"What's the matter with the one you're using now?" suggested Gaynor. "And what is it, by the way?"
"That? just the certain knowledge that if one man does a wrong thing, the rest will go under. That leads to an instinctive rectitude of decision where necessary, and to the toleration of deliberation where that is indicated."
"Virtually an early Wells utopia," murmured Gaynor. The car stopped and they felt themselves being transferred to another pocket of the monster.
"Now," continued the monster, "we're walking right through a wall into the fortalice of our enemies. I'm warning you now to be ready to be deposited on little or no notice. I hope you'll be able to escape in the confusion and get under cover before they pay very cursory attention to the surroundings."
"What confusion?" asked Io.
"Why, this—approaching in the form of several guards, friends. We're very near the council room. We're in it, now— " The abrupt end of the thoughts of their carrier brought sudden shock to the three cowering in the dark of his pocket. They could hear confused roarings and explosions, then a hand yanked them out, none too gently, and they fell far to the floor.
"Come on," snapped Gaynor, "damn our size—can't see a thing!" He yanked Jocelyn and shoved Io under the ledge of a colossal- piece of furniture; they crouched in a passage no more than three feet high to their senses.
"My guess," said Io, "is that Joe is a suicide, practically. He must have known he wouldn't get out of this alive. These people deserve to win, Paul."
Gaynor was still fretting. "Now," he growled, "I know what a fly feels like—can't see more than a couple feet before its proboscis and even then doesn't comprehend what's going on. Jos, it makes me feel stupid and unimportant. Let's all tune in on the War Council. Relax, and open your minds."
"Paul, I can't understand the setup," said Jocelyn worriedly. "Everything's confused. Who's that mind receiving and broadcasting without a thought of his own? I don't get it."
"That mind," said Io thoughtfully, "seems to be an idiot of some kind."
"Of course!" cried Gaynor. "The War Council hasn't got one-way helmets; this is their dodge. The idiot is under some sort of hypnotic control, I'd say offhand."
"Being lice, and double or, if necessary, triplecrossers, they don't trust each other with the two-way helmets. They don't do things the easiest way—by language—hmm, that's rather odd, too."
"Maybe they don't all speak the same language," suggested lo.
"That would explain it. Then this system, even though roundabout, is quick enough. They telepath to the idiot, who telepaths it to the others, and so it goes. Simple in a complicated sort of way. Now maybe you'll be able to follow them."
He relapsed into brooding silence and tuned in. The thin, dry mind-voice of a councillor was discussing something utterly unintelligible in the way of high-order chemistry. All Gaynor got was, in a gloating tone at the very end: "—phenol coefficient of two hundred and ninety-eight, gentlemen!"
A murmur of mental congratulations, then, from another. "How do you produce the poison?"
"Hot poison, corrosive."
"Corrosive, then. How do you make it?"
More alien technical terms, then the second voice. "Thought so. Lovely idea, but not practical yet. Work on it, man—work on it! This is a war of money as well as spraying liquids. If we could wipe them out in one advance with your stuff, it would be okay. Otherwise, it isn't worth the money we'd have to put out for it. But work on it, nonetheless. Phenol coefficient two-nine-eight, you say? Very good...."
Then a sharp mind-voice of command. "Tactically, what is there to report? You—nothing? You—nothing? You?"
"Something, chief. No much, but something. How'd you like to hear that the new air-field's caved in the center?"
"Speak up, rot you! Has it or hasn't it?"
"It has. Somebody's error in Engineering No. Eight, Chief. That ought to affect plans considerably, eh, sir?"
"I'll decide that, young one. And somebody. swings for that error; make a note of it. See who initialed the final plans for the beaming and poured metal."
"Right, Chief. Now—what's the big news, sir? What's the time for it to pop?"
There was something like a pleased smile from the mind-pattern of the commander, they thought. Gaynor concentrated furiously to catch the precious next words. "The advance? In three days. Three days exactly. I shouldn't call it crucial at all—simply the operation on which we've been planning for a full long time. Naturally it will be successful. We shall go now. See that the idea is taken care of, someone. You."
"I'll be back for him in a moment."
There was a tremendous shuffling of feet, and when Gaynor cautiously poked his head out of the shelter, the room was empty except for the idiot, who, face high up, was blank as a dumbbell.
"C'mon out, all," he called, giving Jocelyn a hand. "We can case the joint."
They essayed a little stroll along the baseboard, feeling futile as a jackrabbit. The shuffling of two enormous feet gave a pause; he looked up with some trepidation. "Awk!" he groaned. The idiot, a bright beaming smile of interest on his face, dove two hands like twin Stukas at them. The hands closed about the struggling humans, and they were swooped up and violently deposited in a dark, dismal spot.
"So this," said Jocelyn finally, "is what an idiot's vestpocket is like."
VI.
"Total blank," said Gaynor despairingly. "He doesn't radiate thoughts at all. Just a something like the noise of an electric razor, implying hunger and fatigue."
"Doesn't he have any opinions of us?" asked Jocelyn timidly.
"Not a one. Just picked us up out of some kind of reflex. No intention behind it at all; if lie knew what he was doing, he's already forgotten about it. Oops!" Gaynor started. "They just took off his helmet, I suppose. Anyway the buzzing came to an abrupt end. Here we go!"
They jounced around wildly in the pocket of the idiot as he moved slowly and with great dignity out of the room. The three miniatures were too busy clutching onto the course fabric of the pocket's lining to wonder where they were going, in general. The motion stopped; they heard the gigantic thud of a door closing on an unprecedentedly big scale.
"Locked in, I surmise," mused Gaynor. The pocket dropped like an elevator. "Hmm, he sat down."
"Shall we make a break now?" asked Io.
"Now or never; come on, it's over the top." Taking firm hold of the stuff of the pocket, he climbed carefully, hand over hand, popping his head finally over the pocket's top. Jocelyn and Io appeared beside him.
"Can't get the scale of things here," he complained bitterly. "Can't tell where we are—whether that's a chair or the floor. Anyway— " He let go and fell heavily to the plane below. The great bulk of the idiot's body was beside him like a cliff. From the noises, one hazarded that it was eating—not very daintily. His wife and Ionic Intersection hit the ground beside him.
"Easy does it," he cautioned, clasping a chair leg with every limb he had. Braking carefully, he slid far down to the floor, then picked Jocelyn and Io off the huge trunk as they followed.