Chapter XII: Part ELEVEN: October 13-18, 1977

_Dollars Dome--Thursday, October 13, 3:30_ P.M.

“It bothered Chris too,” she said.

“I’ll bet. And you can’t see why?” He watched her face with every bit of intelligence and knowledge at his command. He found nothing there but serenity--and some tenderness and amusement.

“Phil, what on Earth--well, all right, what in Space--could _happen_? Am I supposed to be afraid of the dark?”

“Everything spooky spooks worse in the dark,” he said. “And kid, this bit with you and the Shack has got spooky.”

“Well, I don’t know what I can say to that.” She stood up, smiling, but a little impatient now.

“Lee--suppose I say you _can’t_ go?”

She did not seem to understand.

“Suppose I _forbid_ you to?”

“Phil!”

It was complete in itself. The one word said it all. _By whose authority? With what right? For what reason? Darling--you’re fooling, aren’t you?_

“Suppose I said _Chris_ forbade it?”

“You mean you want to know what I’d do if I were actually made to believe I _couldn’t_ go?”

He nodded. She thought a moment.

“I’d try anyhow. Then if I _couldn’t_--I mean, _really_ couldn’t--” She grinned. “--I wouldn’t.”

_What does she want me to do? Throw my arms around her and hold her here?_ Maybe she did: it was a nice thought, anyhow.

Her smile changed, and he remembered, sharply, too vividly, that one kiss the day she told him about--

The baby. _Johnny’s_ baby.

“Phil, I suppose this is the time to say it. You are the kindest, most decent, most _loving_ human being I’ve ever known. Sometimes I wish it was you who needed me.”

That was all. And it was enough. Of course that was the difference, and he had, really, always understood, just as well as he did now.

But it mattered that she had told him. It mattered a great deal.

“Thank you, Lisa. I _do_ love you very much.” The words tasted good. Fresh. _Pure._ He was glad he had said them. “I--almost wish I needed you too.” _But I’d rather love you._

When she was gone, he sat and studied that one out. He didn’t get very far. It was easy to analyze--simple masochistic crap. And/or false superiority: _Better to love and not have than to be needful and get?_ Feed that to the pigs--or the bugs. It wasn’t for Kutler. Except it was. So?

_So nothing. So live with it. Someday you go back to Earth and get analyzed, lad. Till then, don’t try to understand. Relax and enjoy it._

Which was the damnedest part. He _did_ enjoy it.

He got that settled in his mind; then he tried conscientiously to worry about Lee. She had gone to the Shack again, of course. She was out there now, dreaming whatever she dreamed when she stared at the wild growth there. It was _dangerous_--

He laughed. What in hell could be dangerous about it?

_Spooky things ... scared of the dark_.... And of course: _scared of bugs_. Just that simple.

He stopped trying to worry.

_But what made her think he and Doug Laughlin were so much alike?_

He was curious; he dug Laughlin’s pre-trip psych profile out of the files.

She wasn’t so wrong.

_Rockland--Friday, October 14, 5_ A.M. (_E.D.S.T._)

He wouldn’t be able to do it until all the darts stuck. He knew he wouldn’t. But he knew when the darts stuck, he could. Easy. No sweat. He knew just how, but....

_Won’ work till they stick, gotta all stick_....

He kept throwing. Took a lot of drinks to make one stick. Got to do it soon, run out of drinks otherwise.

Damn bottle was empty. More in cellar, but cellar Hell of a ways, besides he didn’t want. _Lousy stuff. Gets you nowhere._

He laughed.

_Man, I wen’ nowhe’.... This boy did that job.... Yessir, Johnny Wendt went, went nowheah atall...._

Stupid business, two darts won’t stick. _All the other ones stick, what’s matter with two?_

Maybe no-good darts?

He picked them up again and took them to the wall. Stuck one on, then the other. _See? Stick fine. See?_

He almost cheated, but it was no good, it wouldn’t _work_ unless he _threw_ them all and _made_ ’em stick.

He took the two off again and went back to the couch. Threw and picked up and threw and picked up and threw and picked up and had to get another bottle after all and threw and picked up and threw, and _there you are_.

_You wouldn’t believe it, both ’fem stick ’tonce!_

He got up and went out the back door, feeling in his pocket for keys. Somebody came up and asked him if he was Wendt, but he fooled ’em, just said, “Man, I ain’t even come yet,” and kept going, to the garage.

He got in the car and _it_ Wendt. _Jus’ fine._

_Wendt, went, when it went, Wendt went straight into the damn glass wall._

Tricky going for Wendt, but this man used to be crack pilot. Nerves of steel--all that. Slambang into window-wall, crrr-aaa-ck, and slam on brake, and _there you are_....

He climbed out and walked into the living room, feeling fine.

Not many guys could do that. _Not damn few very many._

_Crack-smash that damn wall and not touch a thing inside. Car right outside where it ought to be. Johnny inside. Good. But no damn curved glass wall. Seven damn darts and a couple of jugs, or a few maybe, and the ole car, and there you are: no damn glass wall!_

He was tired. He lay down to sleep.

_Red Dome--Friday, October 14, 4:30_ A.M. (_S.S.T._)

They sat in a group around the woman, Maria. Nobody talked.

They sat for a long time in silence. Perhaps an hour, perhaps more. Then Maria began to murmur. Nobody moved. The tape recorder ran, as it had run, since they started. Only two of them in the group knew English well, but all of them _listened_ with the same deep attention.

From time to time, someone came in and took over a seat from one of the circled sitters. Maria stayed where she was, quite content.

_Rockland--Saturday, October 15_

Someone was screaming. It wasn’t Doug, because Doug wasn’t Doug now, just a million little Dougs and his leg itched where the Dougs kept biting, _damn! damn Lisa, Lisa wouldn’t scream, ice cream, whipped cream, Lisa whip cream, lovely Lee, Lee, Lee...._

“_Leeeee!_”

He opened his eyes for one moment, saw the ceiling of the living room, felt floor rug underneath, and heard his own voice screaming, “_Leeeeee!_”

He closed his eyes, shut his mouth tight, moved convulsively, rolled over, and lay on the floor a long time, sobbing without sound, dry angry sobs that shook his frame and jarred his guts--but brought no release, so after whatever time, long time, it was, he stood up, got his balance, and walked steadily through the house into the kitchen.

Turned, went back through the living room and bedroom to the shower. Shower first. He had a sour smell that sickened him.

He came out of the shower and blower and stood in the bedroom and thought it would be nice to sleep. _One drink and go to sleep...?_

He put his shorts on, and a shirt, socks, shoes. Cup of coffee, maybe ... _might wake up_. He didn’t _want_ to sleep again. _Okay--coffee._ He started back through the living room to the kitchen. The house was a wreck, and the floor was full of broken glass, but that....

He saw the car outside, and remembered....

There it was. _The damn window was busted!_

How in Hell had he managed _that?_

He could figure that out later. And clean things up later. Right now, no time--first things first.

First thing was Lee. _Quick!_ before he was too late. _Too late already, anyhow: too late for Doug, for ever, too late._

Too late for lots of things, too late for Johnny? Maybe, but if not too late for Lee, then maybe...?

He remembered some more. He couldn’t go.

_Couldn’t_ go.

_Couldn’t?_

He took the word out, out of his aching head, and looked at it. Studied it, turned it over, tried to turn it inside out, but there it was, all the time, like a neon light:

c-o-u-l-d-n-apostrophe-t

Couldn’t.

He shook his head tiredly, but the letters danced behind his eyelids even when he closed his eyes. He was very very tired. He took off his jacket and went into the bedroom and took off his trousers and lay down.

When he awoke again, it was dusk. He knew exactly what he had to do. He was cold sober, not hung over, fiercely hungry too. But he was afraid it might already be too late to get things done today.

Which day? Friday? Saturday? _Sunday?_ Eating could wait.

He went to the phone, and flicked the switch, the operator thought he was kidding, but she finally told him: Saturday. And almost eight o’clock.

He went to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich with two thick slabs of rye bread and a stack of old dried-looking boiled ham slices from the refrigerator. He was too hungry to care if it was dry or tasteless.

He took one large bite, wrapped the rest in a napkin, and shoved it in his jacket pocket. He started out, then remembered seeing a quart of milk when he got the ham. He went back, and drank all but an inch or so of the milk, right from the wax container. _Then_ he went out, a little worried, wondering if he’d done something to the heli too, that he didn’t recall.

The funny thing was, he was so set on getting to someone from the Committee, to tell them he’d take the subpoena now, that when the little man in the brown suit stepped out from behind the hangar, and served it on him he didn’t even think to be surprised. The only thing that startled him was the big bass voice asking his name; it came from such a _medium_ guy.

Afterwards, a hundred feet up and building speed, he was astonished at the man still being there. He shook his head and grinned. “Guts!” he said out loud to nobody, admiringly.

Later yet, over Philadelphia, he had to decide which way to go, and realized he didn’t know where they were firing from this trip. It occurred to him, hovering there, that he was not quite as clear-headed as he felt he was. The sandwich was still in his pocket, for instance, and he didn’t know where to go. Also, belatedly, he wondered if he’d have any trouble with _this_ bunch about going up.

He kept on south. It would be either Andes or St. Thom, that much he was sure of. Just beyond Wilmington he saw a field with service stations and no traffic to speak of. He dropped, left the machine for servicing whatever slipshod way the station did it, and went inside to the phones.

_Senor_ McLafferty was not at home. He was in Mexcity, at a verrree imporrrtant conferrrence.

“Can you tell me where to reach him?” Johnny asked urgently.

She was most sorrreee, but the number was one she was not allowed to give.

“Can _you_ reach him?” There was no time for arguing.

Reluctantly: Yes, she could.

“All right, now listen. Call him _right away_. I’m at a pay phone, and I haven’t got much time, and believe me, he wants to hear from me. My name is John Wendt, you understand? The number here is Wilmington Five-seven nine oh-eight jay six. Please ask him to call me _as quickly as possible_. You got the name, now, John--”

“Yes, _Senor_. I _know_ the name.” He relaxed. He could see the difference. She did know the name, and she would call McLafferty. He flicked off, bought a soda, and sat down in the old metal chair out front to wait for the call back.

It was midnight here. Ten, Central time. The rocket would blast at eight ack emma Central, _latest_--seven, more likely--from wherever they were shooting from. If the idiot congressman called back but _fast_, and if it was St. Thom, he could make it. Andes was probably impossible even now.

_Dollars Dome--Sunday, October 16, 4:35_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

Thad Bourgnese pursed his lips in a silent whistle, and passed the news wire across the desk to Kutler. “Here we go again,” he said.

Phil glanced down the sheet rapidly. “Could be,” he said. “But I wouldn’t put any money on _where_ we go. Or he goes. Or--”

“She goes? Obviously, friend: whither he goes. I mean, you’re the doctor; you’ve noticed, I’m sure?”

“Only thing I’m not sure of,” Phil laughed, “is what you mean. Was it the belly or the heart I was supposed to diagnose? On second thought, that’s not the only thing I’m not sure of. It’s practically lost in the multitude.”

“All right. Here’s another one for you. How in the name of all that’s holy did he get on that ship? Last time I heard Chris on the subject, J. Wendt wasn’t going to hit Moondirt again till death did them.”

“One of the many uncertainties I mentioned,” Phil said noncommitally. “You never know. A lot can happen in a week Earthside. Or maybe Chris was willing to take the risk if he was on the same trip....”

“The _trip_ wasn’t the problem. They could keep him under, like last time. I dunno--the old man’s gettin’ soft, maybe--” He broke off.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he said, as Lisa pushed the door open. “What brings you back from the Great Unknown so early and all of a glow?”

She gave him a smile-in-passing, but her question was for Phil. “Is he coming _with Chris_?”

“Dunno, honey. They’re both coming. Hard to say whose idea it was or who’s talking to whom.” Thad was right about that _all-of-a-glow_ bit. _Pregnant women get that way_, he told himself, and now with Johnny coming....

“Hold on, beautiful. Didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s bad manners to listen through keyholes? If we had a keyhole, I mean.”

“But I _wasn’t_--”

“They’re still running radiowire service, chum,” Phil stepped in. “Or were, last I heard.” Odd, now it came time to accept the idea, admit it, quit nibbling around the edges, how easy it was. Damn sight easier than querying and wondering about things that just didn’t _fit_, any other way. “Glad you stopped by, kid,” he said to Lee. “We’ve got to get moving with the new program. Never catch you any more when you’re not working or sleeping or out visiting your buggy buddies.”

“All right. But did you get the news report yet?” He nodded. “May I--?” He passed it over.

She looked it through quickly and handed it back.

“Nothing you didn’t already know, hey?” Phil stood up, trying to look brisk and efficient. “The more I think of it, the more I think we better get that new program set up _now_. I have a feeling,” he said in Thad’s direction, “I may be losing my chief assistant headshrinker a little sooner than I expected.”

He hustled Lee out of the room ahead of him, and set a fast pace for his office. He needed a little time to think, before he verbalized into his conscious intellectual Gestalt the reality that so far existed for him only in awareness.

And before the verbalizing, he had to determine--if he could--how much _she_ knew.

He closed his office door, and switched on the Busy-light. No approach like the obvious, he decided.

“Lee, how _did_ you know about Johnny?” he asked as soon as she was settled in a chair.

“How--? Oh. I thought you really thought I got a wire.” She looked at him almost warily. “I told you before, Phil, I _knew_ he’d come. When it was time.”

“Just feminine intuition?”

He had intended the remark to be neutral and light. It came out harshly sardonic.

Lisa sat forward, startled. “What do--” she started. She searched Phil’s face for--what? He didn’t know. Then she withdrew: her eyes turned inward; she sat back, not relaxed as before, but erect, spring-coiled for some as-yet-undetermined action.

“No,” she said finally. “Not feminine intuition, Phil. How about just _intuition_? The kind anyone can have?”

_Damn you!_ the outraged seeker within shrieked. _Bitch!_

She _knew_, and wouldn’t tell.

_But does she know she knows?_ The doctor was back. “All right, I’ll buy that,” he said. “For now, anyhow.” He stood up and went to the window. Looking out, because he couldn’t hurt her and see her hurt, he said, “Let me ask you another one.”

“Yes?” She was all self-possessed again. That tender-amusement bit. _Okay, kid, brace yourself; you’ll need it!_

“What makes you think Doug Laughlin was so much like me?” And he held his breath. If he was wrong--or if she lied--he would never know which it had been. The words flew from him, even as he tried to call them back: once spoken, they wiped out all slower safer ways to know for _sure_.

“Well, darling, there are so _many_--_Did_ I tell you that? I didn’t mean to. It was such a wild thought--Come to think of it, maybe it _is_ ‘feminine’ intuition, Phil. Maybe something to do with being pregnant, or--something like that? Because I sure do a lot of it these days. I never used to. Not as _much_, anyhow.... Maybe I’m just more relaxed, so that I _know_ when I think something, or when I just--_feel_ it. I mean, feel it’s _true_, so if I wasn’t watching, or rather, if I were less _aware_ of what goes on inside me, I might think I was thinking, or think I had _heard_ it or read it somewhere or actually _seen_ it. You know.”

“I know,” he said. “I know very well. Because _I_ thought I _heard_ you say that about Doug. And now you think you did. But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t?” It was honest bewilderment.... He was _almost_ sure it was.

“No, damn it, you _didn’t_! I _know_ you didn’t--because it just happened, by pure stupid dumb good luck, that the recorder was on for the whole conversation.

“_Which_ conversation?”

“The one that left me wondering why you should think that. I got out the files on Doug, and decided you were pretty right. Then I remembered something I’d thought about down in New York, and I wanted to make a note of it while I remembered--an insight I thought I maybe had into Doug’s walkout. Seemed more likely to be valid, after I checked some of his reactions against my own. So I went to turn the tape on, and found out it _was_ on, and just for kicks, played back everything we’d said, meaning to wipe it off afterwards, and--you’d never said a word about Doug and me. _Not one damn word!_”

He had turned as he spoke, flinging the words at her in passion. Now he turned from her white face and looked out again.

“Phil--”

“Yes?”

He heard the faint female-rustling sound of her moving, but wouldn’t look around. She came up beside him. She too looked out, standing at his side.

“You know,” she said slowly, “It _could_ be that I’d mentioned it some _other_ time? And you remembered it just then for some reason, and _thought_ that’s when you heard it?”

He nodded. “Could be. When did you first think of it?”

Slowly: “I’m--not--sure.”

“But you think it was that day? Don’t you?”

“Not in your office. The first time I thought of it, it was out--_there_.” With a tilt of her head she pointed to the Shack.

“You were out there just _now_, weren’t you?”

No answer.

“When you knew about Johnny?”

Nothing.

He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her and _make_ her face the truth. He walked carefully away from her and sat down at his desk.

“I want to tell you about something, Lee. You may have come across some accounts of this kind of thing yourself. It’s not too unusual. And you’ve done some reading in this type of thing--”

“Never mind, Phil.” She came back from the window and sat facing him again. “I know where you’re going. Clairvoyant and--_telepathic_ phenomena under hypnotism. Right?”

He nodded.

“You know any clear-cut case?”

He nodded again. “A couple. Clairvoyance. Not the other.” He picked up a pencil, studied it curiously. Just a pencil. He put it down. “Let me add this, Lee: every case I ever heard of that seemed reliably reported and scientifically set up involved a performance _under hypnotic command_. That is, with the help of suggestion. There are at least two or three that seem clear of any suspicion of suggestion as to _what_ to see. _Completely_ clear, I mean. But the subjects _were told to do it_.”

_Relay Station--Sunday, October 16, 5_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

Once upon a time, the great harbors of Earth used rocket beacons to signal to ships entering and leaving port: ships that rounded the globe, sometimes, under no other power than that of wind and water waves. At the ports of Space, rocket fire moves the ships in and out; waves of sound carried silently on waves of electrons convey the signals now. Otherwise, harbors have always been much alike. Even four hundred miles above ground, men sweat in their pressure suits; swear at the intractable bulk of large masses (with or without “weight”); mill in apparent confusion, behind which incredible achievements of order and planned distribution move endlessly; roughhouse and rag and joke with the blood-and-gut humor (and good humor) of haulers and movers and handlers and drovers and drivers and sailors and truckers and spacers and all men who gain their daily bread conquering space-mass-time with their hands and backs.

Relay Station is many things. Most ports are. It’s Earth’s eye on the sky and it’s the reflex nerve center of radio communication around the Earth. It is also a tunnelled labyrinth of intrigue and espionage. But first and foremost, it is Man’s greatest port to date. Every ship of all nations that lifts off of Earth stops here for inspection and servicing and then for safe-passage through the vicious rays of the Vanallens, infinitely multitudinous scyllas and charybdises of the Space odyssey.

From Relay, the Belt Balloons, air filled and skin-charged, each with its central pit of a single shuttle ship, are flung up through the twin belts of darting electrons, to meet the great wheel of the _Messenger_ in orbit at its 12,000-mile perihelion.

All passengers on U.S.A.A. ships have the option of sleeping through the two first legs of the trip, till the shuttle is safely inside the _Messenger_; but the more knowing ones come out of sedation at Relay, in hopes of traveling close enough to other Balloons to see for themselves the coruscating display of blue fire, as the wild electrons of the Belts are dashed off the charged thin skins of the bulleting spheres.

John Wendt had never seen the Belt Balloons. When he lived and trained on the Moon, and took rare leaves on Earth, the _Messenger_, with its ion drive and thermal exchange power plant, was still a drawing-board dream. The thrice he had traveled by shuttle, via Balloon and the _Messenger_, he had made the whole voyage under sedation.

His choice of minimum sleep this time out was not motivated by a desire to see the Balloons. He had avoided exposure to Space talk, Space news, Space views, so thoroughly in his twenty months on Earth that he did not even _know_ there was anything worth seeing.

He simply meant to let Pete Christensen, and anybody else who noticed, know that he _could_ make the trip. _Wide awake._

He was a little sorry when he learned that Chris was on the first shuttle, the one that left ten minutes before Mac got him to the St. Thom Port and through the snarl of red tape that wound him up on Shuttle Two. But he assumed there would be communication between the two boats, once on board the _Messenger_. Certainly, the Dome Director would be free to go between shuttles, and certainly, he would be apprised of the change in the passenger list at the first opportunity.

Johnny looked forward to seeing Chris when the time came. The shoe had changed feet, and it fit one hell of a sight better.

He never did get to see Shuttle One crackling spectacularly through the outer edge of the Big Belt, as Two’s balloon entered Little Belt; he was much too sophisticated a Space traveler to crowd to the viewports when the others did.

_Dollars Dome--Monday, October 17, 2_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

“That ought to fix you up now, Miss Trovi.” He fastened the buckle that held the miniature set strapped to her suit, and said, “Now if you want to just show me how you’d work it, make sure you got it right...?”

Lisa unstrapped the kit, took out the tape, put it back in, switched the set to _record_, and turned it off again. “I’d better try it with the helmet, don’t you think?” she said doubtfully.

“Sure. Good idea.” The big mechanic beamed down at her as if he had personally built the whole combination, and not just the small machine. But when he reached to help her adjust the wire trailing from the mike in the headpiece, she shook her head and waved him off:

“I’ve got to be able to do it myself.”

It worked fine. She put three extra rolls of tape in her pocket, thanked him, and left. The big man watched her go, shaking his head.

“Guts!” he said. “Damn but that babe has guts!” He went back into the workshop and told his helper, “That bastard Wendt don’t come through, I bet there ain’t a single man here wouldn’t marry her, the day before the kid’s born, or the day after. And mop up the sonofabitch before dinner besides.”

“One mistake, chum.” The helper was married. “You don’t know how easy it is to get a divorce. Don’t just say _single_ men.”

_Red Dome--Tuesday, October 18, 9:25_ A.M. (_C.S.T._)

The Guards Lieutenant saluted with military precision, which was worse than wasted on Dr. Chen. The Director was not even annoyed; the irritation of acknowledging the salute never materialized, because the necessity to do so failed to impress him. Dr. Chen could be exceedingly single-minded on some occasions. He had a superior capacity for crisis action.

He also had a crisis.

And he noted, with some detached part of his mind, that he was enjoying it enormously.

It was a long time since there had been any real emergency or crisis in the Dome.

This one was not in it either.

“Very well,” he said crisply. “You will please explain to me how she contrived to leave?”

“She is a good pilot, Comrade Your Excellency. She holds all necessary permits and licenses.”

“There are no permits or licenses to leave the Dome,” Chen said coldly, “except express assignment from me.”

The young officer said nothing.

The Director considered the words that might best express his scorn and contempt for the so-called Guard who had permitted Maria Harounian to leave the Dome. Having considered them and relished them, he filed them in his mind, and said to the dutiful Lieutenant, whose fault it was _not_:

“I want Harounian found and returned to Dome immediately.”

He did not stress the words. He spoke almost softly. But his meaning was deadly clear. “Organize a search,” he said. “A full search. I will review your search plan in fifteen minutes. Excused.”

The lieutenant saluted again. Dr. Chen acknowledged with the faintest possible nod.