“I’ve got contacts on Harmony trying to get evidence right now-” he was beginning to answer when his desk phone chimed. He pressed a button and it lit up with the face of Tom Lassiri, his secretary.
“Sir,” said Tom. “Call from the Final Encyclopedia. For Newsman Olyn. From a Miss Lisa Kant. She says it’s a matter of the utmost emergency.”
“I’ll take it,” I said, even as Piers nodded. For my heart had lurched in my chest for some reason which I had no time to examine. The screen cleared and Lisa’s face formed on it.
“Tarn!” she said, without any other greeting. “Tarn, come quick. Mark Torre’s been shot by an assassin! He’s dying, in spite of anything the doctors can do. And he wants to speak to you-to you, Tarn, before it’s too late! Oh, Tarn, hurry! Hurry as fast as you can!”
“Coming,” I said.
And I went. There was no time to ask myself why I should answer to her summons. The sound of her voice lifted me out of my chair and headed me out of Piers’s office as if some great hand was laid upon my shoulders. I just-went.
CHAPTER 21
Lisa met me at the lobby entrance to the Final Encyclopedia, where I had first caught sight of her years before. She took me into the quarters of Mark Torre by the strange maze and the moving room by which she had taken me there previously; and on the way she told me what had happened.
It had been the inevitable danger for which the maze and the rest of it had been set up originally- the expected, reasonless, statistically fatal chance that had finally caught up with Mark Torre. The building of the Final Encyclopedia had from its very beginning triggered fears latent in the minds of unstable people on all the sixteen civilized worlds of men. Because the Encyclopedia’s purpose was aimed at a mystery that could be neither defined nor easily expressed, it had induced a terror in psychotics both on Earth and elsewhere.
And one of these had finally gotten to Mark Torre-a poor paranoiac who had kept his illness hidden from even his own family while in his mind he fostered and grew the delusion that the Final Encyclopedia was to be a great Brain, taking over the wills of all humanity. We passed his body lying on the floor of the office, when at last Lisa and I reached it, a stick-thin, white-haired, gentle-faced old man with blood on his forehead.
He had, Lisa told me, been admitted by mistake. A new physician was supposed to have been admitted to see Mark Torre that afternoon. By some mistake, this gentle-looking, elderly, well-dressed man had been admitted instead. He had fired twice at Mark and once at himself, killing himself instantly. Mark, with two spring-gun slivers in his lungs, was still alive, but sinking fast.
Lisa brought me at last to him, lying still on his back on the blood-stained coverlet of a large bed in a bedroom just off the office. The clothing had been taken from his upper body and a large white bandage like a bandolier angled across his chest. His eyes were closed and sunken, so that his jutting nose and hard chin seemed to thrust upward almost as if in furious resentment of the death that was slowly and finally dragging his hard-struggling spirit down under its dark waters.
But it was not his face that I remember best. It was the unexpected width of chest and shoulder, and length of naked arm he showed, lying there. I was reminded suddenly, out of the forgotten past of my boyhood history studies, of the witness to the assassinated Abraham Lincoln, lying wounded and dying on the couch, and how that witness had been startled by the power of muscle and bone revealed in the unclothed upper body of the President.
So it was with Mark Torre. In his case, the muscle had largely wasted away through long illness and lack of use, but the width and length of bone showed the physical strength that he must have had as a young man. There were other people in the room, several of them physicians; but they made way for us as Lisa brought me up to the bedside.
She bent and spoke softly to him.
“Mark,” she said. “Mark!”
For several seconds I did not think he would answer. I remember even thinking that perhaps he was already dead. But then the sunken eyes opened, wandered, and focused on Lisa.
“Tarn’s here, Mark,” she said. She moved aside to let me get closer to the bed, and looked over her shoulder at me. “Bend down, Tam. Get close to him,” she said.
I moved in, and I bent down. His eyes gazed at me. I was not sure whether he recognized me or not; but then his lips moved and I heard the ghost of a whisper, rattling deep in the wasted cavern of his once-broad chest.
“Tam-”
“Yes,” I said. I found I had taken hold of one of his hands with one of mine. I did not know why. The long bones were cool and strengthless in my grasp.
“Son…” he whispered, so faintly that I could hardly hear him. But at the same time, all in a flash, without moving a muscle, I went rigid and cold, cold as if I had been dipped in ice, with a sudden, terrible fury.
How dare he? How dare he call me “son”? I’d given him no leave, or right or encouragement to do that to me-me, whom he hardly knew. Me, who had nothing in common with him, or his work, or anything he stood for. How dare he call me “son”!
But he was still whispering. He had two more words to add to that terrible, that unfair, word by which he had addressed me.
“… take over….”
And then his eyes closed, and his lips stopped moving, though the slow, slow stir of his chest showed that he still lived. I dropped his hand and turned and rushed out of the bedroom. I found myself in the office; and there I stopped in spite of myself, bewildered, for the doorway out, of course, was still camouflaged and hidden.
Lisa caught up with me there.
“Tarn?” She put a hand on my arm and made me look at her. Her face told me she had heard him and that she was asking me now what I was going to do. I started to burst out that I was going to do no such thing as the old man had said, that I owed him nothing, and her nothing. Why, it had not even been a question he had put to me! He had not even asked me-he had told me to take over.
But no words came out of me. My mouth was open, but I could not seem to speak. I think I must have panted like a cornered wolf. And then the phone chimed on Mark’s desk to break the spell that held us.
She was standing beside the desk; automatically her hand went out to the phone and turned it on, though she did not look down at the face which formed in the screen.
“Hello?” said a tiny voice from the instrument. “Hello? Is anyone there? I’d like to speak to Newsman Tarn Olyn, if he’s there. It’s urgent. Hello? Is anyone there?”
It was the voice of Piers Leaf. I tore my gaze away from Lisa and bent down to the set.
“Oh, there you are, Tarn,” said Piers out of the screen. “Look, I don’t want you to waste time covering the Torre assassination. WeVe got plenty of good men here to do that. I think you ought to get to Ste. Marie right away.” He paused, looking at me significantly in the screen. “You understand? That information I was waiting for has just come in. I was right, an order’s been issued.”
Suddenly it was back again, washing out everything that had laid its hold upon me in the past few minutes-my long-sought plan and hunger for revenge. Like a great wave, it broke over me once more, washing away all the claims of Mark Torre and Lisa that had clung to me just now, threatening to trap me in this place.
“No further shipments?” I said sharply. “That’s what the order said? No more coming?”
He nodded.
“And I think you ought to leave now because the forecast calls for a weather break within the week there,” he said. “Tarn, do you think-”
“I’m on my way,” I interrupted. “Have my papers and equipment waiting for me at the spaceport.”
I clicked off and turned to face Lisa once more. She gazed at me with eyes that shook me like a blow; but I was too strong for her now, and I thrust off their effect.