Macroscope

Afra was the epitome of the feminine adorable, by Ivo’s present definition. It did not matter that the definition followed the fact, rather than the other way around. He had schooled himself not to resent more alert intelligence than his own, but also not to expect it in the girl he might marry. Not to require supreme beauty, not to dwell on small character defects… a hundred little cautions, in the interests of probability and practicality. He was not an extraordinary man, apart from that one unique aspect that negated any purpose he might have had in life, and it was not to be anticipated that he would win an extraordinary woman. Any woman, really.

He knew now that he had disastrously underrated his susceptibility to sheer physical beauty. He had loved Afra the moment he saw her, before he knew anything fundamental about her. Vanquished, he could only hope for compassionate terms.

“I thought nothing could hurt me again,” she murmured sleepily into the small pillow-cushion, “after I lost my father. But now Brad — almost the same way, really…”

Ivo did not speak, knowing that no reply was wanted. She was oblivious to him, her mind encapsulated within an isolated episode juggled to the surface by misery. The news surprised him, however; there had been no prior hint of tragedy in her background. Her father must have died, or lost his sanity suddenly, so that she spoke of him only under extreme stress. Now it had happened to Brad. He made a mental note never to mention the subject of parents to her.

“And he told me how to — I can’t remember — something else about Schön…”

Suddenly it had become relevant to himself. “He” had to mean Brad. What had Brad told her about Schön? Ivo listened tensely, but she had drifted into silence. Her eyes were closed, tears on the lashes.

Brad’s girl…

Ivo let himself out, leaving because it hurt him to watch her. He grieved for Brad too, but it was not the same.

He made his way to the infirmary.

Six figures occupied the chairs. It was as though they never moved from them, for this was station night.

“Hello, Dr. Johnson,” he murmured as he passed. The patriarch stared past him. “Hello, Dr. Smith. Dr. Sung. Mr. Holt. Dr. Carpenter.”

The male nurse appeared, yawning. “What do you want?”

Ivo continued to watch Bradley Carpenter, mercifully asleep. Merciful for the observer, for his friend no longer had the intellect to care what had happened to him.

Why had Brad done it, knowing the penalty he would pay? It had been an act of suicide; he could have fended off the Senator’s demand, had he chosen to. A subpoena would have entailed substantial publicity, but would still have been a far smaller evil. This death was more horrible because it was partial. The mind was gone, lobotomized, while the flaccid body remained, a lifetime burden to society and torment to those who had known and loved Brad in his entirety.

“Oh — you were his Earthside friend,” the nurse said, recognizing him. “Too bad.”

Brad woke. The lax features quivered; the eyes fought into focus. The lips pursed loosely. Almost, some animation came into the face.

“Sh-sh-sh…” Brad said.

The nurse placed a reassuring hand upon his shoulder. “It’s all right, Dr. Carpenter. All right. Relax. Relax.” Aside, to Ivo: “It isn’t good to work them up. They may be capable of some regeneration of personality, if the condition isn’t aggravated. We just don’t know yet, and can’t take any chances. You understand. You’d better go.”

Brad’s eyes fixed with difficulty on Ivo. “Sh-sh—”

“Schön,” Ivo said.

The straining body relaxed.

The nurse’s brow wrinkled. “What did you say?”

“It’s German,” Ivo explained unhelpfully.

“He was trying to — that’s astonishing! It’s only been a few hours since—”

“It meant a lot to him.”

Brad was asleep again, his ultimate accomplished. “The others couldn’t even try for several days,” the nurse said. “He can’t have been hit as bad. Maybe he’ll recover!”

“Maybe.” Ivo walked away, sure that the hope was futile. Only a transcendent effort, perhaps the only one he would ever be capable of, had brought forth that word, or that attempt at the word. It was clear now, in awful retrospect: Brad had sacrificed himself in an effort to force the summoning of Schön. He had been that certain that only Schön could nullify the destroyer and handle the problem of the macroscope.

It had been for nothing. How could he introduce Schön to this tremendous source of knowledge and power — knowing how much worse the world would be, if Schön’s amoral omnipotence replaced the Senator’s ambition? He could not do it.

He met Groton in the hallway near the common room. “Ivo,” the man said, stopping him. “I know this is a bad time for you, but there is some information I need.”

“No worse than any other time.” The truth was that he was relieved for some pretext to take his mind off the present disaster. He knew now that Groton was not an obtuse engineer; the man had important feelings about important things, as the school-teaching narration had shown. It was always dangerous to be guided by prejudice, as he saw himself to have been guided at his first meeting with Groton. “What kind of information? I don’t know much.”

“I’ve been working on your horoscope — couldn’t sleep right now — and, well, it would help if you could describe certain crises in your life.”

So Groton, too, felt it. Every person had his own ways of reacting to stress. No doubt astrology was as good a diversion as any.

“Like this crisis? I’m not objective yet.” Did he really want to contribute further to this exercise? Still, what he had just reminded himself about prejudice should hold for this too. The fact that Ivo Archer found astrology unworthy of serious consideration did not mean that discourtesy was justified; Harold Groton obviously was sincere. There were stranger hobbies.

“I was thinking of your past experience. Perhaps during your childhood something happened that changed your life—”

“I thought your charts told you all that, from the birth date.” Or was that an unkind remark?

“Not exactly. It is better to obtain corroborative experience. Then we can understand the signals more precisely. Astrology is a highly confirmatory science. We apply the scientific method, really.”

“And some philosophy?” Ivo inquired, thinking of the Senator’s remarks in that co

“Of course. So if you—”

They entered Groton’s apartment. Ivo could smell breakfast cooking and knew that Beatryx was at work. It made him feel obscurely homesick; nobody ever took institutionalized food if they could help it, though that served in the station was exceptionally good.

“I had no childhood,” he said.

“You mean the project. A controlled situation, certainly, and perhaps undistinctive. But after you left—”

Ivo remembered the turning point. Perhaps it had begun, if it could be said to have had a begi

Point Lookout, Maryland — as horrible a place as any he could imagine. Surely this was Hell, and Major Brady the devil. Twenty acres of barren land surrounded by palisades. The prisoners were Southern White; many of the guards were Black. The Negroes took pleasure insulting and torturing any people they chose, but the cold of winter was worse yet. There was not enough food, clothing or sanitation, and no medical facilities for the prisoners. The water was foul. The only shelter was the collection of A-tents and Bell-tents. They slept on the bare, damp ground, denied both planks and straw for bedding, and no wood was permitted inside the compound for any fire. Objection of any nature to these conditions brought infamous retaliatory measures and further reduction of the scant rations.