Deckenson’s voice trailed off and he stared past John, brow wrinkled as if staring after a departing dream. John was silent for a long time. He could hear his own heart beating, one thud after another, counting out the moments of his existence. His throat was dry, and his voice came out raspy. “No.”
Deckenson looked startled. “No what?”
“I’m not going to be coerced this way. I don’t think you’ve got the arm twist on me that you think you do. I haven’t done anything wrong, and I’m not going to be blackmailed into whatever you’re trying to get me to do. I don’t need you. I can get a legitimate contract with someone sane.”
Before he had even finished speaking, Deckenson had lifted an inquiring finger. John watched the waiter react to it, darting forward with a credit slate for Deckenson to authorize. He left it discreetly on the corner of the table and retreated to seat some new arrivals. Without a word, Deckenson lifted it and glanced at it. He frowned, then presented it to John.
“Dostoyevski?” he commented inquiringly. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
John took it numbly, glanced at the display. It wasn’t the restaurant bill. It was, instead, a complete listing of his last three transactions with Ginger, including his most recent order. Dates, times, and even the exchange rendezvous points were listed. Deckenson reached across the table to take the slate from John’s lax grip. He tapped a few keys, then turned the slate to display for John their itemized restaurant bill. John made no comment as Deckenson turned the slate back toward himself.
“I would have expected you to choose Shaw over Dostoyevski,” Deckenson observed coyly as he keyed in an agreement of credit transfer.
“Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” John had intended to sound defiant. But the words caught in his throat and he finished his attempt at bravado with a cough.
“We know you well enough,” Deckenson assured him quietly. To make the threat less subtle, he offered, “Would you like to see a copy of your pre-Academy transcripts?”
John’s mouth went dry. “What is it?” he demanded, his voice cracking on the question.
“What do we want?” Deckenson’s eyes were back on him, suddenly hard in their triumph.
“Yeah.” John begrudged everything he gave this man, every word, every second of his life.
Deckenson leaned forward, and spoke with soft fervor. “Earth. We want the Earth back. We want to live there, as Humans were meant to do, as a part of the ecology, filling the niche we evolved to fill.” Fanaticism reddened his pale cheeks.
“Earth is dead.” John spoke as if Deckenson were an unadjusted child, uninformed of the basic facts of ecology.
Deckenson shook his head. “No. She’s not. And even if she were, we could revive her. With all we’ve learned from our exile, we could do it. Imagine it, John. We re-create the Earth, and Humans could have a real home again, instead of existing as we do, as very precarious guests of Castor and Pollux. Children could run through fields of plants instead of following pathways, pick fruit from trees without counting each piece, interact with lower life-forms without being accused of interference or damaging the planet. Or can you imagine it, John? You, who’ve never even been allowed on the open surface of a planet.”
John closed his eyes for half a moment, pushed down total panic. How the hell much did they know about him, and how had they found it out? “That’s none of your business, where I’ve been or haven’t been,” he said flatly.
“Perhaps not,” Deckenson said in a suddenly mild voice. “But nonetheless, we do know. Instead of being terrified of our betraying you, think what we’re offering you: the chance to finally stand on the surface of a planet and look up at the sky. And that planet is our own homeworld, Earth.”
“Not my home.” John said it flatly.
“John,” Deckenson chided. “It is. Yours and mine, and we could live there again. Earth Affirmed knows it’s true, despite all the official reports. All we need to do to prove it is sidestep the Conservancy. For years, they’ve given lip service to our requests for updates on Earth’s condition. We finance a Beastship there, we put up the money for the satellite surveillance and send in the probes. But the results always come back the same. Toxic. Poisoned. Dead and deadly. You know why? Because all our raw data becomes the property of the Conservancy, goes directly into sealed files. We aren’t even allowed to see the readings we get. All we’re allowed is the Conservancy’s interpretation of what the raw data meant. It’s been very frustrating and very expensive. But the solution is obvious. Get permission for another reconnaissance. But this time there’s a man on the ship who’s ours, one who can step in and pirate the data before they can steal it from us and ‘interpret’ it to their own liking. We’ve set up ways for it to be done.” Deckenson paused, and John wondered what worse thing he was about to introduce.
“And there’s one other possibility, even more exciting. We have reason to believe there exists a time capsule that was left for us, created by those who stayed behind when we evacuated, in the faith that someday we’d come back for it. Firsthand data about Earth’s ecology. We believe it’s there, waiting for us. You can retrieve it. Or try. That’s all we ask.”
All they asked. The words seemed to echo in John’s ears. He couldn’t imagine anything worse they could ask of him.
“Deckenson,” he said pleadingly. “It’s completely crazy. Earth’s dead. Any ‘time capsule’ that was left there is destroyed, centuries ago. And it’s treason. If I do it, I’ll return to condemnation. There won’t even be a pretense of adjusting me. They’ll simply eliminate me like a contagious disease. And my crew.”
Deckenson didn’t smile. The very flatness of his mouth was somehow more intimidating. “No. Because you won’t fail. And when the information you gather is released, eliminating you will be impossible. You’ll be a hero. We’ll see to that. Refuse us, and we’ll see you’re condemned. So focus on this. If you serve us, you’ll return to wealth and acclaim. We promise.”
“There isn’t really a choice for me, is there?” John said slowly.
“Not really,” Deckenson agreed. His flat eyes smiled at John over the rim of his stim mug as he drained it off.
3
SHE WAS WALKING TOO FAST. Connie consciously slowed her stride and surreptitiously glanced around to see if anyone had noticed her hurry. She caught one pair of eyes staring at her, but the young woman seemed to be studying her orange coveralls rather than her face. Normal, Connie told herself. She was in a residential section of the station. It wasn’t an area usually frequented by the merchant marine. The standard coveralls that blended in among the port traffic made her stand out here. That was all. Nothing to worry about.
She forced herself to take the relaxing breaths, told herself that her uneasiness was groundless. Her Adjustment counselor had promised her that these feelings of not belonging, of vague paranoia, would pass. A small side effect of the Readjustment, actually a very small price to pay for being adapted. Time, she had assured Connie, would erase all the uneasiness. Well, Connie had given it time. A year and a half, in her relevant time. Almost forty years elapsed time. And she still felt as if there were no place where she was truly comfortable and at home, no place where people couldn’t see she was a patched and mended thing, a repaired mind. Even if the corridor had been empty, she would still have felt the knowing eyes on her, the looks that pitied or condemned her.
“Connie.” She heard the soothing voice cut into her mind, the last fading vestige of all the post-hypno helps they’d placed inside her