Roberts nodded coldly to Maury.
Maury, his expression that of a person thinking very hard, nodded back.
Roberts broke the connection.
So far, so good. But one careless slip would unravel the whole illusion.
Roberts made certain the communicator was off, thought a moment, then tapped a button beside the glowing amber lens marked “Smb Cmp.”
“Any fishnet pickups between us and the space yacht?”
The voice of the symbiotic computer replied, “Two. They were drifted out on narrow pressor elements of a compound beam. They’re in position between here and the yacht.”
“Fishnet pickups are expensive. If we don’t hurt them, our friends in the asteroid belt will pull them back in again when we leave. If—”
The symbiotic computer spoke complacently. “The parasite circuits are already in place.”
“Good. Let’s see these fishnets on the screen.”
The outside viewscreen promptly showed, outlined in red, two large fuzzy networks of fine lines, between the space yacht and the patrol ship.
“O.K.” said Roberts, and carefully guided the patrol ship away from them, as if he were moving off on his own. When he reached an angle that would avoid the pickups, he switched on the communicator, and called the yacht on a tight beam.
Hammell and Morrissey appeared on the screen, their faces tense.
Roberts said, “Don’t talk. Just follow me.”
Hammell nodded, and Roberts snapped off the screen.
The patrol ship moved slowly off, and the space yacht swung slowly after it.
Carefully, Roberts watched the battle screen for any sign of trouble. When nothing developed, he glanced down at the course display, and sent the little symbol of the ship gradually angling back toward the line of red dashes. As he moved, Roberts gathered speed, so that not long after the symbol of the ship was again centered on the display’s dashes, the dashes themselves faded to pale pink, then white. The ship was now back on course, and moving at the correct speed.
The asteroid belt by now was far behind.
But all the way down to the planet, Roberts could see Maury’s face—thinking, weighing, calculating.
The landing itself was no problem. The two ships slid down through heavy clouds, moved low over dense forest, and came to rest a little before sunset in the same clearing where they’d set down before.
Roberts ran the stabilizer feet out, switched off the gravitors, and unbuckled the safety harness. He ducked under the three-foot-thick shiny cylinder that ran down the axis of the ship, and went up several steps in the cramped aft section. He released the clamp on the outer hatch, spun the lockwheel counterclockwise, pulled the hatch lever down cautiously, and peered out a one-inch slit. Past experience told him that to actually go outside, without battle armor, might be to wind up instantaneously in some creature’s digestive tract. But after all the time he’d spent in the ship, he wanted a breath of fresh air.
As the hatch eased open, he peered out into the clearing, sniffed the cool fresh air, inhaled deeply, sighed with pleasure, raised the hatch further, felt the breeze on his face—
There was the faint tick of an automatic turret.
WHAP!
A blur of yellow fur and claws blew apart in mid air.
Roberts shook his head, shut the hatch, and went to the nearest weapons locker to get battle armor. He opened the locker, and out on its sling came a glittering metal suit with a tall tapering spire on the helmet, a gauzy pink cloth on the spire, and a dazzling coat of arms on the breastplate.
Again, to fit the part Roberts was playing, the patrol ship had “improved” the armor.
Roberts looked at it irritatedly, and tried another locker. Out came a more dazzling suit, with spire plus flashing crown on the helmet, and a larger broadsword in a lavishly jeweled scabbard.
Roberts tried the other two lockers—which stubbornly refused to open.
The voice of the symbiotic computer said dryly, “When playing a part, little inconsistencies add up to a big loss of belief.”
“Exactly who,” said Roberts, “is going to watch me go this short distance?”
“Those who are not seers should avoid predicting the future.”
“Nuts.” Roberts climbed into the armor, and made his way to the hatch. He turned backwards, head bent, and managed to get the hatch open without ramming anything with the spire. He crouched, turned around, aimed the spire out the opening, followed it through, and dropped to the ground. The hatch clanged shut behind him, and Roberts started for the space yacht.
About halfway there, he became conscious of a face back in the shadows, watching him with awe. Roberts corrected himself—watching the armor with awe.
That the symbiotic computer had been right again did nothing to improve Roberts’ frame of mind—especially since he could now see that it was obvious. The accumulated effects of the want-generator had led thousands from the city to venture deeper into the forest, seeking adventure and trophies, and the most capable survivors might by now be on an almost equal footing with the creatures that naturally lived there.
Roberts climbed up the handholds of the yacht, and banged on the big cargo door. At once it swung open. Roberts used the spire to keep Hammell back, and as soon as he was inside, jabbed the button that swung the door shut.
“Ye gods,” said Hammell, staring at the armor, “let’s not bother with that until we need it. Incidentally, you almost stabbed me with that helmet spike when you came in.”
Roberts said shortly, “There’s somebody watching from the edge of the clearing. Don’t forget, we’ve got a lot of these people interested in going into the forest. That’s what they’re doing.”
Hammell momentarily had the foolish expression of one caught overlooking the obvious.
“Moreover,” said Roberts, “I was using the spike to keep you away from the hatch. You don’t look too much like Duke Ewald of Greme right now.” He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “When you’re playing a part, little inconsistencies add up to a big loss of belief. You want to remember that.”
Hammell looked groggy. “I should have thought of it, but for some reason, I forgot.”
Roberts said cheerfully, “Where’s Morrissey?”
“Up on the fifth level, checking the gear.”
“You’d better go up first. We don’t want him to get speared with this helmet spike.”
“O.K.”
Hammell stepped onto the green half of the glowing oval on the deck, and drifted up the grav-lift. The doors overhead slid open and shut, and he was gone from sight.
Roberts allowed time to warn Morrissey, then followed. The doors slid open one after another, then the fifth level dropped into view, and Roberts gripped the handhold and pulled himself out.
Hammell and Morrissey were standing by a wide improvised control panel. Roberts said hello to Morrissey, got out of the armor, and glanced around.
“How are things in the city?”
“That’s a good question,” said Morrissey. “There’s no broadcast from the city, and the spy screen doesn’t work.”
Roberts glanced at the blank gray screen. “Can you fix it?”
“If it was something wrong with the screen itself, maybe. But I tried a test transmission, and the screen’s O.K. The trouble is, there’s no transmission from the city.”
“What would cause that?”
Morrissey shrugged. “If we had our own spy devices in the city, I might be in a position to say. But this setup is tapped onto the city’s own surveillance system. Now, how does that system work? If the city’s general power supply fails, does the system fail? If so, it could be that they’ve had a power failure. Or, it could be that the power supply is O.K., but that somebody has knocked out the surveillance system itself. Not knowing how the system works, I don’t know what’s possible.”
“Could the technicians have found out someone had tapped the surveillance system?”
Morrissey nodded. “Among other things. It could even be that there’s a gentleman’s agreement that the system will only be used during certain hours. All I know is the screen doesn’t show us anything, because there’s no transmission to pick up.”
Roberts shook his head. “What we’re here for is to use the want-generator to straighten out the mess in that city. But how can we use it, when there’s no way to watch the effect? Moreover, we’ve got this fleet of commerce raiders. How do we concentrate on what we’re doing with a troop of baboons ready to drop in anytime?”
Hammell said, “It’s worse than that. The odds are, they’ve got at least one agent already on the planet. Any time we make a public move, this guy will report it.”
Morrissey frowned. “Come to think of it, they’ll be able to use their instruments to follow the movements of our ships here. Then they can compare what we say, as reported by their agent, with what we do, as shown by their instruments. We can’t say we’re going off to fight Oggbad, for instance, and then just land our ships out of sight while we decide what to do next.”