Astounding Science Fiction (British edition) — page 15: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

= SAM million petty frustrations of the gar- rison state. Still—the strength of it! The violence! By creating Sam Hall, he had struck back, but it was an ineffectual blow, a timid gesture. Most likely, his basic motive was simply to find a half- way safe release; in Sam Hall, he lived vicariously all the things that the beast within him wanted to do. Several times he had intended to dis- continue his sabotage, but it was like a drug: Sam Hall was becoming neces- sary to his own stability. The thought was alarming. He ought to see a psychiatrist—but no, the doctor would be bound to report his tale, he would go to camp and Jack, if not exactly ruined, would be under a cloud for the rest of his life. Thornberg had no desire to go to camp, anyway. His own existence had compensations—interesting work, a few good friends, art and music and literature, decent wine, sunsets and mountains, memories. He had started this game on impulse, but now it was too late to stop it. For Sam Hall had been promoted to Public Enemy Number One. Winter came, and the slopes of the Rockies under which Matilda lay were white beneath a cold greenish sky. Air traffic around the nearby town was. lost in that hugeness, brief hurtling meteors against in- finity ; ground traffic could not be seen at all from the Records entrance. Thornberg took the special tubeway to work every morning, but he often walked the five miles back, and his Sundays were usually spent in long hikes over the slippery trails. That was a foolish thing to do alone in winter, but he felt reckless. He was working in his office shortly before Christmas when the intercom said: ‘““Major Sorensen to see you, sir. From Investigation.” HALL 13 Thornberg felt his stomach tie it- self into a cold knot. “All right,”’ he answered in a voice whose levelness surprised him. “Cancel any other appointments.” Security Investiga- tion took priority over everything. Sorensen walked in with a hard, military clack of boots. He was a big blond man, heavy-shouldered, his face expressionless and his eyes as pale and cold and remote as the winter sky. The black uniform fitted him like another skin, the lightning badge of his service glittered against it like a frosty star. He stood stiffly before the desk, and Thornberg rose to give him an awkward salute. ‘Please sit down, Major Sorensen. What can I do for you?” “Thanks.” The cop’s voice was crisp and harsh. He lowered his bulk into a chair and drilled Thornberg with his eyes. “I’ve come about the Sam Hall case.” ‘“Oh—the rebel?” Thornberg’s skin prickled. It was all he could do to meet those eyes. “How do you know he’s a rebel?” asked Sorensen. “It’s never been proved officially.” 7 Why .-s-. 2 assumed <-> .->-that bank raid . . . and then the posters says he’s believed to be in the under- ground—” Sorensen inclined his cropped head ever so Slightly. When he spoke again, it was in a relaxed tone, almost casual: “Tell me, Major Thornberg, have you — followed the Hall dossier in detail?’’ Thornberg hesitated. He wasn’t supposed to do so unless ordered: he only kept the machine running. A memory came back to him, something he had read once: ‘When suspected of a major sin, admit the minor ones frankly. It disarms suspicion.’’ Some- thing like that. *‘As a matter of fact, 1 have,’’ he said. “I know it’s against regs, but I was interested and... well, I connicloooks.c© inn