At the far end of the corridor a door was pushed aside; two men appeared, Pearson and an armed, gray-uniformed guard. Pearson came toward him, a tall, thin, man, pale, with tight-set lips. He showed no surprise at the sight of Jones; coming almost up to him, he halted, scrutinized the smaller man, glanced around at the armed guard behind him, and shrugged.
“It’s been a long time,” Pearson said. He moistened his lips. “I haven’t seen you since that day we first picked you up.”
“A lot has changed,” Jones said. “Have you been well-treated?”
“I’ve been in a cell for just about a year,” Pearson answered mildly, without rancor, “if you call that being well-treated.”
“Bring in two chairs,” Jones ordered the guard. “So we can sit down.” When the guard hesitated, Jones flushed and shouted: “Do as I say—everything’s under control.”
The chairs were lugged back; without preamble, Jones seated himself. Pearson did the same.
“What do you want?” Pearson demanded bluntly.
“You’ve heard about the Crusade?”
Pearson nodded. “I’ve heard.”
“What are your feelings?”
“I think it’s a waste of time.”
Jones considered. “Yes,” he agreed. “It is a waste of time.”
Astonished, Pearson started to speak, then changed his mind.
“The Crusade is over,” Jones stated. “It failed. I’m informed that what we call drifters are the pollen of immensely complicated plant-like beings, so remote and advanced that we’ll never have anything more than a dim picture of them.”
Pearson sat staring at him. “You mean that?”
“I certainly do.”
“Then we’re a—“ He gestured. “What are we? Nothing!”
“That’s a good way of putting it.”
“Maybe they think we’re a chemical.”
“Or a virus. Something on that order. On that scale.”
“But—“ Haltingly, Pearson demanded: “What are they going to do? If we’ve been attacking their pollen, destroying their spores—“
“The final adult forms have a direct, rational solution. Very shortly they’ll move to protect themselves. I can’t blame them.”
“They’re going to—eliminate us?”
“No, they’re going to seal us off. A ring will presently be set up around us. We’ll have Earth, the Sol System, the stars we’ve already reached. And that’s all. Beyond that—“ Jones snapped his fingers. “The warships will simply disappear. The blight or virus or chemical is contained. Bottled up inside a sanitary barrier. An effective solution: no wasted motions. A clean, straight-to-the-point answer. Characteristic of their plant-like form.”
Pearson pulled himself upright. “How long have you known this?”
“Not long enough. The war had already begun. If there had been spectacular interstellar battles”—Jones’ voice died to a baffled, almost inaudible whisper—“People might have been satisfied. Even if we had lost, at least there would be glory, struggle, an adversary to hate. But there’s nothing. In a few days the ring will be installed and the ships will have to turn back. Not even defeat. Just emptiness.”
“What about them?” Pearson pointed toward the window, beyond which the noisy crowd cheered on. “Can they stand hearing it?”
“I did my best,” Jones said levelly. “I bluffed and I lost. I had no idea what we were attacking. I was in the dark.”
“We should have been able to guess,” Pearson said.
“I don’t see why. You find it easy to imagine?”
“No,” Pearson admitted. “No, it’s difficult.”
“You used to be Director of the Secpol,” Jones said. “When I came into power I had the Security setup disbanded and atomized. The structure is gone—the camps are closed. Enthusiasm has kept us unified. But there won’t be any more enthusiasm.”
Sick fear settled over Pearson. “What the hell is this?”
“I’m offering you your job back. You can have your badge and desk again. And your title: Security Director. Your secret police, your weapons-police. Everything the way you had it… with only one change. The Fedgov Supreme Council will stay dissolved.”
“And you’ll have ultimate authority?”
“Naturally.”
“Go jump in the creek.”
Jones signalled the guard. “Send in Doctor Manion.”
Doctor Manion was a bald, heavy-set individual in a spanking white uniform, nails manicured, hair faintly perfumed, lips thick and moist. He clutched a heavy metal box, which he laid gingerly on the table.
“Doctor Manion,” Jones said, “this is Mr. Pearson.”
Reflexively, the two men shook hands; Pearson stood rigid as Manion rolled up his sleeves, glanced at Jones, and then began opening the steel box. “I have it here,” he confided. “It’s in perfect shape; survived the trip beautifully.” With pride, he added: “It’s the finest specimen obtained, so far.”
“Doctor Manion,” Jones said, “is a research parasitologist.”
“Yes,” Manion quickly agreed, moon-like face flushed with professional eagerness. “You see, Mr.—Pearson? Yes, you see, Pearson, as you probably realize, one of our big problems was screening returning ships to make sure they didn’t pick up parasitic organisms of a non-terran nature. We didn’t want to admit new forms of pathogenic”—he snapped open the box—“Organisms.”
In the box lay a curled-up intestine of spongy gray organic material. The coil of living tissue was surrounded by a transparent capsule of gelatine. Very slightly, the creature stirred; its blind, eye-less tip moved, felt about, pressed itself to the surface with a damp sucker. It might have been a worm; its segmented sections undulated in a wave of sluggish activity.
“It’s hungry,” Manion explained. “Now, this isn’t a direct parasite; it won’t destroy its host. There’ll be a symbiotic relationship until it’s laid its eggs. Then the larvae will use the host as a source of nourishment.” Almost fondly, he continued: “It resembles some of our own wasps. The full course of growth and egg-laying takes about four months. Now, our problem is this: we know how it lives on its own world—it’s a native of the fifth Alphan planet, by the way. We’ve seen it operate within its customary host. And we’ve been able to introduce it into large-bodied Terran mammals, such as the cow, the horse, with varying results.”
“What Manion wants to find out,” Jones said, “is whether this parasite will stay alive in a human body.”
“Growth is slow,” Manion bubbled excitedly. “We only have to observe it once a week. By the time the eggs are laid, we’ll know if it can adapt itself to a human. But as yet, we haven’t been able to obtain a volunteer.”
There was silence.
“Do you feel like volunteering?” Jones asked Pearson. “You have your choice; take one job or the other. If I were you, I’d prefer the one I was used to. You were an excellent cop.”
“How can you do this?” Pearson said weakly.
“I have to,” Jones answered. “I’ve got to have the police back. The secret-service has to be re-created, by people who are experts.”
“No,” Pearson said hoarsely. “I’m not interested. I won’t have anything to do with it.”
Doctor Manion was delighted. Trying to contain himself, he began fussing with the gelatine capsule. “Then we can go ahead?” To Pearson he revealed: “We can use the surgical labs here in this building. I’ve had opportunity to inspect them, and they’re superb. I’m anxious to introduce this organism before the poor thing starves.”
“That would be a shame,” Jones acknowledged. “All the way from Alpha for nothing.” He stood toying with the sleeve of his coat, while he pondered. Both Pearson and Manion watched him fixedly. Suddenly Jones said to the doctor: “You have a cigarette lighter?”
Mystified, Manion dug out a heavy gold lighter and passed it to him. Jones removed the plug and drizzled fluid onto the gelatine capsule. At that, Manion’s face lost its smug optimism. “Good God—“ he began, agitated. “What the hell -“
Jones ignited the fluid. Stunned, helpless, Manion had to stand there as the fluid, the capsule, and the organism within, blazed up in an acrid flicker of orange fire. Gradually the contents cooled to a black, bubbling slime.
“Why?” Manion protested weakly, not comprehending.
“I’m a provincial,” Jones explained briefly. “Strange things, foreign things, make me sick.”
“But -“
He handed Manion back his lighter. “You make me sicker. Take your box and get out of here.”
Dazed, overwhelmed by the catastrophe, Manion gathered up the cooling metal box and stumbled off. The guard stepped aside, and he vanished through the door.
Breathing more easily, Pearson said: “You wouldn’t cooperate with us. Kaminski wanted you to help Reconstruction.”
“All right.” Jones nodded curtly to the guard. “Take this man back to his cell. Keep him there.”
“How long?” the guard inquired.
“As long as you can,” Jones answered, with bitterness.
On the trip back to organizational headquarters, Jones sat bleakly meditating.
Well, he had expected to fail, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he known that Pearson would refuse? Hadn’t he previewed that whole miserable episode, known he couldn’t go through with the torture? He could—and would—say he had done it, but that didn’t change the facts.
He was on his way out. There was a terrible, brutal time left for him, and nothing more. What he did now was desperate; it was ruthless and it was final. It was something people were going to discuss for centuries to come. But, frantic as it was, it was still basically and undeniably his death.