckily he didn’t follow that question up, but glanced at the Regulan, who was standing to one side and affecting out of politeness not to listen.

‘Anovel, this is Roald Vincent, one of my colleagues here at the Bureau —’

I cut in, relieved beyond description. ‘We met this morning just for a few minutes. I hope you’re completely recovered from the effects of the rocket crash?’

‘Thank you, yes. It would take something like a nuclear explosion to put a dent in my hide.’ The Regulan extended the more delicate of his two right ‘arms’ and I shook the eight-fingered ‘hand’ on the end. This species was unfailingly correct in its observance of the social graces.

Like all adult specimens of his kind. Anovel stood some five feet eight or nine in height, and his resemblance to a horse was remarkable. He had the same long, rather sad-looking head, and twin nostril-sheaths rose above his eyes to give the effect of a horse’s ears. His skin was a vivid and
beautiful blue, while the mane which ran down the nape of his neck was as yellow as a buttercup. He had four ‘arms’, multiply jointed limbs of which two were slender and terminated in the incredibly deft ‘hands’, while the others were muscled like the hindquarters of a Percheron. Purely in deference to Earthly custom, a kilt was belted about his waist and fell to the backward-bending knees of his long legs. He wore nothing else – and indeed did not even need to wear that much, for these paradoxical beasts could be comfortable over a temperature range of at least two hundred degrees, and alone of the known races could utilise oxygen, chlorine or their native fluorine for respiration.

‘You’ve met already?’ Jacky said, astonished, and I explained briefly. He nodded comprehension. ‘I see! Well, you’ll have another chance to get better acquainted tonight – I’ve invited Anovel to my party. I thought he might like to meet the people I’ve asked. While I remember, incidentally: I saw Patricia over lunch and you are both coming.’

A great guy, Jacky. I gave him a smile and apologized for having to dash off, using Tinescu’s impending departure as my excuse.

The chief was indeed still in his office, but he wasn’t alone. I hesitated on the threshold, even though he’d told me to come in via the annunciator.

‘Oh, don’t stand there dithering!’ he rapped. ‘Roald, this is Inspector Klabund of the World Police, Pacific Coast District. Just as well you turned up – I gather he wants to talk to you.’

Me? What on earth for? But I moved forward obediently and took a chair to which Tinescu waved me. The inspector was a big man with short brown hair and deep-set brown eyes. I judged him to be eight or ten years older than myself.

‘Now, before the inspector starts on you, I’d like to put some questions to you myself. I gather the Tau Cetians got
safely to the Ark, so that’s all right, but there’s this almost hysterical message I had from the port director, Rattray…’

He broke off, perhaps reading my expression.

‘Hysterical be damned,’ I said shortly. ‘Those three young men deliberately rammed our truck. I’m sure of it.’

Tinescu shut his eyes and sighed. ‘I’ll save my questions, then,’ he said tiredly. ‘That’s what Inspector Klabund is here about.’

I gave the policeman a startled glance. ‘But we’re not in the Pacific Coast police district!’ I objected.

‘Correct,’ Klabund said heavily. ‘I’m in charge of the inquiry into last night’s rocket crash.’

Several things clicked together with extreme abruptness in my mind. I leaned forward. ‘Was it you who brought Anovel here?’

Klabund hid a flicker of surprise. ‘The Regulan?’ he parried. ‘Why – yes, that’s so.’

‘Then I’m beginning to catch on. Do you suspect that that rocket was sabotaged?’

‘You have a remarkably swift mind, Mr Vincent,’ Klabund answered slowly. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m relying chiefly on Anovel’s evidence at this stage. He maintains that just before the engines exploded – perhaps a tenth of a second earlier – he heard a sharp noise distinct from the roar of the rockets. I brought him here to confirm that his hearing was sensitive enough to make such fine judgements. He passed one hundred per cent.’

‘He would. Regulans are very amazing creatures. But —’ I hesitated, then plunged on: ‘But are you saying that someone would wreck a rocket just to try and kill an alien? Why, anyone should know that a Regulan can stand damage that would mash a man to jelly!’

‘Someone insanely convinced of the “natural superiority of human beings” might conveniently overlook that,’ Klabund countered.

The idea was horrible, but I had to utter it. I said, ‘You mean we’re up against fanatics that won’t object to murdering men and women if they can wipe out a few aliens?’

‘I daren’t go that far. But it looks terrifyingly like it.’ Klabund glanced at a small notebook on his lap. ‘Now, Mr Vincent! I gather you found in your office this morning a leaflet issued by the Stars Are For Men League?’

I nodded. ‘I was so annoyed I called the chief to complain. He said to stuff it in the destructor and forget it – the police had checked on the League three years ago and rated them as negligible.’

‘That was true – then. Lately, someone has been pumping money into their organization.’ Klabund scowled. ‘Was that the first you’d heard of the League, Mr Vincent?’

‘As far as I recall. But not the last. The men who rammed our alien wagon at the port today had a pile of their literature in the back of their car.’

‘Yes, so I understand.’ Klabund made a note. ‘Now what is your exact status here at the Bureau, please?’

‘I’m the assistant to the Chief of Bureau responsible for human colonial cultural assay.’

‘Could you make that a bit clearer?’

I glanced at Tinescu, who could have put it more clearly because he was less involved, but Klabund added sharply, ‘In your own words, for preference!’

Puzzled, but ready to comply, I said, ‘Well, you know we have two colonies, I presume – Viridis, at 61 Cygni, and Starhome, at Epsilon Eridani. As part of the terms of foundation and support, we’re entitled to cultural survey missions there, and there are two departments in the Bureau which analyse the data received: my own, which is mainly cultural, and Jacky Demba’s which is mainly technical. We’re – well – middlemen. We pass the information on to centres of study which make use of it.’

‘I see. Now – if I’ve got this right – your preoccupation
with the cultural aspects means you’re more involved with Viridis than Starhome.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Amplify, please.’

‘Well … Viridis was planted about a hundred and ten years ago by a group of neo-Roussellians who wanted to return to a pre-technological civilization. On Earth they’d become a laughing-stock, of course, but since the sociologists were pressing the government to aid the study of alternative solutions to the problem of organizing a mass society, their colony was approved and subsidized.’

‘They got on well?’

‘Oh yes. About half of our modern music, drama and verse is Viridian in origin. Their society has a—’ I fumbled for the right word. ‘A depth, a richness, which ours lacks.’

‘You prefer their society to the Starhomers’?’

‘Well – yes. Starhome was founded to see how far a technologically oriented society could be driven. Of course in their own way the Starhomers have done exceedingly well; their level of mechanization is amazing. And, naturally, my department deals with the social consequences of this – well – experiment.’

‘I see,’ Klabund murmured. ‘Mr Vincent, have you ever been a member of the Stars Are For Man League?’

I’d always regarded myself as quick-witted, but the speed of my reaction to that astonished me as much as it did Tinescu and Klabund. Presumably it was the last kick of the chronodrin shot bin Ishmael had given me to bring my subjective time up to Tau Cetian level which enabled me to bite back the furious denial that sprang to my lips.
Obviously, the question had been designed to catch me by surprise and force an unpremeditated response. Why?

Logic said:
Klabund’s using a lie-detector on me.

So, purely as a matter of principle – because I do not accept that society has the right to invade the mental privacy of any sane individual – I shot out my hand across the shiny surface of the desk and swept aside the squat bulk of the addresser, which was large enough to conceal from anyone sitting in my chair something as compact as a lie-detector.

And I was right. A shallow oblong device with lights on the side turned towards Klabund lay exposed; from it, wires fine as spider’s webs trailed towards me and down the front of the desk.

Cold anger welled up inside me. I said in my most frigid voice, ‘Inspector, what’s the idea of putting that thing on me without my permission?’

Klabund was embarrassed. He swallowed hard and glanced appealingly at Tinescu. The chief coughed.

‘I asked for it, Roald,’ he said.

‘What the hell
for?
’

‘Because you’re the reason why the conveyor system has been fed League literature.’

I digested that slowly. ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ I said at last.