“Maybe nobody did kill her,” Seth Morley said. “She was infirm; maybe they came for her, the way they came for me. To remove her so she’d survive. That’s the reason they gave me for coming after me and taking me away; they said Babble’s work on my shoulder was defective and I would soon die.”
“Do you believe that?” Ignatz Thugg asked.
Truthfully, Seth Morley said, “I don’t know. It might have been. After all, they could have shot me here, the way they did Belsnor.” He thought, Is Belsnor the only one they killed? And we did the rest? It supported Frazer’s theory. . . and they might not have intended to kill Belsnor; they were in a hurry and evidently they thought their ergguns were set on stun.
And they were probably afraid of us.
“I think,” Mary said, “that they interfered with us as little as possible. After all, this was an experiment; they wanted to see how it would come out. And then they did see how it was coming out, so they sent Russell here . . . and they killed Belsnor. But maybe they saw nothing wrong with killing Belsnor; he had killed Tony. Even we understand the–” She searched for the word.
“Unbalance,” Frazer said.
“Yes, the unbalanced quality in that. He could have gotten the sword some other way.” Lightly, she put her hand on her husband’s injured shoulder. Very lightly, but with feeling. “That’s why they wanted to save Seth. _He hadn’t killed anyone_; he was innocent. And you–” She snarled at Ignatz Thugg, snarled with hatred. “You would have slipped in and murdered him as he lay here hurt.”
Ignatz Thugg made a noncommittal gesture. Of dismissal. “And Mrs. Rockingham,” Mary finished. “She hadn’t killed anybody either. So they saved her, too. In the breakdown of an experiment of this type it would be natural for them to try to save as–”
“All you’ve said,” Frazer interrupted, “tends to indicate that I’m right.” He smiled disdainfully, as if he were personally unconcerned. As if he were not involved.
“There has to be something else at work,” Seth Morley said. “They wouldn’t have let the killings go on as long as they did. They must not have known. At least until they sent Russell. But I guess by then they knew.”
“They may not be monitoring us properly,” Babble said. “If they relied on those little artificial insects that scurry around carrying miniature TV cameras–”
“I’m sure they have more,” Seth Morley said. To his wife he said, “Go through Russell’s pockets; see what you can find. Labels in his clothing, what kind of watch or quasiwatch he’s wearing, bits of paper stuck away here and there.”
“Yes,” she said, and, gingerly, began to remove Russell’s spick-and-span jacket.
“His wallet,” Babble said, as Mary lifted it out. “Let me see what’s in it.” He took it from her, opened it. “Indentification. Ned W. Russell, residing at the dome-colony on Sirius 3. Twenty-nine years old. Hair: brown. Eyes: brown. Height: five eleven-and-a-half. Authorized to pilot class B and C vessels.” He looked deeper into the wallet. “Married. Here’s a 3-D photo of a young woman, undoubtedly his wife.” He rummaged further. “And this, pictures of a baby.”
No one said anything for a time.
“Anyhow,” Babble said presently, “there’s nothing of value on him. Nothing that tells us anything.” He rolled up Russell’s left sleeve. “His watch: Omega self-winding. A good watch.” He rolled up the brown canvas sleeve a little farther. “A tattoo,” he said. “On the inside of his lower arm. How strange; it’s the same thing I have tattooed on my arm, and in the same place.” He traced the tattoo on Russell’s arm with his finger. ” ‘Persus 9,’ “he murmured. He unfastened his cuff and rolled back his own left sleeve. There, sure enough, was the same tattoo on his arm and in exactly the same place.
Seth Morley said, “I have one on my instep.” Strange, he thought. And I haven’t thought about that tattoo in years.
“How did you get yours?” Dr. Babble asked him. “I don’t remember getting mine; it’s been too long. And I don’t remember what it means . . . if I ever did know. It looks like some kind of identifying military service mark. A location. A military outpost at Persus 9.”
Seth looked around at the rest of the group. All of them had acutely uncomfortable–and anxious–expressions on their faces.
“All of you have the mark on you, too,” Babble said to them, after a long, long time had passed.
“Does any one of you remember when you got this mark?” Seth Morley said. “Or why? Or what it means?”
“I’ve had mine since I was a baby,” Wade Frazer said.
“You were never a baby,” Seth Morley said to him.
“What an odd thing to say,” Mary said.
“I mean,” Seth Morley said, “that it isn’t possible to imagine him as a baby.”
“But that’s not what you said,” Mary said.
“What difference does it make what I said?” He felt violently irritable. “So we do have one common element–this annotation chiseled into our flesh. Probably those who are dead have it, too. Susie and the rest of them. Well, let’s face it; we all have a slot of amnesia dug somewhere in our brains. Otherwise, we’d know why we got this tattoo and what it means. We’d know what Persus 9 is–or was at the time the tattoo was made. I’m afraid this confirms the criminally insane theory; we were probably given these marks when we were prisoners in the Building. We don’t remember that, so we don’t remember this tattoo either.” He lapsed into brooding introversion, ignoring, for the time, the rest of the group. “Like Dachau,” he said. “I think,” he said, “that it’s very important to find out what these marks mean. It’s the first really solid indication we’ve found as to who we are and what this settlement is. Can any of you suggest how we find out what Persus 9 means?”
“Maybe the reference library on the squib,” Thugg said.
Seth Morley said, “Maybe. We can try that. But first I suggest we ask the tench. And I want to be there. Can you get me into the squib along with you?” Because, he said to himself, if you leave me here I will, like Belsnor, be murdered.
Dr. Babble said, “I’ll see that you’re gotten aboard–with this one proviso. First we ask the squib’s reference libraries. If it has nothing, then we’ll go searching out the tench. But if we can get it from the squib then we won’t be taking such a great–”
“Fine,” Morley said. But he knew that the ship’s reference service would be unable to tell them anything.
Under Ignatz Thugg’s direction they began the task of getting Seth Morley–and themselves–into the small squib.
Propped up at the controls of the squib once more, Seth Morley snapped on REFERENCE. “Yezzz sirr,” it squeaked.
“What is referred to by the designated Persus 9?” he asked. A whirr and then it spoke in its vodor voice. “I have no information on a Persussss 9,” REFERENCE said.
“If it were a planet, would you have a record of it?”
“Yezzz, if known to Interplan West or Interplan East authorities.”
“Thanks,” Seth Morley shut off the REFERENCE service. “I had a feeling it wouldn’t know. And I have an even stronger feeling that the tench does know.” That, in fact, the tench’s ultimate purpose would be served by asking it this question. Why he thought that he did not know.
“I’ll pilot the ship,” Thugg said. “You’re too injured; you lie down.”
“There’s no place to lie down because of all these people,” Seth Morley said.
They made room. And he stretched himself out gratefully. The squib, in the hands of Ignatz Thugg, zipped up into the sky. A murderer for a pilot, Seth Morley reflected. And a doctor who’s a murderer. And my wife. A murderess. He shut his eyes. The squib zoomed on, in search of the tench.
“There it is,” Wade Frazer said, studying the viewscreen. “Bring the ship down.”
“Okay,” Thugg said cheerfully. He moved the control ball; the ship at once began to descend.
“Will they pick up our presence?” Babble said nervously. “At the Building?”
“Probably,” Thugg said.
“We can’t turn back now,” Seth Morley said. “Sure we can,” Thugg said. “But nobody said anything about it.” He adjusted the controls; the ship glided to a long, smooth landing and came to rest, bumping noisily.
“Get me out,” Morley said, standing hesitantly; again his head rang. As if, he thought, a sixty cycle hum is being conducted through my brain. Fear, he thought; it’s fear that’s making me this way. Not my wound.
They gingerly stepped from the squib onto parched and highly arid land. A thin smell, again like something burning, reached their noses. Mary turned away from the smell, paused to blow her nose.