Null-A Three (4 page)

Gosseyn Three, lying there in the darkness, was silent, noting fleeting thoughts he had. “Of course,” he said, “the simplest solution could be for me to just join you out there, and try to help you—”

His thought stopped. Because he was getting a no. “Okay,” he acknowledged, “I get the reasoning. Someone conscious has to stay here. And we don’t know how many sleeping Gosseyns remain at our age level, and can’t be absolutely sure that there is an age eighteen group.”

He broke off, “Anyway, I’d better concentrate on this situation. It has a powerful look to it.”

“It sure does,” came the thought of that far, far away Gosseyn Two. “Good luck.”

So here he was—his belief—in a room, now; no longer inside the capsule.

Emotionally, he felt more secure. The rubber attachments were explained: Long ago, a number of Gosseyn bodies had been put in various hiding places. And each one, apparently, had his turn at awakening, following the death of the Gosseyn whose turn had come earlier.

Except, of course, he himself—Gosseyn Three—had awakened while Gosseyn Two was still alive. Which explained why the rubber attachments were still attached. They probably constituted an intricate system for providing sustenance, and draining body wastes, and were designed to keep each body alive while it was still in a state of suspended animation.

Except, naturally that wouldn’t apply any more. Not now that he was no longer in the capsule and, so far as he could determine, in a large room.

. . . Here on this sliding bed, my body is still attached to all those rubber connectors. But the connectors themselves must have let go of whatever tanks and machines they were fastened to inside the capsule. Let go in some automatic fashion when I was moved out here—

And, somehow, through it all, he had done his breathing without any tubes. That was true both there and here.

. . . So why not disconnect this junk, and see if I can get up.

Meaning, among many other realities, could a body that had not moved, or exercised, during its entire existence, actually function muscularly? Though, come to think of it, he had moved his arms. Had pushed against the ceiling. Had probed into the various reaches of his little home.

But, surely, disconnecting would put him into a better position to act. No use just lying here. Time to force a few issues, and find out how his captors responded.

It was a do-something-himself purpose at last. Firmly, Gosseyn moved both hands down to the same location: his stomach. The biggest tube was there.

With the fingers of one hand he grasped the flesh at the point where the tube was attached. With his other hand, he grasped the tube. And he was about to tug with determination—when the lights went on,

Simultaneously, two pairs of hands grabbed him.

“I think
we
had better disconnect the survival equipment.”

It was the voice that he had named Voice Number Two. The identification of the speaker was somewhere in the back of Gosseyn’s mind. The front part of his brain was occupied with the sudden flood of illumination. The glare was briefly too much for Gosseyn’s vision centers.

He had a score of fleeting impressions, nonetheless. The room itself seemed to glitter. The two men were medium-sized individuals in white—or so it seemed in those moments of utter dazzlement. The walls seemed to be darker, but did gleam, somehow; however, they seemed far away. Vaguely, through all the confusion, he was aware that he had let go of the rubber connective to his stomach area.

His captors must have accepted that as a victory for their purpose, whatever it was. Because, they stepped back, and away from him. And he was vaguely aware of them standing there, and watching him.

Gosseyn stayed where he was, slitting his eyes against the glare of light. And, swiftly now, adjusting to a realization that there was a source of intense brightness directly above him. Which had undoubtedly caused most of his initial vision difficulty.

Moments after that discovery, since there seemed to be no point in pretending, he turned his head. Gazed directly at the two men. And said, “I am no danger to you, gentlemen. So, tell me! What is your problem?”

It was his first attempt to obtain information. Which was, it seemed to him, the only purpose he could have at this stage, in his condition.

There was no reply. But that was not a total nothingness. Simply observing them provided an opportunity for information, and for additional analysis of his situation.

What he was looking at, lying there with his head turned, was a large, bright room with machinery in it, and, directly facing him, a wall with row on row of built-in instrumentation. That was what had gleamed.

Interesting, also, in terms of information, that the two men were as white as he was. But their faces were, somehow subtly, not the West European-American of the Earth, as the Gosseyn memory recalled them. And their clothes were absolutely ridiculous: tight-fitting, metallic looking shirts came up to a tight fit at the neck. Puffy white pants that extended down to the knees, and, below that, white stockings were drawn tightly over lower legs that seemed to be a little on the short side.

In addition, each man wore a cap over yellow-gold hair. It was a bulky head covering. What gave the cap its enlarged appearance was that an intricate instrument was mounted on top of it. Or in it; the cloth and the metal seemed to be interwoven.

The arms of each man seemed to be of normal length and shape; but they were also covered by what seemed to be the same material as the stockings. The white cloth ended at the wrists. The hands and fingers were out in the open, and apparently ready to manipulate whatever was required of them.

Even as he swiftly sized up, so to speak, the two human beings who, for want of a better identification, he silently named Voice One and Voice Two, Gosseyn found himself remembering what Voice Three had said about not knowing “where we are or how we got here.” And he spoke again:

“Perhaps, I can help you find out what you want to know.”

Silence. Not even an attempt to reply. The men simply stood there gazing at him. Gosseyn found himself remembering what his Alter Ego had tentatively analyzed about these people: that they were not citizens of a democracy.

The implication here and now: these poor lackeys were waiting for orders from a higher-up. Maybe from Voice Three, or higher still.

In a way, then, the analysis proved to be correct. From a point in the ceiling, an entirely different voice said grimly: “The prisoner is our only contact with what happened to us. So push at him to find out what he knows. And don’t be gentle, or slow!”

Gosseyn had time to name him Voice Four. At which moment Voice Two stirred. And said courteously, “Sir, shall we disconnect the prisoner from his life support system?”

The reply was absolutely, wonderfully devious. Voice Four said, “Of course. But don’t make any mistakes.”

Almost, those words distracted Gosseyn. Because the meaning seemed to be a total—but total—validation of his Alter Ego’s evaluation of the political system of these people.

Somehow, in spite of that marvellous meaning, Gosseyn managed to notice a phenomenon: In speaking as he did, the mouth of Voice Two had parted; and he undoubtedly said something. But it wasn’t from his mouth that the English words were spoken.
They
came from the instrument in the cap at the top of the man’s head.

Presumably, Gosseyn could have attempted an evaluation of the nature of a science that had taken a language out of his brain—or was taking it moment by moment. But the fact of such a system, and a fleeting awareness of its reality, was all that he had time for.

What the fleeting awareness told him was that here, apparently, was a computer-level explanation for what, in a universe of millions of languages, had briefly seemed to imply that here, indeed, were special people. There was no time, then, for analysis of how such a machine operated. Because, even as that much simpler reality—of the existence of a mechanical method of speaking another language—penetrated . . . Gosseyn saw that Voice One was approaching him.

The man had a faint smile on his somewhat square face. It was the kind of smile that his shared memory of the experiences of Gosseyn One and Two on earth, would describe as being satiric. As the man paused, and stared down at Gosseyn, his eyes, seen close up, were dark gray in color. And the smile gave them what would, on earth, have been considered a sly, knowing look.

His manner did not appear threatening. And, actually, for a man lying on his back there seemed to be no purpose that could be meaningful quickly enough. Except just wait for, at least, the other man’s first move.

The “move” was, as it turned out, more words. The voice box from Voice One’s cap said, “As you may have heard, our instructions are to remove all this!” His hand and arm came up: the hand and one finger indicated the rubber tubing. Voice One finished, “And we are also instructed to remove it rapidly, as you heard.”

There still seemed no need for a response on any level. But Gosseyn was vaguely unhappy with himself, suddenly. The man’s voice had a one-up tone in it.

. . . Am I missing something? Or rather—Gosseyn silently corrected himself—have I already missed it?—

Voice One was continuing with the same faint, knowing smile: “I wish to reassure you that the speed at which these devices are going to be removed, will not in any way discommode you, because—” triumphant tone—“they all disconnected automatically on a lower level when you were removed from the capsule.”

The reaction seemed excessive; and—it occurred to Gosseyn—not necessarily a precise truth. Some of the rubber tubes might be connected through his skin to internal organs, or blood vessels, or nerves; and should not be wrenched loose.

Nevertheless, he lay silent as the hands and fingers of Voice One touched his skin. And pulled. And tugged. And wiggled. Always, the object of the action was one of the tubes, as they were removed, one by one. There was no pain at all, which was interesting, and relieving; but also he was able to have a thought or two about his situation. The result: a double-purpose.

And so, presently, as Voice One, still smiling slyly, stepped back, Gosseyn sat up. Twisted his body. Swung his feet over the edge. And sat there, still naked, facing his captors.

Because of his purpose, it was not a time, if he could help it, for more conversation. Thus, even as he came to his feet, and as he straightened, he was turning slightly. And looking.

What his eyes sought, then, was a view of the capsule from which his “bed” had been ejected. Exactly what he expected in that purposeful action of looking, was not obvious to his inner self. And so, several seconds went by before the huge thing that was there, registered.

His first impression was that he was looking at a special wall with an unusual door that seemed to lead into a darkened area. And it took several seconds for his mind to adjust to the reality that the darkened area was the inside of the capsule.

. . . A long, big, rectangular object with—he noted—a metal casing. Seeing the twenty foot height, and—he estimated—forty foot long container, was instantly reassuring. Because one of his mental hang-ups had been: even if there was equipment for re-processing the wastes of a living creature, where was the the storage space for all the liquid that would be needed for even one humansized body?

In a way, it still didn’t look big enough. But maybe—he analyzed—that was the best the Games Machine on earth had been able to do before it was destroyed.

As he turned once more to face the men in the laboratory, it seemed as if part two of his purpose should not be delayed. And so, remembering that Gosseyn Two. . . out there . . . had offered help in an emergency, the third Gosseyn decided to take the time for the precaution that would make that possible.

So he looked down, now at the floor, slightly off to one side—where there was a clear space—and mentally “photographed” it in the twenty decimal fashion.

Without pausing to see what his captors were doing, he half-turned toward the “bed” section. Looked down at it. And in the same way made the detailed picture in his mind that constituted twenty decimal duplication.

Since all his actions had taken place within the time of one minute, it was obvious to Gosseyn that what he had done was not really well considered. But the reality—so it seemed—was that here in this capsule and its ancillaries was his home territory. And it could be that there were things here that would later be useful, even vital, to his survival.

His defensive acts completed, he glanced now, finally, towards Voice One and, beyond, Voice Two. As he did so, there was an interruption: “Your excellency—” it was Voice Three, speaking from the ceiling—“may I say something urgent?”

There was a pause. Then, also from the ceiling: “For what purpose?” Voice Four spoke in an even tone.

“Sir, the prisoner’s brain manifested an unusual configuration of energy flows, according to our instruments.”

“You mean—-just now?”

“Yes, excellency.”

Pause. Then: “Well, prisoner, what did you do?” Voice Four spoke in a demanding sharp tone.

To Gosseyn it was one of those special moments when the science of General Semantics was needed in its drabbest fashion.

Accordingly, he said, “Sir, as I climbed off the couch on which, as you know, I had been at rest for an indeterminate time, and to which I had been attached until I was released a very short time ago, my first interest was in the craft that, according to the words spoken by your aides during the past many minutes, has been a transport for my body. I had, and have, no recollection of ever having seen this craft which the words I overheard described as a capsule found floating in space. So I gazed at it out of genuine curiosity. Then I turned my attention to the couch itself. And that’s it, sir. In both instances, I was extremely interested. Perhaps, this registered on your dials in some excessive way.”