The Grand Wheel

‘It’s a tall order,’ Wishom said doubtfully. ‘As yet I don’t know of anything that would suggest the natives were close to their goal, or even that they knew something we don’t.’ The scientist’s gaze became vague. ‘How soon do you need to decide?’

‘Immediately.’

Wishom snorted. Just then the technicians at the transformer signalled to him.

‘Better stand back,’ he advised, ‘we’re about to begin an experiment.’

The transformer hummed as it fed into the alien drum a power wave-form Wishom had calculated the machine might use. The flat crystal table-top suddenly sparkled and blazed, throwing off spears of light.

Wishom and his technicians scarcely seemed to notice the display. Wishom had returned to the transformer and was busy studying the recording instruments. ‘Interesting,’ he murmured, pointing out something to his helpers.

Suddenly a yell of fear came from Shane. He cringed away from the glowing machine, his mouth sagging open and his face white.

‘Stop it!’ he keened. ‘Stop it!’

Hakandra leaped to the boy. ‘What is it, Shane?’ he barked.

‘Uncontrollable –’ Shane whimpered.

He began to drool.

At a gesture from Caerman the transformer was switched off. Its hum died into a strained silence. Hakandra seized Shane by the shoulders, peering at him anxiously. ‘Is it all right now?’ he demanded.

Shane nodded weakly. ‘Tension,’ he muttered. ‘Tension in the air, in the stars – but uncontrollable. Uncontrollable.’ His voice faded.

Hakandra straightened, looking first at Shane and then at the machine, weighing the youth’s words.

‘Gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘the project goes on.’

EIGHT

Looking around the crowded force network platform, Cheyne Scarne decided the time had come to make a break for it. He turned to one of his two escorts.

‘I have to go to the men’s room,’ he said.

‘Okay, we’ll wait here.’ The escorts seemed relaxed. Scarne was not on probation any more.

The washroom was at the end of the platform, near the main concourse. Once inside the door Scarne went to the visionless phone on the wall and tapped out the number Magdan had given him.

A woman’s voice answered. ‘Yes?’

Pretending to stroke his cheek, Scarne cupped his hand round his mouth to muffle his words. ‘This is Professor Scarne,’ he murmured. ‘I’m at Sanfran force station. I have what you want. Will you pick me up?’

Scarne heard a click, a buzz, then a hum. Another voice, which from its intonation he knew to be a computer voice, spoke. ‘Give me your exact location.’

‘I’m in the washroom on platform sixteen.’

‘Do you have company?’

Scarne paused before answering. A citizen brushed by him and went out of the door. ‘Two Wheel heavies. They’re waiting for me further up the platform.’

‘Lock yourself in cubicle number nine and wait there until you are contacted.’

The phone fell silent. Scarne went and did as he was told. Inside the cubicle he sat down on the pedestal, feeling at once excited and weary.

After five minutes there came a sharp rap on the door. As he opened it a slim, conservatively dressed young man squeezed in quickly, closing the door behind him.

The two of them so crowded the small space that Scarne was obliged to sit again, the Legitimacy man towering close above him. The agent opened the attache case he carried and spoke in a low voice.

‘Remove your outer clothes.’

Scarne obeyed, clumsily. The agent was impatient. ‘Faster,’ he murmured, ‘our friends will be wondering about you.’ From the case he took fresh garments: a brown striped suit and a small flat hat, an item Scarne would normally never have worn.

When Scarne had changed, transferring his belongings to the new suit, the agent stuffed his old garments into the case.

‘Now for the face,’ he said softly.

Scarne was obliged to sit once more while the other man pulled something soft and squishy-feeling over his face and pressing it into his neck. The stuff seemed to melt into his skin with a faint burning sensation.

Opening his eyes, Scarne found he was being studied intently. The agent tilted his face. ‘That’s good enough. Better than it need be, in fact. Okay, we leave now. Enter the main concourse by the other door, so the Wheel mugs don’t see you – get it? I’ll be right behind you.’

Scarne nodded. He eased himself out of the closet. In the washroom he paused to examine himself in a mirror. His face was gone. In place of it was a different face altogether, with a different shape and a different texture. It was totally convincing. The hair was different, too. It was as if he had been given a new head.

Coming out into the main concourse he came briefly in view of platform sixteen again and could not resist taking a glance. His Wheel escorts, thinking he had taken more than long enough, were heading for the toilets.

‘Keep going,’ said a gruff voice behind him. ‘Make for the travel cubicles, fast but easy. Those goons are about to discover you’ve given them the slip and they’re liable to do something drastic.’