dislike correction at the hands of a phony religico with dirty fingernails."
I put my glass down upon the table that stood beside the chair and got up on my feet.
"Thanks for the drink," I said. "Perhaps some other time . . ."
"Just a moment, please," she said. "If you will please sit down. I apologize for Tuck. But it's I you're dealing with, not him. I have a proposal that you may find attractive."
"I've retired," I said.
"Perhaps you saw the, ship standing on the field. Two berths from where you landed.
"Yes, I saw the ship. And admired it. Does it belong to you?"
She nodded. "Captain, I need someone to run that ship. How would you like the job?"
"But why me," I asked. "Surely there are other men."
She shook her head. "On Earth? How many qualified spacemen do you think there are on Earth?"
"I suppose not many."
"There are none," 'she said. "Or almost none. None I'd trust that ship to."
I sat down again. "Let's get this straight," I said. "How do you know you can trust the ship to me? What do you know about me? How did you know I had arrived on Earth?"
She looked straight at me, squinting just a little, perhaps the way she'd squint down a rifle barrel at a charging beast.
"I can trust you," she said, "because there's nowhere you can go. You're fair game out in space. Your only safety would lie in sticking with the ship."
"Fair enough," I admitted. "And how about going out in space? The Patrol . . ."
"Captain, believe me, there's nothing that can overtake that ship, And if someone should set out to 'do it, we can wear them down. We have a long, hard way to go. It would not be worth their while. And, furthermore, I think it can be arranged so that no one ever knows you've gone into space."
"That's all very interesting," I said. "Could you bring yourself to tell me where we might be going?"
She said, "We don't know where we're going."
And that was damn foolishness, of course. You don't set out on a flight until you know where you are going. If she didn't want to tell, why couldn't she just say so?
"Mr. Smith," said Sara, "knows where we are going."
I switched my head to look at him, that great lump huddled in his chair, the sightless, milk-white eyes in his flabby face.
"I have a voice in my head," he said. "I have contact with someone. I have a friend out there."
Oh, wonderful! I thought. It all comes down to this. He has a voice in his head.
"Let me guess," I said to Sara Foster. "This religious gentleman brought Mr. Smith to you."
She suddenly was angry. Her face turned white and her blue eyes seemed to narrow to gleaming jets of ice.
"You are right," she said, biting off the words, "but that's not all of it. You know, of course, that Knight was accompanied by a robot."
I nodded. "A robot by the name of Roscoe."
"And that Roscoe was a telepathic robot?"
"There's no such thing," I said.
"But there is. Or was. I've done my homework, captain. I have the specifications for this particular robot. And I had them long before Mr. Smith showed up. Also letters that Knight had written to certain friends of his. I have, perhaps, the only authentic documentation concerning Knight and what be was looking for. All of it acquired before these two gentlemen showed up and obtained from sources of which they could have had no knowledge."
"But they could have heard . . ."
"I didn't tell a soul," she said. "It was—what would you call it? Perhaps no more than a hobby. Maybe an obsession. Bits and pieces picked up here and there, with never any hope of fitting them together. It was such a fascinating legend . . ."
"And that is all it is," I said. "A legend. Built up through the years by accomplished, but nonmalicious, liars. One tiny fact is taken and twisted and interwoven with other tiny facts until all these interwoven tiny facts, forced into fictitious relationships with one another, become so complicated that there is not a shred of hope of knowing which is solid fact and which is inspired fiction."
"But
I put my glass down upon the table that stood beside the chair and got up on my feet.
"Thanks for the drink," I said. "Perhaps some other time . . ."
"Just a moment, please," she said. "If you will please sit down. I apologize for Tuck. But it's I you're dealing with, not him. I have a proposal that you may find attractive."
"I've retired," I said.
"Perhaps you saw the, ship standing on the field. Two berths from where you landed.
"Yes, I saw the ship. And admired it. Does it belong to you?"
She nodded. "Captain, I need someone to run that ship. How would you like the job?"
"But why me," I asked. "Surely there are other men."
She shook her head. "On Earth? How many qualified spacemen do you think there are on Earth?"
"I suppose not many."
"There are none," 'she said. "Or almost none. None I'd trust that ship to."
I sat down again. "Let's get this straight," I said. "How do you know you can trust the ship to me? What do you know about me? How did you know I had arrived on Earth?"
She looked straight at me, squinting just a little, perhaps the way she'd squint down a rifle barrel at a charging beast.
"I can trust you," she said, "because there's nowhere you can go. You're fair game out in space. Your only safety would lie in sticking with the ship."
"Fair enough," I admitted. "And how about going out in space? The Patrol . . ."
"Captain, believe me, there's nothing that can overtake that ship, And if someone should set out to 'do it, we can wear them down. We have a long, hard way to go. It would not be worth their while. And, furthermore, I think it can be arranged so that no one ever knows you've gone into space."
"That's all very interesting," I said. "Could you bring yourself to tell me where we might be going?"
She said, "We don't know where we're going."
And that was damn foolishness, of course. You don't set out on a flight until you know where you are going. If she didn't want to tell, why couldn't she just say so?
"Mr. Smith," said Sara, "knows where we are going."
I switched my head to look at him, that great lump huddled in his chair, the sightless, milk-white eyes in his flabby face.
"I have a voice in my head," he said. "I have contact with someone. I have a friend out there."
Oh, wonderful! I thought. It all comes down to this. He has a voice in his head.
"Let me guess," I said to Sara Foster. "This religious gentleman brought Mr. Smith to you."
She suddenly was angry. Her face turned white and her blue eyes seemed to narrow to gleaming jets of ice.
"You are right," she said, biting off the words, "but that's not all of it. You know, of course, that Knight was accompanied by a robot."
I nodded. "A robot by the name of Roscoe."
"And that Roscoe was a telepathic robot?"
"There's no such thing," I said.
"But there is. Or was. I've done my homework, captain. I have the specifications for this particular robot. And I had them long before Mr. Smith showed up. Also letters that Knight had written to certain friends of his. I have, perhaps, the only authentic documentation concerning Knight and what be was looking for. All of it acquired before these two gentlemen showed up and obtained from sources of which they could have had no knowledge."
"But they could have heard . . ."
"I didn't tell a soul," she said. "It was—what would you call it? Perhaps no more than a hobby. Maybe an obsession. Bits and pieces picked up here and there, with never any hope of fitting them together. It was such a fascinating legend . . ."
"And that is all it is," I said. "A legend. Built up through the years by accomplished, but nonmalicious, liars. One tiny fact is taken and twisted and interwoven with other tiny facts until all these interwoven tiny facts, forced into fictitious relationships with one another, become so complicated that there is not a shred of hope of knowing which is solid fact and which is inspired fiction."
"But
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