who won. Let’s find out what the other side said. Get me in there.” He was thinking of the disgraceful war of fanaticism that had marred his own planet’s history. The doctor’s weak Jones jaw was firming up, though his eyes were still haunted. “Stall your killer friends, doctor,” Ross urged. “Tell them you can use us for experiments that’ll cut the cost of the operations. That ought to bring them around. And get me the facts!”
“To be free,” the doctor said wistfully. He said after a pause, “I’ll try. But——” And rapped a code series on the steel door.
11
THE doctor said with weak belligerence, “Who do you think I am? Jones? I had to leave your Mends behind. I had enough trouble getting those hoods to let me take you along. After all, I’m not a miracle-worker.”
Ross said sullenly, “Okay, okay.” He glowered out of the car window and spat out a tendril of red hair that had come loose from the fringe surrounding his mouth. The trouble with a false beard was that it itched, worse than the real article, worse than any torment Ross had ever known. But at least Ross, externally and at extreme range, was enough of a Jones to pass a casual glance.
And what would Helena and Bernie be thinking now? He hadn’t had a chance to whisper to them; they’d been just waking when the doctor dragged him out. Ross put that problem out of his mind; there were problems enough right on hand.
He cautiously felt his red wig to see if it was on straight. The doctor didn’t seem to look away from his driving, but he said: “Leave it alone. That’s the first thing the Peepeece look for, somebody who obviously isn’t sure if his hair is still on or not. It won’t come off.”
“Umph,” said Ross. The road was getting worse, it
seemed; they had passed no houses for several miles now. They rounded a rutted turn, and ahead was a sign.
STOP!
RESTRICTED AREA AHEAD
warning: this road Is mined No traffic allowed! detour “Trespassers beyond this point will be shot without further notice.” Decree #404-5 People’s Commissariat of Culture and Solidarity.
The doctor spat contemptuously out the window and roared past. Ross said, “Hey!”
“Oh, relax,” said the doctor. “That’s just the Culture-niks. Nobody pays any attention to them.”
Ross swallowed and sat as lightly as possible on the green leather cushion of the car. By the time they had gone a quarter of a mile, he began to feel a little reassured that the doctor knew what he was talking about. Then the doctor swerved sharply to miss a rusted hulk and almost skidded off the road. He swore and manhandled the wheel until they were back on the straightaway.
White lipped, Ross asked, “What was that?”
“Car,” grunted the doctor. “Hit a mine. Silly fools!”
Ross squawked, “But you said——”
“Shut up,” the doctor ordered tensely. “That was weeks ago; they haven’t had a chance to lay new mines since then.” Pause. “I hope.”
The car roared on. Ross closed his eyes, limply abandoning himself to what was in store. But if it was bad to see what was going on, the roaring, swerving, jolting race was ten times worse with his eyes closed. He opened them again in tune to see another sign flash past, gone before he could read it.
“What was that?” he demanded.
“What’s the difference?” the doctor grunted. “Want to go back?”
“Well, no——” Ross thought for a moment. “Do we have to go this fast, though?”
“If we want to get there. Crossed a Peepeece radar screen ten miles back; they’ll be chasing us by now.”
“Oh, I see,” Ross said weakly. “Look, Doc, tell me one thing—why do they make this place so hard to get to?”
“Tabu area,” the doctor said shortly. “Not allowed.”
“Why not allowed?”
“Because it’s not allowed. Don’t want people poking through the old records.”
“Why not just put the old records in a safe place—or burn the damn things up?”
“Because they didn’t, that’s why. Shut up! Expect me to tell you why the Peepeece do anything? They don’t know themselves. It isn’t Jonesly to destroy, I guess.”