The Mind Pool Read online

  At last Chan was ready. He scanned the blocks, picked up four of them, and quickly and economically fitted them together. He reached for four more, then another pair. In less than thirty seconds he had assembled the whole cube. He stared at it for a few moments, then just as quickly took it apart again and laid the pieces on the carpeted floor.

  Finally Chan lifted his eyes, and stared at Mondrian’s picture. He smiled. It was, as nearly as he could make it, a perfect copy of the smile on the face of Esro Mondrian.

  * * *

  Four hundred kilometers away, that face was not smiling. It was beaded with perspiration. Mondrian lay in darkness on a hard couch, breathing hard and loudly through clenched teeth.

  He could see nothing, smell nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing—even the electrodes on his body no longer produced sensation. He could not move. The heat and total darkness had drained all his energy. In any case there was nowhere to go. He was alone, far from anything in the universe.

  The endless questions did not change that. They seemed to rise from within, from some deep and secret hiding place inside him. He knew that the questions would end only when he gave answers. But that was impossible. The answers stuck, tearing at the delicate fabric of his brain. He groaned.

  “You are resisting again.” Skrynol’s gentle voice came as a shock. “Every time we reach this area, evasion begins. I think we must stop for today.”

  Soft touches on Mondrian’s sweating body told him that electrodes were being removed.

  “We’re getting nowhere,” he said hoarsely. “I’m wasting your time and my own.”

  “On the contrary,” said the voice in the darkness. “We are progressing. Your remark is merely another attempt by a part of you to end that progress. But it is doomed to fail. As we define the area to which you will not allow me access, I am able to infer its nature more and more accurately. Already we possess certain definite facts. For example, I know that you are suffering the consequences of a very early experience—something that happened to you before you were three years old, something that has never been expressed in verbal form. You have spent your whole life since then fortifying the mental walls around what happened. That is why they are so hard to break down.”

  “You are killing me.”

  “I think not.” Skrynol was raising Mondrian to a sitting position. “You are a strong man. Is it obvious to you, by the way, that your recurring dreams are all related to that one early experience? There is a pattern to them. They are always either a re-creation of your trauma, or a flight from it. Think of them, although I know you prefer not to. The vision is always the same, of a central figure—you—surrounded by a warm, safe, light region. And outside it, the dark.”

  “That is not a new insight. Other Froppers have told me the same thing. They say that the safe region is symbolic of the womb, that I hate the fact of my birth.”

  “That is the simple-minded conclusion.” Skrynol’s voice sharpened. “And of course, it is wrong.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because if it were right, any Fropper could treat you successfully. I am able to recognize womb symbolism as well as anyone, although I myself never went through the birth process. Your case is quite different. You feel that you control everything in the safe region—but you also feel that the region is shrinking. Outside lies the dark, and every day the dark comes a little closer. You sense devils in that dark. You would like to flee. But you cannot, because you are always at the center of the lighted region. If you run away, in any direction, the danger may be closer yet. You cannot flee. You dare not stay. That is the source of your nightmares.”

  “Suppose that you are right. How does that help me?”

  “It does not. Not yet. We must go back—farther, deeper. And you must help me to do it.”

  Mondrian shook his head.

  “You are afraid?” went on Skrynol. “Naturally. Our most secret fears are always sacred. You can be helped—but only if you agree to being helped. You must trust me more, allow me to probe deeper, and accept that I will feel with you and for you.” There was a high-pitched laugh in the darkness. “You are horrified at the idea. Of course you are. But let me reassure you. Our secrets are never as well-kept as we would like to imagine them. I am going to tell you one of your own secrets, because until it is out of the way we will have trouble reaching back as far as we need to.”

  “Why do you think I have secrets?”

  “You tell me. According to your official record, you were born on Oberon, the son of a mining engineer who was pregnant when she went there. Correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So tell me about your mother. How old was she, what did she look like, what sort of woman was she?”

  “I have told you several times. I have no memory of her. She was killed in an accident soon after I was born.”

  “You have indeed told me that. And you have been lying to me.” Skrynol’s fleshy flipper came out to grip Mondrian by the shoulder. “Your mother is dead. That is true. But you remember exactly what she looked like. And you were not born on Oberon. You were born on Earth. And as a child, you were sold on Earth.”

  “It wasn’t like—”

  “Do not try to deny it. I know. You were born on Earth, and as an infant you were sold on Earth, and you lived on Earth for the first eighteen years of your life. As a commoner, existing in misery and poverty until you found a chance to escape.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “How do you think? Today you are an educated and sophisticated man. You appreciate beauty, ideas, literature, great art, and great music. You love fine food and drink. But part of you was still shaped on Earth. Part of you is still locked into the dirt, ignorance, and violence of where you began. You nightmare began here, on this planet. And if it is to end, it must end here.”

  Mondrian writhed in Skrynol’s grip. “You didn’t learn any of that from me. And you could search the solar system, and never find my background in any record. Only one other person knew. How did you ever make Tatty tell you?”

  “Princess Tatiana did not tell me. You told me, in answer to my questions. Your self-control is phenomenal, Commander Mondrian, but it cannot be perfect. Every time the subject of Earth, or of people born on Earth, arose, half a dozen physical variables in your system changed. They did not run wild, but even a point or two of difference is enough for me. I deliberately added other questions, and integrated the answers. The conclusion was clear.”

  “Who have you told this to?”

  “No one.”

  “Then let me give you an incentive for continued silence.” Mondrian was fumbling in the darkness for the shirt pocket of his uniform. He pulled out a thin packet and thrust it blindly in front of him. “Take a look at that.”

  The packet was taken gently from his hands. There was a long silence. At the end of it came a soft clicking noise, and light slowly brightened in the chamber.

  “Darkness will still be essential during questioning,” said Skrynol. “But it no longer serves a useful purpose at other times. Behold your tormentor—and helper.”

  Crouched before Mondrian was a giant tubular shape. The pale lemon on the body bifurcation showed that Skrynol was a female Pipe-Rilla, but she was not of the usual form. Changes had been made to the long thorax, and one pair of forelimbs was augmented by fleshy appendages resembling human hands and arms.

  Skrynol held out the package that Mondrian had given her. “To satisfy my curiosity, tell me when and how you managed to obtain these pictures.”

  “On my first visit.” Mondrian touched the fire opal at his collar. “This holds a multiple-wavelength imaging device. I tried it in many spectral regions. Thermal infrared and microwave both proved satisfactory.”

  “Ah.” Skrynol crouched nodding on her long, orange-black hind legs. “That was a failure on my part. I observed your apparently nervous manipulation of that gemstone, and thought it was oddly at variance with your general extraordinary cont
rol. But I was too naive to draw the conclusion. Mondrian, your strength of mind is astonishing, to think of such a test in the first session. But for our purposes, that strength is not good. We have a very tough struggle ahead. Will you tellme why you thought it necessary to make images?”

  “You suggested that you were of a shape too hideous to be seen. I could not imagine such a form—I have seen almost every type of organism within the Perimeter, and some of those are strange indeed. It occurred to me to wonder, perhaps you were not too strange to be seen, but too familiar.”

  “And when you saw the results of the imaging?” Skrynol stood upright, towering towards the roof. Dark compound eyes peered down at Mondrian. “Would it not have been more in keeping with your job to report your findings, rather than bringing those pictures here with you?”

  “Report to whom?” Mondrian shrugged. “To myself, as head of Security? To Luther Brachis, so he could use it against me? Anyway, I had too many unanswerable questions. You resembled a Pipe-Rilla, but there were differences. You said that you were an Artefact, the product of a Needler lab. That could have been true.”

  “Could have. Why do you reject that notion?”

  “At first I didn’t. You could have been an Artefact of a type I had never before encountered, something new out of the Needler labs. Or you could be a Pipe-Rilla, surgically modified for an Earth environment and for more efficient human speech. It even occurred to me that perhaps you were some kind of renegade Pipe-Rilla, hiding here from her fellows.”

  The hissing laugh came eight feet above Mondrian’s head. “A ‘criminal,’ as you call it, taking refuge on this world? Come now, Commander. What crime could a Pipe-Rilla commit, which required a punishment worse than banishment to this planet? What hideous act could match the surgical inflicting of these disfigurements?” Skrynol held out her fleshy forelimbs. “As your poet says, ‘Why, this is Hell, nor am I out of it.’ ”

  “Let me tell you about Hell. But I also came to that conclusion. A Pipe-Rilla would only suffer such changes, and such exile, voluntarily. And that led me to another. You were modified and sent here with the knowledge and approval of your fellows and your government. You are a spy and observer for the Pipe-Rillas.”

  Skrynol lowered herself with a cantilevering of long, multi-jointed limbs, until she was face to face with Mondrian. “It is not just Pipe-Rillas. All other members of the Stellar Group feel the same need to observe humans. You are too violent, too unpredictable, to be left unwatched. But if you are right, then why are you not now in danger? Presumably I must protect my secret.”

  “You have been physically modified, but mentally you are still a Pipe-Rilla. You are not capable of violence. Whereas I . . .”

  “. . . Accept and even relish it? A shrewd observation and one that I cannot dispute. But I am not without other means of persuasion. You still have your own needs. You could announce my presence here, true; but if you did, your own treatment with me would end. And we are making progress, approaching the heart of your problem. Do you realize that?”

  “I am sure of it. Why else would I so dread these sessions with you, yet keep on coming?”

  “In that case you must make your own evaluation. Am I a danger to humans so great that you must now reveal my existence, or does your personal need dominate the situation?”

  “It is not so simple as that. I am convinced that you intended that I should discover your identity, even if not so quickly.”

  “Most perceptive.” Skrynol laughed that same high, twittering laugh. “So I have my own agenda. And there is your dilemma. You must balance your personal needs against the possible danger to humanity of my presence. This is, you realize, something unique to your species. As, indeed, is your term for it. You call it a ‘conflict of interest.’ A conflict—again, always you speak in terms of war, battle, fighting.”

  “What would a Pipe-Rilla call it?”

  “The situation could never arise. We possess group altruism. The good of the many always takes priority in us over the needs of the individual.”

  “I admire your nobility.”

  “There is no need for sarcasm. And we can take no credit for our nature. It is built into us, from first meiosis. It is the very reason that I am here, alone and deformed, many lightyears from home and mates. But humans are not so. You are dominated by individual desires and urges. Even you.” Skrynol began to flex her legs, lifting her body higher. “So which is it to be, Esro Mondrian? Do you expose me now, or do we continue your treatment.”

  Mondrian stood up also. “What is your name? Your Pipe-Rilla name?”

  “I will say it to you. It is no secret. But you will not be able to say it, unless you propose to learn to stridulate.” The Pipe-Rilla rubbed two of her legs together briefly, to produce the wobbly, singing tone of a vibrating saw blade. “There. I think you must still call me Skrynol. That is similar to a word in our speech that means, ‘the insane one.’ A mad Pipe-Rilla, living deep in Madworld.”

  “Giving Fropper treatment to a mad human.”

  “What could be more appropriate? Commander Mondrian, we have a stalemate. You know my secret—”

  “One of them.”

  “One of them. And I know one of yours. What now?”

  “I will keep your secret, and you will continue my treatment. And one other thing.”

  “Always something new.”

  “Not really. I intended this when I came here today for treatment. Why else would I bring those pictures? We agree that we both have needs?”

  “We agree.”

  “Very well. Then let us . . . negotiate.”

  Chapter 12

  The offices of Dougal MacDougal, Solar High Ambassador to the Stellar Group, formed a huge and perfect dodecahedron. Two hundred meters on a side, it sat deep beneath the surface of Ceres. Access to it was provided by a dozen entrances on every one of its twelve faces.

  The private office of Dougal MacDougal lay at the very center of the dodecahedron. It had just one entrance, approached along a great spiralling corridor. Halfway along the corridor and opening onto it was a tiny office, barely big enough for one person.

  In that office, seemingly present for twenty-four hours a day, sat Lotos Sheldrake. A diminutive child-like woman with the face of a porcelain doll, she guarded access to the spacious inner sanctum like a soldier ant protecting the queen’s chamber. MacDougal saw no one unless she approved; nothing entered his office, not even cleaning robots, unless she had performed her inspection.

  Luther Brachis walked slowly down the approach corridor, entered Sheldrake’s cramped office, and sat down uninvited on the single visitor’s chair.

  Lotos was reviewing a list of supplicant names, crossing off more than half of them. She did not look up until her analysis was complete. “A surprise visit, Commander,” she said at last. She raised pencil-thin eyebrows. “You desire an audience with the Ambassador? We are honored. I believe that this is the first such request.”

  “Don’t give me that, Lotos. When you see me come in here to meet with old numbnuts, you’ll know it’s time to cart me off for recycling.”

  “That is no way to refer to His Excellency the Ambassador.” But Sheldrake made no attempt to inspect the contents of Brachis’s uniform. She had known when he entered that he was planning to go no farther than her office. “So what’s your business?”

  “You know about the Morgan Constructs?”

  An imperceptible nod.

  “And the decision made by the Stellar Group Ambassadors?”

  A hint of a smile on the doll’s face. “With Ambassador MacDougal, shall we say, abstaining? I heard. Poor Luther. After all your efforts, to report to Esro Mondrian . . . my heart bleeds for you.”

  “I’m sure of it. Bleeds liquid helium. But let me get right to business. Do you know what actions it would take to reverse the decision of the Ambassadors—to provide me with at least an equality of rank with Mondrian?”

  “Suppose I did know. Why should I discu
ss it with you?”

  “Still the same sweetheart.” Luther Brachis pulled a slender pencil from his pocket. “Take a look at this, Lotos, and then let’s continue the conversation.”

  Sheldrake dimmed the lights and pointed the viewer away from her. When she turned it on, a three-dimensional image sprang into existence. At its center hovered a silver-blue cylinder with a tripod of stubby legs and a lattice of shining wing panels.

  “Shahh-sh!” Sheldrake hissed. “Commander Brachis, I hope for your sake this is an old holograph. If you have located an intact Morgan Construct, and failed to reveal that fact to us . . . remember, we do not share the rest of the Stellar Group’s softness of heart regarding death as punishment. Assure me that this is an old holograph or a computer simulation, Luther—for your own sake.”

  “To the best of my knowledge, the only functioning Morgan Construct is the one that got away. On the other hand, what you are looking at was recorded less than one week ago, and it is not a computer simulation.” He waited, until her hand was no more than an inch or two from a button set into the top of her desk. “A few moments more before you call the guards, Lotos. You don’t want to make a fool of yourself.”

  “Speak, Luther. Quickly.” The tiny hand hovered over the button.

  “What you are looking at is not a Construct. You will have proof of that. What it is, as I can readily prove, is an Artefact from one of Earth’s Needler labs. But examine it as closely as you like, and I am sure that you will be unable to detect any difference—except, of course, that this is completely safe, without a Construct’s destructive potential.”

  The hand hesitated, then withdrew from the button. “Artefacts are not allowed anywhere except on Earth. You’re still in trouble, Luther, if that thing is anywhere up here.”

  “You don’t have it quite right. Artefacts are not allowed into space unless the situation involves a Stellar Group emergency. That’s the catch-all clause applying to just about everything that’s normally forbidden.”