"Granthan!" he burst out. "Where are the others? What happened out there?" I turned him down to a mutter.
"Hold on," I said. "I'll tell you. Recorders going?" I didn't wait for an answer-not with a fifteen-minute transmission lag. I plowed on:
"Belshazzar was sabotaged. So was Gilgamesh-I think. I got out. I lost a little skin, but the aid cabinet has the case in hand. Tell the Med people the drinks are on me."
I finished talking and flopped back, waiting for Kayle's reply. On the screen, his flickering image gazed back impatiently, looking as hostile as a swing-shift ward nurse. It would be half an hour before I would get his reaction to my report. I dozed off-and awoke with a start. Kayle was talking.
"-your report. I won't mince words. They're wondering at your role in the disaster. How does it happen that you alone survived?"
"How the hell do I know?" I yelled-or croaked. But Kayle's voice was droning on:
"… you Psychodynamics people have been telling me the Gool may have some kind of long-range telehypnotic ability that might make it possible for them to subvert a loyal man without his knowledge. You've told me yourself that you blacked out during the attack-and came to on the lifeboat, with no recollection of how you got there.
"This is war, Granthan. War against a vicious enemy who strike without warning and without mercy. You were sent out to investigate the possibility of-what's that term you use?-hypercortical invasion. You know better than most the risk I'd be running if you were allowed to pass the patrol line.
"I'm sorry, Granthan. I can't let you land on Earth. I can't accept the risk."
"What do I do now?" I stormed. "Go into orbit and eat pills and hope you think of something? I need a doctor!"
Presently Kayle replied. "Yes," he said. "You'll have to enter a parking orbit. Perhaps there will be developments soon which will make it possible to… ah… restudy the situation." He didn't meet my eye. I knew what he was thinking. He'd spare me the mental anguish of knowing what was coming. I couldn't really blame him; he was doing what he thought was the right thing. And I'd have to go along and pretend-right up until the warheads struck-that I didn't know I'd been condemned to death.
2
I tried to gather my wits and think my way through the situation. I was alone and injured, aboard a lifeboat that would be the focus of a converging flight of missiles as soon as I approached within battery range of Earth. I had gotten clear of the Gool, but I wouldn't survive my next meeting with my own kind. They couldn't take the chance that I was acting under Gool orders.
I wasn't, of course. I was still the same Peter Granthan, psychodynamicist, who had started out with Dayan's fleet six weeks earlier. The thoughts I was having weren't brilliant, but they were mine, all mine.
But how could I be sure of that?
Maybe there was something in Kayle's suspicion. If the Gool were as skillful as we thought, they would have left no overt indications of their tampering-not at a conscious level.
But this was where psychodynamics training came in. I had been reacting like any scared casualty, aching to get home and lick his wounds. But I wasn't just any casualty. I had been trained in the subtleties of the mind-and I had been prepared for just such an attack.
Now was the time to make use of that training. It had given me one resource. I could unlock the memories of my subconscious-and see again what had happened.
I lay back, cleared my mind of extraneous thoughts, and concentrated on the trigger word that would key an autohypnotic sequence.
Sense impressions faded. I was alone in the nebulous emptiness of a first-level trance. I keyed a second word, slipped below the misty surface into a dreamworld of vague phantasmagoric figures milling in their limbo of sub-conceptualization. I penetrated deeper, broke through into the vividly hallucinatory third level, where images of mirror-bright immediacy clamored for attention. And deeper…
The immense orderly confusion of the basic memory level lay before me. Abstracted from it, aloof and observant, the monitoring personality-fraction scanned the pattern, searching the polydimensional continuum for evidence of an alien intrusion.
And found it.
As the eye instantaneously detects a flicker of motion amid an infinity of static detail, so my inner eye perceived the subtle traces of the probing Gool mind, like a whispered touch deftly rearranging my buried motivations.
I focused selectively, tuned to the recorded gestalt.
"It is a contact, Effulgent One!"
"Softly, now! Nurture the spark well. It but trembles at the threshold…"
"It is elusive, Master! It wriggles like a gorm-worm in the eating trough!"
A part of my mind watched as the memory unreeled. I listened to the voices-yet not voices, merely the shape of concepts, indescribably intricate. I saw how the decoy pseudo-personality which I had concretized for the purpose in a hundred training sessions had fought against the intruding stimuli-then yielded under the relentless thrust of the alien probe. I watched as the Gool operator took over the motor centers, caused me to crawl through the choking smoke of the devastated control compartment toward the escape hatch. Fire leaped up, blocking the way. I went on, felt ghostly flames whipping at me-and then the hatch was open and I pulled myself through, forcing the broken leg. My blackened hand fumbled at the locking wheel. Then the blast as the lifeboat leaped clear of the disintegrating dreadnought-and the world-ending impact as I fell.
At a level far below the conscious, the embattled pseudo-personality lashed out again-fighting the invader.
"Almost it eluded me then, Effulgent Lord. Link with this lowly one!"
"Impossible! Do you forget all my teachings? Cling, though you expend the last filament of your life-force!"
Free from all distraction, at a level where comprehension and retention are instantaneous and total, my monitoring basic personality fraction followed the skillful Gool mind as it engraved its commands deep in my subconscious. Then the touch withdrew, erasing the scars of its passage, to leave me unaware of its tampering-at a conscious level.
Watching the Gool mind, I learned.
The insinuating probe-a concept regarding which psychodynamicists had theorized-was no more than a pattern in emptiness…
But a pattern which I could duplicate, now that I had seen what had been done to me.
Hesitantly, I felt for the immaterial fabric of the continuum, warping and manipulating it, copying the Gool probe. Like planes of paper-thin crystal, the polyfinite aspects of reality shifted into focus, aligning themselves.
Abruptly, a channel lay open. As easily as I would stretch out my hand to pluck a moth from a night-flower, I reached across the unimaginable void-and sensed a pit blacker than the bottom floor of hell, and a glistening dark shape.
There was a soundless shriek. "Effulgence! It reached out-touched me!"
Using the technique I had grasped from the Gool itself, I struck, stifling the outcry, invaded the fetid blackness and grappled the obscene gelatinous immensity of the Gool spy as it spasmed in a frenzy of xenophobia-a ton of liver writhing at the bottom of a dark well.
I clamped down control. The Gool mind folded in on itself, gibbering. Not pausing to rest, I followed up, probed along my channel of contact, tracing patterns, scanning the flaccid Gool mind…
I saw a world of yellow seas lapping at endless shores of mud. There was a fuming pit, where liquid sulphur bubbled up from some inner source, filling an immense natural basin. The Gool clustered at its rim, feeding, each monstrous shape heaving against its neighbors for a more favorable position.