Between Planets (21 page)

Phipps pounded the arm of the chair. “I know it, I know it! If things had gone properly, you would have delivered it to your father and we would have been saved no end of trouble. But those eager lads in New London had to—Never mind. The rebellion occurring when it did caused you to wind up here instead of on Mars. I’m trying to pick up the pieces. You can’t deliver it to your father, but you can get the same result by turning it over to me. Your father and I are working toward the same end.”

Don hesitated before answering, “I don’t wish to be rude—but you ought to give some proof of that.”

Sir Isaac produced with his voder a sound exactly like a man clearing his throat. “Ahem!” They both turned their heads toward him. “Perhaps,” he went on, “I should enter the discussion. I have known Donald, if I may say so, more recently, my dear Phipps.”

“Well—go ahead.”

Sir Isaac turned most of his eyes on Don. “My dear Donald, do you trust me?”

“Uh, I think so, Sir Isaac—but it seems to me that I am obligated to insist on proof. It isn’t my ring.”

“Yes, you have reason. Then let us consider what would be proof. If I say—”

Don interrupted, feeling that the whole matter was out of hand. “I’m sorry I let this grow into an argument. You see, it does not matter.”

“Eh?”

“Well, you see, I don’t have the ring any longer. It’s gone.”

There was a dead silence for a long minute. Then Phipps said, “I think Malath has fainted.”

There was scurrying excitement while the Martian’s cart was removed to his chambers, tension until it was reported that he was floating in his very special bed and resting comfortably. The conference resumed with three members. Phipps glowered at Don. “It’s your fault, you know. What you said took the heart out of him.”

“Me? I don’t understand.”

“He was a courier, too—he was stranded here the same way you were. He has the other half of the message—of the message you lost. And you removed the last possible chance he has of getting home before high gravity kills him. He’s a sick man—and you jerked the rug out from under him.”

Donald said, “But—”

Sir Isaac interrupted. “Donald is not at fault. The young should be blamed only with just cause and after deliberation, lest the family sorrow.”

Phipps glanced at the dragon, then back at Don. “I’m sorry. I’m tired and bad tempered. What’s done is done. The important point is: what happened to the ring? Is there any possibility of locating it?”

Don looked unhappy. “I’m afraid not.” He explained rapidly about the attempt to get the ring from him and how he had had no proper place to protect it. “I didn’t know that it was really important but I was determined to carry out Dr. Jefferson’s wishes—maybe I’m sort of stubborn at times. So I did the best I could think of to do; I turned it over to a friend for safekeeping. I figured that was best because no one would think of looking for it in the hands of a person who wouldn’t be expected to have it.”

“Sound enough,” agreed Phipps, “but to whom did you give it?”

“A young lady.” Don’s features contorted. “I think she was killed when the Greenies attacked.”

“You don’t know?”

“I’m fairly certain. I’ve been doing work that gives me opportunities to ask and nobody has laid eyes on her since the attack. I’m sure she’s dead.”

“You could be wrong. What was her name?”

“Isobel Costello. Her father managed the I.T.&T. branch.”

Phipps looked utterly astounded, then lay back in his chair and roared. Presently he wiped his eyes and said, “Did you hear that, Sir Isaac? Did you hear that? Talk about the Blue Bird in your own back yard! Talk about Grandma’s spectacles!”

Don looked from one to the other. “What do you mean?” he asked in offended tones.

“What do I mean? Why, son, Jim Costello and his daughter have been right here since two days after the attack.” He jumped out of his chair. “Don’t move! Stay where you are—I’ll be right back.”

And he was back quickly. “I always have trouble with those funny house phones of yours, Sir Ike,” he complained. “But they’re coming.” He sat down and heaved a sigh. “Some days I’m tempted to turn myself in as an idiot.”

Phipps shut up, save for a suppressed chuckle or two. Sir Isaac seemed to be contemplating his non-existent navel. Don was preoccupied with turbulent thoughts, relief too great to be pleasure. Isobel alive!

Presently, calm somewhat restored, he spoke up. “Look, isn’t it about time somebody told me what this is all about?”

Sir Isaac lifted his head and his tendrils played over the keys. “Your pardon, dear boy. I was thinking of something else. Long, long ago when my race was young and when your race had not yet—”

Phipps cut in. “Excuse me, old boy, but I can brief it and you can fill him in on the details later.” He assumed assent and turned to Don. “Harvey, there is an organization—a cabal, a conspiracy, a secret lodge call it what you like—we just call it ‘The Organization’. I’m a member, so is Sir Isaac, so is old Malath—and so are both of your parents. And so was Dr. Jefferson. It’s made up mostly of scientists but it is not limited to them; the one thing we all have in common is a belief in the dignity and natural worth of free intelligence. In many different ways we have fought—and fought unsuccessfully, I should add—against the historical imperative of the last two centuries—the withering away of individual freedom under larger and even more pervasive organizations, both governmental and quasi-governmental.

“On Earth our group derives from dozens of sources, way back in history—associations of scientists fighting against secrecy and the straitjacketing of thought, artists fighting against censorship, legal aid societies, many other organizations, most of them unsuccessful, and some downright stupid. About a century ago all such things were pushed underground; the weak sisters dropped out, the talkative got themselves arrested and liquidated—and the remnants consolidated.

“Here on Venus our origins go clear back to the rapprochement between Cyrus Buchanan and the dominant natives. On Mars, in addition to many humans—more about them later—the organization is affiliated with what we call the ‘priest class’—a bad translation, for they aren’t priests; ‘judges’ would be closer.”

Sir Isaac interrupted. “Elder brothers.”

“Eh? Well, maybe that is a fair poetical rendering. Never mind. The point is, the whole organization, Martian, Venerian, Terrestrial, has been striving—”

“Just a minute,” put in Don. “If you can answer me one question, it would clear up a whole lot. I’m a soldier of the Venus Republic and we’ve got a war on. Tell me this: is this organization—here on Venus, I mean—helping in our fight to chuck the Greenies out?”

“Well, not precisely. You see—”

Don did not then find out what it was he was supposed to see; another voice cut through Phipps’ words: “Don! Donald!”

He found himself swarmed by a somewhat smaller and female member of his own race. Isobel seemed determined to break his neck. Don was embarrassed and upset and most happy. He gently removed her arms from his neck and tried to pretend that it had not happened—when he caught sight of her father looking at him quite oddly. “Uh, hello, Mr. Costello.”

Costello advanced and shook hands with him. “How do you do, Mr. Harvey? It’s good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you. I’m mighty glad to see you folks alive and in one piece. I thought you had had it.”

“Not quite. But it was a near thing.”

Isobel said, “Don, you look older—much older. And how thin you are!”

He grinned at her. “You look just the same, Grandma.”

Phipps interrupted, “Much as I dislike breaking up Old Home Week we have no time to waste. Miss Costello, we want the ring.”

“The ring?”

“He means,” explained Don, “the ring I left with you.”

“Ring?” said Mr. Costello. “Mr. Harvey, did you give my daughter a ring?”

“Well, not exactly. You see…”

Phipps interrupted again. “It’s
the
ring, Jim—the message ring. Harvey was the other courier—and it seems he made your daughter sort of a deputy courier.”

“Eh? I must say I’m confused.” He looked at his daughter.

“You have it?” Don asked her. “You didn’t lose it?”

“Lose your ring? Of course not, Don. But I had thought—Never mind; you want it back now.” She glanced around at the eyes on her—fourteen, counting Sir Isaac’s—then moved away and turned her back. She turned around again almost immediately and held out her hand. “Here it is.”

Phipps reached for it. Isobel drew her hand away and handed it to Don. Phipps opened his mouth, closed it again, then reopened it. “Very well—now let’s have it, Harvey.”

Don put it in a pocket. “You never did get around to explaining why I should turn it over to you.”

“But—” Phipps turned quite red. “This is preposterous! Had we known it was here, we would never have bothered to send for you—we would have had it without your leave.”

“Oh, no!”

Phipps swung his eyes to Isobel. “What’s that, young lady? Why not?”

“Because I wouldn’t have given it to you—not ever. Don told me that someone was trying to get it away from him. I didn’t know that
you
were the one.”

Phipps, already red-faced, got almost apoplectic. “I’ve had all this childish kidding around with serious matters that I can stand.” He took two long strides to Don and grasped him by the arm. “Cut out the nonsense and give us that message!”

Don shook him off and backed away half a step, all in one smooth motion—and Phipps looked down to see the point of a blade almost touching his waistband. Don held the knife with the relaxed thumb-and-two-finger grip of those who understand steel.

Phipps seemed to have trouble believing what he saw. Don said to him softly, “Get away from me.”

Phipps backed away. “Sir Isaac!”

“Yes,” agreed Don. “Sir Isaac—do I have to put up with this in your house?”

The dragon’s tentacles struck the keys, but only confused squawking came out. He stopped and started again and said very slowly, “Donald—this is your house. You are always safe in it. Please—by the service you did me—put away your weapon.”

Don glanced at Phipps, straightened up and caused his knife to disappear. Phipps relaxed and turned to the dragon. “Well, Sir Isaac? What are you going to do about it?”

Sir Isaac did not bother with the voder. “
Remove thyself!
”

“Eh?”

“You have brought dissension into this house. Were you not both in my house and of my family? Yet you menaced him. Please go—before you cause more sorrow.”

Phipps started to speak, thought better of it—left. Don said, “Sir Isaac, I am terribly sorry. I—”

“Let the waters close over it. Let the mud bury it. Donald, my dear boy, how can I assure you that what we ask of you is what your honored parents would have you do, were they here to instruct you?”

Don considered this. “I think that’s just the trouble, Sir Isaac—I’m not your ‘dear boy.’ I’m not anybody’s ‘dear boy.’ My parents aren’t here and I’m not sure that I would let them instruct me if they were. I’m a grown man now—I’m not as old as you are, not by several centuries. I’m not very old even by human standards—Mr. Phipps still classes me as a boy and that was what was wrong. But I’m not a boy and I’ve got to know what’s going on and make up my own mind. So far, I’ve heard a lot of sales talk and I’ve been subjected to a lot of verbal pushing around. That won’t do; I’ve got to know the real facts.”

Before Sir Isaac could reply they were interrupted by another sound—Isobel was applauding. Don said to her. “How about you, Isobel? What do you know about all this?”

“Me? Nothing. I couldn’t be more in the dark if I were stuffed in a sack. I was just cheering your sentiments.”

“My daughter,” Mr. Costello put in crisply, “knows nothing at all of these things. But I do—and it appears that you are entitled to answers.”

“I could certainly use some!”

“By your leave, Sir Isaac?” The dragon ponderously inclined his head; Costello went on, “Fire away. I’ll try to give you straight answers.”

“Okay—what’s the message in the ring?”

“Well, I can’t answer that exactly or we wouldn’t need the message ourselves. I know that it’s a discussion of certain aspects of physics—gravitation and inertia and spin and things like that. Field theory. It’s certainly very long and very complicated and I probably wouldn’t understand it if I knew exactly what was in it. I’m simply a somewhat rusty communications engineer, not a top-flight theoretical physicist.”

Don looked puzzled. “I don’t get it. Somebody tucks a physics book into a ring—and then we play cops-and-robbers all around the system. It sounds silly. Furthermore, it sounds impossible.” He took the ring out and looked at it; the light shone through it clearly. It was just a notions counter trinket—how could a major work on physics be hidden in it?

Sir Isaac said, “Donald, my dear—I beg pardon. Shucks! You mistake simple appearance for simplicity. Be assured; it is in there. It is theoretically possible to have a matrix in which each individual molecule has a meaning—as they do in the memory cells of your brain. If we had such subtlety, we could wrap your Encyclopedia Britannica into the head of a pin—it would
be
the head of that pin. But this is nothing so difficult.”

Don looked again at the ring and put it back in his pocket. “Okay, if you say so. But I still don’t see what all the shooting is about.”

Mr. Costello answered, “We don’t either—not exactly. This message was intended to go to Mars, where they are prepared to make the best use of it. I myself had not even heard about the project except in the most general terms until I was brought here. But the main idea is this: the equations that are included in this message tell how space is put together—and how to manipulate it. I can’t even imagine all the implications of that—but we do know a couple of things that we expect from it, first, how to make a force field that will stop anything, even a fusion bomb, and second, how to hook up a space drive that would make rocket travel look like walking. Don’t ask me how—I’m out of my depth. Ask Sir Isaac.”

“Ask me after I’ve studied the message,” the dragon commented dryly.