"Forgive me, Luci. I suppose I shouldn't have cranched. Not so soon again. But darling, I have to get out from being a haberman. How can I ever be near you? How can I be a man—not hearing my own voice, not even feeling my own life as it goes through my veins? I love you, darling. Can't I ever be near you?"
Her pride was disciplined and automatic: "But you're a Scanner!"
"I know I'm a Scanner. But so what?"
She went over the words, like a tale told a thousand times to reassure herself: '
'You are the bravest of the brave, the most skilful of the skilled. All Mankind owes most honor to the Scanner, who unites the Earths of Mankind. Scanners are the protectors of the habermans. They are the judges in the Up-and-Out. They make men live in the place where men need desperately to die. They are the most honored of Mankind, and even the Chiefs of the Instrumentality are delighted to pay them homage!"
With obstinate sorrow he demurred: "Luci, we've heard that all before. But does it pay us back—"
" 'Scanners work for more than pay. They are the strong guards of Mankind.'
Don't you remember that?"
"But our lives, Luci. What can you get out of being the wife of a Scanner? Why did you marry me? I'm human only when I cranch. The rest of the time—you know what I am. A machine. A man turned into a machine. A man who has been killed and kept alive for duty. Don't you realize what I miss?"
"Of course, darling, of course—"
He went on: "Don't you think I remember my childhood? Don't you think I remember what it is to be a man and not a haberman? To walk and feel my feet on the ground? To feel a decent clean pain instead of watching my body every minute to see if I'm alive? How will I know if I'm dead? Did you ever think of that, Luci? How will I know if I'm dead?"
She ignored the unreasonableness of his outburst. Pacifyingly, she said: "Sit down, darling. Let me make you some kind of a drink. You're overwrought."
Automatically, he scanned: "No I'm not! Listen to me. How do you think it feels to be in the Up-and-Out with the crew tied-for-space all around you? How do you think it feels to watch them sleep? How do Vů think I like scanning, scanning, scanning month after month, when
can feel the Pain-of-Space beating against every part of my body, tying to get past my Haberman blocks? How do you think I like to Wake the men when I have to, and have them hate me for it? Have you ever seen habermans fight—strong men fighting, and neither knowing Pain, fighting until one touches Overload? Do you think about that, Luci?" Triumphantly he added: "Can you blame me if I cranch, and come back to being a man, just two days a month?"
"I'm not blaming you, darling. Let's enjoy your cranch. Sit down now, and have a drink."
He was sitting down, resting his face in his hands, while she fixed the drink, using natural fruits out of bottles in addition to the secure alkaloids. He watched her restlessly and pitied her for marrying a Scanner; and then, though it was unjust, resented having to pity her.
Just as she turned to hand him the drink, they both jumped a little as the phone rang. It should not have rung. They had turned it off. It rang again, obviously on the emergency circuit. Stepping ahead of Luci, Mar- tel strode over to the phone and looked into it. Vomact was looking at him.
The custom of Scanners entitled him to be brusque, even with a Senior Scanner, on certain given occasions. This was one.
Before Vomact could speak, Martel spoke two words into the plate, not caring whether the old man could read lips or not:
"Cranching. Busy."
He cut the switch and went back to Luci.
The phone rang again.
Luci said, gently, "I can find out what it is, darling. Here, take your drink and sit down."
"Leave it alone," said her husband. "No one has a right to call when I'm cranching. He knows that. He ought to know that."
The phone rang again. In a fury, Martel rose and went to the plate. He cut it back on. Vomact was on the screen. Before Martel could speak, Vomact held up his Talking Nail in line with his Heartbox. Martel reverted to discipline:
"Scanner Martel present and waiting, sir."
The lips moved solemnly: "Top emergency."
"Sir, I am under the wire."
"Top emergency."
"Sir, don't you understand? Martel mouthed his words, so he could be sure that Vomact followed. "I . . . am . . .
under . . . the . . . wire. Unfit . . for . . Space!"
Vomact repeated: "Top emergency. Report to your central tie-in."
"But, sir, no emergency like this—"
"Right, Martel. No emergency like this, ever before. Report to tie- in." With a faint glint of kindliness, Vomact added: "No need to de- cranch. Report as you are."
This time it was Martel whose phone was cut out. The screen went gray.
He turned to Luci. The temper had gone out of his voice. She came to him. She kissed him, and rumpled his hair. All she could say was, "I'm sorry."
She kissed him again, knowing his disappointment. "Take good care of yourself, darling. I'll wait."
He scanned, and slipped into his transparent aircoat. At the window he paused, and waved. She called, "Good luck!" As the air flowed past him he said to himself,
"This is the first time I've felt flight in—eleven years. Lord, but it's easy to fly if you can feel yourself live!"
Central Tie-in glowed white and austere far ahead. Martel peered. He saw no glare of incoming ships from the Up-and-Out, no shuddering flare of Space-fire out of control. Everything was quiet, as it should be on an off-duty night.
And yet Vomact had called. He had called an emergency higher than Space. There was no such thing. But Vomact had called it.
When Martel got there, he found about half the Scanners present, two dozen or so of them. He lifted the Talking ringer. Most of the Scanners were standing face to face, talking in pairs as they read lips. A few of the old, impatient ones were scribbling on their Tablets and then thrusting the Tablets into other people's faces. AH the faces wore the dull dead relaxed look of a haberman. When Martel entered the room, he knew that most of the others laughed in the deep isolated privacy of their own minds, each thinking things it would be useless to express in formal words. It had been a long time since a Scanner showed up at a meeting cranched.
Vomact was not there: probably, thought Martel, he was still on the phone calling others. The light of the phone flashed on and off; the bell rang. Martel felt odd when he realized that of all those present, he was the only one to hear that loud bell. It made him realize why ordinary people did not like to be around groups of habermans or Scanners. Mattel looked around for company.
His friend Chang was there, busy explaining to some old and testy Scanner that he did not know why Vomact had called. Martel looked further and saw Parizianski. He walked over, threading his way past the others with a dexterity that showed he could feel his feet from the inside, and did not have to watch them. Several of the others stared at him with their dead faces, and tried to smile. But they lacked full muscular control and their faces twisted into horrid masks. (Scanners knew better than to show expression on faces which they could no longer govern. Mattel added to himself, I swear I'll never smile again unless I'm cranched.)
Parizianski gave him the sign of the Talking Finger. Looking face to face, he spoke:
"You come here cranched?"
Parizianski could not hear his own voice, so the words roared like the words on a broken and screeching phone; Martel was startled, but knew that the inquiry was well meant. No one could be better-natured than the burly Pole.
"Vomact called. Top emergency."
"You told him you were cranched?"