CHAPTER 3
"I fled him down the nights and down the days,
I fled him down the arches of the years.
I fled him down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind . . ."
—Francis Thompson
The average surface temperature of real estate in the Outer System was minus two hundred and fourteen degrees Celsius: fifty-nine degrees above absolute zero, where oxygen was a liquid and nitrogen a solid. The mean surface gravity of that same real estate was one four-hundredth of a g. Mean solar radiation was 1.2 microwatts per square meter, weaker than starlight, a billionth as intense as the Sun's energy received by the Earth.
Faced with those facts, the designers of the Earth Embassy for the Outer System had a choice: Should they locate the embassy off-Earth and face extensive transportation costs to and from the surface for all embassy interactions? Or should they accept an Earth environment uncomfortable and highly unnatural to the ambassador and staff? Since the designers were unlikely to visit Earth themselves, they naturally took the cheaper option. The embassy that Bey Wolf was visiting sat five hundred feet underground, where temperature, noise, and radiation could all be controlled.
Gravity was another matter. He dropped with stomach-wrenching suddenness through the upper levels. As he did so his surroundings became darker, quieter, and colder. Every surface was soundproofed. At four hundred feet the hush became so unnatural and disturbing that Bey found himself listening hard to nothing. He decided he did not like it. Humans made noise; humans clattered and banged and yelled. Total silence was inhuman.
Leo Manx was waiting for him in a room so cold that Bey could see his own breath in the air. The Cloudlander remained upright long enough to shake Bey's hand and gesture him to a seat, then sank with a sigh of relief into the depths of a water chair that folded itself around his thin body. The head that was left sticking out smiled apologetically. "I used a form-change program to adapt me to Earth gravity before I left the Outer System." His shrug emerged as a ripple of the chair's black outer plastic. "I don't think it was quite right."
A piece of your lousy software, by the sound of it, Bey thought. But he merely nodded and waited.
Manx sat silent for a few moments and then said abruptly, "My visit to Earth, you know, is for a very specific reason. To see you and to ask for your help—as the head of the Office of Form Control and Earth's leading expert on form-change theory and practice."
"You're a bit late. I'm not with that office anymore."
"I know that is the case. I heard that you had . . . resigned your position."
"No need to be diplomatic. I was fired."
The pale head bobbed. "In truth, I knew that also. You may be surprised to learn that from our point of view, your dismissal offers advantages."
"None from my point of view."
"It is my task to convince you otherwise." Leo Manx stretched upward, his thin neck and hairless head craning like a turtle from the black supporting oval of the chair. "To do so, I must request your silence about what I am to tell you."
"Suppose I refuse to go along with that?" Wolf saw the other man's discomfort. "Oh, hell, get on with it. I've spent my whole career not talking about things. I can do it for a while longer."
"Thank you. You will not regret it." Manx subsided in the chair. "Mr. Wolf, there has arisen in the Outer System a problem so serious that all knowledge of it is given only on a need-to-know basis. In a few words, there has been a widespread breakdown in the performance of form-change equipment, to the point where the process is being undertaken only in cases of emergency, such as my own visit to Earth."
"Widespread? Not just a machine or two?"
"Hundreds of machines, with rates of malfunction that have been growing rapidly. A year ago, we could point to two or three cases of gross error in results. Today, we have case histories of thousands."
"Then it has to be a general software problem. You don't want me for that. There are others who know more and can give you better guidance."
Manx's eyes, startlingly round and hollow in the absence of eyebrows, looked away. "If you are perhaps thinking of Robert Capman . . ."
"I would, but he's on a long-term stellar mission. My suggestion is BEC themselves. Why not call them in? They'll be as keen to sort this out as you are." Bey tried for an innocent expression. It was as good a way as any of testing the honesty of the Cloudlander.
Manx looked pained. "We already approached the Biological Equipment Corporation. They sent a team of experts, who reviewed everything we could show them and declared that they could find no evidence of any problem. Unfortunately, we are not convinced that they conducted as thorough a review as one might wish. There has been a long-term disagreement with BEC as to the proper amount of royalties the Outer System is accruing for the use of BEC's form-change hardware and software systems—"
"They say you stole their ideas, ignored their patents, and infringed their copyrights."
"Well, that is a little crudely put—but, yes, you have the gist of their argument." Manx smiled ruefully. "I see that our own security is less than we are inclined to believe."
"In a case like that it is. BEC will tell anyone on Earth who'll listen that the Outer System is robbing them blind."
"Which is certainly a—a—"
"Lie?"
"Exaggeration. A misrepresentation."
"You don't need to persuade me. I don't like monopolies, either, and BEC has one for the Inner System. But you said they did a review of 'everything we could show them.' Like to be more explicit?"
There was a raising of nonexistent eyebrows. "You are a very perceptive man. There were a number of units that we could not and did not show to the BEC team."
"Pirated designs?"
"The Outer System prefers to think of them as independent developments. However, I believe it would have made little difference. The anomalous behavior occurs with rather greater frequency in BEC's own equipment. Yet they insist that everything is working perfectly."
"Did your own engineers watch the BEC tests?"
"Yes. As BEC said, no anomalies were observed. As soon as they left, new peculiar forms were again produced." Manx began to push away the enfolding arms of the chair. "If you would be interested to see some of those forms, I have images here with me."
"No. You'd be wasting your time."
"These forms are extremely strange."
"Dr. Manx, odd forms don't do anything for me. I've seen so many of those over the years, I doubt if you could surprise me." Bey stood up. "I accept that you have a nasty problem, but it's not one that would justify dragging me partway to Alpha Centauri. I lost my job, but I still like Earth. And I doubt if I could do anything to help you."
"How do you know that without personal observation?"
"I've been around form control for a long time. As I said at the beginning, you have a software problem. The fact that BEC's team couldn't find it—or chose not to—makes no difference. Call 'em again, ask for Maria Sun. If anyone can solve it for you, she can."
Manx stood up, too. "Mr. Wolf, it is my opinion that you underestimate both yourself and the difficulty of this problem. But I cannot change your mind about that, here on Earth. Rather, allow me to introduce a new variable into the equation. While you were on the way here I asked for and read a copy of your dossier from the Office of Form Control. It is something that I ought to have done earlier. I learned more of your personal circumstances."
"You found out I'm going crazy."
"You are sick. If you know anything of the Outer System, you may know that we are advanced in the treatment of mental illness. That happens to be my own field. If you would agree to travel back with me—merely to observe the phenomena for yourself, for no more than a few days—I will devote my best efforts to your personal problem."
"Sorry. It's still negative." Bey headed for the door, but Leo Manx made a great effort and was there first.
"One more point, Mr. Wolf. And please excuse this importuning. You lived with Mary Walton for seven years. Is it possible that your reluctance to visit the Outer System arises from a fear that you may be obliged to interact with her there?"
Bey eased past the other man, trying not to touch him. "You're a conscientious and persistent man, Dr. Manx. I don't resent that—I respect you for it. I can't answer your question. Maybe I'm afraid I would meet Mary again. But in any case, I still refuse. Tell your superiors that I am honored to be considered."
"Yes, of course. But if by chance you should change your mind," Manx called after Bey as he headed for the elevator, "I will be here on Earth for two more days! Call me, at any hour."
But Wolf was already out of earshot. The final question about Mary had gotten to him more than it should have. Was he over her or wasn't he? Would he turn down a potentially fascinating problem simply because he might be forced to see Mary with the man she had chosen over him?
He was oblivious to the high-acceleration ride to the surface, oblivious to the evening crowds that pushed at him on the slideways. Manx's offer of dinner had never been realized, but in any case Bey had lost his appetite. He skipped dangerously across from high-speed to low-speed track, exited the slideway, and hurried up to his apartment He grabbed a projection cube at random from the file—they were all of Mary, it made little difference—and sat down to view it.
Predictably, it was one he hated to watch but also one he had viewed again and again. Mary in an amateur musical, dressed in a long gown, bonnet, and parasol, singing in the sweet, artificial little voice of a young girl. "Let him go, let him tarry, let him sink or let him swim. He doesn't care for me, and I don't care for him. He can go and find another, that I hope he will enjoy, for I'm going to marry a far nicer boy."
Bey felt his heart wither inside him as he watched. Nothing of her had faded; it hurt as much as ever. He was reaching to cut the cube when Mary Walton's demure figure rippled and darkened. A new scene was overlaid on the old and familiar one.
The Dancing Man, twisting and tumbling across the image, red-clad limbs akimbo. He paused in the middle, nodded at Bey, and made a singsong questioning little speech that could almost be understood. Then he was away, skating backward into the distance, head bobbing and hands waving cheerfully.
The Dancing Man—even here! In the middle of a sequence that Bey had recorded personally four years earlier. How could anyone possibly change that recording? Bey set the projection again to the beginning and forced himself to watch it through again. This time there was no Dancing Man. It was Mary all the way, to that intolerable final line when she set her parasol over her shoulder and waved good-bye.
Bey watched to the bitter end. Then he went across to the communications unit and called Leo Manx.