If asking politely is useless, take.
7.
Then I'll die, thought Morrison.
He hadn't even bothered double-locking the door after Rodano left. He sat in the chair, lost in thought, face vacant. The westering sun slanted in through the window and he didn't bother to push the contact that would opacify the glass. He simply let it slant in. In fact, he found a distant hypnotic fascination in watching the dust motes dance.
He had fled from the Russian woman in fright, but he had stood up to the American agent, stood up with the courage of - of despair.
And desperation - minus the courage - was all he felt now. What Rodano had said was, after all, true. His appointment would not be renewed for the coming year and none of the feelers he had sent out had twitched. He was poison at the academic box office and he lacked the kind of experience (or, more important, the kind of contacts) that would get him a job in the private sector, even if the quiet countervailing effort of an offended government were not taken into account.
What would he do? Go to Canada?
There was Janvier at McGill University. He had once expressed an interest in Morrison's ideas. Once! Morrison had not tried McGill, since he hadn't planned to leave the country. Now his plans were of no account. He might have to.
There was Latin America, where a dozen universities might welcome a Northerner who could speak Spanish or Portuguese - at least after a fashion. Morrison's Spanish was poor; his Portuguese was nil.
What had he to lose? There were no family ties. Even his daughters were distant now, fading at the edges, somehow, like old photographs. He had no friends to speak of - at least none that had survived the disasters of his research.
There was his program, of course, specially designed by himself. It had been built, in the first place, by a small firm according to his specifications. Since then he had modified it endlessly on his own. Perhaps he should patent it, except that no one but he was ever likely to use it. He would take it with him, of course, wherever he went. He had it with him now, in his left inner jacket pocket, within which it bulged like an oversize wallet.
Morrison could hear the roughness of his own breathing and he realized that he was escaping from the purposeless merry-go-round of his thoughts by falling asleep over them. How could he interest others in anything, he thought bitterly, when he bored even himself?
He was aware that the sun no longer struck his window and that a gathering twilight encompassed his room. So much the better.
He became conscious of a polite buzz. It was the room telephone, he realized, but he didn't budge. Morrison let his eyes remain closed. It was probably this man, this Rodano, calling to make a final try. Let him ring.
Sleep closed in and Morrison's head lolled to one side in so uncomfortable a position that he didn't stay asleep long.
It was perhaps fifteen minutes later that he started awake. The sky was still blue, but the twilight in his room had darkened and he thought, with some guilt, that he had missed all the papers given in the afternoon. And then, rebelliously, he thought: Good! Why should I want to hear them?
Rebellion grew. What was he doing at the convention anyway? In three days he had not heard one paper that had interested him, nor had he met anyone who could do his sinking career one bit of good. What would he do the remaining three days except try to avoid the two people he had met whom he desperately did not want to meet again - Boranova and Rodano.
He was hungry. He hadn't had a proper lunch and it was almost dinnertime. The trouble was that he was in no mood to eat alone in the hotel's plush restaurant and in less of a mood to pay its inflated prices. The thought of waiting in line for a stool at the coffee shop was even less appetizing.
That decided everything. He'd had enough. He might as well check out and walk to the train station. (It was not a long walk and the cool evening air would, perhaps, help clear the miseries out of his mind.) It would take him little more than five minutes to pack; he'd be on his way in ten.
He went about the, task grimly. At least he would save half the hotel bill and he would get away from a place that, he was convinced, would bring him only misery if he stayed.
He was quite right, of course, but no prescient bell in his mind rang to inform him that he had already stayed too long.
8.
After quickly checking out at the desk downstairs, Morrison stepped out of the large glass doors of the hotel, glad to be free, but still ill at ease. He had carefully investigated the lobby to make sure that neither Boranova nor Rodano was in sight and now he looked up and down the line of taxis and studied the knots of people moving in and out of the hotel.
All clear - it seemed.
All clear, except for an angry government, nothing accomplished, and endless trouble ahead. McGill University seemed more attractive every moment - if he could get in.
He swung down the sidewalk in the darkening evening toward the train station, which was just too far away to be in sight. He would get home, he calculated, well past midnight and he would have no chance at all of sleeping on the train. He had a book of crossword puzzles that might occupy him - if the light were good enough. Or -
Morrison wheeled around at the sound of his name. He did this automatically, though by rights, under the conditions that prevailed, he should have hurried onward. There was no one here he wanted to speak to.
"Al! Al Morrison! Good heavens!" The voice was high-pitched and Morrison didn't recognize it.
Nor did he recognize the face. It was round, middle-aged, smooth-shaven, and decorated with steel-framed glasses. The person it belonged to was welldressed.
Morrison at once felt the usual agony of trying to remember a person who clearly remembered him and who behaved as though they were good friends. His mouth fell open with the effort of riffling through his mind's card catalog.
The other man seemed to be aware of what was troubling Morrison and it didn't seem to bother him. He said, "You don't remember me, I see. No reason you should. I'm Charlie Norbert. We met at a Gordon Research Conference - oh, years ago. You were questioning one of the speakers on brain function and did a good job. Very incisive. So it's no wonder I remember you, you see."
"Ah yes," mumbled Morrison, trying to remember when he had last been at a Gordon Research Conference. About seven years ago, wasn't it? "That's very flattering of you."
"We had a long talk about it that evening, Dr. Morrison. I remember because I was so impressed by you. No reason for you to remember, though. There's nothing impressive about me. Listen, I came across your name on the list of attendees. Your middle name, Jonas, brought you right back. I wanted to talk to you. I called your room about half an hour ago, but there was no answer."
Norbert seemed to be aware of Morrison's suitcase for the first time and said in obvious dismay, "Are you leaving?"
"Actually, I'm trying to catch a train. Sorry."
"Please give me a few minutes. I've been reading about your - notions."
Morrison stepped back a little. Even expressed interest in his ideas was not enough at the moment. Besides, the other's after shave lotion was strong and invaded his personal space, as did the man himself. Nothing the other said brought back any memory of him.
Morrison said, "I'm sorry, but if you've been reading about my notions, you're probably the only one. I hope you don't mind, but -"
"But I do mind." Norbert's face grew serious. "It strikes me the field isn't properly appreciative of you."
"That fact struck me a long time ago, Mr. Norbert."
"Call me Charlie. We were on a first-name basis long ago. - You don't have to go unappreciated, you know?"
"There's no compulsion about it. I just am and that's it. Well -" Morrison turned as if to leave.
"Wait, Al. What if I told you I could get you a new job with people who are sympathetic to your way of thinking?"
Morrison paused again. "I would say you were dreaming."
"I'm not. Al, listen to me - boy, am I glad I bumped into you - I want to introduce you to someone. Look, we're starting a new company, Genetic Mentalics. We've got lots of money behind us and big plans. The trick is to improve the human mind by means of genetic engineering. We've been improving computers every year, so why not our personal computer as well?" He tapped his forehead earnestly. "Where is he? I left him in the car when I saw you walk out of the hotel. You know, you haven't changed much in the years since I last saw you."
Morrison was untouched by that. "Does this new company want me?"
"Of course it wants you. We want to change the mind, make it more intelligent, more creative. But what is it we change in order to accomplish that? You can tell us."
"I'm afraid I haven't gotten that far."
"We don't expect offhand answers. We simply want you to work toward it. - Listen, whatever your salary is now, we'll double it. You just tell us your present figure and we'll go to the small trouble of multiplying it by two. Fair enough? And you'll be your own boss."
Morrison frowned. "This is the first time I've ever met Santa Claus in a business suit. Smooth-shaven, too. What's the gag?"
"No gag. - Where is he? - Ah, he moved the car to get it out of the line of traffic. - Look, he's my boss, Craig Levinson. We're not doing you a favor, Al. You'll be doing us a favor. Come with me."
Morrison hesitated only momentarily. It's always darkest before the dawn. When you're down, there's no direction but up. Lightning does strike sometimes. - He was suddenly full of old saws.
He let himself be led by the other, hanging back only slightly.
Norbert waved and called out, "I found him! This is the fellow I told you about. Al Morrison. He's the one we need."
A grave middle-aged face looked out from behind the steering wheel of a late-model automobile, whose color was something uncertain in the gathering darkness. The face smiled, teeth gleaming whitely, and the voice that belonged to it said, "Great!"
The trunk door lifted upward as they approached and Charlie Norbert took Morrison's suitcase. "Here, let me unload you." He swung it into the trunk and closed the door.
"Wait," said Morrison, rather surprised.
"Don't worry, Al. If you miss this train, there's another. If you want, we'll hire a limousine to take you home - eventually. Get in."
"Into the car?"
"Certainly." The back door had swung open invitingly.
"Where will we be going?"
"Look," said Norbert, his voice dropping half an octave and getting much softer. "Let's not waste time. Get in."
Morrison felt something hard against his side and twisted in order to see what it was.
He felt it - whatever it was - push against him. Norbert's voice was a whisper now. "Let's be very quiet, Al. Let's not make a fuss."
Morrison got into the car and was suddenly very frightened. He knew that Norbert was holding a gun.
9.
Morrison pushed himself across the back seat, wondering if he could reach the other door and get out again. Even if Norbert had a gun, would he want to use it in a hotel parking lot with a hundred people within thirty meters? After all, even if the gun were silenced, his sudden collapse would surely draw attention.
The possibility vanished quickly, however, when a third man got into the other door, a large one who grunted as he bent himself into the car and who looked at Morrison, if not malevolently, then certainly with an expression that was free of any trace of friendship.
Morrison found himself squeezed between a man on either side and was incapable of stirring. The car moved forward smoothly and picked up speed once it moved onto the highway.
Morrison said in a choked voice, "What is this all about? Where are we going? What are you going to do?"
Norbert's voice, without the falsetto and without the synthetic bonhomie, was grim. "No need to worry, Dr. Morrison. We have no intention of harming you. We just want you with us."
"I was with you back there." (He tried to point "back there," but the man on his right leaned against him and he could not free his right hand to do so.)
"But we want you to be with us - somewhere else."
Morrison tried to sound threatening. "See here, you're kidnapping me. That's a serious offense."
"No, Dr. Morrison, let's not call it kidnapping. Let's call it being friendly in a rather forcible way."
"Whatever you call it, this is illegal. Or are you the police? If so, identify yourself and tell me what I've done and what this is all about."
"We are not charging you with anything. I told you. We just want you with us. I'd advise you to keep quiet, Doctor, and remain calm. It will be better for you."
"I can't remain calm if I don't know what's going on."
"Force yourself," said Norbert unsympathetically.
Morrison couldn't think of anything further to say that would help matters and, without actually becoming calm, fell silent.
The stars were out now. The night was as clear as the day had been. The automobile moved through traffic consisting of a thousand cars, each of which had someone behind the wheel who was going quietly about his or her ordinary business without any awareness that in a nearby car a crime was being committed.
Morrison's heart continued working overtime and his lips trembled. He couldn't help but be nervous. They said they meant him no harm, but how far could he trust them? So far, everything that this man on his left had told him had been a lie.
He tried to be calm, but to what organ of his body did he speak in order to achieve calmness? He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply and slowly - and to think rationally. He was a scientist. He had to think rationally.
These must be Rodano's colleagues. They were taking him to headquarters, where the pressure to force him to undertake the mission would be increased. However, they couldn't succeed. He was an American and that meant he could be treated only according to certain established rules, certain legal procedures, and certain customary modes of action. There could be nothing arbitrary, nothing improvised.
He drew another deep breath. He merely had to keep saying no and they would be helpless.
There was a small lurch and his eyes flew open.
The car had turned off the highway onto a narrow dirt road.
Automatically, he said, "Where are we going?"
There was no answer.
The automobile bumped along for a considerable distance and then turned into a field, obscure and dark. In the glow of the car's headlights, Morrison made out a helicopter, its rotors turning slowly and its motor making only the slightest purr.
It was one of the new kind, its sound waves suppressed, its smooth surface absorbing, rather than reflecting, radar beams. Its popular name was the "hushicopter."
Morrison's heart sank. If they were using a hushicopter, which were extremely expensive and quite rare, then he was being treated as no ordinary prey. He was being treated as a big fish.
But I'm not a big fish, he thought desperately.
The automobile stopped and the headlights went out. There was still the faint purr and a few dim violet lights, hardly visible, marked the spot where the hushicopter sat.
The large man at Morrison's right threw open the car door and, again with a grunt, lowered his head and forced his way out. His large hand reached in for Morrison.
Morrison tried to shrink away. "Where are you taking me?"
The large man seized his upper arm. "Come out. Enough talking."
Morrison felt himself half-lifted, half-pulled out of the car. His shoulder hurt as it might be expected to do, considering that it had been nearly yanked out of its socket.
But he disregarded the pain. It was the first time he had heard the large man speak. The words were in English, but the accent was thickly Russian.
Morrison felt cold. These were not Americans who had him.
10.
Morrison had entered the hushicopter - though that is not an accurate description of what took place. To enter implies a voluntary action and he had been much more nearly pushed into the vehicle.
It had pulsed its way through the darkness as he sat between the same two men between whom he had sat in the car. It was almost as though nothing had changed, although the whisper of the rotors was distinctly more hypnotic than the purr of the automobile engine had been.
After an hour - or possibly less - they came out of the darkness of the air and drifted downward toward the darkness of the ocean. Morrison could tell it was the ocean because he could smell it, was vaguely aware of the fog of droplets in the air, and because he could make out, very dimly, the dark bulk of a ship - dark on dark.
How could the hushicopter make its way out to the ocean and pinpoint a ship? - the right ship, he was sure. Even in his half-stupor of despair, Morrison's mind could not help searching for solutions. Undoubtedly, the hushicopter pilot had followed a shielded and pseudorandomized radio beam. The beam seemed random but, given the key, it could be found to have order and its source could be identified. Properly done, the pseudorandomness could not be penetrated even by quite an advanced computer.
Nor was the ship more than a temporary stopping place. He was allowed to use the head, given time for a hurried meal of bread and thick soup (which he found most welcome), and was then ushered - with the unceremonious hustle he had begun to accept as a fact of life - into a medium-sized airplane. It was a ten-seater (he counted automatically), but except for the two pilots and, sitting in the rear, the two men who had been on either side of him in the car and in the hushicopter, he was alone in the plane.
Morrison looked back at his guards, whom he just made out in the very dim light that filled the plane's interior. There was enough room in the plane so that they were not forced to hem him in. Nor did they need to do so out of fear that he might break and run for it. Here, he could break out only onto the deck of the ship. Once the plane took off, he could break out only into the open air with nothing beneath him but water of indefinite depth.
He wondered numbly why they were not taking off and then the door opened to admit another passenger. Despite the dimness, he recognized her at once.
He had met her for the first time only twelve hours before, but how could he have progressed from that first moment of meeting to the present moment in only twelve hours?
Boranova sat down in the seat next to his and said in a low voice, "I am sorry, Dr. Morrison." She was speaking in Russian.
And, as though that were the signal, the sound of the airplane's engines deepened and he felt himself pressed against his seat as the plane moved steeply upward.
Morrison stared at Natalya Boranova, trying to collect his thoughts. Dimly, he felt a desire to say something to her in a suave, imperturbable way, but there was no chance of that.
His voice was a creak and even after he cleared his throat, all he could say was "I've been kidnapped."
"That could not be helped, Dr. Morrison. I regret this. I really do. I have my duty, you understand. I had to bring you back by persuasion if I could. Otherwise -" She let the last word hang.
"But you can't behave in this fashion. This is not the twentieth century." He choked a little in his earnest attempt to stifle his sense of indignation to the point where he could speak sensibly. "I am not a recluse. I am not a derelict. I will be missed and American intelligence is perfectly aware that we spoke and they know that you wanted me to come to the Soviet Union. They will know I have been kidnapped - they may know it already - and your government will find itself in the middle of a kind of international incident it will want no part of."
"Not so," said Boranova earnestly, her dark eyes gazing levelly into his. "Not so. Of course your people know what has happened, but they have no objections. Dr. Morrison, the Soviet Union's intelligence operations are marked both by advanced technology and by over a century of close study of American psychology. I have no doubt that American intelligence is just as advanced. It is this equality of expertise, which is shared by several of the other geographical units of the planet, that helps to keep us in cooperation. Each of us is firmly convinced that no one else is far ahead on a road of its own."
"I don't know what you're driving at," said Morrison. The planet was arrowing through the night, speeding toward the eastern dawn.
"What concerns American intelligence most right now is our attempt at miniaturization."
"Attempt!" Morrison said with a note of sardonic amusement.
"Successful attempt. - The Americans don't know that it is successful. They don't know if the miniaturization project may not be a mask behind which something altogether different is going on. They know we're doing something. I'm sure they have a detailed map of the area in the Soviet Union where the experiments are proceeding - every building, every truck convoy. They undoubtedly have agents who are doing their best to penetrate the project.
"Naturally, we're doing our best to counter all this. We are not indignant. We know a great deal about the American experiments in antigravity and it would be naive to take the attitude that we can probe and that the Americans can't; that we can have our successes, but the American mustn't."
Morrison rubbed his eyes. Boranova's quiet, even voice was making him realize that his ordinary bedtime was past and that he was sleepy. He said, "What has this to do with the fact that my country will bitterly resent my kidnapping?"
"Listen to me, Dr. Morrison. Understand me. Why should they? We need you, but they can't be certain why. They have no reason to suppose there is anything of value in your neurophysical notions. They must think we are following a false trail and will get nothing out of you, but they can have no objection to getting an American into the miniaturization project. If this American finds out what it is all about, the information will prove valuable to them. - Don't you think they might reason in this fashion, Dr. Morrison?"
"I don't know how they would reason," said Morrison carefully. "It is not a matter of interest to me."
"But you spoke to a Francis Rodano after you left me so suddenly. - You see, we know even that. Would you care to tell me that he did not suggest that you play along with us and go to the Soviet Union in order to find out what you might find out?"
"You mean he wants me to play the spy?"
"Doesn't he? Didn't he make that suggestion?"
Again Morrison ignored the question. He said, "And since you are convinced I am to be a spy, you will have me executed after I do whatever it is you want me to do. Isn't that what happens to spies?"
"You've been viewing too many old-fashioned movies, Dr. Morrison. In the first place, we will see to it that you don't find out anything important - anything at all. In the second place, spies are too valuable a commodity to destroy. They are useful as trading units for any agents of ours that may be in American hands - or in foreign hands generally. I believe that the United States takes much the same attitude."
Morrison said, "To begin with, then, I am not a spy, madame. I am not going to be a spy. I know nothing about American intelligence operations. Also, I'm not going to do anything for you."
"I'm not at all sure about that, Dr. Morrison. I think you'll decide to work with us."
"What do you have in mind? Will you starve me till I agree? Beat me? Keep me in solitary confinement? Put me in a work camp?"
Boranova frowned and shook her head slowly in what seemed to be genuine shock. "Really, Doctor, what are these things you suggest? Are we back in the days when you were loudly proclaiming us to be an evil empire and inventing horror stories about us? I don't say that we might not be tempted to use strong measures if you intransigeantly refuse. Necessity drives sometimes, you know. - But we won't have to. I'm convinced of that."
"What convinces you?" Morrison asked wearily.
"You're a scientist. You're a brave man."
"I? Brave? Lady, lady, what do you know about me?"
"That you have a peculiar viewpoint. That you have upheld it all this time. That you have watched your career go downhill. That you have convinced nobody. And that, despite all this, you cling to your view and do not budge from what you are certain is right. Is not this the act of a brave man?"
Morrison nodded. "Yes. Yes. It is a kind of bravery. Still, there are a thousand crackpots in the history of science who clung all their lives to some ridiculous view against logic, against evidence, against their own self-interest. I may be just another one of them."
"In that case, you might be wrong, but you would still be brave. Do you think bravery is entirely a matter of physical daring?"
"I know it is not. There are all kinds of bravery and perhaps," he said bitterly, "every one of those kinds of bravery is a mark of insanity or, at any rate, folly."
"Surely you do not consider yourself a coward?"
"Why not? In some ways, I flatter myself by saying that I am sane."
"But mad in your stubborn views concerning neurophysics?"
"I would not be surprised."
"But surely you think your views are correct."
"Certainly, Dr. Boranova. That would be part of my madness, would it not?"
Boranova shook her head. "You are not a serious man. I've said that before. My countryman Shapirov thinks you're right - or, if not right, at least a genius."
"Next best thing, certainly. Part of his madness, too."
"Shapirov's opinion is very special."
"To you, I'm sure. - Look, lady, I am tired. I am so groggy, I don't know what I'm saying. I'm not sure all this is real. I hope it isn't. Let me just - just rest a little."
Boranova sighed and a look of concern entered her eyes. "Yes, of course, my poor friend. We wish you no harm. Please believe that."
Morrison let his head bow down on his chest. His eyes closed. Dimly, he felt himself pushed gently to one side and a pillow placed under his head.
Time passed. A dreamless time.
When he opened his eyes, he was still on the plane. There were no lights, but he knew without any doubt whatever that he was still on the plane.
He said, "Dr. Boranova?"
She replied instantly, "Yes, Dr. Morrison?"
"We're not being pursued?"
"Not at all. There are several of our own planes flying distant interference, but they have had nothing to do. Come, my friend, we want you and your government wants us to have you."
"And you still insist that you have miniaturization? That it is not madness? Or a hoax?"
"You will see for yourself. And you will see what a wonder it is, so that you will want to be part of it. You will demand to be part of it."
"And what will you be doing with it," asked Morrison thoughtfully, "assuming this is not an elaborate joke you are playing on me? Do you plan to make a weapon of it? Transport an army in a plane like this? Infiltrate each land with an invisible host? That sort of thing?"
"How revolting!" She cleared her throat as though she were tempted to spit with disgust. "Have we not enough land? Enough people? Enough resources? Have we not our large share of space? Are there not more important things to do with miniaturization? Can it be that you are so twisted and distorted that you do not see what it will mean as a research tool? Imagine the study of living systems that it will make possible; the study of crystal chemistry and solid-state systems; the construction of ultraminiaturized computers and devices of all sorts. Think further of what we might learn of physics if we can alter Planck's constant to suit ourselves. What might we not learn of cosmology?"
Morrison struggled to sit upright. He was still woozy, but there was an incipient dawn outside the plane windows and he could see Boranova very dimly.
He said, "Is that what you wish to do with it, then? Noble scientific endeavors?"
"What would your government do with it if you had it? Try to achieve a sudden military superiority and restore the bad old days?"
"No. Of course not."
"So that only you are noble and only we are terribly evil? Do you honestly believe that? - It may be, of course, that if miniaturization becomes sufficiently successful, the Soviet Union may achieve a lead in the development of a space-centered society. Think of transporting miniaturized material from one world to another, of sending a million colonists in a spaceship that would house only two or three human beings of normal size. Space will acquire a Soviet coloring, a Soviet tinge - not because the Soviet people will dominate and be masters, but because Soviet thought will have won in the battle of ideas. And what is wrong with that?"
Morrison shook his head in the dimness. "Then I certainly won't help you. Why should you expect me to? I won't fasten Soviet thought on the Universe. I prefer American thought and tradition."
"You think you do and I don't blame you for it. But we will persuade you. You will see."
"You won't."
Boranova said, "My dear friend Albert - if I may call you that. I have said that we will be admired for our progress. Do you think you will be immune? - But let us leave such discussions for another time."
She pointed out the plane window at the gray sea beneath, which was just becoming visible.
"We are now over the Mediterranean," she said, "and soon we will be over the Black Sea and then across the Volga to Malenkigrad - Smalltown, in English, eh? - and the sun will have risen when we land. That will be symbolic. A new day. New light. I predict you will be eager to help us establish this new day and I would not be surprised if you never wish to leave the Soviet Union again."
"Without your forcing me to stay?"
"We will fly you home freely if you ask us to - once you have helped us."
"I won't help you."
"You will."
"And I demand now that I be returned."
"Now doesn't count," said Boranova cheerfully.
And they flew the last several hundred kilometers to Malenkigrad.