Anywhen by James Blish Read Free Book Online

must woo and win me—" "Wie schaffen Sie es, solche Entfernungen bei Unterlichtgeschwindigkeit zurueckzulegen?"
    "REMEMBER THOR FIVE!"
    "Pok. Pok. Pok."
    "We're so tired of wading in blood, so tired of drinking blood, so tired of dreaming about blood—"
    The last voice rose to a scream, and all the loudspeakers cut off abruptly. Valkol's face, baffled but not yet worried, hovered over Simon's, peering into his eyes.
    "We're not going to get anything out of that," he told some invisible technician. "You must have gone too deep; those are the archetypes you're getting, obviously."
    "Nonsense." The voice was the Fomentor's. "The archetypes sound nothing like that—for which you should be grateful. In any event, we have barely gone beneath the surface of the cortex; see for yourself."
    Valkol's face withdrew. "Hmm. Well, something's wrong. Maybe your probe is too broad. Try it again."
    The spike drove home, and the loudspeakers resumed their mixed chorus.
    "Nausentampen. Eddettompic. Berobsilom. Aimkaksetchoc. Sanbetogmow—"
    "Dites-lui que nous lui ordonnons de revenir, en vertu de la Loi du Grand Tout."
    "Perhaps he should swear by another country." "Can't Mommy ladder spaceship think for bye-bye-see-you two windy Daddy bottle seconds straight—" "Nansima macamba yonso cakosilisa."
    "Stars don't have points. They're round, like balls." The sound clicked off again. Valkol said fretfully:
    "He can't be resisting. You've got to be doing something wrong, that's all."
    Though the operative part of his statement was untrue, it was apparently also inarguable to the Fomentor. There was quite a long silence, broken only occasionally by small hums and clinks.
    While he waited, Simon suddenly felt the beginnings of a slow sense of relief in his left earlobe, as though a tiny but unnatural pressure he had long learned to live with had decided to give way—precisely, in fact, like the opening of a cyst.
    That was the end. Now he had but fifteen minutes more in which the toposcope would continue to vomit forth its confusion—its steadily diminishing confusion—and only an hour before even his physical appearance would reorganize, though that would no longer matter in the least.
    It was time to exercise the last option—now, before the probe could bypass his cortex and again prevent him
    from speaking his own, fully conscious mind. He said: "Never mind, Valkol. I'll give you what you want." "What? By Gro, I'm not going to give you—"
    "You don't have to give me anything; I'm not selling anything. You see for yourself that you can't get to the material with that machine. Nor with any other like it, I may add. But I exercise my option to turn my coat, under Guild laws; that gives me safe conduct, and that's sufficient."
    "No," the Fomentor's voice said. "It is incredible—he is in no pain and has frustrated the machine; why should he yield? Besides, the secret of his resistance—"
    "Hush," Valkol said. "I am moved to ask if you are a vombis; doubtless, the machine would tell us that much. Mr. De Kuyl, I respect the option, but I am not convinced yet. The motive, please?"
    "High Earth is not enough," Simon said. "Remember Ezra-Tse? 'The last temptation is the final treason . . . to do the right thing for the wrong reason.' I would rather deal fairly with you, and then begin the long task of becoming honest with myself. But with you only, Valkol—not the Exarchy. I sold the Green Exarch nothing."
    "I see. A most interesting arrangement, I agree. What will you require?"
    "Perhaps three hours to get myself unscrambled from the effects of fighting your examination. Then I'll dictate the missing material. At the moment it's quite inaccessible."
    "I believe that, too," Valkol said ruefully. "Very well—" "It is not very well," the vombis said, almost squalling. "The arrangement is a complete violation of—"
    Valkol turned and looked at the creature so hard that it stopped talking of its own accord. Suddenly Simon was sure Valkol no