Pebble in the Sky by Isaac Asimov (best novels of all time .txt) 📗

now for two years, and you know we’re breaking just about the most serious Custom.”

Arbin muttered, “We’re harming no one. We’re filling our quota, aren’t we, even though it’s set for three people—three workers? And if we are, why should they suspect anything? We don’t even let him out of the house.”

“They might trace the wheel chair. You had to buy the motor and fittings outside.”

“Now don’t start that again, Loa. I’ve explained many times that I’ve bought nothing but standard kitchen equipment for that chair. Besides, it does not make any sense at all to consider him an agent of the Brotherhood. Do you suppose that they would go through such an elaborate trickery for the sake of a poor old man in a wheel chair? Couldn’t they enter by daylight and with legal search warrants? Please, reason this thing out.”

“Well, then, Arbin”—her eyes were suddenly bright and eager—“if you really think so—and I’ve been so hoping you would—he must be an Outsider. He can’t be an Earthman.”

“What do you mean, he can’t be? That’s more ridiculous still. Why should a man of the Empire come here to Earth, of all places?”

“I don’t know why! Yes, I do; maybe he’s committed a crime out there.” She was caught up instantly in her own fancy. “Why not? It makes sense. Earth would be the natural place to come to. Who would ever think of looking for him here?”

“If he’s an Outsider. What evidence do you have for that?”

“He doesn’t speak the language, does he? You’ll have to grant me that. Could you understand a single word? So he must come from some far-off corner of the Galaxy where the dialect is strange. They say the men of Fomalhaut have to learn practically a new language to be understood at the Emperor’s court on Trantor. . . . But don’t you see what all this can mean? If he’s a stranger on Earth, he will have no registration with the Census Board, and he will be only too glad to avoid reporting to them. We can use him on the farm, in the place of Father, and it will be three people again, not two, who will have to meet the quota for three this next season. . . . He could even help with the harvest now.”

She looked anxiously at the uncertain face of her husband, who considered long, then said, “Well, go to bed, Loa. We’ll speak further in the common sense of daylight.”

The whispering ended, the light was put out, and eventually sleep filled the room and the house.

The next morning it was Grew’s turn to consider the matter. Arbin put the question to him hopefully. He felt a confidence in his father-in-law that he could not muster in himself.

Grew said, “Your troubles, Arbin, obviously arise from the fact that I am registered as a worker, so that the produce quota is set at three. I’m tired of creating trouble. This is the second year I have lived past my time. It is enough.”

Arbin was embarrassed. “Now that wasn’t the point at all. I’m not hinting that you’re a trouble to us.”

“Well, after all, what’s the difference? In two years there will be the Census, and I will go anyway.”

“At least you will have two more years of your books and your rest. Why should you be deprived of that?”

“Because others are. And what of you and Loa? When they come to take me, they will take you two as well. What kind of a man would I be to live a few stinking years at the expense—”

“Stop it, Grew. I don’t want histrionics. We’ve told you many times what we’re going to do. We’ll report you a week before the Census.”

“And fool the doctor, I suppose?”

“We’ll bribe the doctor.”

“Hmp. And this new man—he’ll double the offense. You’ll be concealing him too.”

“We’ll turn him loose. For Space’s sake, why bother about this now? We have two years. What shall we do with him?”

“A stranger,” mused Grew. “He comes knocking at the door. He’s from nowhere. He speaks unintelligibly. . . . I don’t know what to advise.”

The farmer said, “He is mild-mannered; seems frightened to death. He can’t do us any harm.”

“Frightened, eh? What if he’s feeble-minded? What if his babbling isn’t a foreign dialect at all, but just insane mouthing?”

“That doesn’t sound likely.” But Arbin stirred uneasily.

“You tell yourself that because you want to use him. . . . All right, I’ll tell you what to do. Take him into town.”

“To Chica?” Arbin was horrified. “That would be ruin.”

“Not at all,” said Grew calmly. “The trouble with you is that you don’t read the newspapers. Fortunately for this family, I do. It so happens that the Institute for Nuclear Research has developed an instrument that is supposed to make it easier for people to learn. There was a full-page spread in the Week-end Supplement. And they want volunteers. Take this man. Let him be a volunteer.”

Arbin shook his head firmly. “You’re mad. I couldn’t do anything like that, Grew. They’ll ask for his registration number first thing. It’s only inviting investigation to have things in improper order, and then they’ll find out about you.”

“No, they won’t. It so happens you’re all wrong, Arbin. The reason the Institute wants volunteers is that the machine is still experimental. It’s probably killed a few people, so I’m sure they won’t ask questions. And if the stranger dies, he’ll probably be no worse off than he is now. . . . Here, Arbin, hand me the book projector and set the mark at reel six. And bring me the paper as soon as it comes, will you?”

When Schwartz opened his eyes, it was past noon. He felt that dull, heart-choking pain that feeds on itself, the pain of a wife no longer by his side at waking, of a familiar world lost . . .

Once before he had felt such a pain, and that momentary flash of memory came, lighting up a forgotten scene into sharp brilliance. There was himself, a youngster,