“We have a general idea,” continued the other, “of the circumstances in which you meet Karellen. But perhaps you would describe them carefully, leaving out nothing of importance.”
That was harmless enough, thought Stormgren. He had done it many times before, and it would give the appearance of co-operation. There were acute minds here, and perhaps they could uncover something new. They were welcome to any fresh information they could extract from him — so long as they shared it. That it could harm Karellen in any way he did not for a moment believe.
Stormgren felt in his pockets and produced a pencil and an old envelope. Sketching rapidly while he spoke, he began:
“You know, of course, that a small flying machine, with no obvious means of propulsion, calls for me at regular intervals and takes me up to Karellen’s ship. It enters the hull — and you’ve doubtless seen the telescopic films that have been taken of that operation. The door opens again — if you can call it a door — and I go into a small room with a table, a chair, and a vision screen. The layout is something like this.”
He pushed the plan across to the old Welshman, but the strange eyes never turned towards it. They were still fixed on Stormgren’s face, and as he watched them something seemed to change in their depths. The room had become completely silent, but behind him he heard Joe take a sudden indrawn breath.
Puzzled and annoyed, Stormgren stared back at the other, and as he did so, understanding slowly dawned. In his confusion he crumpled the envelope into a ball of paper and ground it underfoot.
He knew now why those grey eyes had affected him so strangely. The man opposite him was blind.
Van Ryberg had made no further attempts to contact. Karellen. Much of his department’s work — the forwarding of statistical information, the abstracting of the world’s press, and the like — had continued automatically. In Paris the lawyers were still wrangling over the proposed World Constitution, but that was none of his business for the moment. It was a fortnight before the Supervisor wanted the final draft; if it was not ready by then, no doubt Karellen would take what action he thought fit.
And there was still no news of Stormgren.
Van Ryberg was dictating when the “Emergency Only” telephone started to ring. He grabbed the receiver and listened with mounting astonishment, then threw it down and rushed to the open window. In the distance, cries of amazement were rising from the streets, and traffic was slowing to a halt.