The situation on the black airless plain which glimmered in the viewscreens bore a superficial resemblance to the puzzles sometimes given in aptitude tests, and when treating it on that level Surgenor could see several solutions. Apart from Pollen’s standard juggling-with-numbers technique, a more empirical approach would be to have Aesop fire a low-powered burst from a laser rifle at each module in turn. Even if a Grey Man were able to withstand that sort of treatment without flinching, spectroscope analysis of the light produced would almost certainly show up compositional differences. Another solution would be to order each module to unship the little inspection-and-repair robot which was used when conditions were too severe for manual work in protective suits. Surgenor doubted if the alien could cope with a simulation task which involved splitting itself into two independent sections.
The deadly flaw in all those solutions was that they employed a process of elimination—which was something Module Seven would never permit. Any attempt to narrow down the field would only have the effect of triggering off the final calamity a little earlier. The real-life solution, if one existed, must be capable of instantaneous application. And Surgenor was not at all optimistic about his chances of finding it.
From sheer force of habit he began reviewing the situation, searching for some lever which might be used to advantage, then he recalled the significance of the voices which had continued to issue from the communications speaker after he and Voysey had been struck dumb. Pollen and a number of the other crewmen were still able to talk, which probably meant they were out of Module Seven’s radius of control.
The discovery showed that the enemy had some limitations to its frightening power, but appeared to have no practical value. Surgenor examined the module’s viewscreens, wondering just how many minutes or seconds were left. It was difficult to assimilate the discrete images properly without moving his head, but he saw that there were two other modules not far away to the right, which meant his own vehicle was part of a loose group of three. All the others were much farther away on the opposite side of the circle, and as he watched one of them began flashing its main light in a hesitant attempt at Morse.
Surgenor ignored it, partly because he had long forgotten the code and partly because he was concentrating his attention on the two nearer machines, one of which was almost certain to be Module Seven. High up on the Sarafand lights flickered against the background of stars as Aesop responded in crisp, high-speed Morse to the vehicle which had been attempting to communicate with him. Surgenor could imagine the consternation in that vehicle as its occupants tried to cope with Aesop’s overtly efficient signalling.
The continuing screech of radio interference conspired with the sense of urgency to create a yammering in Surgenor’s nerves and brain, rendering it almost impossible for him to bring his thoughts together. He understood the fallacy in trying to interpret alien behaviour patterns in terms of human attitudes—and a Grey Man had to be the most alien creature mankind was ever likely to encounter—but there seemed to be something inconsistent about…
Voysey moved his right hand forward to the control console and activated the engines.
For an instant Surgenor thought they had been freed from the paralysis field, but he found himself still unable to move. Voysey’s face was chalk-white and immobile, saliva glistening on his chin, and Surgenor realized he had acted merely as a human servo-mechanism, controlled by Module Seven. Surgenor’s mind began to race.
This must be it, he thought, our time is up.
The only reason the alien could have for making Voysey activate the motors was that it was planning to move the vehicle to distract Aesop. Surgenor went cold at the idea—there was no way to distract or confuse Aesop, and he would not hesitate to vaporize the first module to cross the invisible thousand-metre line.
Voysey’s left hand released the brakes and the vehicle shifted slightly on the uneven ground.
Surgenor made another frantic, despairing effort to move, but all that happened was that his panic returned in full force. What was Module Seven’s plan intended to achieve? He had deducted that its radius of control was limited. He also knew that it was about to trigger off an accident in the hope of drawing Aesop’s attention away from itself, which almost certainly implied it was going to try getting closer to the Sarafand. But why? There was no point in such an action, unless…
His belated but full understanding of the situation expanded like a nova in Surgenor’s mind—then new vistas of danger unfolded.
I know the truth, he thought, but I mustn’t think about it because a Grey Man is telepathic, and if he gets to know what I’m thinking…
Vosey’s hand thrust hard against the throttle levers and the module dipped forward.
…the Grey Man will learn that…NO! Think about anything else in the universe. Think about the past, the distant past, going to school, history lessons, history of science…the quantum nature of gravity was finally established in 2063, and the successful detection of the graviton led directly to an understanding of beta-space and thus to the development of faster-than-light travel…but nobody really understands what beta-space is like…no human being, that is…only…I almost did it…I almost thought about…I can’t help it…AESOP!
The distance separating Candar from the spaceship was one that, in a more efficient form, he could have crossed in two bounds. It would take slightly longer this way, but he knew he was too fast to be stopped by anything. He gave full rein to his hunger, letting it drive him on as he leaped forward. Behind him, rather more slowly than he had expected, the two machines he had taken into his control rolled towards the spaceship. One of the food creatures was vainly trying to suppress a thought, but there was no time to study its meaning…
Changing shape as he went, Candar got safely within control distance. Exulting, he struck with his brain, hurling the intangible nets of mind-force which induced paralysis in lesser creatures.
Nothing!
An ultralaser beam hit him with a violence which would have annihilated any other being within microseconds, but Candar could not die so easily. The pain was greater than he could ever have expected, but even worse than the agony was his sudden clear understanding of the minds of the food creatures—those bleak, cold, alien minds.
For the first time ever, Candar felt fear.
Then he died.
The champagne was good, the steak was good, and sleep—when it finally came—would be even better.
Surgenor leaned back contentedly, lit his pipe, and gazed benignly at the eleven other men seated at the long table in the Sarafand’s mess room. During the meal he had reached a decision, and he knew with a comforting glow in his belly that, for him, it was the right decision. He had made up his mind that he liked being an Oldest Member figure. Shrewd young men could go on putting him in their books of space travel reminiscences, his cousins could buy him out of their plant-business—he was going to stay with the Cartographical Service until he had satiated mind and soul with the sight of new worlds. It was his life, his way of life, and he had no intention of giving it up.
At the other end of the table, Clifford Pollen was making his notes of the trip.
“The way you see it Dave,” Pollen said, “is that the Grey Man was simply incapable of understanding the machine-building philosophy?”