The Push of a Finger (5)

    The silence and the chill waiting was agonizing. Suddenly I said: "Excuse me, sir, but did you tell the police captain to O.K. the reporters?"
    The C-S said: "I did, Carmichael—" and that was all. It wasn't so good because I'd hoped we'd have a little talk to ease the tension.
    Again there was nothing but the cold night and the waiting. The stars overhead were like bits of radium and so beautiful you wished they were candy so you could eat them. I tried to imagine them slowly blotted out, and I couldn't. It's impossible to visualize the destruction of any lovely thing. Then I tried counting the police lamps around the park. I gave that up before I reached twenty.
    At last I said: "Couldn't we go in and walk around a bit, sir?"
    The C-S said: "I don't see why not—"
    So we started through the gate, but we hadn't walked three steps into the park when there was a shout behind us and the sharp sounds of running feet.
    But it was only old Yarr running up to us with a couple of cops following him. Yarr looked like a banshee with his coat flying and an enormous muffler streaming from his neck. He dressed real old-fashioned. He was all out of breath and just gasped while the C-S told the cops it was all right.
    Yarr panted: "I ... I—"
    "Don't worry, Dr. Yarr, everything is safe so far."
    Yarr took an enormous breath, held it for a moment and then let it out with a woosh. In natural tones he said: "I wanted to ask you if you'd hold on to the couple. I'd like to examine them for a check on the Prognosticator."
    Gently, the C-S explained: "We're not trying to catch them, Dr. Yarr. We don't know who they are and we may never know. All we want to do is to prevent this conversation."
    So we forgot about taking a walk through the gardens and there was more cold and more silence and more waiting. I clasped my hands together and I was so chilled and nervous it felt like I had ice water between the palms. A quick streak of red slanted up through the sky, the rocket discharges of the Lunar Transport, and ten seconds later I heard the wham of the take-off echoing from Governor's Island and the follow-up drone. Only that drone kept on sounding long after it should have died away and it was too thin—too small—
    I looked up, startled, and there was a helio making lazy circles over the center of the rock gardens. Its silhouette showed clearly against the stars and I could see the bright squares of its cabin windows. Suddenly I realized there was a stretch of lawn in the center of the gardens where a helio could land—where a couple could get out to stretch their legs and take an evening stroll.
    I didn't want to act scared, so I just said: "I think we'd better go inside and get that helio out of there."
    So we entered the gate and walked briskly toward the gardens, the two cops right at our heels. I managed to keep on walking for about ten steps and then I lost all control. I broke into a run and the others ran right behind me—the controller, the C-S, Yarr and the cops. We went pelting down the gravel path, circled a dry fountain and climbed a flight of steps three at a clip.
    The helio was just landing when I got to the edge of the lawn. I yelled: "Keep off! Get out of here!" and started toward them across the frozen turf. My feet pounded, but not much louder than my heart. I guess the whole six of us must have sounded like a herd of buffalo. I was still fifty yards off when dark figures started climbing out of the cabin. I yelled: "Didn't you hear me? Get out of this park!"
    And then the Post called: "That you, Carmichael? What goes on?"
    Sure—it was the press.
    So I stopped running and the others stopped and I turned to the C-S and said: "Sorry about the false alarm, sir. What shall I do with the reporters—have them fly out or can they stay? They think this is a crime hunt."
    Groating was a little short of breath. He said: "Let them stay, Carmichael, they can help us look for Dr. Yarr. He seems to have lost himself somewhere in the woods."
    I said: "Yes, sir," and walked up to the helio.
    The cabin door was open and warm amber light spilled out into the blackness. All the boys were out by this time, getting into their coveralls and stamping around and making the usual newspaper chatter. As I came up, the Post said: "We brung your opposition along, Carmichael—Hogan of the Trib."
    The News said: "Now's as good a time as any for the wrasslin' match, eh? You been in training, Carmichael?" His voice had a nasty snigger to it and I thought: "Oh-ho, this Hogan probably scales two twenty and he'll mop me up, but very good—to the great satisfaction, no doubt, of my confrere from the News."
    Only when they shoved Hogan forward, he wasn't so big, so I thought: "At a time like this—let's get it over with fast." I took a little sprint through the dark and grabbed Hogan around the chest and dumped him to the ground.
    I said: "O.K., opposition, that's—"
    Suddenly I realized this Hogan'd been soft—soft but firm, if you get me. I looked down at her, full of astonishment and she looked up at me, full of indignation, and the rest of the crowd roared with laughter.
    I said: "I'll be a pie-eyed emu!"
    And then, my friends, six dozen catastrophes and cataclysms and volcanoes and hurricanes and everything else hit me. The C-S began shouting and then the controller and after a moment, the cops. Only by that time the four of them were on top of me and all over me, so to speak. Little Yarr came tearing up, screaming at Groating and Groating yelled back and Yarr tried to bash my head in with his little fists.
    They yanked me to my feet and marched me off while the reporters and this Halley Hogan girl stared. I can't tell you much about what happened after that—the debating and the discussing and the interminable sound and fury, because most of the time I was busy being locked up. All I can tell you is that I was it. Me. I. I was the one man we were trying to stop. I—innocent me. I was X, the mad scientist and Y, the ruthless dictator and Z, the alien planet—all rolled into one. I was the one guy the Earth was looking to stop.
    Sure—because you see if you twist "I'll be a pie-eyed emu" enough, you get FitzJohn's equation:
    i = (b/a) π i e/μ..."
    I don't know how my future son is going to figure I was talking mathematics. I guess it'll just be another one of those incidents that turn into legend and get pretty well changed in the process. I mean the way an infant will say "goo" and by the time his pop gets finished telling about it it's become the Preamble to the Credo.
    What?
    No, I'm not married—yet. In fact, that's why I'm stationed up here editing a two-sheet weekly on this God-forsaken asteroid. Old Groating, he calls it protective promotion. Well, sure, it's a better job than reporting. The C-S said they wouldn't have broken up an existing marriage, but he was going to keep us apart until they can work something out on the Prognosticator.
    No—I never saw her again after that time I dumped her on the turf, but, boys, I sure want to. I only got a quick look, but she reminded me of that Barbara Leeds girl, six hundred years from now. That lovely kind with shingled hair and a clean-cut face that looks fresh and wind-washed—
    I keep thinking about her and I keep thinking how easy it would be to stow out of here on an Earth-bound freighter—change my name—get a different kind of job. To hell with Groating and to hell with Stability and to hell with a thousand years from now. I've got to see her again—soon.
    I keep thinking how I've got to see her again.