Muscles left in the perturbed hurry that was his normal reaction to the discovery that Klim had strayed out of sight, and Grevan continued buttoning up Albert, undistracted by further mathematical mutterings. The cubs had finished sorting themselves out a year or so ago, and who was to be whose seemed pretty well settled by now. There had been a time when he’d thought it would have been a nice gesture on CG’s part to have increased their membership by a double for Klim or Eliol or Vernet or Freckles—depending more or less on which of them he was looking at at the moment—though preferably somebody three or four years older. Of late, however, he had developed some plans of his own for rounding out the Group. If the question of getting and staying beyond CG’s range could be satisfactorily settled . . .
He shrugged off an uncomfortably convincing notion that any plans he might consider had been discounted long ago by the branch of Central Government which had developed the Group for its own purpose. Speculative eyes seemed to be following every move he made as he wished Albert pleasant dreams and a less temperamental future, closed the door to the tank room, and went to the ramp. Halfway down it, he stopped short. For an endless second, his heart seemed to turn over slowly and, just as slowly then, to come right side up again.
The woman who stood at the foot of the ramp, looking up at him, was someone he knew—and he also knew she couldn’t possibly be there! The jolting recognition was almost crowded out by a flash of hot fright: obviously she wasn’t really there at all. At a distance of thirty feet, the starlight never could have showed him Priderell’s pale-ivory face so clearly—or the slow stirring of her long, clever dancer’s body under its red gown, and the sheen of the short red cloak she wore over it, clasped at her throat by a stone’s green glitter.
* * *
Afterwards, Grevan could not have said how long he stood there with his thoughts spinning along the edge of sheer panic. In actual time it might have been a bare instant before he became aware of a familiar distant voice:
“Hey, boss! Grevan!”
The sound seemed tiny and very far away. But he heard himself make some kind of an answer and suddenly realized then that the image had vanished.
“Do you want barbecued Albert, or don’t you?” Klim shouted again from the direction of the fire. “I can’t keep these pigs away from your share much longer!”
He drew a deep breath. “Coming right now!”
But it was another minute or two before he showed himself at the fire, and he had arranged his thoughts carefully into other lines before he did. The cubs couldn’t actually tell what he was thinking—unless he made a deliberate effort to let them; and they weren’t too accurate then—but they were very quick to trace the general trend and coloring of one’s reflections.
And his reflections had been that his visualization of Priderell might have been something more than some momentary personal derangement. That it might be the beginning of a purposefully directed assault on the fortress of the Group’s sanity, backed by a power and knowledge that laughed at their hopes of escape.
Fortunately his companions seemed to feel that the barbecue had been exactly the right way of ending the day. A short while later they were stretched out on blankets here and there in the sand, fully relaxed and asleep, as far as Grevan could see, though never more than that small fraction of a second away from complete and active wakefulness which experienced travelers learn to regard as the margin that leaves them assured of awakening at all.
But Grevan sat aside for a while, and looked out at the sea and the stars.
* * *
There were a lot of stars to look at around here, and big ones. They had come within twenty-eight light-years of the center of a globular cluster near the heart of the Milky Way, where, so far as they knew, no humanly manned ship had ever gone before. In every direction the skies were hung, depth on depth, with the massed frozen flows of strange constellations. Somewhere, in that huge shining, four small moons wandered indistinguishably—indistinguishable, at any rate, if you didn’t know just where to look for them, and Grevan hadn’t bothered to find out.
Something stirred softly, off to his left.
“Hello, Freck,” he said quietly. “Come to help me plot against CG?”
The four little moons couldn’t have raised a tide in a barrel among them, but there was a big one at work below the horizon, and water had crept in to cover the flat stretches of shore. By now it was lapping at the base of the higher rocks that bordered their camp area. Freckles sat on the edge of one of the rocks, a few yards off, the white hat pushed to the back of her head and her feet dangling over the ripples below.
“Just being companionable,” she said. “But if you think you need any help in your plotting, fire away! This is one place where CG couldn’t possibly have its long ears stuck out to listen.”
He played for a moment then with the notion of telling her about his hallucination. Freckles was the Group’s unofficial psychologist. The youngest and smallest of the lot, but equipped with what was in some ways the boldest and most subtle mind of them all. The secret experiments she had conducted on herself and the others often had put Grevan’s hair on end; but the hard-won reward of that rocky road of research had been the method of dealing effectively with CG’s restraints.
“What kind of psychological triggers,” he said instead, “could CG still pull on us out here—aside from the ones we know?”
Freckles chuckled. “You’re asking the wrong kind of question.”
He frowned a little, that being one of his pet phrases.
“All right,” he said. “Then do you think we might still be carrying around a few compulsions that we simply don’t remember?”
“No,” Freckles said promptly. “You can install things like that in an ordinary-human, because they’re half asleep to start with. I’ve done it myself. But you’d have to break any one of us down almost to mindless-controlled before you could knock out our memory to that extent. We wouldn’t be much good to CG afterwards.”
“How do you know?”
She shrugged. “When I was a kid, a Dominator worked on me for a week trying to lay in a compulsion I wouldn’t be able to spot. And, believe me, after a day or two I was doing my best to cooperate! The type of mind we have simply can’t accept amnesia.”
She added, “Of course, a Dominator—or a human psycho, if you agree to it—can hold you in a cloud just as long as they can keep on direct pressure. You’ll do and believe anything they tell you then. Like the time when you—”
“I remember that time,” Grevan acknowledged shortly. She was referring to an occasion when he had authorized her without reserve to attempt some unspecified new line of investigation on him. Some while later, he had realized suddenly that for the past half hour he had been weeping noisily because he was a small, green, very sour apple which nobody wanted to eat.
“Boy, you looked silly!” Freckles remarked reminiscently.
Grevan cleared his throat. She might, he observed, have looked somewhat silly herself, around the south polar region, if he’d caught up with her before he cooled off.
“Ah, but you didn’t!” said Freckles. “A good researcher knows when to include a flying start in her computations. Actually, I did come across something really fancy in mental energy effects once. But if CG could operate on those levels, they wouldn’t need a hundredth part of the organization they’ve got. So it stands to reason they can’t.”
“What sort of effects?” he inquired uneasily.
“You’ve got me there!” Freckles admitted, pulling the white hat thoughtfully down on her forehead. “I haven’t the faintest idea of what they were, even in principle. I was still alone then—it was about four years before they got us together to make up the Group. They brought a man into the Center where I was, in an ambulance. He looked unconscious, and our psychos were all excited about him. They took him off to the laboratories, where they had one of those mobile Dominators—and then people suddenly started screaming and falling down all around me, and I felt something like fire—here!” She tapped the top of her hat. “I remember I seemed to understand at once that the man was using some kind of mental energy against the Dominator—”
“Eh?” said Grevan incredulously.
“That’s right. And also some kind of gun which wasn’t any CG type, by the sound of it. Of course, I was out of a window by then and going straight away; but the whole thing only lasted a few seconds anyhow. I heard the Dominator cut loose in the laboratories with its physical armament—disruptive sonics, flash-fire, and plain projectiles. The burning feeling suddenly stopped again, and I knew the man was dead.”