Dr. Jones comes into the cabin. He inspects me curiously. "You seem very keyed up, Henry Revere."
"Yes, I feel keyed up, stimulated. This cruise is affording me much pleasure."
"Excellent!" He walks to the chart, glances at it. "Why are we halted?"
"I took it into my mind to drift quietly. Are you impatient?"
Time passes-minutes, seconds. I watch the chronometer. Dr. Jones follows my glance. He frowns in sudden recollection, goes to the telescreen. "Excuse me; something I would like to watch. You might be interested."
The screen depicts an arid waste. "The Kalahari Desert, Dr. Jones tells me. "Watch."
I glance at the chronometer. Ten seconds-they tick off.
Five-four-three-two-one. A great whistling sound, a
roar, a crash, an explosion! It comes from the telescreen. The yacht rides on a calm sea.
"There went Hesperus," said Dr. Jones. "Right on schedule!"
He looks at me, where I have sagged against a bulkhead.
His eyes narrow, he looks at the chronometer, at the chart, at the telescreen, back to me. "Ah, I understand you now. All of us you would have killed!" "Yes," I mutter, "all of us." "Aha! You savage!"
I pay him no heed. "Where could I have miscalculated? I considered everything. Loss of entropic mass, lunar attractions-I know the orbit of Hesperus as I know my hand. How did it shift, and so far?" i
Dr. Jones eyes shine with a baleful light. "You know the orbit of Hesperus then?" "Yes. I considered every aspect" "And you believe it shifted?"
"It must have. It was launched into an equatorial orbit; it falls into the Kalahari."
"There are two bodies to be considered." "Two?"
"Hesperus and Earth."
"Earth is constant... Unchangeable." I say this last word slowly, as the terrible knowledge comes.
And Dr. Jones, for the first time in my memory, laughs, an unpleasant harsh sound. "Constant-unchangeable. Except for libration of the poles. Hesperus is the constant Earth shifts below." "Yes! What a fool I am!" "An insensate murdering fool! I see you cannot be trusted!" I charge him. I strike him once in the face before the anaesthetic beam hits me.
The World-Thinker
Through the open window came sounds of the city-the swish of passing air traffic, the clank of the pedestrian belt on the ramp below, hoarse undertones from the lower levels. Cardale sat by the window studying a sheet of paper which displayed a photograph and a few lines of type:
FUGITIVE!
Isabel May-Age 21; height 5 feet 5 inches; medium physique.
Hair: black (could be dyed).
Eyes: blue.
Distinguishing characteristics: none.
Cardale shifted his eyes to the photograph and studied the pretty face with incongruously angry eyes. A placard across her chest read: 94E-627. Cardale returned to the printed words.
Sentenced to serve three years at the Nevada Women's Camp, in the first six months of incarceration Isabel May accumulated 22 months additional punitive confinement. Caution is urged in her apprehension.
The face, Cardale reflected, was defiant, reckless, outraged, but neither coarse nor stupid-a face, in fact, illuminated by intelligence and sensitivity. Not the face of a criminal, thought Cardale.
He pressed a button. The telescreen plumbed into sharp life. "Lunar Observatory," said Cardale. The screen twitched to a view across an austere office, with moonscape outside the window. A man in a rose-pink smock looked into the screen. "Hello, Cardale."
"What's the word on May?"
"We've got a line on her. Quite a nuisance, which you won't want to hear about. One matter: please, in the future keep freighters in another sector when you want a fugitive tracked. We had six red herrings to cope with."
"But you picked up May?"
"Definitely."
"Keep her in your sights. I'll send someone out to take over." Cardale clicked off the screen.
He ruminated a moment, then summoned the image of his secretary. "Get me Detering at Central Intelligence."
The polychrome whirl of color rose and fell to reveal Detering's ruddy face.
"Cardale, if it's service you want-"
"I want a mixed squad, men and women, in a fast ship to pick up a fugitive. Her name is Isabel May. She's fractious, unruly, incorrigible-but I don't want her hurt."
"Allow me to continue what I started to say. Cardale, if you want service, you are out of luck. There's literally no one in the office but me."
"Then come yourself.**
"To pick up a reckless woman, and get my hair pulled and my face slapped? No thanks ... One moment. There's a man waiting outside my office on a disciplinary charge. I can either have him court-martialed or I can send him over to you."
"What's his offense?"
"Insubordination. Arrogance. Disregard of orders. He's a loner. He does as he pleases and to hell with the rule book."
"What about results?"
"He gets results-of a sort. His own kind of results."
"He may be the man to bring back Isabel May. What's his name?"
"Lanarck. He won't use his rank, which is captain."
"He seems something of a free spirit ... Well, send him over."