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After Cemp completed his reassuring communication, the dark emotion that had been radiating from the V took on added hostility. “You’re treating me like a child,” he said in a grim manner. “I know something of the logic of levels. So don’t give me any of these sophistries.”

  “It’s still mostly speculation,” Cemp answered gently. He added, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell your wife that you’re unfaithful to her.”

  “Damn you I” said the V, and swam off.

  Cemp turned to another of his companions and had a very similar discussion with him. This one’s secret was that he had twice in the past year fallen asleep while on duty at one of the locks connecting the big ship with outer space.

  The third person to whom Cemp addressed himself was a female. Her secret, surprisingly, was that she thought herself insane. As soon as she realized that her thought had come through to him, the substance of her communication became hysterical.

  She was a graceful being, one of the breathers—but completely unnerved now. “Don’t tell them!” she telepathed in terror. “They’ll kill me.”

  Before Cemp could more than consider what an unexpected ally ‘he had found for himself, let alone decide what made her feel she was insane, the female communicated frantically: “They’re going to lure you into one of the shark tanks—” Her almost human face contorted, as she realized what she had revealed.

  Cemp asked quickly, “What is their overall purpose?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s not what they said . . . oh, please?” She was threshing in the water now, physically disorganized. In a moment it would look odd.

  Cemp said hastily, “Don’t worry—I’ll help you. You have my word.”

  Her name, he discovered, was Mensa. She said she was very beautiful in her breather form.

  Cemp had already decided that since she might be useful, he would have to let himself be drawn into the shark tank.

  It was not obvious when it happened. One of the V’s who was capable of energy output swam up beside him. Simultaneously but casually the others fell back.

  “This way,” said his guide.

  Cemp followed. But it was several moments before he realized that he and his guide were on one side of a transparent wall, and the rest of the group were on the other.

  He looked around for his companion. The V had dived down, and was sliding into a cavern between two rock formations.

  Abruptly the water around Cemp was plunged into pitch darkness.

  He grew aware that the V’s were hovering beyond the transparent walls. Cemp saw movement in the swaying weeds: shadows, shapes, the glint of an eye, and the play of light on a grayish body . . . Cemp switched to another level of perception, based on shadow pictures . . . and grew alert for battle.

  In his fish stage, Cemp could normally fight like a super-electric eel—except that the discharge was a beam. No contact was required for what he could send forth. The beam had the bright flash of chain lightning, and was strong enough to kill a dozen sea monsters. It was formed outside his body, a confluence of two streams of oppositely charged particles.

  But this was not a normal time. The change in him was too imminent. Any fight with a denizen of this sea in space would have to be with levels of logic, not with energy. That he dared not waste.

  Even as he made the decision, a shark swam lazily out of the jungle of waving fronds and as lazily, or so it seemed, came toward him, turned on its side and, mouth open, teeth showing, slashed at him with its enormous jaws.

  Cemp impressed a pattern on an energy wave that was passing through his brain going toward the beast. It was a pattern that stimulated an extremely primitive mechanism in the shark: the mechanism by which pictures were created in the brain.

  The shark had no defense against controlled over-stimulation of its picture making ability. In a flash it visualized its teeth closing on its victim, imagined a bloody struggle, followed by a feast. And then, sated, stomach full, it imagined itself swimming back into the shadows, into the underwater forest in this tiny segment of a huge spaceship cruising near Jupiter.

  As the overstimulation continued, its pictures ceased to connect with body movements at all. It drifted forward and finally bumped, unnoticing, into a coral embankment. There it hung, dreaming that it was in motion. It was being attacked through a logic related to its structure, a level that by-passed its own gigantic attack equipment.

  . . . Levels of logic. Long ago, now, men had titillated themselves by opening up the older parts of the human brain, where suggested pictures and sounds were as real as actual ones. It was the beast level of logic . . . not human at all. For an animal like a shark, reality was an on-off phenomenon, a series of mechanical conditionings. Now stimulation. Now not. Movement always, restless motion always—the endless need for more oxygen than was available in any one location.

  Caught as it was in a suggested world of fantasy, the motionless shark body grew numb from insufficient oxygen, and started to become unconscious. Before it could really do so, Cemp communicated to the watchers: “Do you want me to kill this game fish?”

  Silently, the beings beyond the transparent wall indicated where he could escape from the shark tank.

  Cemp gave the monster control of itself again. But he knew it would be twenty or more minutes before the shock would wear off.

  As he emerged from the shark tank a few minutes later and rejoined the V’s, he realized at once that their mood had changed. They were derisive of him. It was a puzzling attitude on their part, for so far as they knew they were completely at his mercy.

  Someone in this group must know why. So—

  He saw that they were now in a tank of very deep water—the bottom was not visible. Small schools of brightly colored fish skittered by in the green depths, and the water seemed slightly colder, more bracing: still delightful but no longer tropical. Cemp swam over to one of the V’s who was capable of putting out energy. As before, he asked: “What’s your secret?”

  The male V’s name was Gell, and his secret was that he had several times used his energy to kill rivals for the favors of certain females. He was instantly terrified that his murders would be found out. But he had no information, except that the administrative officer of the ship, Riber, had sent them to meet Cemp. The name was important information.

  But even more vital was Cemp’s disturbing intuition that this task of duty on which he was embarked was much more important than the evidence had so far established. He divined that the shark attack was a test. But for what?

  III

  Ahead, suddenly, Cemp could see the city.

  The water at this point was crystal clear. Here were none of those millions of impurities that rendered the oceans of Earth so often murky. Through that liquid, almost as transparent as glass, the city spread before him.

  Domed buildings. Duplicates of the domed undersea cities on Earth, where real water pressure made the shape necessary. Here, with artificial gravity only, water was held in by the metal walls and had only what weight the ship’s officers elected to give it. Buildings could be any reasonable size, delicately molded and even misshaped. They could be beautiful for their own sake and need not merely have the sometimes severe beauty of utility.

  The building to which Cemp was taken was a soaring dome with minarets. He was guided to a lock, where only two of the breathers, Mensa and a male named Grig, stayed with him.

  The water level began to drop. Air hissed in. Cemp transformed quickly to his human shape and stepped out of the airlock into the corridor of a modem, air-conditioned building. They were all three in the nude. The man said to the women, “Take him to your apartment. Give him the clothes. As soon as I call, bring him to Apartment One upstairs.”

  Grig was walking off, when Cemp stopped him. “Where did you get that information?” he demanded.

  The V hesitated, visibly frightened at being challenged by a Silkie. The expression on his face changed. He seemed to be listening.

  Instantly, Cemp activated the waki
ng centers of a portion of the sensory equipment that he had let sleep and waited for a response on one or more. Much as a man who smells a strong odor of sulphur wrinkles his nose, or as someone who touches a red-hot object jerks involuntarily away, he expected a sensation from one of the numerous senses that were now on the ready. He got nothing.

  It was true that, in his human state, he was not so sensitive as when he was in the Silkie state. But such a totally negative result was outside his experience.

  Grig said, “He says . . . as soon as you’re dressed . . . come.”

  “Who says?”

  Grig was surprised. “The boy,” he replied. His manner indicated: who else?

  As he dried himself, and put on the clothes Mensa handed him, Cemp found himself wondering why she believed herself insane. He asked cautiously, “Why do V’s have a poor opinion of themselves?”

  “Because there’s something better—Silkies.” Her tone was angry, but there were tears of frustration in her eyes. She went on wearily, “I can’t explain it, but I’ve felt shattered since I was a child. Right now, I have an irrational hope that you will want to take me over and possess me. I wish to be your slave.”

  Half-dressed though she was, her jet black hair still caked and wet, she had told the truth about her appearance. Her olive white skin was formed, her body slim and with graceful curve. As a breather, she was beautiful.

  Cemp had no alternative. Within the next hour, he might need what help she could give. He said quietly, “I accept you as my slave.”

  Her response was violent. In a single convulsion of movement, she ran over to him, writhing out of her upper garments until they draped low on her hips. “Take me!” she cried. “Take me as a woman!”

  Cemp, who was married to a young woman of the Special People, released himself. “Slaves don’t demand,” he said in a firm tone. “Slaves are used at the will of their master. And my first demand as your master is: open your mind to me.”

  The woman drew away from him, trembling. “I can’t,” she whispered. “The boy forbids it.”

  Cemp asked: “What in you makes you feel insane?” She shook her head. “Something . . .connected with the boy,” she said. “I don’t know what.”

  “Then you’re his slave, not mine,” said Cemp coldly. Her eyes begged him. “Free me!” she whispered. “I can’t do it myself.”

  “Where’s Apartment One?” Cemp said.

  She told him. “You can take the stairway or the elevator,” she said.

  Cemp went by the stairway. He needed a few minutes, just a few, to determine his course of action. He decided—

  See the boy! Determine his fate. Talk to Riber, the administrative officer of the ship. Punish Riber! Order this ship to a check-in point!

  These decisions were hardened in his mind as he reached the upper-level and pressed the button beside the door of Apartment One.

  The door swung open noiselessly. Cemp walked in—and there was the boy.

  He was slightly under five feet tall, as fine looking a human child as Cemp had ever seen. The youngster was watching a TV screen set into one wall of the big room. When Cemp entered, the boy turned lazily and said, “I was interested to see what you would do with that shark, in view of your condition.”

  He knew!

  The realization hit Cemp hard. He braced himself and agreed within himself to die; make no bargains to avoid exposure; come to his final decision with even greater care. The boy said, “You couldn’t possibly do anything else.” Cemp was recovering, but curious. He had set up a complete no-signal condition within himself. Yet the boy was reading detailed signals. How was it done?

  Smiling faintly, the boy shook his head.

  Cemp said, “If you dare not tell then it isn’t much of a method. I deduce that if I find it out, I can defeat it.”

  The boy laughed, made a dismissal gesture, changed the subject. “Do you believe I should be killed?”

  Cemp looked into those bright, gray eyes that regarded him with a boyish mischievousness, and felt a qualm. He was being played with by someone who regarded himself as untouchable. Question was, was the boy fooling himself, or was it real?

  “It’s real,” said the youngster.

  And if it was real—Cemp’s analysis continued—were there built in restraining factors such as kept Silkies under control? The boy said curtly, “That I will not answer.”

  “Very well.” Cemp turned away. “If you persist in that decision, then my judgment is that you are outside the law. No person who cannot be controlled will ever be permitted to live in the solar system. But I’m going to give you a little while to change your mind. My advice: decide to be a law-abiding citizen.”

  He turned, and left the apartment. And at least one important reality was that he was allowed to do so.

  IV

  Grig was waiting in the hallway outside. He seemed eager to please. Cemp, who wanted to meet Riber, asked if Riber was a breather. Riber was not; so Cemp and Grig took to the water.

  Cemp was guided to an enormous depth, to where several domes were fixed to the inner hull of the ship. There, in a water-filled labyrinth of metal and plastic, he found Riber. The administrative leader of the ship turned out to be a long, strong fish being, with the peculiar, protruding eyes of the fish state. He was floating beside a message receiving machine. In one hand he held the transmitter for the machine. He looked at Cemp and turned the machine on.

  He said aloud in the underwater language: “I think our conversation should be recorded. I don’t think I can trust a Silkie to make a fair report on this special situation.”

  Cemp acquiesced without an argument. The interchange began with Riber making what seemed to be a completely frank statement. He said, “This ship and all aboard are controlled by that remarkable boy. He is not always here, and so for the most part we do as we always have. But those people who went out to meet you had no way of resisting his commands. If you can deal with him, then obviously we shall be free again. But if you can’t, then we are his servants like it or not.”

  Cemp said, “There has to be some vulnerable level. Why, for example, do you do as he wants?”

  Riber said, “I laughed when he first told me what he wanted. But when I came to, hours later, I realized that I had done everything he desired while I was unconscious. As a result, I now do it consciously. This has been going on for about a year, Earth time.”

  Cemp questioned Riber closely. That he had continued physical functioning when he was under the boy’s control indicated that a shut-off of normal outside perception was the principal method of inducing unconsciousness.

  Considering that, Cemp remembered the V whose secret was that he had fallen asleep while tending one of the outer locks. At Cemp’s request, lock attendants were assembled. He interviewed each one privately with the question: “What’s your secret?”

  Seven of the twenty revealed, in this unwitting fashion, that they had slept while on duty. It turned out to be that simple. The boy had arrived at the lock entrance, blanked out the mind of the attendant, and entered the ship.

  It seemed to Cemp he need examine no further.

  There was a frame, logic. The problem, which for a time had seemed to involve some new and intricate kind of telekinetic control, was beginning to look much more mundane.

  He returned to the woman’s apartment and put on clothes again. Mensa went with him to the door. She whispered, “Don’t you dare leave this ship without making love to me. I need to feel that I belong to you.”

  Basically, that was not so, Cemp knew. She lived by reversals. She would always want what she did not have, despise or reject what she had. But he reassured her that he meant well by her—and went up again to Apartment One.

  It seemed to Cemp as he walked in that the boy’s face was flushed and that the eyes that had been so bright were duller. Cemp said softly, “If I can figure it out, so can any Silkie. You went to a lot of trouble. Which tells me you do have limitations.”

  Silki
es could approach a vessel, undetected, if they were prepared to manipulate energy waves. But the method was involved, requiring training.

  Cemp said, “Well, you know my thoughts. Which one is correct?”

  Silence.

  “Your problem,” said Cemp emphatically, “is that the Special People take no chances with dangerous deviates.” He hoped the boy understood how ultimately determined the Special People were.

  Abruptly, the boy sighed. “I might as well admit it. I am Tem, your son. When I realized it was you approaching the ship, I thought I’d have a look at my father. The truth is I became frightened that those abilities which you found so unusual would be detected. So I’ve been out here in space setting up an operating base to which I could retreat for my own protection. But I realize I need help. I think some changes should be made in our relationship with human beings. Other than that, I’m willing to conform and be re-educated.”

  For Cemp, it was the decisive clarification. Then and there he made up his mind. There would be no execution.

  Hastily—for Cemp was a man in a hurry—they discussed the situation. Cemp would have to tell of this meeting when he got back to Earth. There was no way by which a Silkie could conceal the facts from the perceptive Special People. And for many months, while he was in his mating stage, he would have no control of energy. During that period the boy would be at the mercy of a highly prejudiced law.

  Tem was disdainful. “Don’t worry about me. I’m ready for them.”

  It was rebel talk, dangerous and unfortunate. But this was not the moment to point that out. Such matters could be left until they got home.

  “You’d better start now,” said the boy, “but as you’ll see I’ll get to Earth before you do.”

  Cemp did not pause to find out how he would achieve such a miracle of speed. That also would have to wait. ‘ As Cemp removed his clothes in Mensa’s apartment, he said to her with considerable pride, “The boy is my son.”

  Her eyes widened. “Your son!” she said. “But—” She stopped.

  “What’s the matter?” Cemp asked.