in. the mountains-were being examined by the Brain.
And what an examination! Everything in their minds literally everything, down to the last-
least-tiniest coded “bit” of every long-chain proteinoid molecule of every convolution of
their brains-everything was being transferred to the Valeron’s Great Brain; was being
filed away in its practically unfillable memory banks.
When the transfer was complete, Sitar drew her pistol, very evidently intending to do
away with the natives then and there. But Dorothy of course would not stand for that.
Instead, she herself put them back into a shell of force and ran them through the
Valeron’s locks and down into a mountain cave, which she then half-filled with food. “I’d
advise you two,” she told them then, in their own language, “to stay put here for a few
days and keep out of trouble. If you really. want to get yourselves killed, though, that’s
all right with me. Go ahead any time.”
When Dorothy brought her attention back into the control room, the Brain had finished
its analysis of the data it had just secured from the natives, had correlated it with all
their pertinent data it had in its banks, and was beginning to put out its synthesized
report.
That report came in thought; in diamond-sharp, diamond-clear thought that was not
only super-intelligible and super-audible, but also was more starkly visible than any
possible tri-di. It gave, as no possible other form of report could give, the entire history
of the race to which those two men belonged. It described in detail and at length the
Chlorans and the relationship between the two races, and went on to give, in equal
detail, the most probable course of near-term events. It told Seaton that he should
investigate this planet Ray-See-Nee in person. It told him in fine detail what to wear,
where to go, and practically every move to make for the ensuing twenty-four hours.
At that point the report stopped, and when Seaton demanded more information, the
Brain balked. “Data in sufficient,” it thought, and everyone there would have sworn that
the Great Brain actually had a consciousness of self as it went on, “This construct –?’ it
actually meant “I”=’is not built to guess, but deals only in virtual certainties; that is, with
probabilities that approximate unity to twelve or more nines. With additional data, this
matter can be explored to a depth quite strictly proportional to the sufficiency of the
data. That is all.”
“That’s the package, Dottie,” Seaton said then. “If we want to reach the Chlorans
without them reaching us first, there’s how. That makes it a force, wouldn’t you say?”
Dorothy wasn’t sure. “For twenty-four hours, I guess,” she agreed, dubiously. “After
which time I think I’ll be screaming for you to come back here and feed that monster
some more data. So be mighty darn sure to get some.”
“I’ll try to, that’s for sure. But the really smart thing to do might be to take this wreckage
half a dozen galaxies away and put the Brain to work rebuilding her while I’m down
there investigating.”
“D’you think I’ll sit still for that?” Dorothy blazed. “If you do, you’re completely out of your
mind!”
And even Crane did not subscribe to the idea. “Why?” he asked, “lust to tear her down
again after you’ve found out what we’ll have to have?” .
“That’s so, too.” Seaton thought for a moment, gray eyes narrowed and focused on
infinity, translating the imperatives of the Brain into practical measures. Then he
nodded. “All right. I admit I’ll feel better about the deal with you people and the Brain
standing by.”
And Seaton, now lean and hard and deeply tanned, sat down in his master controller
and began to manufacture the various items he would need; exactly as the Brain told
him to make them.
And next morning, as the sun began to peer over the crest of the high mountain ridge
directly below the Skylark of Valeron, Seaton came to ground, hid his tiny landing craft
in a cave at the eighteen-thousand-foot level, and hiked the fifteen miles down-
mountain to the nearest town.
He now looked very little indeed like the Doctor Richard B. Seaton of the Rare Metals
Laboratory. He was almost gaunt. His skin was burned to a shade consistent with years
of exposure to wind and weather. His hair had very evidently been cut–occasionally-
with shears by his own hand; his beard had been mowed-equally occasionally with
those same shears.
He wore crudely made, heavy, hobnailed, high-laced boots; a pair of baggy,
unsymmetrical breeches of untanned deerskin; and a shapeless, poor-grade-leather
coat that had been patched crudely and repeatedly at elbows and shoulders and across
the back. He also wore what was left of a hard hat.
As he strode into the town and along its main street, more than one pair of eyes looked
at him and then looked again, for the people of that town were not used to seeing
anyone walk purposefully. Nor was the sloppily uniformed guard at the entrance to City
Hall. This wight-who couldn’t have been a day over fifteen-opened his eyes, almost
straightened up and said:
“Halt, you. Who’a you? Whatcha want?”
“Business,” Seaton said, briskly. “To see the mayor, Ree-Toe Prenk.”
“Awri’; g ‘wan in,” and the youth relapsed into semistuporous leaning on his ratty-looking
rusty rifle.
It was easy enough to find His Honor’s office, since it was the only one in the building
doing any business at all. Seaton paused just inside the doorway and looked around.
Everything was shabby and neglected. The wall-to-wall carpet was stained and dirty,
worn through to the floor, in several places. The divider-rail leaned drunkenly, forward
here, backward there. The vacant receptionist’s desk was as battered and scarred as
though it had been through a war. The place hadn’t been cleaned for months, and not
very thoroughly then.
And the people in that office were in perfect sync with their surroundings. Half a dozen
melancholy-looking people, men and women, sat listlessly on hard, straight-backed
chairs; staring glumly, fixedly at nothing; completely disinterested, apparently, in
whether they were ever called into the inner office or not.
And the secretary! She, was dressed in what looked like a gunny-sack. She was
scrawny. Her unkempt, straight, lank hair was dirty-mouse brown in color. She didn’t
look very bright. She was, however, the only secretary in sight, so Seaton strode up to
her desk.
“Miss What’s-your-name!” he snapped. “Can you, without rupturing a blood-vessel,
come to life long enough to do half a minute’s work?”
The girl jumped, started to rise to her feet at her desk, and blushed. “Why, yes . . . yes,
sir, I mean. What can we do for you, Mister-?”
“I’m Ky-El Mokak. I want to talk to Hizzonner about turning myself in.”
That brought her to life fast. “About what?” she cried, and her half-scream was followed
instantly by a deeper, louder voice from the intercom.
His Honor had not been asleep after all. “You what? All right, Fy-Ly, send him in; but be
sure he hasn’t got a gun first.”
“Gun? What would I be doing with a gun?” Seaton
patted his pockets, shucked off his dilapidated coat, and made a full turn to show that
he was clean. Then, seeing no coat-rack or hangers, he pitched the coat and hat into a
corner and strode into the inner office.
It was, if possible, in even worse shape than the outer one. The man behind the desk
was fifty-odd years old; lean and bald. He looked worried, dyspeptic and nervous. He
held a hand-weapon-which was not the least bit rusty–in workmanlike fashion in a
competent-looking right hand. It was not pointed directly at Seaton’s midsection. It
evidently did not have to be.
“What I’d ought to do right now,” the man said quietly, “is blow your brains out without
letting you say a word. You’re another damn rat. A fink-a spy-maybe a revver or an
undergrounder, even. You don’t look like any wilder I ever saw brought in:”
The Brain had not dumped Seaton on a strange and dangerous new planet without
providing him with a full “knowledge” of its history, its mores and even its dialects.
Through the educators Seaton had received enough of RaySee-Nee’s cultural patterns
to be able to carry off his role. He knew what His Honor was thinking about; he knew,
even, very accurately just how far the man could be pushed, where his real sympathies
lay, and what he could be counted upon to do about it.
Wherefore Seaton said easily: “Of course I don’t. I’ve got a brain. Those lard-headed
chasseurs couldn’t catch me in a thousand years. None of ’em can detect a smell on a
skunk. And you won’t shoot me, not with the bind you’re in. You aren’t a damn enough
fool to. You wouldn’t shoot a crippled kid on crutches, let alone a full-grown, able-
bodied man.”
Prenk shivered a little, but that was all. “Who says I’m in a bind? What kind of a bind?”