Pebble in the Sky Isaac Asimov (reading a book .txt) 📖

the thick, unfriendly atmosphere of the plane.

He supervised the unloading of his luggage and had it transferred into a biwheel cab. At least he would be the only passenger here, so that if he took care not to speak unnecessarily to the driver, he could scarcely get into trouble.

“State House,” he told the cabby, and they were off.

Arvardan thus entered Chica for the first time, and he did so on the day that Joseph Schwartz escaped from his room at the Institute for Nuclear Research.

Creen watched Arvardan leave with a bitter half-smile. He took out his little book and studied it closely between puffs at his cigarette. He hadn’t gotten much out of the passengers, despite his story about his uncle (which he had used often before to good effect). To be sure, the old guy had complained about a man living past his time and had blamed it on “pull” with the Ancients. That would come under the heading of slander against the Brotherhood. But then the geezer was heading for the Sixty in a month, anyway. No use putting his name down.

But this Outsider, that was different. He surveyed the item with a feeling of pleasure: “Bel Arvardan, Baronn, Sirius Sector—curious about the Sixty—secretive about own affairs—entered Chica by commercial plane 11 a.m. Chica time, 12 October—anti-Terrestrian attitude very marked.”

This time maybe he had a real haul. Picking up these little squealers who made incautious remarks was dull work, but things like this made it pay off.

The Brotherhood would have his report before half an hour was up. He made his way leisurely off the field.

8

Convergence at Chica

For the twentieth time Dr. Shekt leafed through his latest volume of research notes, then looked up as Pola entered his office. She frowned as she slipped on her lab coat.

“Now, Father, haven’t you eaten yet?”

“Eh? Certainly I have. . . . Oh, what’s this?”

“This is lunch. Or it was, once. What you ate must have been breakfast. Now there’s no sense in my buying meals and bringing them here if you’re not going to eat them. I’m just going to make you go home for them.”

“Don’t get excited. I’ll eat it. I can’t interrupt a vital experiment every time you think I ought to eat, you know.”

He grew cheerful again over the dessert. “You have no idea,” he said, “the kind of man this Schwartz is. Did I ever tell you about his skull sutures?”

“They’re primitive. You told me.”

“But that’s not all. He’s got thirty-two teeth: three molars up and down, left and right, counting one false one that must be homemade. At least I’ve never seen a bridge that has metal prongs hooking it onto adjacent teeth instead of being grafted to the jawbone. . . . But have you ever seen anyone with thirty-two teeth?”

“I don’t go about counting people’s teeth, Father. What’s the right number—twenty-eight?”

“It sure as Space is. . . . I’m still not finished, though. We took an internal analysis yesterday. What do you suppose we found? . . . Guess!”

“Intestines?”

“Pola, you’re being deliberately annoying, but I don’t care. You needn’t guess; I’ll tell you. Schwartz has a vermiform appendix, three and a half inches long, and it’s open. Great Galaxy, it’s completely unprecedented! I have checked with the Medical School—cautiously, of course—and appendixes are practically never longer than half an inch, and they’re never open.”

“And just what does that mean?”

“Why, he’s a complete throwback, a living fossil.” He had risen from his chair and paced the distance to the wall and back with hasty steps. “I tell you what, Pola, I don’t think we ought to give Schwartz up. He’s too valuable a specimen.”

“No, no, Father,” said Pola quickly, “you can’t do that. You promised that farmer to return Schwartz, and you must for Schwartz’s own sake. He’s unhappy.”

“Unhappy! Why, we’re treating him like a rich Outsider.”

“What difference does that make? The poor fellow is used to his farm and his people. He’s lived there all his life. And now he’s had a frightening experience—a painful one, for all I know—and his mind works differently now. He can’t be expected to understand. We’ve got to consider his human rights and return him to his family.”

“But, Pola, the cause of science—”

“Oh, shush! What is the cause of science worth to me? What do you suppose the Brotherhood will say when they hear of your unauthorized experiments? Do you think they care about the cause of science? I mean, consider yourself if you don’t wish to consider Schwartz. The longer you keep him, the greater the chance of being caught. You send him home tomorrow night, the way you originally planned to, do you hear? . . . I’ll go down and see if Schwartz wants anything before dinner.”

But she was back in less than five minutes, face damp and chalky. “Father, he’s gone!”

“Who’s gone?” he asked, startled.

“Schwartz!” she cried, half in tears. “You must have forgotten to lock the door when you left him.”

Shekt was on his feet, throwing a hand out to steady himself. “How long?”

“I don’t know. But it can’t be very long. When were you last there?”

“Not fifteen minutes. I had just been here a minute or two when you came in.”

“Well, then,” with sudden decision, “I’ll run out. He may simply be wandering about the neighborhood. You stay here. If someone else picks him up, they mustn’t connect him with you. Understand?”

Shekt could only nod.

Joseph Schwartz felt no lifting of the heart when he exchanged the confines of his prison hospital for the expanses of the city outside. He did not delude himself to the effect that he had a plan of action. He knew, and knew well, that he was simply improvising.

If any rational impulse guided him (as distinct from mere blind desire to exchange inaction for action of any sort), it was the hope that by chance encounter some facet of life would bring back his wandering memory. That he was an amnesiac he was now fully