THEY
RETURNED TO A COSMIC D-DAY!
They
had followed orders, reached the stars, and now were bound back for Earth with
a visitor—a strange star-born being they thought would make an interesting
curiosity back home. They did not suspect that in this creature they were
bringing a spark that could set their planet aflame.
Though
they were to find themselves unwelcome strangers when they landed, their weird
cargo proved their passport—until he escaped. And then to save their very
lives, the star-travelers had to join the desperate search for the unearthly
Saris Hronna, knowing that if they did not corner him first, it might mean the
end, not only of themselves, but the Earth itselfl
Compounded of suspense and brilliant
imaginative power, this new novel is jet-propelled for thrills and chills.
POUL
ANDERSON was
born in Bristol, Pennsylvania, and was graduated as a physics major from the
University of Minnesota. Writing was a hobby of his, and he sold a few stories
while in college. With jobs hard to find after graduation, he continued to
write and found to his surprise that he was not a scientist at all, but a born
writer. Best known for his science-fiction, he has also written mysteries,
non-fiction, and historical novels.
Poul
Anderson lives in Orinda, California, with his wife and young daughter. Novels
of his published in Ace Books editions include PLANET OF NO RETURN (D-199),
STAR WAYS (D-255), WAR OF THE WINGMEN (D-303), SNOWS OF GANYMEDE (D-303), WAR
OF TWO WORLDS (D-335), WE CLAIM THESE STARS (D-407), EARTHMAN GO HOME! (D-479),
MAYDAY ORBIT (F-104), and THE MAKESHIFT ROCKET (F-139).
No World of
Their Own
POUL
ANDERSON
ACE BOOKS,
INC. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.
No Would
of Their Own
Copyright, 1955, by Ace
Books, Inc. All Rights Reserved
To
Hallie
Kruse with thanks
I
The
spaceship flashed- out of
superdrive and hung in a darkness that blazed with stars. For a moment there
was silence, then:
"Where's, the
sun?"
Edward Langley swiveled his pilot's chair
around. It was very still in the cabin. Only the whisper of ventilators had
voice, and he could hear his heart pound. Sweat prickled his ribs; the air was
hot.
"I
. . . don't know," he said finally. The words fell hard and empty. There
were screens on the control panel which gave him a view of the whole sky. He
saw Andromeda and the Southern Cross and the great sprawl of Orion, but nowhere
in that crystal black was the dazzle he had expected.
Weightlessness was like an
endless falling.
"We're
in the general region, all right," he went on after a minute.
"The constellations are the same, more or less. But . . ." His tones
faded out.
Four
pairs of eyes searched the screens with hunger. Finally Matsumoto spoke.
"Over here—in Leo—brightest star visible."
They stared at the
brilliant yellow spark. "It's got the
right
color, I think," said Blaustein. "But it's an awful long ways
off."
After
another pause he grunted impatiently and leaned over in his seat toward the
spectroscope. He focused it carefully on the star, slipped in a plate of the
solar spectrum, and punched a button on the comparison unit. No red light
Mashed.
"The
same, right down to the Fraunhofer lines," he declared. "Same
intensity of each line to within a few quanta. That's either Sol or his twin
brother."
"But how far
off?" whispered Matsumoto.
Blaustein
tuned in to the photoelectric analyzer, read the answer off a dial and whipped
a slide rule through his fingers. "About a third of a light-year," he
said. "Not too far."
"A damn sight too far," grunted
Matsumoto. "We should'a come out within one A.U. on the nose. Don't tell
me the goddam engine's gone haywire again."
"Looks
that way, don't it?" murmured Langley. His hands moved toward the
controls. "Shall I try jumping her in close?"
"No,"
said Matsumoto. "If our positioning error is this bad, one more hop may
land us right inside the sun."
"Which'd
be almost like landing in hell or Texas," said Langley. He grinned, though
there was an inward sickness at his throat. "Okay, boys, you might as well
go aft and start overhauling that rattletrap. The sooner you find the trouble,
the sooner we can get back home."
They
nodded, unbuckled themselves and swung out of the pilot room. Langley sighed.
"Nothing you or I can
do but wait, Saris," he said.
The
Holatan made no answer. He never spoke unnecessarily. His huge sleek-furred
body was motionless in the acceleration couch they had jury-rigged for him, but
the eyes were watchful. There was a faint odor about him, not unpleasing, a hint
of warm sunlit grass within a broad horizon. He seemed out of place in this
narrow metal coffin; he belonged under an open sky, near running water.
Langley's thoughts strayed. A third of
a light-year. It's not too much. I'll come back to you, Peggy, if I have to crawl all the way on my belly.
Setting
the ship on automatic, against the unlikely event of a meteor, Langley freed
himself from his chair. "It shouldn't take them too long," he said.
"They've got it down to a science, dismantling that pile of junk.
Meanwhile, care for some chess?"
Saris
Hronna and Robert Matsumoto were the Explorer's chess
fiends, and it was a strange thing to watch them: a human
whose ancestors had left Japan for America and a creature
from a planet a thousand light-years distant, caught in the trap of some
ages-dead Persian. More than the gaping emptinesses he had traversed, more than
the suns and planets he had seen spinning through darkness and vacuum, it gave
Langley a sense of the immensity and omnipotence of time.
"No, t'ank you." The fangs gleamed
white as mouth and throat formed a ' language they were never meant for.
"I would rather this new and surprissing dewelopment consider."
Langley
shrugged. Even after weeks of association, he had not grown used to the Holatan
character—the same beast of prey which had quivered nose to spoor down forest
trails, sitting as hours went by with dreamy eyes and a head full of
incomprehensible philosophy. But it no longer startled him.
"Okay,
son," he said. "Ill write up the log, then." He pushed against
the wall with one foot and shot out the doorway and along a narrow hall. At
the end, he caught himself by a practiced hand, swung around a post into a tiny
room and hooked his legs to a light chair bolted in front of a desk.
The log lay open, held by the magnetism of
its thin iron backstrap. With an idleness that was a fight against his own
furious impatience, the man leafed through it.
Langley went through the record of the past
year, the erratic leaps from star to star, cursing and sweating in a tangle of
wires and tubes, blue flame over soldering irons, meters, slide rules, a slow
battle slogging toward victory. There had been one cut-and-dried system after
another, each a little better, and finally the leap from Holat back toward Earth.
It had been the philosophers of Holat whose non-human minds, looking at the
problem from an oddly different angle, had suggested the final, vital
improvements; and now the Explorer was
coming home to give mankind a universe.
Langley's
thoughts wandered again over worlds he had seen, wonder and beauty, grimness
and death, always a high pulse of achieving. Then he turned to the last page
and undipped a pen and wrote:
"19
July 2048, hours 1630. Emerged an estimated 0.3 light-year from Sol, error
presumably due to some unforeseen complication in the engines. Attempts to
correct same now being made. Position—" He swore at his forgetfulness and
went back to the pilot room to take readings on the stars.
Blaustein's
long thin form jack-knifed through the air as he finished; the gaunt sharp face
was smeared with oil,''and the hair seemed more unkempt even than usual.
"Can't find a thing," he reported. "We tested with everything
from Wheatstone bridges to computer problems, opened the gyro-matic cell—nothing
looks wrong. Want we should tear down the whole beast?"
Langley
considered. "No," he said at last. "Let's try it once more
first."
Matsumoto's
compact, stocky frame entered; he grinned around his eternal chewing gum and
let out some competent profanity. "Could be she just got the
collywobbles," he said. "The more complicated a hookup gets, the more
it acts like it had a mind of its own."
"Yeah,"
said Langley. "A brilliant mind devoted entirely to frustrating its
builders." He had his coordinates now; the ephemeris gave him the
position of Earth, and he set up the superdrive controls to bring him there
just outside the remaining margin of error. "Strap in and hang on to your
hats, gents."
There
was no sensation as he pulled the main switch. How could there be, with no time
involved? But suddenly the spark of Sol was a dull-purple disc as the screen
polarized against its glare.
"Whoops!" said
Matsumoto. "Honolulu, here I come!"
There was a coldness along
Langley's spine. "No," he said.
"Huh?"
"Look at the solar disc. It's not big
enough. We should be just about one A.U. from it; actually we're something like
one and a third."
"Well, gawdam,"
said Matsumoto.
Blaustein's
lips twitched nervously. "That's not too bad," he said. "We
could get back on rockets from here."
"It's
not good enough," said Langley. "We had—we thought we had the control
down to a point where the error of arrival was less than one percent. We tested
that inside the system of Holat's sun. Why can't we do as well in our own
system?"
"I
wonder—" Matsumoto's cocky face turned thoughtful. "Are we
approaching asymptotically?"
The
idea of creeping through eternity, always getting nearer to Earth and never
quite reaching it, was chilling. Langley thrust it off and took up his
instruments, trying to locate himself.
They were in the ecliptic plane, and a
telescopic sweep along the zodiac quickly identified Jupiter. Then the tables said
Mars should be over there and Venus that way— Neither of them were.
After
a while, Langley racked his things and looked around with a strained
expression. "The planetary positions aren't right," he said. "I
think I've spotted Mars . . . but it's green."
"Are you drunk?" asked Blaustein.
"No such luck," said Langley.
"See for yourself in the "scope. That's a planetary disc, and from
our distance from the sun and its direction, it can only be in Mars' orbit. But
it's not red, it's green."
They sat very still.
"Any ideas,
Saris?" asked Blaustein in a small voice.
"I
iss rather not say." The deep voice was carefully expressionless, but the
eyes had a glaze which meant thought.
"To
hell with itl" Recklessly, Langley sent the ship quartering across her
orbit. The sun-disc jumped in the screens.
"Earthl"
whispered Blaustein "I'd know her anywhere." The planet hung blue and
shining against night, her moon like a drop of cool gold. Tears stunj.
Langley's eyes.
He
bent over his instruments again, getting positions. They were still about half
an Astronomical Unit from their goal. It was tempting to forget the damned
engines and blast home on rockets—but that would take a long while, and Peggy
was waiting He set the controls for emergence at 500 miles distance. Jump!
"We're
a lot closer,'" said Matsumoto, "but we haven't made it yet."
For
a moment rage at the machine seethed in Langley. He bit it back and took up his
instruments. Distance about 45,000 miles this time. Another calculation, this
one quite finicking to allow for the planet's orbital mbtion. As the clock
reached the moment he had selected, he threw the switch.
"We did it!"
There she hung, a gigantic shield, belted
with clouds, blazoned with continents, a single radiant star where the curving
oceans focused sunlight. Langley's fingers shook as he got a radar reading. The
error this time was negligible.
Rockets
spumed fire, pressing them back into their seats, as he drove the vessel
forward. Peggy, Peggy, Peggy, it was a song within him.
Was it a boy or a girl? He remembered, as if
it were an hour ago, how they had tried to find a name; they weren't going to
be caught flat-footed when the man brought the birth certificate around. Oh
Peggy!
They
entered the atmosphere, too eager to care about saving fuel with a braking
ellipse, backing down on a jet of flame. The ship roared and thundered around
them.
Presently
they were gliding, on a long spiral which would take them halfway round the
world before they landed. There was a dark whistle of cloven air outside.
Langley
was too busy piloting to watch the view, but Blaustein, Matsumoto, and even
Saris Hronna strained their eyes at the screens. It was the Holatan who spoke
first: "Iss that the much by you talked of city New York?"
"No
. . . we're over the Near East, I think." Blaustein looked down to the
night-wrapped surface and a twinkling cluster of light. "Which is it,
anyway?"
"Hmm
. . . damfino . . . never saw any city in this area big enough to show this
high up without a telescope," said Matsumoto. "Ankara? There must be
unusually clear seeing tonight."
The
minutes ticked by. "That's the Alps," said Blaustein. "See the
moonlight on them? Only . . ." Suddenly, he shouted, "Bob, I know
damn well there's no town that size there!"
"God! Must be near as big as
Chicago." Matsumoto paused. When he spoke again, it was in a queer,
strained tone: "Jim, did you get a close look at Earth as we came
in?"
"More or less. Why?"
"It just now hits me. I didn't see any
polar cap." "Huh? Why-why-"
"Think
back. Did you? We were too excited to notice details, but I saw North America
clear as I see you, and—I should have seen the arctic ice cap. I've seen it a
million times from space, only there were just a few dark splotches there:
islands, no snow at all."
Silence. Then Blaustein said thickly: 'Try
the radio."
They
crossed Europe and nosed over the Atlantic, still slowing a velocity that made
the cabin baking hot. Here and there, over the waste of waters, rose more
jewels of light, floating cities where none had ever been.
Matsumoto
turned the radio dials slowly. Words jumped at him, a gabble which made no
sense at all. "What the devil?" he mumbled. "What language is
that?"
"Not
European, I can tell you," said Blaustein. "Not even Russian. I know
enough of that to identify . . . Oriental?"
"Not Chinese or Japanese. Ill try
another band."
The
ship slanted over North America with the sunrise. They saw how the coastline
had shrunk. Now and then Langley manipulated gyroscopes and rockets for
control. He felt a cold bitterness in his mouth.
The
unknown speech crackled on all frequencies. Down below, the land was green,
huge rolling tracts of field and forest. Where were the cities and villages and
farms, where were the roads, where was the world?
Without
landmarks, Langley tried to find the New Mexico spacefield which was his home
base. He was still high enough to get a wide general view through drifting
clouds. He saw the Mississippi and then, far off, he thought he recognized the
Platte, and oriented himself mechanically.
A
city slid below. It was too remote to see in detail, but it was not like any
city he had ever known. The New Mexico desert was turned green, seamed with
irrigation canals.
"What's
happened?" Blaustein said it like a man hit in the stomach. "What's
happened? In God's name, what's happened?"
Something
entered the field of view, a long black cigar shape, matching their speed with
impossible ease. There was no sign of jets or rockets or propellers or . . .
anything. It swooped close, thrice the length of the Explorer, and Langley saw flat gun turrets on it.
He
thought briefly and wildly of invasions from space, monsters from the stars
oveminning and remaking Earth in a single year of horror. Then a brief
blue-white explosion that hurt his eyes snapped in front of the ship, and he
felt a shiver of concussion.
"They
shot across the bows," he said in a dead voice. "We'd better
land."
Down below was a sprawling complex of
buildings and open spaces; it seemed to be of concrete. Black flyers swarmed
over it, and there were high walls around. Langley tilted the Explorer and fought her down to the surface.
When
he cut the rockets, there was a ringing silence. Then he unbuckled himself and
stood up.
He
was a tall man, and as he stood there he gave an impression of grayness: gray
uniform, gray eyes, black hair prematurely streaked with gray, a long
hook-nosed face burned dark by the light of strange suns. And when he spoke,
there was grayness in his tone.
"Come on. We'll have to go out and see
what they want."
II
Lord
Brannoch dhu Crombar, Tertiary Admiral of the Fleet, High Noble
of Thor, ambassador of the League of Alpha Centauri to the Solar Technate, did
not look like a dignitary of any civilized power. He was gigantic, six and a
half feet tall, so wide in the shoulders that he seemed almost squat. The
yellow mane of a Thorian chieftain fell past ears in which jeweled rings
glittered to the massive collarbone; the eyes were blue and merry under a
tangled forest of brow, and the face was blunt and heavy and sun-browned,
seamed with old scars. His lounging pajamas were of Centaurian cut, complete
with trousers, and overly colorful; a diamond loop circled his throat. He was
also known as a sportsman, hunter, duellist, a mighty lover and a roisterer
with an unsurpassed knowledge of the dives on a dozen planets. The apartment
which his enormous body seemed to fill was overcrowded with color, ornament,
trophies, hardly a book-spool in sight.
All
of these trappings fitted in well enough with his character, but they also
maintained a camouflage for one of the shrewdest brains in the known universe.
It
might have been observed that the drink in his hand as he relaxed on the
balcony was not his home planet's rotgut but one of the better Venusian
vintages, and that he sipped it with real appreciation. But there was no one to
notice except four monsters in a tank, and they didn't care.
Morning
sunlight flooded over him, gilding the airy spires and flexible bridgeways of
Lora against a serene heaven. He was, as befitted his rank, high in the upper
levels of the city. Its voice drifted to him in a whisper, the remote song of
machines that were its heart and brain and nerve and muscle. At only one point
in his visual range did the smooth harmony of metal and tinted plastic end,
where the city dropped cliff-like four thousand feet to the surrounding parks.
The few human figures abroad on the flanges and bridgeways were like ants,
almost invisible at this distance. A service robot rolled past them,
bound for some job too complex for a merely human slave.
Brannoch
felt relaxed and peaceful. Things were going well. His sources of information
were operating quietly and efficiently. Already he knew much about Sol which
would be of value when the war started. He had bagged a dragon in Minister
Tanarac's African preserve; he had won grandly the last time he visited Lunar
Casino; he had bought a very satisfactory girl a few days ago; the last mail
ship from Centauri had reported his estates on Freyja were yielding a bumper
crop—of course, the news was more than four years old, but still welcome. Life
could be worse.
The apologetic buzz of the robophone
interrupted his reflections. Too lazy to get up, he steered the chair over to
it. Someone who knew his special and highly unofficial number was calling, but
that could be a lot of people. He thumbed the switch, and an unfamiliar face
looked at him. The caller bowed ritually, covering his eyes, and said humbly: "Audience
requested with you, my lord."
"Now?" asked Brannoch.
"P-p-presently,
my lord, when c-convenient." The stutter would be taken for the normal
nervousness of an underling in such an august presence, in case this secret
line was tapped—which Brannoch knew very well it was. Actually, the pattern of
repeated consonants was an identifying password. This was Vans t'u Hayem, a
petty Minister and a captain in the Solar militechnic intelligence corps,
dressed in civilian clothes and wearing a life-mask. He would not be reporting
in person unless it was a matter of urgency. Brannoch led him through a
routine of giving his assumed name and business, told him to come up; then he
cut the circuit. Only then did he allow himself to frown.
Rising
he made a careful check of the concealed roboguns and of the needier under his
own tunic. It could
be an attempt at
assassination, if Chanthavar's counterspies had learned enough. Or it could—
He
went swiftly over t'u Hayem's background, and a wry, half-pitying grin twisted
his mouth. It was so easy, so terribly easy to break a man.
You
met this proud ambitious aristocrat, whose only real fault was youth and
inexperience, at a couple of receptions, drew him out—oh,
simple, simple, with the dazzling glow of
your
own birth and rank behind you. Your agents in his corps got his psychorecord
for you, and you decided he was promising material. So you cultivated him—not
much, but even a little attention from the agent of a foreign power was overwhelming
if you were a High Noble, an admiral and an ambassador. You pulled one or two
wires for him. You introduced him to really top-flight company, gorgeously appareled
nobles of every known state, their magnificent women, their cultivated
conversation and splendid homes and rare wines. You gave him the idea that he
was listening at the door to plans which would shake the stars. . . . Naturally
he did some favors for you—nothing to violate his oath, just stretching a point
here and there.
You
took him to pleasure houses operated with real imagination. You got him
gambling, and at first he won incredible sums. Then you moved in for the kill. ■
In a few days his fortune was gone, he was sunk a light-year down in debt, his
superiors were getting suspicious of him because of his association with you,
his creditors (who were your creatures, which he did not know) attached his
property and wife—you had him. And for some three years, now, he had been your
spy within his own corps, because only you and your organization propped him
up, and because even a tiny illegality performed for you made it possible to
blackmail him. Someday, if he gave you something really valuable, you might even
buy his wife (with whom he was so foolish as to be in love) and give her back
to him—lend her, at least, on a conditional basis.
Very
easy. Brannoch had neither pleasure nor pain in making a tool out of what had
been a man. It was part of his job; insofar as he had any feeling about his
broken men, it was one of contempt that they should ever have been so
vulnerable.
The outer door of the suite scanned t'u
Hayem's fingers and retinae and opened for him. He entered and bowed with the
proper formulas. Brannoch did not invite him to sit down. "Well?" he
said.
"Most
radiant lord, I have information which may be of interest to you. I thought I
had best bring it personally."
Brannoch
waited. The pseudo-face before him twitched with an eagerness that some might
have thought pathetic.
"My
lord, I am as you know stationed at Mesko Field. The day before yesterday, a
strange spaceship entered Earth's atmosphere and was made to land there."
T'u Hayem fumbled in his tunic and brought out a spool which he threaded into a
scanner. His hands shook. "Here is a picture of it."
The
scanner threw a three-dimensional image above the table top. Brannoch whistled.
"Stormblazel What kind of a ship is that?"
"Incredibly
archaic, my lord. See, they even use rockets— a uranium-fission pile for
energy, reaction mass expelled as ions."
Brannoch enlarged the image and studied it.
"Hm, yes. Where is it from?"
"I
don't know, my lord. We referred the question to the Technon itself—records
division—and were told that the design is of the very earliest days of space
travel, well before gravity control was discovered. Possibly from one of the
oldest of the lost colonies."
"Hm.
Then the crew must be—have been—outlaws. I can't
see explorers taking off knowing they wouldn't be back for perhaps thousands of
years. What about the crew?"' Brannoch turned a knob, and the next image
was of three humans in outlandish gray uniform, clean-shaven, hair cut short in
the style of Solar Ministers. "That all?"
"No,
my lord. If that were all, I wouldn't have considered the business so
important. But there was a nonhuman with them, a race unknown to anyone
including the records division. We got a picture, snapped hastily."
The alien was shown running. It was a big
beast: eight feet long including the thick tail, bipedal with a
forward-crouching gait, two muscular arms ending in four-fingered hands. It
could be seen to be male and presumably a mammal; at least it was covered with
smooth mahogany fur. The head was lutrine: round, blunt-snouted, ears placed
high, whiskers about the mouth and above the long yellow eyes.
"My
lord," said t'u Hayem in a near whisper, "they emerged and were put
under arrest pending investigation. Suddenly the alien made a break for it.
He's stronger than a human, trampled down three men in his path, moved faster
than you would think. Anesthetic guns opened up on him— rather, they should
have, but they didn't. They didn't go off! I snapped a shot at him with my hand
blaster, and the circuit was dead—nothing happened. Several others did too. A
small robot shell was fired after him—and crashed. A piloted scoutplane swooped
low, but its guns didn't go off; the control circuits went dead, and it crashed
too. The nearest gate was closed, but it opened for him as he approached it.
One man close by focused a neural tracker on him as he went into the woods, but
it didn't work till he was out of its range.
"Since then, we have been striving to
hunt him down. There are patrols all over the district, but no trace has been
found. My lord, it doesn't seem possible!"
Brannoch's
face might have been carved in dark wood. "So," he murmured. His eyes
rested on the image of captured motion. "Quite naked, too. No weapon, no
artifact. Are there any estimates of the range of his . . power?"
"Roughly
500 yards, my lord. That was approximately the distance within which our
apparatus failed. He moved too fast for longer-range weapons to be brought
against him in those few seconds."
"How about the humans?"
"They
seemed as shocked as we, my lord. They were unarmed and made no attempt to
resist us. Their language was unknown. At present they are under psychostudy,
which I
imagine will include a
course in Solar, and I've no access to them. But the records division tells us,
from the documents aboard, that the language is—" T'u Hayem searched his
memory. "Old American. The documents are being translated, but I haven't
been told of any findings made."
Old
American! thought
Brannoch. How
old is that ship, anyway? Aloud: "What other material do you have?"
"Stats
of all the documents, pictures, and whatever else was found aboard, my lord.
It—it wasn't easy to get them."
Brannoch grunted
indifferently. "Is that all?"
T'u
Hayem's mouth fell open. "All, my lord? What else could I do?"
"Much,"
said Brannoch curtly. "Among other things, I want a complete report on the findings of the
interrogators, preferably a direct transcript. Also the exact disposition made
of this case, daily bulletins of progress on the alien hunt—yes, much."
"My lord, I haven't the authority
to—"
Brannoch
gave him a name and address. "Go to this fellow and explain the problem ... at once. He'll tell you whom to get in
touch with at the field and how to apply the right pressures."
"My lord"—T'u Hayem wrung his
hands—"I thought perhaps, my lord—you know m-my wife—"
"111
pay you the flat rate for this stuff, applied against your debts," said
Brannoch. "If it turns out to be of some value, I'll consider a bonus. You
may go."
Silently, t'u Hayem bowed
and backed out.
Brannoch
sat motionless for a while after he was gone, and then ran through the series
of stat-pictures. They were good, clear ones, page after page of writing in a
language whose very alphabet was strange to him. Have to get this translated, he thought, and then he recalled the name of
a scholar who would do it and keep a closed mouth.
He lounged a bit longer, then rose and went
to the north wall of the room. It showed a moving stereo-pattern, very
conventional; but behind it was a tank of hydrogen, methane, and ammonia at a
thousand atmospheres pressure and minus one hundred degrees temperature, and
there was visual and aural apparatus.
"Hello, you Thrymkas," he said
genially. "Were you watching?"
"I
was," said the mechanical voice. Whether it was Thrym-ka-1, -2, -3, or -4 which spoke, Brannoch didn't know, nor did it matter. "We
are all in linkage now."
"What do you
think?"
"Apparently
this alien has telekinetic powers," said the monsters unemotionally.
"We assume these to be simply over electronic flows, because it is noted
that everything he controlled or disabled involved electronic tubes. Only a
small amount of telekinetic energy would be needed to direct the currents in
vacuum as he wished and thus to take over the whole device.
"With
high probability, this means that he is telepathic to some degree: sensitive to
electrical and other neural pulses and capable of inducing such currents in the
nervous systems of others. However, he could hardly have read the minds of his
guards. Thus his action was probably just to remain free until he could
evaluate his situation. But what he will then do is unpredictable until more is
known of his psychology."
"Yeh.
That's what I thought too," said Brannoch. "How about the ship—any
ideas?"
"Verification must await translation of
those documents, but it seems probable that the ship is not from some lost
colony but from Earth herself—the remote past. In the course of wanderings, it
chanced on the planet of this alien and took him along. The distance of said
planet depends on the age of the ship, but since that seems to date from about 5000 years ago, the planet cannot be more than 2500 light-years removed."
"Far
enough," said Brannoch. 'The known universe only reaches a couple of
hundred."
He
took a rum about the room, hands clasped behind his back. "I doubt that
the humans matter," he said. "Especially if they really did come from
Earth; then they're only of historical interest. But this alien— That
electron-control effect is a new phenomenon. Just imagine what a weaponl"
His eyes Blazed. "Put the enemy guns out of action, even turn them on
their owners—disable the Technon itself!"
"The
same thought has doubtless occurred to the Solar authorities," said the
Thrymkas.
"Uh-huh.
Which is why they're pressing the hunt so hard. If they don't catch him, these
human friends of his may know how to do it. Even if they do make the capture,
he's still likely to be influenced by his crewmates. Which makes the fellows of
more importance than I'd realized." Brannoch prowled the floor, turning the
fact over in his mind.
All
at once, he felt very alone. He had his aides here, his bodyguard, his agents,
his spy ring, but they were few among the hostile billions of Sol. It would
take almost four and a half years to get a message home; it would take as long for
the fleet to arrive.
Sharp
within him rose the image of his home: the steep, windy mountains of Thor,
whistling stormy skies, heath and forest and broad fair plains, gray seas
rolling under the tidal drag of three moons. He recalled the hall of his ancestors,
stone and timber rearing heavily to smoky rafters and ancient battle flags, his
horses and hounds and the long halloo of hunting. The love and longing for his
planet was an ache within his breast.
But
he was a ruler, and the road of kings was hard. Also, and here he grinned, it
would be fun to sack Earth, come the day.
His
mission had suddenly narrowed. He had to get this alien for Centauri, so the
scientists back home could study the power and duplicate it in a military unit.
Failing that, he had to prevent Sol from doing the same—by killing the creature
if necessary. He dismissed the idea of joining the chase with his own agents:
too much of a giveaway, too small a chance of success. No, it would be better
to work through those human prisoners.
But
what hold could he get on men whose world was 5000 years in its grave?
Returning
to the scanner, he went back through its spool. Some of the frames showed
pictures and other objects which must be of a personal nature. There was one
photograph of a woman which was quite excellent.
An
idea occurred to him. He walked back onto the balcony, picked up his wineglass
and toasted the morning with a small laugh. Yes, it was a fine day.
Ill
Langley
sat up with a gasp and
looked around him. He was alone. For a moment, he sat very still, allowing
memory and thought to enter him in a trickle. The whole pattern was too
shatteringly big to be grasped at once.
Earth,
altered almost beyond recognition: no more polar caps, the seas encroaching
miles on every shore, unknown cities, unknown language, unknown men. There was
only one answer, but he thrust it from him in a near panic.
There
had been the landing, Saris Hronna's stunningly swift escape (why?), and then
he and his companions had been separated. There were men in blue who spoke to
him in a room full of enigmatic machines that whirred and clicked and blinked.
One of those had been switched on, and darkness had followed. Beyond that, there
was only a dream-like confusion of half-recalled voices. And now he was awake
again and naked and alone.
Slowly, he looked at the cell. It was small,
bare save for the couch and washstand which seemed to grow out of the
green-tinted, soft and rubbery floor. There was a little ventilator grille in
the wall, but no door that he could see.
He
felt himself shaking, and fought for control. He wanted to weep, but there was
a dry hollowness in him. Peggy, he
thought. They
could at least have left me your
picture. It's all I'll ever have, now.
A crack appeared in the farther wall, dilated
until it was a doorway, and three men stepped through. The jerk which brought
Langley erect told him how strained his nerves were.
He
crouched back, trying to grasp the details of appearance on these strangers.
It was hard, somehow. They were of another civilization; clothes and bodies and
the very expressions were something new.
Two
of them were giants, nearly seven feet tall, their muscled bodies clad in a
tight-fitting black uniform, their heads shaven. It took a little while to
realize that the wide brown faces were identical. Twins?
The
third was a little below average height, lithe and graceful. He wore a white
tunic, deep-blue cloak, soft buskins on his feet, and little else. But the
insigne on his breast, a sunburst with an eye, was the same as that of the two
huge men behind him. He shared their smooth tawny skin, high cheekbones,
faintly slanted eyes. But straight black hair was sleeked over his round head,
and the face was handsome: broad low forehead, brilliant dark eyes, snub nose,
strong chin, a wide full mouth. Overall ran a nervous mobility. All three bore
holstered sidearms.
Langley
had a sense of helplessness and degradation in standing nude before them. He
tried for a poker face and an easy stance, but doubted that it was coming off.
There was a thick lump as of unshed tears in his throat.
The
leader inclined his head slightly. "Captain Edward Langley," he said,
pronouncing it with a heavy accent. His voice was low, resonant, a superbly
controlled instrument.
"Yes."
"I take it that means sya." The stranger was speaking the foreign tongue,
and Langley understood it as if it had been his own. It was a clipped, rather
high-pitched language, inflectional but with a simple and logical grammar.
Among so much else, Langley felt only a vague surprise at his own knowledge, a
certain relief at not having to study. "Permit me to introduce myself. I
am Minister Chanthavar Tang vo Lurin, chief field operative of the Solar
militechnic intelligence corps and, I hope, your friend."
"Thank you, sir,"
Langley answered stiffly.
"You
must pardon such impoliteness as we may have shown you," said Chanthavar
with an oddly winning smile. "Your comrades are safe, and you will soon
rejoin them. However, as a spaceman you realize that we could not take chances
with a complete stranger."
He
gestured to one of the guards, who laid a suit of clothes on the couch. It was
similar to Chanthavar's, though lacking the military symbol and the jeweled
star which he bore. "If you will put these on, Captain—it is the standard
dress of the free-born, and I'm afraid you'd feel too conspicuous in your
own."
Langley
obeyed. The material was soft and comfortable. Chanthavar showed him how to close
the fastenings, which seemed to be a kind of modified zipper. Then he sat down
companionably on the bed, waving Langley to join him. The guards remained rigid
by the door.
"Do you know what has
happened to you?" he asked.
"I . . . think
so," said Langley dully.
"I'm
sorry to tell you this." Chanthavar's voice was gentle. "Your log has
been translated, so I know you didn't realize how the superdrive actually
operates. Curious that you shouldn't, if you could build one."
"There
was an adequate theory," said Langley. "According to it, the ship
warped through hyperspace."
"There's
no such animal. Your theory was wrong, as must have been discovered very soon.
Actually, a ship is projected as a wave partem, re-forming at the point of
destination. It's a matter of setting up harmonics in the electronic wave
trains such that they reconstitute the original relationship at another point
of space-time. Or so the specialists tell me. I don't pretend to understand the
mathematics. Anyhow, there's no time of passage for those aboard. But according
to an external observer, the trip is still made only at the speed of light. No
better system has ever been found, and I doubt that it ever will. The nearest
star, Alpha Centauri, is still nearly four and a half years away."
"We'd
have known that," said Langley bitterly, "except for the trouble with
the space positioning. Because of that, it took us so long to find our test
rockets that we had no way of observing that a finite time of passage had gone
by. On my own voyage, the time lag was lost in the uncertainty of exact stellar
positions. No wonder we had such trouble approaching Earth as we came home.
Homel" he exploded, with a stinging in his eyes. "We crossed a total
of some 5000 light-years. So it must be that many years later we came
back."
Chanthavar nodded.
Langley
asked wearily: "What's happened in all that time?"
Chanthavar shrugged.
"The usual. Overpopulation, vanishing natural resources, war, famine,
pestilence, depopulation, collapse, and then the resumption of the cycle. I
don't think you'll find people very different today." "Couldn't you
have taught me—"
"Like
the language? Not very well. That was a routine hypnotic process, quite
automatic and not involving the higher centers of the brain. You were
interrogated in that state too. But as for your more complex learning, it's
best done gradually.".
There
was a deadness in Langley, a stricken indifference. He twisted away from it by
trying to focus his mind on detail—anything, just so it was impersonal enough.
"What kind of world is it now? And what can I do in it?"
Chanthavar
leaned forward, elbows on knees, cocking a sidewise eye at the other. Langley
forced himself to pay attention. "Let's see. Interstellar emigration began
about your time—not too extensive at first, because of the limitations of the
superdrive and the relative scarcity of habitable planets. During later periods
of trouble, there were successive waves of such outward movement, but most of
these were malcontents and refugees who went far from Sol lest they be found
later, and have been lost track of. We presume there are many of these lost
colonies, scattered throughout the galaxy, and that some of them must have
evolved into very different civilizations. But the universe we actually know
something about and have even an indirect contact with, only reaches a couple
of hundred light-years. Who would have any reason to explore further?
"The
. . . let's see, I think it was the twenty-eighth world war which reduced the
Solar System almost to barbarism and wiped out the colonies on the nearer
stars. Reconstruction took a long time, but about 2000 years ago the Solar
System was unified under the Technate, and this has endured so far.
Colonization was resumed, with the idea of keeping the colonists fairly close
to home and thus under control, while the emigration would be a safety valve
for getting rid of those who didn't adjust well to the new arrangements.
"Of
course, it didn't work. Distances are still too great; different environments
inevitably produce different civilizations, other ways of living and thinking.
About a thousand years ago, the colonies broke loose, and after « war we had to
recognize their independence. There are about a dozen such states now with
which we have fairly close contact— the League of Alpha Centauri is much the
most powerful of them.
"If
you want to know more about outer-space conditions, you can talk to a member of
the Commercial Society. At present, though, I wouldn't bother, not till you're
better up on modem Earth."
"Yes,
how about that?" said Langley. "What is this Tech-nate system,
anyway?"
"The
Technon is merely a giant sociomathematical computer which is fed all
available data continuously, by all agencies, and makes basic policy decisions
in view of them. A machine is less fallible, less selfish, less bribe-able,
than a man." Chathavar grinned. "Also, it saves men the trouble of
thinking for themselves."
"I get the impression
of an aristocracy—"
"Oh,
well, if you want to call it that. Somebody has to take responsibility for
executing the Technon's policies and making the small daily decisions. The
class of Ministers exists for the purpose. Under them are the commoners. It's
hereditary, but not so rigid that occasional recruits from the commons don't
get elevated to the Ministry."
"Where
I come from," said Langley slowly, "we'd learned better than to leave
leadership to chance—and heredity is mighty chancy."
"Not
enough to matter nowadays. I told you we had genetic engineering."
"What
can we—my friends and I—do?" Langley felt a dim annoyance at the strain in
his voice.
"Your
status is a bit unusual, isn't it? I'm appointing myself your patron, and youll
have a sort of quasi-Ministerial rank with funds of your own for the time
being. Not charity, by the way. The Technate does have a special cash-box for
unforeseen details, and you are hereby classified as an unforeseen detail.
Eventually well work out something, but don't worry about getting sent to the
commons. If nothing else, your knowledge of the past is going to make you the
pet of the historians for the rest of your lives."
Langley
nodded. It didn't seem to matter much, one way or another. Peggy was dead. He
would never see her again. And the child was dust, and his friends were dust,
and his nation was dust.
He
bowed his head and wanted to weep, but there were eyes on him.
"There's one thing you can help me with
right now," said Chanthavar. "It's the reason I came here to see you,
instead of having you sent to my office. More privacy."
Langley
touched his lips, remembering how Peggy's had brushed them and clung to them,
fifty centuries ago.
"It's
about that alien you had along—Saris Hronna. Was that the name you recorded for
him?"'
"More or less. What
about him?"
"He escaped, you know. We haven't found
him yet. Is he dangerous?"
"I don't think so, unless he gets too
annoyed. His people do have a keen hunting instinct, but they're peaceable
otherwise, treated us with great friendliness. Saris came along to see Earth,
and as a kind of ambassador. I think he only broke away till he could get some
idea of the situation. He must have dreaded the possibility of being
caged."
"He
can control electronic and magnetronic currents. You know that?"
"Of
course. It surprised us, too, at first. His race isn't telepathic in the usual
sense, but they're sensitive to neural currents—especially emotions—and can
project the same. I
really
don't know whether he can read a human mind or not."
"We have to find him," said
Chanthavar. "Have you any idea where he might go, what he might do?"
"I'd
. . . have to think about it. But I'm sure he isn't dangerous." Langley
wondered. He knew so little about the Holatan mind. It wasn't human.
"You
note their planet as being some thousand light-years from Sol. It's unknown to
us, of course. We don't intend this alien being any harm, but we have to locate
him."
Langley
glanced up. Under the mobile, smiling mask of his face, Chanthavar seemed
almost feverish. There was a hunter's gleam in his eyes. "What's the
hurry?" asked the spaceman.
"Several things. Chiefly, the
possibility that he may carry some germ to which man has no immunity. We've had
plagues like that before."
"We
were on Holat a couple of months. I've never been healthier in my life."
"Nevertheless,
it has to be checked. Furthermore, how's he going to live except by robbery?
Can't have that, either. Haven't you any idea where he might have gone?"
Langley
shook his head. "Ill think hard about it," he said cautiously.
"Maybe 111 figure out an answer, but I can't promise
anything."
"Well,"
said Chanthavar wryly, "that'll have to do for now. Come on, let's get
some dinner."
He
rose, Langley followed him out, and the two guards fell into step behind. The spaceman
paid little attention to the halls and the antigravity rise-shafts along which
he went. He was wrapped in his own desolation.
IV
There
was darkness around Saris
Hronna where he crouched. A wet wind blowing off the canal carried with it a
thousand odors of strangeness. The night was full of fear. He lay in the weeds
and mud of the canal bank, flattening his belly to the earth, and listened for
those who hunted him.
There
was no moon yet, but the stars were high and clear. A distant pulsing glow on
the world's edge told of a city. He looked down the straight line of the canal,
the ordered rows of wind-rustling grain marching from horizon to horizon, the
rounded bulk of somebody's darkened hut three miles off. His nostrils sucked in
a cool dank air, green growth and the small warm scurry of wildlife. He heard
the slow, light dragging of wind, the remote honking of a bird, the incredibly
faint boom of some airship miles overhead. His nerves drank the eddies and
pulses of other nerves, other beings. So had he lain in the darknesses of
Holat, waiting for an animal he hunted to come by* and letting himself flow
into the vast murmurous midnight. But this time he was the quarry, and he could
not blend himself to the life of Earth. It was too alien: every smell, every
vision, every trembling nerve current of mouse or beetle, was saw-toothed with
strangeness; the very wind blew with another voice.
Below
his waiting and his fear, there was sorrow. Somehow he had gone through time
as well as space, somehow the
planet
he knew and all his folk, mate and cubs and kindred were a thousand years
behind him. He was alone as none of his race had ever been alone.
His
dog-teeth flashed white as the lips drew back. There was something to live for,
even now. Something to kill for.
If
he could get back ... It was a
thought like one dim candle in a huge and storming night. Holat would not have
changed much, even in two thousand years, not unless some human ship had
blundered on her again. His folk were not static; there was progress all the
time. But it was a growth like evolution, in harmony with the seasons and the
fields and the great rhythm of time. He could find himself again. But—
Something stirred in the sky. Saris Hronna
flattened himself as if he would dig into the mud. His eyes narrowed to yellow
slits as he focused his mind-senses, straining into heaven for a ghost.
Yes,
currents—and not animal but the cold swirl of electrons in vacuum and gas, an
undead pulsation which was like a nail scraped along his nerves. It was a small
aircraft, he decided, circling in a slow path, reaching out with detectors. It
was hunting him.
Maybe
he should have submitted meekly. The Explorer humans
were decent; for Langley he had a growing affection. Maybe these far kin of his
were reasonable too. Nol There was too much at hazard. There was his whole
race.
They
did not have this star-spanning technology on Holat. There it was still tools
of bone and flint, travel on foot or in a dugout with sails and oars, food from
hunting and fishing and the enormous herds of meat animals half-domesticated by
telethymic control. One Holatan on the ground could track down a dozen men and
kill them in the green stillness of the forests. But one human spaceship could
hang in the sky and lash the planet with death.
The
aircraft up there was moving away. Saris Hronna snapped after breath, filling
his lungs again.
What to do, where to go,
how to escape?
The
aircraft was coming back. Its track was a spiral. How many of them were there,
over how many miles of Earths night?
His
mind quivered, less from fear than from hurt and loneliness. The life of Holat
was grounded in order, ceremony, the grave courtesies between old and young,
male and female, the calm pantheistic religon, the rites of the family at
morning and evening: everything in its place, balance, harmony, sureness—always
the knowing that life was one enormous unity. And he had been pitched into the
foreign dark and was being hounded like a beast.
The
thing above was coming lower. Saris' muscles grew rigid, and there was a blaze
in his heart. Let it come within range, and he would seize control and smash it
into the ground!
He
was not wholly unfitted for this moment of murder. There was no domination with
a Holatan family, no harsh father or jibing brother—they were all one. And a
member who showed real talent was ungrudgingly supported by the others while he
worked at his art or his music or his thinking. Saris had been that kind, as
he emerged from cubhood. Later he had gone to one of the universities.
There
he herded cattle, made tools, swept floors, as fitting return for the privilege
of lying in the hut of some philosopher or artist or-woodworker, arguing with
him and learning from him. His particular flair had been for the physical
sciences.
They
had their learning on Holat, he thought defensively as the metal death dropped
slowly toward him. The books were hand-copied on parchment, but there was sound
knowledge in them. Astronomy, physics and chemistry were elementary beside
man's, though correct as far as they went. Biological technique, the breeding
of animals, the understanding and use of ecology were at least equal in the
areas where no instrument but a simple lens and scalpel were needed —possibly
superior. And the mathematicians of Holat had an innate ability which towered
above that of any human.
The
craft was hovering, as if it were a bird of prey readying to stoop. Still out
of control range. . . . They must have detectors, perhaps of infra-red, which
made them suspect his presence. He dared not move.
The
safest thing for them to do would be to drop a bomb. Langley had told him about
bombs. And that would be the end: a flash and roar he could not feel,
dissolution, darkness forever.
Well, he thought, feeling how the slow sad
wind ruffled his whiskers, he had little to complain of. It had been a good
life. He had been one of the wandering scholars who drifted around the world,
always welcomed for the news he could bring, always seeing something fresh in
the diversity of basically similar cultures which dotted his planet. His sort
bound a planet together. Lately he had settled down, begun a family, taught at
the University of Sundance-Through-Rain. . . . But if it came to swift death in
an unknown land, life had still been kind.
No,
nol He brought his mind up sharply. He could not die, not yet. Not until he
knew more, knew that Holat was safe from these pale hairless monsters, or knew
how to warn and defend her. His muscles bunched to break and run.
The
airship descended with a swiftness that sucked a gasp from him. He reached out
to grasp the swirling electric and magnetic streams with the force-fields of
his brain—and withdrew, shuddering. No. Wait. There might be a better way.
The craft landed in the fields, a good
hundred yards off. Saris gathered his legs and arms under him. How many were
there?
Three.
Two of them were getting out, the third staying inside. He couldn't see through
the tall stand of grain, but he could sense that one of the two carried some
kind of instrument which was not a weapon. A detector, then. Blind in the
dark, they could still track him.
But of course, they weren't sure it was him.
Their instrument could just as well be registering a stray animal or a man. He
could smell the sharp adrenalin stink of their fear.
In a
gliding rush, Saris Hronna went up the bank and four-legged through the grain.
Someone yelled. A bolt of energy snapped at him, the vegetation flamed up where
it struck and ozone scorched his nostrils. His mind could not take care of
weapons; it had already clamped down on the engine and communicator of the vessel.
He hardly felt the beam which sizzled along
his ribs, leaving a welt of burned flesh. Leaping, he was on the nearest man.
The figure went down, his hands tore out its throat, and he sprang aside as the
other one fired.
Someone
cried out, a thin panicky wail in the darkness. A gun which threw a hail of
lead missiles chattered from the boat's nose. Saris jumped, landing on the
roof. The man remaining outside was flashing a light, trying to catch him in
its ray. Coldly, the Holatan estimated distances. Too far.
He yowled, sliding to earth again as he did.
The flashlight and a blaster beam stabbed where he had been. Saris covered the
ground between in three leaps. Rising, he cuffed hard, and felt neckbones snap
under his palm.
Now
. . . the boat! Saris snuffled at the door. It was locked against him, and the
lock was purely mechanical, not to be controlled, by the small energy output of
his brain. He could feel the terror of the man huddled inside.
He
picked up one of the dropped blasters. For a moment he considered it, using the
general principle that function determines form. The hand went around this
grip, one finger squeezed this lever, the fire spat from the other end, and
that adjustment on the nose must regulate the size of the beam. He experimented
and was gratified at having his
deductions
check out. Returning to' the boat, he melted away its door lock.
The
man within was backed against the farther wall, a gun in his hand, waiting with
a dry scream in his throat for the devil to break through. Saris pinpointed him
telepath-ically: aft of the entrance—goodl Opening the door a crack, just
enough to admit his hand, he fired around the edge of it. The blaster was
awkward in a grasp the size of his, but one bolt was enough.
The
smell of burned meat was thick around him. Now he had to work fast; there must
be other craft in the vicinity. Collecting all the weapons, he hunched himself
over the pilot's chair—it was too small for him to sit in—and studied the
control panel.
The
principle used was unfamiliar, something beyond the science of Langley's time.
Nor could he read the symbols on the controls. But by tracing the electric
currents and gyro-magnetic fields with his mind, and applying logic, he got a
notion of how to operate the thing.
It
rose a little clumsily as he maneuvered the switches, but he got the hang of it
fast. Soon he was high in the sky, speeding through a darkness that whistled
around him. One screen held an illuminated map with a moving red point that
must represent his own location. Helpful.
He
couldn't stay in this machine long; it would be identified and shot down. He
must use it to get supplies and then to find a hiding place before dawn, after
which it must fly westward to crash in the ocean. He should be able to adjust
the automatic pilot to do that.
Where to go? What to do?
V
There
was a party in the home of
Minister Yulien, high commissioner of metallurgies. The cream of Solar and
foreign society would be there, and Chanthavar brought the Explorer crew along.
Langley accompanied the agent down tall,
columned passages where the air glowed with a soft light and murals traced
shifting patterns on the gleaming walls. Behind him sat half a dozen
bodyguards, identical giants. Chanthavar had explained that they were his
personal slaves and the result of chromosome duplication in an exogenesis
tank. There was something not quite human about them.
The
spaceman was getting over his feeling of awkwardness, though he still couldn't
imagine that he looked like much with hairy skinny legs sticking out from under
his tunic. He, Blaustein and Matsumotohad hardly been out of their palace suite
in the day since they were released. They had sat around, saying little, now
and then cursing in a whisper full of pain. It was still too new, too
devastatingly sudden. They accepted Chanthavar's invitation without great
interest. What business did three ghosts have at a party?
The
suite was luxurious enough: furniture that molded itself to your contours and
came when you called, a box
which
washed and brushed and depilated and massaged you and finished up by blowing
scent on your scrubbed hide-softness and warmth and pastel color everywhere you
looked. Langley remembered checked oilcloth on a kitchen table, a can of beer in
front of him and the Wyoming night outside and Peggy sitting near.
"Chanthavar,"
he asked suddenly, "do you still have horses?" There was a word for
it in this Earthspeak they had taught him, so maybe . •, . ?
"Why,
I don't know." The agent looked a bit surprised. "Never saw one that
I remember, outside of historicals. I believe they have some on . . . yes, on
Thor for amusement, if not on Earth. Lord Brannoch has often bored his guests
by talking about horses and dogs."
Langley sighed.
"If
there aren't any in the Solar System, you could have one synthesized,"
suggested Chanthavar. "They can make pretty good animals tc order. Care to
hunt a dragon someday?"
"Never mind,"
said Langley.
'There'll
be a lot of important people here tonight," said Chanthavar. "If you
can entertain one of them enough, your fortune's made. Stay away from Lady
Halin. Her husband's jealous and you'd end up as a mind-blanked slave unless I
wanted to make an issue of it. You needn't act too impressed by what you see. A
lot of the younger intellectuals, especially, make rather a game of
deriding modem society, and would be construed as dangerous. Otherwise, just go
ahead and have a good time."
The
first impression Langley got was of sheer enormous-ness. The room must be half
a mile in diameter, and it was a swirling blaze of Hashing color, some
thousands of guests perhaps. It seemed roofless, open to a soft night sky full
of stars and the moon. However, he decided there must be an invisible dome on
it. Under its dizzy height, the city was a lovely, glowing spectacle.
There
was perfume in the air, just a hint of sweetness, and music came from some
hidden source. Langley tried to listen, but there were too many voices.
Chanthavar
was introducing them to their host, who was unbelievably fat and purple but not
without a certain strength in his small black eyes. Langley recalled the
proper, formulas by which a client of one Minister addressed and genuflected to
another.
"Man
from past, eh?" Yulien cleared his throat. "Int'restin'. Most int'restin'.
Have to have long talk with you sometime. Hrumphl How d'y' like it here?"
"It
is most impressive, my lord," said Matsumoto, poker-faced.
"H'm. Ha. Yes.
Progress. Change."
"The
more things change, my lord," ventured Langley, "the more they remain
the same."
A
rather good-looking woman with somewhat protuberant eyes grasped his arm and
told him how exciting
it was to see a man from the past
and she was sure it had been such an interesting epoch
back when they were so virile.
Langley felt relieved when
a sharp-faced oldster called her to him and she left in a pout. Clearly, women
had a subservient position in the Technate, though Chanthavar had mentioned
something about occasional great female leaders.
He
slouched moodily toward a buffet, where he helped himself to some very tasty
dishes and more wine. How long would the farce go on, anyway? He'd rather have
been oif somewhere by himself.
A
flabby person who had had a bit too much to drink threw an arm around his neck
and bade him welcome and started asking him about the bedroom techniques of his
period. It would have been a considerable relief to—Langley unclenched his
fists.
"Want
some girls? Min'ster Yulien most hospitable, come right this way, have li'l fun
'fore the Centaurians blow us all to dust."
"That's right," jeered a younger
man. 'That's why we're going to have the hide beaten off us. People like you.
Could they fight in your time, Captain Langley?"
"Tolerable well, when
we had to," said the American.
"That's
what I thought. Survivor types. You conquered the stars because you weren't
afraid to kick the next man. We are. We've gotten soft, here in the Solar
System, Haven't fought a major war in a thousand years, and now that one's
shaping up we don't know how."
"Are you in the
army?" asked Langley.
"I?"
The young fellow looked surprised. "The Solar military forces are slaves.
Bred and trained for the job, publicly owned. The higher officers are
Ministers, but—"
"Well,
would you advocate drafting your own class into service?"
"Wouldn't do any good. They aren't fit.
Not in a class with the slave specialists. The Centaurians, though, they call
up their free-born, and they like fighting.
If we could learn that too—"
"Son," asked Langley recklessly,
"have you ever seen men with their heads blown open, guts coming out, ribs
sticking through the skin? Ever faced a man who intended to kill you?"
"No ... no, of course not. But—"
Langley
shrugged. He'd met this type before, back home. Some of them wrote books.
He
mumbled an excuse and got away. Blaustein joined him, and they fell into
English. "Where's Bob?" asked Langley.
Blaustein gave a crooked grin. "Last I
saw, he was heading off-stage with one of the female entertainers. Nice-looking
little girl, too. Maybe he's got the right idea."
"For him," said
Langley.
"I can't. Not now, anyway."
Blaustein looked sick. "You know, I thought maybe, even if everything we
knew is gone, the human race would finally have learned some sense. I was a
pacifist—you know, intellectual pacifist—simply because I could see what a bloody, brainless farce it
was, how nobody gained anything except a few smart boys." Blaustein was a
little drunk too. "And the solution is so easyl It stares you right in the
face: a universal government with teeth. That's all. No more war. No more men
getting shot and resources plundered and little children burned alive. I
thought maybe in five thousand years even this dim-witted race of ours would
get that lesson hammered home. Remember, they've never had a war at all on
Holat. Are we that much stupider?"
"I should think an interstellar war
would be kind of hard to fight," said Langley. "Years of travel just
to get there."
"Uh-huh. Also, little economic
incentive. If a planet can be colonized at all, it's going to be
self-sufficient. Those two reasons are why there hasn't been a real war for a
thousand years, since the colonies broke loose."
Blaustein
leaned closer, weaving a trifle on his feet. "But there's one shaping up
now. We may very well see it. Rich mineral resources on the planets of Sirius,
and the government there weak, and Sol and Centauri strong. Both of them want
those planets. Neither can let the other have them; it'd be too advantageous. I
was just talking to an officer, who put it in very nearly those words, besides
adding something about the Centaurians being filthy barbarians."
"So
I'd still like to know how you fight across four-plus light-years," said
Langley.
"You
send a king-size fleet, complete with freighters full of supplies. You meet the
enemy fleet and whip it in space. Then you bombard the enemy planets from the
sky. Did you know they can disintegrate any kind of matter completely now?
Nine times ten to the twentieth ergs per gram. And there are things like
synthetic virus and radioactive dust. You smash civilization on those planets,
land, and do what you please. Simple. The only thing to be sure of is that the
enemy fleet doesn't beat you, because then your own home is lying wide open. Sol
and Centauri have been intriguing, sparring, for decades now. As soon as one of
them gets a clear advantage—wham! Fireworks." Blaustein gulped his wine
and reached for more.
"Of
course," he said owlishly, "there's always the chance that even if
you beat the enemy, enough of his ships will escape to go to your home system
and knock out the planetary defenses and bombard. Then you have two systems
gone back to the caves. But when has that prospect ever stopped a politician?
Or psychotechnical administrator, as I believe they call 'em now. Lemme alone.
I want to get blotto."
Chanthavar
found Langley a few minutes later and took him by the arm. "Come," he
said. "His Fidelity, the chief of the Technon Servants, wants to meet you.
His Fidelity is a very important man . . .
Excellent Sulon, may I present Captain Edward Langley?"
He
was a tall and thin old man in a plain blue robe and cowl. His lined face was
intelligent, but there was something humorless and fanatical about his mouth.
"This is interesting," he said harshly. "I understand that you
wandered far in space, Captain."
"Yes, my lord."
"Your
documents have already been presented to the Technon. Every scrap of
information, however seemingly remote, is valuable. For only through sure
knowledge of all the facts can the machine make sound decisions. You would be
surprised how many agents there are whose only job is the constant gathering of
data. The state thanks you for your service."
"It is nothing, my
lord," said Langley with due deference.
"It
may be much," Sulon said. "The Technon is the foundation of Solar
civilization; without it, we are lost. Its very location is unknown to all save
the highest ranks of my order, its servants. For this we are born and raised,
for this we renounce all family ties and worldly pleasures. We are so
conditioned that if an attempt is made to get our secrets from us, and there is
no obvious escape, we die—automatically. I tell you this to give you some idea
of what the Technon means."
Langley
couldn't think of any response. Sulon was proof that Sol hadn't lost all
vitality, but there was an inhuman-ness about him.
"I
am told that an extraterrestrial being of unknown race was with your crew and
has escaped," went on the old man. "I must take a very grave view of
this. He is a completely unpredictable factor—your own journal gives little
information."
"I'm sure he's
harmless, my lord," said Langley.
"That
remains to be seen. The Technon itself orders that he be found or destroyed
immediately. Have you, as an acquaintance of his, any idea of how to go about
this?"
There
it was again. Langley felt cold. The problem of Saris Hronna had all of them
scared. And a frightened man could be a vicious creature.
"Standard
search patterns haven't worked," said Chan-thavar. "I'll tell you
this much, though it's secret: he killed three of my men and got away in their
flyer. Where has he gone?"
"I'll
. . . have to think," stammered Langley. "This is most unfortunate,
my lord. Believe me, I'll give it all my attention."
Langley
was pulled away by a plump, hairy hand. It belonged to a large pot-bellied man
in foreign-looking dress. The head was massive, with an elephantine nose,
disorderly flame-red hair and the first beard Langley had seen in this age. The
man had surprisingly keen light eyes. The rather high voice was accented, an
intonation not of Earth: "Greeting, sir. I have been most anxious to meet
you. Goltam Valti is the name."
"Your servant, my
lord," said Langley.
"No,
no. I've no title. Poor old greasy lickspittle Goltam Valti is not to the
colors bora. I'm of the Commercial Sociefy, and we don't have nobles. Can't afford
'em. Hard enough to make an honest living these days, with buyers and sellers
alike grudging you enough profit to eat on, and one's dear old homestead
generations away. Well, about a decade in my case, I'm from Ammon in the Tau
Ceti system orginally. A sweet planet, that, with golden beer and a lovely girl
to serve it to you, ah, yesl"
Langley
felt a stirring of interest. He'd heard something about the Society, but not
enough. Valti led him to a divan and they sat down and whistled at a passing
table for refreshments.
"I'm
chief factor at Sol," continued Valti. "You must come see our
building sometime. Souvenirs of a hundred planets there, I'm sure it'll
interest you. But 5000 years' worth of wandering, that is too much even for a trader.
You must have seen a great deal, Captain, a great
deal. Ah, were I young again . . ."
Langley
threw subtlety aside and asked a few
straightforward questions. Getting information out of Valti took patience;
you had to listen to a paragraph of self-pity to get a sentence worth hearing,
but something emerged. The Society had existed for a thousand years or more,
recruited from all planets, even nonhuman races: it carried on most of the
interstellar trade there was, dealing in goods which were often from worlds
unknown to this little section of the galaxy. For Society personnel, the great
spaceships were home, men and women and children living their lives on them.
They had their own laws, customs, language; they owed allegiance to no one
else.
"Haven't you a
capital, a government?"
"Details,
my friend, details we can discuss later. Do come see me. I am a lonely old man.
Perhaps I can offer you some small entertainment. Did you by any chance stop in
the Tau Ceti system? No? That's a shame. It would have interested you: the
double ring system of Osiris and the natives of Horus and the beautiful,
beautiful valleys of Ammon, yes, yes." The names originally given to the
planets had changed, but not so much that Langley could not recognize what
mythical figures the discoverers had had in mind. Valti went on to reminisce
about worlds he had seen in the lost lamented days of his youth, and Langley
found it an enjoyable conversation. "Ho, therel"
Valti
jumped up and bowed wheezily. "My lordl You honor me beyond my worth. It
has been overly long since I saw you."
"All
of two weeks," grinned the blond giant in the screaming crimson jacket
and blue trousers. He had a wine goblet in one brawny hand, the other held the
ankles of a tiny, exquisite dancing girl who perched on his shoulder and
squealed with laughter. "And then you diddled me out of a thousand solars,
you and your loaded dice."
"Most
excellent lord, fortune must now and then smile even on my ugly face; the
probability-distribution curve demands it." Valti made washing motions
with his hands. "Perhaps my lord would care for revenge some evening next
week?"
"Could
be. Whoops!" The giant slid the girl to earth and dismissed her with a
playful thwack. "Run along, Thura, Kolin, whatever your name is. I'll see
you later." His eyes were very bright and blue on Langley. "Is this
the dawn man I've been hearing about?"
"Yes.
My lord, may I present Captain Edward Langley? Lord Brannoch dhu Crombar, the
Centaurian ambassador."
So
this was one of the hated and feared men from Thor. He and Valti were the first
recognizably Caucasoid types the American had seen in this age: presumably
their ancestors had left Earth before the races had melted into an almost
uniform stock here, and possibly environmental factors had had something to do
with fixing their distinctive features.
Brannoch
grinned jovially, sat down and told an uproariously improper story. Langley countered with the tale of the cowboy who got three wishes, and
Brannoch s guffaw made glasses tremble.
"So you still used
horses?" he asked afterward.
"Yes,
my lord. I was raised in horse country. We used them in conjunction with
trucks. I was . . . going to raise them myself."
Brannoch
seemed to note the pain in the spaceman's voice, and with a surprising tact
went on to describe his stable at home. "I think you'd like Thor,
Captain," he finished. "We still have elbow room. How they can
breathe with twenty billion hunks of fat meat in the Solar System, 111 never know. Why not come see us sometime?"
"I'd
like to, my lord," said Langley, and maybe he wasn't being entirely a
liar.
Brannoch sprawled back, letting his long legs
stretch across the polished floor. "I've kicked around a bit too," he
said. "Had to get out of the system a while back, when my family got the
short end of a feud. Spent a hundred years external time knocking around, till
I got a chance to make a comeback. Planetography's a sort of hobby with me,
which is the only reason I come to your parties, Valti, you kettle-bellied old
fraud. Tell me, Captain, did you ever touch at Procyon?"
For
half an hour the conversation spanned stars and planets. Something of the
weight within Langley lifted. The vision of many-faced strangeness spinning
through an endless outer dark was one to catch at his heart.
"By
the way," said Brannoch, "I've been hearing some rumors' about an
alien you had along, who broke loose. What's the truth on that?"
"Ah,
yes," murmured Valti in his tangled beard. "I too have been
intrigued. Yes, a most interesting sort he seems to be. Why should he take such
a desperate action?"
Langley
stiffened. What had Chanthavar said? Wasn't the whole affair supposed to be
confidential?
Brannoch would have his spies, of course. And
seemingly
Valti
did too. The American had a chilling sense of immense contending powers, a
machine running wild. And he was caught in the whirling gears.
"I'd
rather like to add him to the collection," said Brannoch idly. 'That is,
not to harm him, just to meet the creature. If he really is a true telepath,
he's almost unique."
'The
Society would also have an interest in this matter," said Valti
diffidently. "The planet may have something to trade worth even such a
long trip."
After
a moment, he added dreamily: "I think the payment for such information
would be quite generous, Captain. The Society has its little quirks, and the
desire to meet a new race is one. Yes, there would be money in it."
"Could
be I'd venture a little fling myself," said Brannoch. "Couple million
solars—and my protection. These are troubled times, Captain. A powerful patron
isn't to be sniffed at."
"The
Society," remarked Valti, "has extraterritorial rights. It can grant
sanctuary, as well as removal from Earth, which is becoming an unsalubrious
place. And, of course, monetary rewards: three million solars, as an investment
in new knowledge?"
"This
is hardly the place to talk business," said Brannoch. "But as I said,
I think you might like Thor. Or we could set you up anywhere else you chose.
Three and a half million."
Valti
groaned. "My lord, do you wish to impoverish me? I have a family to
support."
"Yeh. One on each
planet," chuckled Brannoch.
Langley
sat very still. He thought he knew why they all wanted Saris Hronna. But what
could he do about it?
Chanthavar's
short supple form emerged from the crowd. "Oh, there you are," he
said. He bowed casually to Brannoch and Valti. "Your servant, my lord and
good sir."
"Thanks,
Channy," said Brannoch. "Sit down, why don't you?"
"No.
Another person would like to meet the captain. Excuse us."
When
they were safely into the mob, Chanthavar drew Langley aside. "Were those
men after you to deliver this alien up to them?" he asked. There was
something ugly on his face.
"Yes," said
Langley wearily.
T
thought so. The Solar government's riddled with their agents. Well, don't do
it."
A
tired, harried anger bristled in Langley. "Look here, son," he said,
straightening till Chanthavar's eyes were well below his, "I don't see as
how I owe any faction today anything. Why don't you quit treating me like a
child?"
"I'm
not going to hold you incommunicado, though I could," said Chanthavar
mildly. "Isn't worth the trouble,-because well probably have that beast
before long. I'm just warning you, though, that if he should fall into any
hands but mine, it'll go hard with you."
"Why not lock me up
and be done with it?"
"It
wouldn't make you think, as 111 want you to think in case my own search fails.
And it's too crude." Chanthavar paused, then said with a curious
intensity: "Do you know why I play out this game of politics and war? Do
you think maybe I want power for myself? That's for fools who want to command
other fools. It's fun to play, though. Life gets so thundering tedious
otherwise. What else can I do that I haven't done a hundred times already? But
it's fun to match wits with Brannoch and that slobbering redbeard. Win, lose,
or draw, it's amusing; but I intend to win."
"Ever thought of . . .
compromising?"
"Don't
let Brannoch bluff you. He's one of the coldest and cleverest brains in the
galaxy. Fairly decent sort—I'll be sorry when I finally have to kill
him—but—never mind!" Chanthavar turned away. "Come on, let's get
down to the serious business of getting drunk."
VI
Progress does get made: Langley's refresher cabinet removed
all trace of hangover from him the next morning, and the service robot slid
breakfast from a chute onto a table and removed it when he was through. But
after that there was a day of nothing to do but sit around and brood.
It
would be so easy to give in, cooperate with Chantha-var, and glide with the
current. How did he know it wouldn't be right? The Technate seemed to represent
order, civilization, justice of sorts. He had no business setting himself up
against twenty billion people and 5000 years of history. Had Peggy been along,
he would have surrendered; her neck was not one to risk for a principle he
wasn't even sure of.
But
Peggy was dead, and he had little except principle to live for. It was no fun
playing God, even on this petty scale, but he had come from a society which
laid on each man the obligation to decide things for himself.
Chanthavar called on the group that
afternoon. He was still yawning. "What a time to get upl" he
complained. "Life isn't worth the effort before sundown. Well, shall we
go?"
As he led them out, half a dozen of his
guards closed in
around
the party. "What're they for, anyhow?" asked Lang-ley.
"Protection against the commons?"
"I'd
like to see a commoner even think about making trouble," said Chanthavar.
"If he can think, which I sometimes doubt. No, I need these fellows against
my own rivals. Brannoch, for instance, would gladly knock me off just to get an
incompetent successor. I've ferreted out a lot of his agents. And then I have
my competitors within the Technate. Having discovered that bribery and cabals
won't unseat me, they may very well try the direct approach."
"What
would they stand to gain by . . . assassinating you?" inquired Blaustein.
"Power,
position, maybe some of my estates. Or they may be out and out enemies. I had
to kick in a lot of teeth on my own way up."
They
emerged on a bridgeway and let its moving belt carry them along, dizzily high
over the city. At this altitude, Langley could see that Lora was built as a
single integrated unit. No building stood alone. They were all connected, and
there was a solid roof underneath decking over the lower levels.
Chanthavar
pointed to the misty horizon, where a single great tower reared.
"Weather-control station," he said. "Most of what you see
belongs to the city, Ministerial public park, but over that way is the boundary
of an estate belonging to Tarahoe. He raises grain on it, being a
back-to-nature crank."
"Haven't you any small
farms?" asked Langley.
"Space,
no!" Chanthavar looked surprised. "They do on the Centaurian planets,
but I'd find it hard to imagine a more inefficient system. A lot of our food is
synthesized; the rest is grown on Ministerial lands."
They
had lunch at a terrace restaurant, where machines served a gaily dressed,
stiff-mannered clientele of aristocrats. Chanthavar paid the bill with a
shrug. "I hate to put money into the purse of Minister Agaz—he's after my
head— but you must admit he keeps a good chef."
The
guards did not eat; they were trained to a sparse diet and an untiring
watchfulness.
'There's
a lot to see, here in the upper levels," said Chan-thavar. He nodded at
the discreet glow-sign of an amusement house. "But it's more of the same.
Come on downside for a change."
A
gravity shaft dropped them two thousand feet, and they stepped into another
world.
Here
there was no sun, no sky. Walls and ceiling were metal; floors were soft and
springy, and a ruler-straight drabness filled Langley's vision. The air was
fresh enough, but it throbbed and rang with a noise that never ended: pumping,
hammering, vibrating—the deep steady heartbeat of that great machine which was
the city. The corridors-streets—were crowded, restless, alive with motion and
shrill talking.
So these were the commoners. Langley stood
for a moment in the shaft entrance, watching them. He didn't know what he had
expected—gray-clad zombies, perhaps—but he was surprised. The disorderly mass
reminded him of cities he had seen in Asia.
Dress
was a cheap version of that of the Ministerial: tunics for men, long dresses
for women; it seemed to fall into a number of uniforms, green and blue and red,
but was sloppily worn. The men's heads were shaven; the faces reflected that
mixture of races which man on Earth had become. There were incredible numbers
of naked children playing under the very feet of the mob; there was not that
segregation of the sexes which the upper levels i enforced.
Chanthavar
offered cigarettes, struck one for himself, and led the way behind a couple of
guards. People fell aside, bowing respectfully and then resuming their affairs.
"We'll have to walk," said the agent. "No slideways down
here."
"What are the
uniforms?" asked Blaustein.
"Different
trades: metalworker, food producer, and so on. They have a guild system, highly
organized, several years' apprenticeship, and there's a lot of rivalry between
the guilds. As long as the commons do their work and behave themselves, we
leave them pretty much alone. The police— city-owned slaves—keep them in line
if real trouble ever starts." Chanthavar pointed to a burly black-clad man
in a steel helmet. "It doesn't matter much what goes on here. They haven't
the weapons or the education to threaten anything. Such schooling as they get
emphasizes how they must fit themselves to the basic system."
"Who's
that?" Matsumoto gestured to a man in form-fitting scarlet, his face
masked, a knife in his belt, who slipped quietly between people indisposed to
hinder him.
"Assassins'
guild, though mostly they hire out to do burglaries and beatings. The commons
aren't robots—we encourage free enterprise. They're not allowed firearms, so
it's safe enough and keeps the others amused."
After
dinner, which was at a spot patronized by the wealthier merchants, Chanthavar
smiled. "Near walked my legs off today," he said. "Now how about
some fun? A city is known by its vices."
"Well,
okay," said Langley. He was a little drunk; the sharp pungent beer of the
lower levels buzzed in his head. He didn't want women, not with memory still a
bright pain in him. But there ought to be games and . , . His purse was full of
bills and coins. "Where to?"
"Dreamhouse,
I think," said Chanthavar, leading them out. "It's a favorite resort
for all levels."
The
entrance was a cloudy blueness opening into many small rooms. They took one,
slipping life-masks over their faces: living synthetic flesh which stung
briefly as it connected to nerve endings in the skin and then was part of you.
"Everybody's equal here, everybody anonymous," said Chanthavar.
"Refreshing."
"What
is your wish, sirs?" The voice came from nowhere, cool and somehow not
human.
"General
tour," said Chanthavar. "The usual. Here, put a hundred solars in
this slot, each of you. The place is expensive, but fun."
They
relaxed on what seemed a dry, fluffy cloud, and were carried aloft. The guards
formed an impassive huddle some distance behind. Doors opened for them. They
hung under a perfumed sky of surrealistic stars and moons, looking down on
what appeared to be a deserted landscape not of Earth.
"Part
illusion, part real," said Chanthavar. "You can have any experience
you can imagine here, for the right price. Look . . ."
The
cloud drifted through a rain which was blue and red and golden fire, tingling
as it licked over their bodies. Great triumphant chords of music welled around
them. Through the whirling flames, Langley glimpsed girls of an impossible
loveliness, dancing on the air.
Then
they were underwater, or so it seemed, with tropical fish swimming through a
green translucence, corals and waving fronds underneath. Then they were in a
red-fit cavern like Hell, where the music was a hot pulse in the blood. They
shot at darting containers which landed to offer a drink when hit. Then they
were in a huge and jolly company of people, singing and laughing and dancing
and gulling. A young female giggled and tugged at
Langley's arm. Briefly, he wavered. Then he said harshly: "Scram!"
Whirled
over a roaring waterfall, sporting through air which was somehow thick enough
to swim in, gliding past grottos and glens full of strange lights, and into a
gray swirling mist where you could not see a yard ahead . . . Here, in a
dripping damp quiet which seemed to mask enormousness, they paused.
Chanthavar's
shadowy form gestured, and there was a queer taut note in his muffled voice:
"Would you like to play Creator? Let me show you ..." A ball of raging flame was in his hands, and from it he
molded stars and strewed them through sightless immensity. "Suns, planets,
moons, people, civilizations and histories—you can make them here as you
please." Two stars crashed into each other. "You can will yourself to
see a world grow—any detail no matter how tiny. A million years in a minute or
a minute stretched through a million years; you can smite it with thunder, and
watch them cower and worship you." The sun in Chanthavar's hands glowed
dully through the fog. Tiny sparks which were planets flitted around it.
"Let me clear the mist; let there be light."
Something
moved in the wet smoky air. Langley saw a shadow striding between new-bom
constellations, a thousand light-years tall. A hand gripped his arm, and dimly
he saw the pseudo-face beyond.
He
writhed free, yelling, as the other hand sought his neck. A wire loop snaked
out, tangling his ankles. There were two men now, closing in on him. Wildly, he
groped backward. His fist connected with a cheek which bled artificial blood.
"Chanthavar!"
A
blaster crashed, startlingly loud and brilliant. Langley hurled a giant red sun
into one of the faces wavering near him. Twisting free of an arm about his
waist, he kneed the vague form and heard a grunt of pain.
"Light!" bellowed
Chanthavar. "Get rid of this mist!"
The
fog broke, slowly and raggedly. There was a deep clear blackness, the dark of
outer vacuum, with stars swimming in it like fireflies. Then full illumination
came on.
A man sprawled dead near Chanthavar, his
stomach torn open by an energy bolt. The guards milled uneasily. Otherwise
they were alone. The room was bare, coldly lit.
For
a long moment, he and the agent stared at each other. Blaustein and Matsumoto
were gone.
"Is
. . . this . . . part of the fun?" asked Langley through his teeth.
"No."
A hunter's light flickered in •Chanthavar's eyes. He laughed. "Beautiful
job! I'd like to have those fellows on my staff. Your friends have been stunned
and kidnapped under my own eyes. Come onl"
VH
Thehe was a time of roaring confusion as Chanthavar
snapped orders into a visiphone, organizing a chase. Then he swung around to
Langley. "I'll have this warren searched, of course," he said.
"But I don't imagine the kidnappers are still in it. The robots aren't set
to notice who goes out in what condition, so that's no help. Nor do I expect to
find the employee of this place who helped fix matters up for the snatch. But
I've got the organization alerted. There'll be a major investigation hereabouts
inside half an hour. And Brannoch's quarters are being watched already."
"Brannoch?" repeated Langley
stupidly. His brain felt remote, like a stranger's. He couldn't throw off the
airborne drugs as fast as the agent.
"To
be sure! Who else? Never thought he had this efficient a gang on Earth. They
won't take your friends directly to him, of course. There'll be a hideout
somewhere in the lower levels. Not too much chance of finding it among fifteen
million commoners, but well try. Well try!"
A
policeman hurried up with a small, metal-cased object which Chanthavar took.
"Peel off that mask. This is an electronic scent-tracer. Well try to
follow the trail of the pseudo-faces. Distinctive odor, so don't you confuse
it. I don't think the kidnappers took the masks off in Dreamhouse; then someone
might notice who they were carrying. Stick with us. We may need you. Let's
go!"
A
score of men, black-clad, armed and silent, surrounded them. Chanthavar cast
about the main exit. There was something of the questing hound over him. The
esthete, the hedonist, the casual philosopher were blotted up in the hunter of
men. A fight glowed on the machine. "A trail, all right," he
muttered. "If only it doesn't get cold too fast. Damn it, why must they
ventilate the lowers so well?" He set off at a rapid jog trot, his men
keeping an easy pace. The milling crowds shrank away.
Langley
was too bewildered to think. This was happening faster than he could follow,
and the drugs of Dreamhouse were still in his blood, making the world unreal.
Bob, Jim . . . now the great darkness had snatched them too. Would he ever see
them again?
Down
a drop-shaft, falling like autumn leaves, Chanthavar testing each exit as he
passed it. The unceasing roar of machines grew louder, more frantic. Langley
shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to master himself. It was like a
dream. He was carried willlessly along between phantoms in black.
He
had to get away. He had to get off by himself, think in peace. It was an
obsession now, driving everything else out of his head. He was in a nightmare
and he wanted to wake up. Sweat was clammy on his skin.
The
light flashed, feebly. "This way!" Chanthavar swung out of a portal.
'Trail's weakening, but maybe—"
The
guards pressed after him. Langley hung back, dropped further, and stepped out
at the next level down.
It
was an evil section, dim-lit and dingy. The streets were almost deserted.
Closed doors lined the walls, litter blew about under his feet, the stamping
and grinding of machines filled his universe. He walked fast, turning several
corners and trying to hide.
Slowly
his brain cleared. An old man in dirty garments sat cross-legged beside a door
and watched him out of filmy eyes. A sleazy woman slunk close to him, flashing
bad teeth in a mechanical smile, and fell behind. A tall young man, ragged and
unshaven, leaned against the wall and followed his movements with listless
eyes. This was the slum, the oldest section, poor and neglected—the last refuge
of failure. This was where those whom the fierce life of the upper tiers had
broken fled, to drag out lives of no importance to the Technon.
Langley
stopped, breathing hard. A furtive hand groped from a narrow passage, feeling
after the purse at his belt. He slapped, and the child's bare feet pattered
away into darkness.
Damn fool thing to do, he thought. I could be murdered for my cash. Let's find us a cop and get out of here, son.
He
walked on down the street. A legless beggar whined at him, but he didn't dare
show his money. New legs could have been grown, but that was a costly thing.
Well behind, a tattered pair followed him. Where the hell was a policeman?
Didn't anyone care what happened down here?
A
huge shape came around a corner. It had four legs, a torso with arms, a
nonhuman head. Langley hailed it. "Which is the way out? Where's the
nearest shaft going up? I'm lost."
The
alien looked blankly at him and went on. No spikka da Inglees. Etie Town, the section reserved for visitors of other races, was
somewhere around here. That might be safe, though most of the compartments
would be sealed off, their interiors poisonous to him. Langley went the way the
stranger had come. His followers shortened the distance between.
Music
thumped and wailed from an open door. There was a bar, a crowd, but not the
sort where he could look for help. As the final drug mists cleared, Langley
realized that he might be in a very tight fix.
Two
men stepped out of a passage. They were husky, well dressed for commoners. One
of them bowed. "Can I do you a service, sir?"
Langley
halted, feeling the coldness of his own sweat. "Yes," he said thickly.
"Yes, thanks. How do I get out of this section?"
"A
stranger, sir?" They fell in, one on either side. "Well conduct you.
Right this way."
Too
obliging! "What are you doing down here?" snapped Langley.
"Just looking around,
sir."
The
speech was too cultivated, too polite. These aren't commoners any more than I ami "Never mind. I—I don't want to bother
you. Just point me right."
"Oh,
no, sir. That would be dangerous. This is not a good area to be alone in."
A large hand fell on his arm.
"No!" Langley
stopped dead.
"We
must insist, I'm afraid." An expert shove, and he was being half dragged.
"You'll be all right, sir, just relax, no harm."
The
tall shape of a slave policeman hove into view. Lang-ley's breath rattled in
his throat. "Let me go," he said. "Let me go, or—"
Fingers
closed on his neck, quite unobtrusively, but he gasped with pain. When he had
recovered himself, the policeman was out of sight again.
Numbly, he followed. The portal of a
grav-shaft loomed before him. They tracked me, he
thought bitterly. Of
course they did. I don't know how stupid a man can get, but I've been trying
hard tonight.
Three
men appeared, almost out of nowhere. They wore the gray robes of the Society.
"Ah," said one. "You found him. Thank you."
"What's
this?" Langley's companions recoiled. "Who're you? What d'you
want?"
"We
wish to see the good captain home," answered one of the newcomers. His
neatly bearded face smiled, and a gun jumped into his hand.
"That's illegal—that
weapon—"
"Possibly.
But you'll be very dead if you don't—that's better. Just come with us, Captain,
if you please."
Langley
entered the shaft between his new captors. There didn't seem to be much choice.
The
strangers did not speak, but hurried him along. They seemed to know all the
empty byways. Their progress upwards was roundabout but fast, and hardly
another face was seen en route. Langley tried to relax, feeling himself swept
along a dark and resistless tide.
Upper
town again, shining pinnacles and loops of diamond light against the stars. The
air was warm and sweet in his lungs, but he wondered how much longer he would
breathe it. Not far from the shaft exit, a massive octagonal tower reared out
of the general complex, its architecture foreign to the slim soaring exuberance
which was Technate work. A nimbus of radiance hung over its peak, with letters
of name running through it to spell out Commercial,
Society. Stepping onto a bridgeway, the four were bome
up toward a flange near its middle.
As
they got off onto the ledge, a small black aircraft landed noiselessly beside
them. A voice came from it, amplified till it boomed through the humming quiet:
"Do not move further. This is the police."
Policel Langley's knees felt suddenly watery. He
might have known—Chanthavar would not leave this place un-watched. He had sent
an alarm when the spaceman was found missing; the organization was efficient,
and now he was savedl
The three traders stood immobile, their faces
like wood. A door dilated, and another man stepped from the building as five black-clad
slaves and one Ministerial officer got out of the boat. It was Goltam Valti. He
waited with the others, rubbing his hands together in a nervous washing motion.
The
officer bowed slightly. "Good evening, sir. I am pleased to see you have
found the captain. You are to be commended."
"Thank you, my lord," bowed Valti.
His voice was shrill, almost piping, and he blew out his fat cheeks and bobbed
his shaggy head obsequiously. "It is kind of you to come, but your
assistance is not required."
"We will take him home
for you," said the officer.
"Oh,
sir, surely you will permit me to offer my poor hospitality to this
unfortunate stranger. It is a firm rule of the Society: a guest may never leave
without being treated."
"I
am sorry, sir, but he must." In the vague, flickering light, the officer
scowled, and there was a sharp ring in his tones. "Later, perhaps. Now he
must come with us. I have my orders."
Valti
bowed and scraped. "I sympathize, sir, these dim eyes weep at the thought
of conflict with your eminence, but poor and old and helpless worm though I
be"—the whine faded into a buttery purr—"nevertheless, I am forced to
remind you, my lord,
much against my will, which
is only for pleasant relationships, that you are outside your jurisdiction. By
the Treaty of Luna, the Society has extraterritorial rights. Honored sir, I
pray you not to force me into requesting your passport."
The officer grew rigid. "I told you I had my orders," he
Said, thinly,
The trader's bulky shape loomed suddenly
enormous against the sky. His beard bristled. But the voice remained light:
"Sir, my nose bleeds for you. But be so kind as to remember that this
building is armed and armored. A dozen heavy guns are trained on you, and I
must regretfully enforce the law. The captain will take refreshment with me.
Afterward he shall be sent to his home, but at present it is most inhospitable
to keep him standing in this damp air. Good evening, sir." He took
Langley's arm and walked him to the door. The other three followed, and the
door closed behind them.
"I
suppose," said the spaceman slowly, "that what I want isn't of much
account."
"I
had not hoped to have the honor of talking with you privately so soon,
Captain," answered Valti. "Nor do I think you will regret a chat over
a cup of good Ammonite wine. It gets a little bruised in transit, so delicate a
palate as yours will detect that, but I humbly assert that it retains points of
superiority."
They
had gone down a hall, and now a door opened for them. "My study,
Captain," bowed Valti. "Please enter."
It was a big, low-ceilinged, dim-lit room,
lined with shelves which held not only microspools but some authentic folio
volumes. The chairs were old and shabby and comfortable, and the desk was big
and littered with papers. There was a haze of strong tobacco in the rather
stuffy air.
A
creature the size of a monkey, with a beaked face and strangely luminous eyes
beneath small antennae, entered bearing a tray- in skinny arms. Langley found a
chair and accepted a cup of hot spiced wine and a plate of cakes. Valti wheezed
and drank deep. "Ah! That does these rheumatic old bones good. I fear
medicine will never catch up with the human body, which finds the most-
ingenious new ways of getting deranged. But good wine, sir, good wine and a
pretty girl and the dear bright hills of home, there is the best medicine that
will ever be devised. Cigars, Thakt, if you please."
The
monkey-thing leaped grotesquely to the desk and extended a box. Both men took
one, and Langley found his cigar good. The alien sat on Valti's shoulder,
scratching its own green fur and giggling. Its eyes never left the spaceman.
"Well—" After the last couple of
hours, Langley felt exhausted. There was no more fight in him. He relaxed and
let the weariness run through nerve and muscle. But his head seemed abnormally
clear. "Well, Mr. Valti, what was all this foofaraw about?"
The
trader blew smoke and sat back, crossing his stumpy legs. "Events- are
beginning to move with uncomfortable rapidity," he said in a quiet
tone. "I'm glad this chance came to see you."
"Those cops seemed
anxious that I shouldn't."
"Of
course." The deep-sunken little eyes twinkled. "But it will take them
some time to line up those collections of reflexes they call brains and decide
to attack me. By then, you will be home, for I shall not detain you long. The
good Chanthavar, now, would not stall, but he is fortunately engaged
elsewhere."
"Yes,
trying to find my friends." Langley felt a dull grief in him. "Do you
know they were taken?"
"I
do." There was sympathy in the tone. "I have my own agents in the
Solar forces, and know more or less all which happened tonight."
"Where are they? How
are they?"
Bleakness
twisted the half-hidden mouth. "I am very much afraid for them, Captain.
They are probably in the power of Lord Brannoch. They may be released. I don't
know." Valti sighed. "I've not spies in his organization, nor he in
mine . . . I hope."
"Are you sure that Brannoch—"
"Who else? Chanthavar had no need that I
can see to stage such an affair; he could order all of you arrested any time he
chose. None of the other foreign states are in this at all; they are too weak.
Brannoch is known to head Cen-taurian military intelligence at Sol, though so
far he has been clever enough to leave no evidence which would be grounds for
his expulsion. No, the only powers which count in this part of the galaxy are
Sol, Centauri and the Society."
"And
why," asked Langley slowly, "would Brannoch take them?"
"Isn't
it obvious? The alien, Saris Hronna I think he's called. They may know where to
find him. You don't realize what a fever he has thrown all of us into. You have
been watched every minute by agents of all three powers. I toyed with the idea
of having you snatched myself, but the Society is too peaceful to be very good
at that sort of thing. Anyway, Brannoch beat us to it. The moment I learned
what had happened, I sent a hundred men out to try to locate you. Fortunately,
one group succeeded."
"They
almost didn't," said Langley. "They had to take me away from two
others—Centaurians, I suppose."
"Of
course. I don't think Brannoch will try to assault this stronghold, especially
since he will have hopes of getting the information from your friends. Do you
think they will tell him anything?"
"Depends."
Langley narrowed his eyes and took a long drag of smoke. "I doubt it,
though. They never got very intimate with Saris. I did—we used to talk for
hours—though I still can't claim to know just what makes him tick."
"Ah,
so." Valti took a noisy sip of wine. There was no expression in the heavy
face. "Do you know why he is so important?"
"I
think so. Military value of his ability to damp out or control electronic
currents and so forth. But I'm surprised you haven't got a -machine to do the
same thing."
"Science
died long ago," said Valti. "I, who have seen worlds where they are
still progressing, though behind us as yet, know the difference between a
living science and a dead bne. The spirit of open-minded inquiry became extinct
in known human civilizations quite a while back."
Valti
looked at him under drooping lids. "There are, of course, ways to make a
man talk," he said. "Not torture-nothing so crude—but drugs which
unlock the tongue. Chan-thavar has hesitated to use them on you. If you do not,
after all, have an idea where Saris is, the rather unpleasant process could
easily set up a subconscious bloc which would forbid you to think further about
the problem. However, he may now be desperate enough to do so. He will surely
do it the moment he suspects you have deduced something. Have you?"
"Why should I tell
you, mister?"
Valti
looked patient. "Because only the Society can be trusted with a decisive
weapon."
"Only
one party can," said Langley dryly. "I've heard that song
before."
"Consider,"
said Valti. His voice remained dispassionate. "Sol is a petrified
civilization, interested only in maintaining the status quo. The Centaurians
brag a great deal about frontier vigor, but they are every bit as dead between
the ears. If they won, there would be an orgy of destruction followed by a
partem much the same, nothing new except a change of masters. If either system
suspects that the other has gotten Saris, it will attack at once, setting off
the most destructive war in a history which has already seen destruction on a
scale you cannot imagine. The other, smaller states are no better, even if they
were in a position to use the weapon effectively."
"All
right," Langley said. "Maybe you're right. But what claim has your
precious Society got? Who says you're a race of—" He paused, realized that
there was no word for saint or angel, and finished weakly: "Why do you
deserve anything?"
"We are not interested in
imperialism," said Valti. "We carry on trade between the stars—"
"Probably
cleaning the pants off both ends." "Well, an honest businessman has
to live. But we have no planet, we are not interested in having one—our home is
space itself. We do not kill except in self-defense. Normally we avoid a fight
by simply retreating; there is always plenty of room in the universe, and a
long jump makes it easy to overcome your enemies by merely outliving them. We
are a people to ourselves, with our own history, traditions, laws— the only
humane and neutral power in the known galaxy."
"Tell
me more," said Langley. "So far I've only got your word. You must
have some central government, someone to make decisions and coordinate you. Who
are they? Where are they?"
"I will be perfectly honest,
Captain," said Valti in a soft tone. "I do not know."
"Eh?"
"No
one knows. Each ship is competent to handle ordinary affairs for itself. We
file reports at the planetary offices, pay our tax. Where the reports and the
money go, I don't know, nor do the groundlings in the offices. There is a chain
of communications, a cell-type secret bureaucracy which would be impossible to
trace through tens of light-years. I rank high,, running the Solar offices at
present, and can make many decisions for myself. But I get special orders now
and then through a sealed circuit. There must be at least one of the chiefs
here on Earth, but where and who—or what— I couldn't say."
"How does this . . . government . . .
keep you in line?"
"We
obey," said Valti. "Ship discipline is potent, even on those who like
myself are recruited from planets rather than bom in space. The rituals, the
oaths—conditioning, if you will—I know of no case where an order has been
deliberately violated. But we are a free people. There is no slavery and no
aristocracy among us."
"Except for your bosses," murmured
Langley. "How do you know they're working for your own good?"
"You
needn't read any sinister or melodramatic implications into a security policy,
Captain. If the headquarters and identity of our chiefs were known, they would
be all too liable to attack and annihilation. As it is, promotion to the
bureaucracy involves complete disappearance, probably surgical disguise. I will
gladly' accept the offer if it is ever made to me.
"Under
its bosses, as you call them, the Society has prospered in the thousand years
since its founding. We are a force to be reckoned with. You saw how I was able
to make that police officer knuckle under."
Valti
took a deep breath and plunged into business: "I have not, as yet, received any commands about
Saris. If I had been told to keep you prisoner, be sure you would not leave
here. But as things are, I still have considerable latitude.
"Here
is my offer. There are small interplanetary flitters hidden here and there on
Earth. You can leave anytime. Away from Earth, safely concealed by sheer volume
of space unless you know her orbit, is an armed light-speed cruiser. If you
will help me find Saris, I will take you two away and do what I can to rescue
your companions. Saris will be studied, but he will not be harmed in any
manner. If he wishes he can later be returned to his home world. You can join
the Society, or you can be set up on some human-colonized planet beyond the
region known to Sol and Centauri. There are many lovely worlds out there, a
wide cultural variety, places where you can feel at home again. Your monetary
reward will give you a good start.
"I
do not think you will like Earth any more, Captain. Nor do I think you will
like the responsibility of unleashing a war which will devastate planets. I believe your best course is with us."
Langley stared at the floor. Weariness was
close to overwhelming him. To go home, to creep down light-years and centuries
until he found Peggy again—it was a scream
within him.
"I
don't know," he mumbled. "How can I tell if you're not lying?" With an instinct of self-preservation,
he said, "I don't know where Saris is either, you realize. I doubt if I can
find him myself."
Valti lifted a skeptical
brow, but said nothing.
"I
need time to think," pleaded Langley. "Let me sleep on it."
"If
you wish." Valti got up and rummaged in a drawer.
"But remember, Chanthavar or Brannoch may soon remove all choice from you.
Your decision, if it is to be your own, must be made soon."
He
took out a small, flat plastic box and handed it over. This is a communicator,
keyad to a frequency which varies continuously according to a random-chosen
series. It can only be detected by a similarly tuned instrument which I possess. If you want me, press this button
and call. It need not be held to your mouth. I may even be able to rescue you
from armed force, though it's best to be quiet about this affair. Here . . .
keep it next to your skin, under your clothes. It will hang on of itself and is
transparent to ordinary spy-beams."
Langley
rose. "Thanks," he muttered. "Decent of you to let me go."
Or is it only a trick to
disarm me?
"It's
nothing, Captain." Valti waddled ahead of him to the outside flange. An
armored police craft hovered just beyond its edge. "I believe
transportation home is waiting for you. Good night, sir."
"Good night,"
said Langley.
VIII
Weather
Control, had decreed rain for this area today, and Lora
stood under a low gray sky with her highest towers piercing its mists. Looking
out of the window which made one wall of his living room, Brannoch saw only a
wet metal gleam, fading into the downward rush of rain. Now and then h'ghtning
flickered, and when he told the window to open there was a cool damp breeze on
his face.
He
felt caged. As he paced the room, up and down and around, there was rage in his
heart. He snapped his report as if every word had to be bitten off and spat
out.
"Nothing,"
he said. "Not one damned sterile thing. They didn't know. They had no idea
where the creature might be. Their memories were probed down to the cellular
level, and nothing turned up we could use."
"Has
Chanthavar any clue?" asked the flat mechanical voice.
"No.
My Mesko agent's last report said that a warehouse was broken into the night
that flyer was stolen, and several cases of space rations removed. So all the
being had to do was hide these in whatever den he's got, release the flyer on
automatic and settle down to wait. Which he's apparently been doing ever
since."
"It
would be strange if human food would sustain him indefinitely," said
Thrymka. "The probabilities all favor his dietary requirements being at
least slightly different from yours. There will be some small cumulative
deficiency or poisoning. Eventually he will sicken and die."
"That
may take weeks," snarled Brannoch, "and meanwhile he may find some
way of getting what he needs. It may only be some trace element, titanium
or—anything. Or he may make a deal with one of the parties looking for him. I
tell you, there's no time to losel"
"We
are well aware of that," answered Thrymka. "Have you punished your
agents for their failure to get Langley too?"
"No.
They tried, but luck was against them. They almost had him, down in the Old
City, but then armed members of the Society took him away. Could he have been
bribed by Valti? It might be a good idea to knock that fat slug off."
"No."
"But-"
"No.
Council policy forbids murder of a Society member."
Brannoch
shrugged bitterly. "For fear they'll stop trading with Centauri? We should
be building our own merchant ships. We should be independent of everybody.
There'll come a day when the Council will see—"
"After
you have founded a new dynasty to rule over a Centaurian interstellar hegemony?
Perhaps!" There was the faintest lilt of sardonicism in the artificial
voice. "But continue your report; you know we prefer verbal communication.
Did not Blaustein and Matsumoto have any useful information at all?"
"Well
. . . yes. They said that if anyone could predict where Saris is and what he'll
do, it's Langley. Just our luck that he was the one man we did not succeed in
grabbing. Now Chanthavar has mounted such a guard over him that it'd be
impossible." Brannoch ran a hand through his yellow mane. "I've put
an equal number of my men to watching him, of course. They'd at least make it
difficult for Chan-thavar to spirit him away. For the time being, it's
deadlock."
"What disposition has
been made of the two prisoners?"
"Why
. . . they're still in the Old City hideout. Anesthetized. I thought I'd have
memory of the incident wiped from them and let them go. They're not
important."
"They
may be," said the monster—or the monsters. "If returned to
Chanthavar, they will be two hostages by which he may be able to compel
Langley's cooperation. But it is dangerous and troublesome for us to keep them.
Have them killed and the bodies disintegrated."
Brannoch
stopped dead. After a long time, during which the beat of rain against the
window seemed very loud, he shook his head. "No."
"Why not?"
"Assassination
in the line of business is one thing. But we don't kill helpless prisoners on
Thor."
"Your reason is
logically insufficient. Give the orders."
Brannoch
stood quiet. The concealing wall pattern swirled slowly before his eyes;
opposite it, rain was liquid silver running down the single big pane.
It
struck- him suddenly that he had never seen a Thryman. There were stereographs,
but under the monstrous weight of their atmosphere, dragged down by a planet of
50,000 miles diameter and three Earth gravities, no man could five. Theirs was
a world in which ice was like rock to form mountains, where rivers and seas of
liquid ammonia raged through storms which could swallow Earth whole, where life
based its chemistry on hydrogen and ammonia instead of oxygen and water, where
explosions of gas burned red through a gal-ing darkness. The population of the
dominant species was estimated at fifty billions, and a million years of
recorded history had united them in one unhuman civilization. It was not a
world for men, and he wished sometimes that men had never sent robots down to
contact the Thrymans.
He
considered what was going on inside that tank: four thick discs, six feet in
diameter, slaty blue, each stood on six short legs with wide, clawed feet;
between each pair of legs was an arm ending in a three-fingered band of
fantastic strength. A bulge in the center of the disc was the head, rigidly
fixed, with four eyes arranged around a trunk-like feeler on top and tympana
for ears. Underneath was the mouth and another trunk which was nose and feeder.
You could not tell one from another, not by appearance or acts. It made no
difference whether Thrymka-1 or
Thrymka-2 spoke.
"You
are debating whether or not to refuse," said the microphonic voice.
"You are not especially fond of us."
That
was the damnable part of it. At short range, a Thry-man could read your mind.
You could have no thought and make no plan which he didn't know. It was one
reason they were valuable advisors. The other reason was tied in with the
first: by joining feelers, they could discard spoken language, communicate
directly by thought—nerve to nerve, a linkage in which individuality was lost
and several intelligent, highly specialized entities became one brain of
unimaginable power. The advice of such multi-brains had done much to give the
League of Alpha Centauri its present strength.
But
they weren't human. They weren't remotely human. They had almost nothing in
common with man. They traded within the League, a swapping of mutually
unavailable materials; they sat on the Council, held high executive positions.
But the hookup ability made their minds quasi-immortal and altogether alien.
Nothing was known of their culture, their art, their ambitions. Whatever
emotions they had were so foreign that the only possible communication with
humankind was on the level of cold logic.
And curse it all, a man was
more than a logic machine.
"Your
thinking is muddy," said Thrymka. "You may clarify it by formulating
your objections verbally."
"I
won't have those men murdered," said Brannoch flady. "It's an ethical
question. I'd never forget what I had done."
"Your society has conditioned you along
arbitrary lines," said Thrymka. "Like most of your
relationship-concepts, it is senseless, contra-survival. Within a unified
civilization, which man does not possess, such an ethic could be justified, but
not in the face of existing conditions. You are ordered to have those men
killed."
"Suppose I
don't?" asked Brannoch softly.
"When
the Council hears of your insubordination, you will be removed and all your
chances for attaining your own ambitions "vanish."
"The
Council needn't hear. I could crack that tank of yours. You'd explode like
deep-sea fish. A very sad accident."
"You
will not do that. You cannot dispense with us. Also, the fact of your guilt
would be known to all Thrymans on the Council as soon as you appeared before
it."
Brannoch's
shoulders slumped. They had him and they knew it. According to his own orders
from home, they had the final say—always.
He
poured himself a stiff drink and gulped it down. Then he thumbed a special
communicator. "Yantri speaking. Get rid of those two motors. Dismande the
parts. Immediately. That's all."
The
rain poured in an endless heavy stream. Brannoch stared emptily out into it.
Well . . . that was that. I tried.
The
glow of alcohol warmed him. It had gone against the grain, but he had killed
many men before, no few of them with his own hand. Did the manner of their
death make such a difference?
He
shook himself, driving out the last cold which lay in his blood. Much to do
yet. "I suppose," he said, "that you know Langley is coming here
today."
"We
have read that much in your brain. We are not sure why Chanthavar permits
it."
"To
get a lead on me, of course, an idea of my procedures. Also, he would have to
set himself against higher authorities, some of whom are in my pay, who have
decreed that Langley shall have maximum freedom for the time being. There's a
good deal of sentimentality about this man from the past. Chanthavar would defy
them if he thought there was something to gain, but right now he wants to use
Langley as bait for me. Give me enough voltage to electrocute myself."
Brannoch
grinned, suddenly feeling almost cheerful. "And 111 play along. I've no objections at all to his knowing my game at present,
because there isn't much he can do about it. I've invited Langley to drop over
for a talk. If he knows where Saris is, you can read it in his mind. Ill direct
the conversation that way. If he doesn't, then I have a scheme for finding out
exactly when he's figured out the problem and what the answer is."
"The
balance is very delicate," said Thrymka. "The moment Chanthavar
suspects we have a lead, he will take measures."
"I
know. But I'm going to activate the whole organization: spying, sabotage,
sedition, all over the Solar System. That will keep him busy, make him postpone
his arrest and interrogation of Langley till he's sure the fellow knows.
Meanwhile, we can—" A bell chimed. "That must be him now, downshaft.
Here we go!"
Langley
entered with a slow step, hesitating in the doorway. He looked very tired. His
conventional clothes were no disguise for him—even if he had not been of fairly
unmixed race, you would have known him for an outsider by his gait, his
gestures, a thousand subtle hints. Brannoch thought in a mood of sympathy how
lonesome the man must be. Then, with a secret laughter: We'll fix that!
Stepping
forward, his flame-red cloak swirling from his shoulders, the Centaurian
smiled. "Good day, Captain. It's very kind of you to come. I've been
looking forward to a talk with you."
"I can't stay
long," said Langley.
Brannoch flashed a glance
at the window. A fighting ship hovered just outside, rain sluicing off its
flanks. There would be men posted everywhere, spy-beams, weapons in readiness.
No use to try kidnapping this time. "Well, please sit down. Have a
drink." Flopping his own huge form into a chair, he said: "You're
probably bored with silly questions about your period and how you like it here.
I won't bother you that way. But I did want to ask you something about the
planets you stopped at."
Langley's
gaunt face tightened. "Look here," he said slowly, "the only
reason I came was to try and get my friends away from you."
Brannoch
shrugged. "I'm very sorry about that." His tone was gentle. "But
you see, I haven't got them. I'll admit I wanted to, but somebody else got
there first."
"If
that isn't a lie, it'll do till one comes along," said the
spaceman coldly.
Brannoch
sipped his drink. "Look here, I can't prove it to you. f don't blame you for being suspicious. But why
fasten the guilt on me particularly? There are others who were just as anxious.
The Commercial Society, for instance."
"They—" Langley
hesitated.
"I
know. They picked you up a couple nights ago. News gets around. They must have
sweet-talked you. How do you know they were telling the truth? Goltam Valti
likes the devious approach. He likes to think of himself as a web-weaver, and
he's not bad at it either."
Langley
fixed him with tormented eyes. "Did you or did you not take those
men?" he asked harshly.
"On
my honor, I did not." Brannoch had no scruples when it came to diplomacy. "I had nothing to do with what happened that
night."
"There
were two groups involved. One was the Society. What was the other?"
"Possibly
Valti's agents too. It'd be helpful if you thought of him as a rescuer. Or . . . here's a possibility. Chantha-var himself
staged that kidnapping. He wanted to try
interrogation but keep you in reserve. When you escaped him, Valti's gang may
have seized the chance. Or Valti himself may be in Chanthavar's pay—or even,
fantastic as it sounds, Chanthavar in Valti's. The permutations of
bribery—" Bran-noch smiled. "I imagine you got. a good scolding when
you returned to friend Channy."
"Yeah.
I told him what to do with it too. I've been pushed around long enough."
Langley took a deep gulp of his drink.
"I'm
looking into the affair," said Brannoch. "I have to know myself. So
far, I've not been able to discover anything."
Langley's fingers twisted together.
"Think 111 ever see those boys again?" he asked.
"It's
hard to say. But don't set your hopes up, and don't accept any offers to trade
their lives for your information."
"I
won't—or wouldn't have—I think. There's too much at stake."
"No," murmured Brannoch. "I
don't think you would." He relaxed still further and drawled out the key
question: "Do
you know where Saris Hronna
is?" "No, I don't."
"Haven't
you any ideas? Isn't there some probable place?" "I don't know."
"Well,
I promised I wouldn't pester you. Relax, Captain. You look like outworn
applesauce. Have another drink."
The
talk strayed for an hour, wandering over stars and planets. Brannoch exerted
himself to charm, and thought he was succeeding.
"I've got to go," said Langley at
last. "My nursemaids must be getting fretful."
"As
you say. Come in again any time." Brannoch saw him to the door. "Oh,
by the way. Therell be a present for you when you get back. I think youll like
it."
"Huh?" Langley stared at him.
"Not a bribe. No obligation. If you
don't keep it, I won't be offended. But it occurred to me that all the people
trying to use you as a tool never stopped to think that you are a man."
Brannoch clapped his shoulder. "So long. Good luck."
When
he was gone, the Thorian whirled back toward his listeners. There was a flame
in him. "Did you get it?" he snapped. "Did you catch any
thoughts?"
"No," said the
voice. "We could not read his mind at all."
"What?"
"It was gibberish. There was nothing
recognizable. Now we must depend on your scheme."
Brannoch
slumped into a chair. Briefly, he felt dismayed. Why? Had a slow accumulation
of mutations altered the human brain that much? He didn't know. The Thrymans
had never told anyone how their telepathy worked.
But—well,
Langley was still a man. There was still a chance. A very good chance, if I know men. Brannoch sighed gustily and tried to ease the
tautness within himself.
rx
The
police escort dogged him
all the way back. And there would be others in the throngs on the bridgeways,
hidden behind the blurring rain which runneled off the transparent coverings.
No more peace, no more privacy . . . unless he gave in, told what he really
thought.
He'd have to, or before long his mind would
be wrenched open and its knowledge pried out. So far, reflected Langley, he'd
done a good job of dissimulation, of acting baffled. It wasn't too hard. He
came from another civilization, and his nuances of tone and gesture and voice
could not be interpreted by the most skilled psychologist today. Also, he'd
always been a good poker player.
But
who? Chanthavar, Brannoch, Valti? Didn't Saris have any rights in the matter?
They could all have been lying to him; there might not be a word of truth in
any of their arguments. Maybe no one should have the new power, maybe it was
best to burn Saris to ash with an energy beam and forget him. But how could
even that be done?
Langley
shook his head. He had to decide, and fast. If he read a few of those oddly
difficult books, learned something—just a little, just enough for a guess as
to who could most be trusted. Or maybe he should cut cards. It wouldn't be any
more senseless than the blind blundering fate which seemed to rule human
destiny.
No ... he had to live with himself, all the
rest of his days.
He
came out on the flange of the palace tower which held his apartment. The hall
bore him to the shaft, and he sped upward toward his own level. Four guards,
unhuman-looking in the stiff black fabric of combat armor, followed; but at
least they'd stay outside his door.
Langley
stopped to let it scan him. "Open, sesame," he said in a tired voice,
and walked through. It closed behind him.
Then,
for a little while, there was an explosion in his head, and he stood in a
stinging darkness.
It
lifted. He swayed on his feet, not moving, feeling the tears that ran down his
face. "Peggy," he whispered.
She
came toward him with the same long-legged, awkward grace he remembered. The
plain white dress was belted to a slender waist, and ruddy hair fell to her shoulders.
The eyes were big and green, there was gendeness on the wide mouth, her nose
was tilted and there was a dusting of freckles across its bridge. When she was
close, she stopped and bent the knee to him. He saw how the light slid over her
burnished hair.
He
reached out as if to touch her, but his hand wouldn't go all the way. Suddenly
his teeth were clapping in his jaws, and there was a chill in his flesh.
Blindly, he turned from her.
He
beat his fists against the wall, hardly touching it, letting the forces that
shuddered within him expend themselves in controlling muscles that wanted to
batter down a world. It seemed like
forever before he could face her again. She was still waiting.
"You're
not Peggy," he said through his tears. "It isn't youA
She did
not understand the English, but must have caught his meaning. The voice was
low, as hers had been, but not quite the same. "Sir, I am called Marin. I
was sent as a gift by the Lord Brannoch dhu Crombar. It will be my pleasure to
serve you."
At least, thought Langley, that son of a bitch had enough brains to give
her another name.
His
heart, racing in its cage of ribs, began skipping beats, and he snapped after
air. Slowly, he fumbled over to the service robot. "Give me a
sedative," he said. "I want to remain conscious but calm." The
voice was strange in his ears.
When
he had gulped the liquid down, he felt a darkness rising. His hands tingled as
warmth returned. The heart slowed, the lungs expanded, the sweating skin
shivered and eased. There was a balance within him, as if his grief had aged
many years.
He studied the girl, and she gave him a timid
smile. No—
not Peggy. The face and figure, yes, but no American woman
had ever smiled in just that way—that particular curve of
lips. She was a little taller, he saw, and did not walk like one
born free. And the voice— •
"Where
did you come from?" he asked, vaguely amazed at the levelness in his tone.
"Tell me about yourself."
"I
am a Class Eight slave, sir," she answered, meekly but with no
self-consciousness about it. "We are bred for intelligent, pleasant
companionship. My age is twenty, and I am a virgin. The Lord Brannoch purchased
me a few days ago, had surgical alterations and psychological conditioning performed,
and sent me here as a gift to you. I am
yours to command, sir."
"Anything goes,
eh?"
"Yes,
sir." There was a small flicker of fear in her eyes. Stories about
perverted and sadistic owners must have run through the breeding and training
centers. But he liked the game way she faced up to him.
"Never
mind," he said. "I'm not going to do anything at all. You're to go
back to the Lord Brannoch and tell him that he's a ring-tailed bastard who's
just wrecked any chance he ever had of getting my cooperation. You may quote me
on that."
She
flushed, and her eyes filmed with tears. At least she had pride—well, of course
Brannoch would have known Langley wasn't interested in a spiritless doll. It
must have been an effort to control her reply: "Then you don't want me,
sir?"
"Only to deliver that
message. Get out."
She
bowed and turned to go. Langley leaned against the wall, his fists knotted
together. O Peggy,
Peggy, my darling!
"Just
a minutel" It was as if someone else had spoken. She stopped.
"Yes, sir?"
"Tell me . . .
what"]] happen to you now?"
"I
don't know, sir. The Lord Brannoch may punish—" She shook her head with a
queer, stubborn honesty that did not fit a slave. But Peggy had been that way
too. "No, sir. He will realize I am not to blame. He may keep me for a
while, or sell me to someone else. I don't know."
Langley
felt a thickness in his throat. Fat Minister Yulien, panting by this girl who
looked like Peggyl
"No."
He smiled; it hurt his mouth. "I'm sorry. You . . . startled me. Don't go
away. Sit down."
He
found a chair for himself, and she curled slim legs beneath her to sit at his
feet. He touched her head with great gentleness. "Do you know who I
am?" he asked.
"Yes,
sir. Lord Brannoch said you were a spaceman from very long ago who got lost
and—I look like your wife, now. I suppose he used pictures to make the copy. He
said he thought you'd like to have someone who looked like her."
"And
what else? What were you supposed to do? Talk me into helping him? He wants my
help in an important matter."
"No,
sir." She met his eyes steadily. "I was only to obey your wishes.
It—" A tiny frown creased her brow, so much like Peggy's that Langley felt
his heart crack within him. "It may be he was relying on your
gratitude."
"Fat
chancel" Langley tried to think. It wasn't like Brannoch, who must be a
cynical realist, to assume that this would make the spaceman come slobbering to
him. Or was it? Some traits of human nature had changed with the change in
all society. Maybe a present-day Earthman would react like that.
"Do
you expect me to feel obligated to him?" he
asked slowly.
"No, sir. Why should
you? I'm not a very expensive gift."
Langley
wished for his old pipe. He'd have to have some tobacco cut for it special one
of these days, he thought vaguely; nobody smoked pipes anymore. He stroked her
bronze hair with a hand which the drug had again made steady.
"Tell
me something about yourself, Marin," he said. "What sort of life did
you lead?"
She
described it, competently, without resentment but not without humor. The center
didn't meet any of Langley's preconceived notions. Far from being a place of
lust, it sounded like a rather easy-going convent. There had been woods and
fields to stroll in between the walls; there had been an excellent education;
there had been no attempt-except for conditioning to acceptance of being
property—to prevent each personality from growing its own way. But of course,
those girls were meant for high-class concubines,-something more than just a
body.
With
the detachment lent him by the sedative, Langley perceived that Marin could be
very useful to him. He asked her a few questions about history and current
events, and she gave him intelligent answers. Maybe her knowledge could
help him decide what to do.
"Marin,"
he asked dreamily, "have you ever ridden a horse?"
"No, sir. I can pilot a car or flyer,
but I was never on an animal. It would be fun to try." She smiled,
completely at ease now.
"Look,"
he said, "drop that superior pronoun and stop calling me 'sir.' My name's
Edward—plain Ed."
"Yes,
sir—Edwy." She frowned with a child-like seriousness. "Ill try to
remember. Excuse me if I forget. And in public, it would be better to stay by
the usual rules."
"Okay.
Now—" Langley couldn't face the clear eyes. He stared out at the rain
instead. "Would you like to be free?"
"Sir?"
"Ed, dammitl I suppose I can manumit
you. Wouldn't you like to be a free agent?"
"It's
. . . very kind of you," she replied slowly. "But—"
"Well?"
"But what could I do? I'd have to go to
low-level, become a commoner's wife or a servant or a prostitute. There isn't
any other choice."
"Nice
system. Up here, you're at least protected and among your intellectual equals.
Okay, it was just a thought. Consider yourself part of the furniture."
She chuckled. "You're . . . nice,"
she said. "I was very lucky."
"Like
hell you were. Look, I'm going to keep you around because I haven't the heart
to turn you out. But there may well be danger. I'm right in the middle of an
interstellar poker game and—111 try to get you out from under if things go
sour, but I may not be able to. Tell me honestly, can you face the prospect of
getting killed or—or anything?"
"Yes,
Edwy. I've been trained into the habit of physical courage."
"I wish you wouldn't talk that
way," he said gloomily. "But I suppose you can't help it. People may
still be the same underneath, but they think different on top. Well—"
"What
is your danger, Edwy? Can I help?" She laid a hand on his knee. It was a
slim hand but with strong blunt fingers like—"I want to, I really
do."
"Uh-uh."
He shook his head. "I'm not going to tell you more than I must, because if
people realize you know anything you'll become a poker chip too." He had
to use the English phrase. Only chess had survived of the games he knew, but
she got the idea. "And don't try to deduce things, either. I tell you,
it's dangerous."
There
was no calculation in the way she got up and leaned over him and brushed his
cheek with one hand. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "It must be
dreadful for you."
"Ill
survive. Let's continue the roundup. I mean you well, but right now I'm under a
sedative. It was a shock seeing you, and it's going to go on being a shock for
a while. Keep in the background, Marin; duck for cover if I start throwing
things. Don't try to be sympathetic. Just let me alone. Savvy?"
She nodded mutely.
In
spite of the drug, his voice roughened. There was still a knife in him.
"You can sleep in that room there. I like you, but I don't want your pink
body. Not—not the way things
"All
right," she said quietly. "I understand. If you change your mind, 111
understand that too." After a moment: "You could have my appearance
altered again, you know."
He
didn't reply, but sat wondering. It was the logical answer. . . . No. He would
always remember. He didn't believe in hiding from a fact.
Alone
in his room, Langley donned pajamas, crawled into bed. Closing his eyes, he
tried to call up the image of Peggy. She was gone, she had died so long ago
that the very blood of her was thinned through the entire race. Quite possibly
everyone he had met, Chanthavar and Brannoch and Valti and Marin and Yulien and
the faceless commoners huddled on low-level, stemmed from one unforgotten night
with her. It was a strange thought. He wondered if she had married again; he
hoped so, hoped that it had been a good man and that her life had been happy,
but it wasn't likely. She had been the sort who only gave herself once.
He
tried to see her before him, but it was hard to get a clear vision. Marin
overlay it, they were like two pictures one on the other and not quite in line,
the edges blurred. Peggy's smile had never been just like what he saw now . . .
or had it?
It
might have been hours later when he heard the explosion.
He sat up in bed, staring blindly before him.
-That had been a blaster going off I
Another crash sounded, and boots slammed on
the floor. Langley jumped to his feet. Armed force—a real kidnap try this time,
in spite of all guards! Another energy bolt flamed somewhere outside the room,
and he heard a deep-voiced oath.
He crouched against the farther wall,
doubling his fists. No fights. If they were after him, let them find and haul
him out.
The
tumult rolled somewhere in the living room. Then he heard Marin scream.
He
sprang for the door. "Open, goddam you!" It sensed him and dilated. A
metal-clad arm slapped him back, down to the floor.
"Stay
where you are, sir." It was a hoarse gasp out of the mask-like combat
helmet. "They've broken in—"
"Let
me go!" Langley shoved against the gigantic form of
the Solar cop. He was no match; the slave stood like a rock.
"Sorry, sir, my
orders—"
A
blue-white beam snapped across the field of view. Langley had a glimpse of a
spacesuited figure hurtling out~ the smashed window, and Marin writhing in its
arms. Other police were charging after it, firing wildly.
Then, slowly, there was
silence.
The
guard bowed. "They're gone now, sir. Come on out if you wish."
Langley
stepped into the shambles of his living room. There was a haze of smoke, burned
plastic, the thin bitter reek of ozone. Furniture was trampled wreckage between
the bulky, armored shapes which filled the chamber.
"What
happened?" he yelled. "In God's name, what happened?"
"Easy,
sir." The squad commander threw back his helmet; the shaven head looked
tiny, poking out of the metal and fabric that encased his body. "You're
all right. Would you like a sedative?"
"I
asked you what happened!" Langely wanted to smash the impassive face.
"Go on, tell me—I order you."
"Very
good, sir. Two small, armed spaceships attacked us just outside." The
commander pointed to the sharded window. "While one engaged our boats,
the other discharged several men in space armor with antigravity flying units,
who broke into the suite. Some of them stood off our reinforcements coming
through the door, one of them grabbed your slave. Then we rallied, more men
came, and the enemy retreated. No casualties on either side, I believe. It was
a very brief action. Luckily they failed to get you, sir."
"Who were they?"
"I
don't know, sir. Their equipment was not standard for any known military or
police force. I think one of our aircraft has slapped a tracer beam on them,
but it can't follow them outside the atmosphere and that's doubtless where
they'll go. But relax, sir. You're safe."
Yeah.
Safe. Langley choked and
turned away. He felt drained of strength.
Chanthavar
showed up within an hour. His face was carefully immobile as he surveyed the
ruin. "They got away, all right," he said. "But it doesn't
matter too much, since they failed."
"Who were they, do you
know?" asked Langley dully.
"No,
I couldn't say. Probably Centaurian, possibly Society. It'll be investigated,
of course." Chanthavar struck a cigarette. "In a way, it's a hopeful
sign. When a spy resorts to strong-arm methods, he's usually getting
desperate."
"Look
here." Langley grabbed his arm. "You've got to find them. You've got
to get that girl back."
Chanthavar
drew hard on his cigarette, sucking in his cheeks till the high bones stood
out. His eyes were speculative on the American. "So she means that much
to you already?" he asked.
"Nol
Well, damn it forever, it's plain decency 1 You can't let her be torn apart by
them, looking for something she doesn't know."
"She's
only a slave," shrugged Chanthavar. "Apparendy she was snatched
impulsively when they were repelled from your quarters. It doesn't mean a
thing. Ill give you a duplicate of her if it's that important to you."
"Nol"
"All
right, have it your way. But if you try to trade information for her—"
"I
won't," said Langley. His lie had become a mechanical reflex. "I
haven't anything to trade—not yet, anyway."
"Ill do everything in
my power," said Chanthavar. He clapped Langley's shoulder with a brief
surprising friendliness. "Now back ¿0 bed
for you. I prescribe twelve hours' worth of sleep drug."
Langley
took it without protest. It would be something to escape the sense of his own
utter helplessness. He fell into an abyss without dreams, without memory.
Waking,
he found that repairs had been made while he slept; the fight last night might
never have happened. Afternoon sunlight gleamed off the ships patrolling
beyond his window.
His mind gnawed the problem like a starving
dog with an old bone from which all nourishment has gone. Marin . . , Because
she had come near him, she was gone into darkness. Because she had been kind to
him, she was given over to fear and captivity and torment.
Was
it only that she looked like Peggy? Was it herself? Was it the principle of the
thing? Whatever the anguish in him derived from, it was there.
He
thought of calling Brannoch, calling Valti, throwing his accusation into their
faces and—and what? They would deny it. Several times he called Chanthavar's
office, to be informed by a maddeningly polite secretary that he was out on
business. He smoked endlessly, paced the floor, threw himself into a chair and
got up again. Now and then he ran through his whole stock of curses and obscenities.
None of it helped.
Night
came, and he drugged himself into another long sleep. Drugs might be the way he
ended up—or suicide, quicker and cleaner. He thought of stepping out on his
balcony and over the side. That would finish the whole mess. A well-designed
robot would mop up his spattered remnants and for him this universe would no
longer exist.
In
the afternoon, a call came. He sprang for the phone, stumbled, fell to the
floor and got up swearing. The hand that switched it on shook uncontrollably.
Chanthavar's face smiled with an unusual
warmth. "I've got good news for you, Captain," he said. "We've
found the girl."
Briefly,
his mind would not accept it. The weary groove of futility was worn so deep
that he could not climb out. He stared, open-mouthed, hearing the words as if
from far away.
"She
was sitting on a bridgeway, rather dazed, when picked up. Post-anesthetic
reaction. She's coming out of it already. There was no deep mental probing
done, I'm sure, perhaps only a mild narcosynthesis—No harm done at all that I
can see. She's been unconscious all the time. Doesn't know a thing. I'm sending
her over now." Chanthavar grinned. "Enjoy yourselfl"
The
impact trickled slowly through the barriers of crazi-ness. Langley knelt,
wanting to cry or pray or both. But nothing would come out. Then he began to
laugh.
The
hysteria had faded by the time she entered. But it was the most natural thing
in the world to embrace her. She held him close, shaking with reaction.
Finally
they sat together on a couch, holding hands. She told him what she could.
"I was seized, carried into the ship. Someone pointed a stun gun at me and
then there's nothing more. The next thing I remember is sitting on the
bridgeway bench, being carried along. I must have been put onto it, led there
in a sleepwalking state and left. I felt dizzy. Then a policeman came and took
me to Minister Chantha-var's office. He asked me questions,-had me
given a medical checkup, and said nothing seemed wrong. So he sent me back
here."
"I don't get it,"
said Langley. "I don't understand it at all."
"Minister
Chanthavar said apparently I was taken on the chance I might be of value—when
they failed to get you. I was kept unconscious so I wouldn't be able to
identify anybody, asked a few simple questions under narcosynthesis and
released when it was clear I could be of no help." She sighed, smiling a
little tremulously at him. "I'm glad they let me go." He knew she
didn't mean it only for herself.
He swallowed the drink he had prepared and
sat without speaking for a while. His mind felt oddly clarified, but the past
hours of nightmare underlay it.
So
this was what it meant. This was what Sol and Centauri stood for: a heartless
power game, where no one counted, no act was too vile. The moment one side felt
it had an advantage, it would be on the other's back, and the struggle would
lay planets waste. This was what he was supposed to sanction.
He
still knew little about the Society; they were surely no collection of
pure-minded altruists. But it did seem that they were neutral, that they had no
lunacies about empire. Surely they knew more of the galaxy, had a better chance
of finding him some young world where he could again be a man. His choice was
clear. It would run him through a gamut of death, but there are worse things
than extinction.
He
looked at the clean profile of the girl beside him. He wanted to ask her what
she thought, what she desired. He hardly knew her at all. But he couldn't, with
the listening mechanical ears in the room. He would have to decide for
her. v
She
met his gaze with calm green eyes. "I wish you'd tell me what's going on,
Edwy," she said. "I seem to be as exposed as you in any case, and I'd
like to knpw."
He
gave in and told her of Saris Hronna and the hunt for him. She grasped the idea
at once, nodded without excitement, and refrained from asking him if he knew
an answer or what he intended to do. "It is a very large thing," she
said.
"Yeah,"
said Langley. "And it's going to get a lot bigger before long."
X
There
might be eyes as well as
ears in the walls. Langley went to bed shortly after sunset. Spy-beams went
right through the communicator, Valti had said, but he wore his pajamas anyway.
He lay for an hour, threshing about as if unable to get to sleep. Then he
commanded loud music. The recorded caterwauling should drown out a low-pitched
conversation.
He
hoped the stomach-knotting tension in him didn't show on his face.
Scratching,
as if after an itch, he pressed the stud. Then he struck a cigarette and lay
waiting.
The
tiny voice was a vibration inside him. He thought about sonic beams heterodyned
and focused on his skull-bones. It was distorted, but he'd know Valti's
phrasing anywhere:
"Ah, Captain Langley. You do me an
unprecedented honor. It is a pleasure even to be routed out of a snug bed to
hear you. May I advise that you speak with your hps closed? The transmission
will be clear enough."
"All
right." There was one hopeless question which had to be asked. "I'm
prepared to bargain with you—but do you have Blaustein and Matsumoto?"
"I do not, Captain. Will you take my
word for that?"
"I
. . . reckon so. Okay. Ill tell you where I think Saris is—mind you, it's only
an informed guess—and I'll help you find him if possible. In return, I want
your best efforts to rescue my friends, together with the money, protection,
and transportation you offered, both for myself and one other person, a slave
girl who's in this apartment with me."
It was
hard to make out whether the exultation which must be leaping through that
gross form had entered the voice: "Very good, Captain. I assure you, you
will not regret this. Now as to practical considerations, you must be removed
without trace."
"I'm
not sure just how that little thing's going to be done, Valti. I think I'm more
or less under house arrest."
"Nevertheless,
you shall get out tonight. Let me think . . . In two hours, you and the girl
will stroll out onto the balcony. For Father's sake, make it look natural!
Remain there, in plain sight from above, no matter what happens."
"Okay. Two hours—2347
by my clock, right? See you!"
Now
he had to wait. Langley got out another cigarette and lay as if listening to
the music. Two
hoursl I'll be tine
gray-haired wreck before
then.
Time
crawled, it took forever to get by a minute. Langley swore, "went into the
living room, and dialed for a book. Basic modem physics. At the rate time was
going, two hours would be enough to get a Ph.D. He grew suddenly aware that he
had been staring at the same scanned page for fifteen minutes. Hastily he
dialed the next. Even if it wasn't registering, he ought to look as if it were.
He
looked at the clock and felt his belly muscles tighten. Twenty minutes to go.
He
had to get Marin outside. He couldn't leave her in this hellhole, and he had to
do it in a way that the observers would consider unremarkable. For a while he
sat thinking. The only way was one he didn't like. A far New England ancestor
compressed angry hps and tried to stop him. But—
He walked over to the door of her room. It
opened for him, and he stood looking down on her. She was asleep. The coppery
hair spilled softly around a face which held peace. He tried not to remember
Peggy, and touched her arm.
She
sat up. "Oh . . . Edwy." Blinking her eyes open: "What is
it?"
"Sorry
to wake you," he said awkwardly. "I couldn't sleep. I feel like hell.
Come talk to me, will you?"
She
regarded him with something like compassion. "Yes," she said at last.
"Yes, of course." Throwing a cloak over her thin nightgown, she
followed him onto the balcony.
There
were stars overhead. Against the remote blaze of city lights swam the black
shark-form of a patrol ship. A small wind ruffled his hair. He wondered just
where Lora stood—not far from the ancient site of Winnipeg, wasn't it?
Marin
leaned against his side, and he put an arm about her waist. The vague light
showed a wistful, uncertain curve to her mouth.
"It's nice out," he said banally.
"Yes
, . ." She was waiting for something. He knew what it was, and so did
Chanthavar's observers sitting at their screens. God, how he wanted to get away
from their eyesl
He
stopped and made himself kiss her. She responded gently, a little clumsily as
yet. Then he looked at her for a long while and couldn't say anything.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled at last.
How long to go? Five minutes? Ten?
"What for?" she asked.
"I've no right—"
"You
have every right. I'm yours, you know. This is what I'm for."
"Shut
up," he croaked. "I mean a moral right." There was a hammering
in his temples.
"Come,"
she said, taking his hand. "Come on back inside." "No—not
yet," he stammered.
She
waited. And because there seemed nothing else to do, he found himself kissing her
again.
Five
minutes? Three? Two? One? "Come," she breathed. "Come with me now." He hung
back. "Wait . . . wait . . ." "You aren't afraid of me. What is
it? There's something strange—"
"Shut
upl" he gasped.
Fire
blossomed1-in the air. A moment later Langley felt a fist of
concussion. He lurched back and saw a spaceship streak by, blazing at the
patrol craft. Wind roared behind it.
"Get
out of the way, Edwyl" Marin darted for the shelter of the living room. He
grabbed her by the hair, snatched her back and stood in the open. The attacking
ship fled, gone in a blur.
And something took hold of Langley and
whirled him upward.
Tractor beam, he thought crazily, a controlled gravity beam. Then something black yawned before him, a
portal gaped. He went through and it clanged shut behind him.
There
was a pulsing of great engines as he picked himself up. Marin huddled at his
feet. He raised her and she shuddered in his arms. "It's all right,"
he mumbled shakily. "It's all right. We got away. Maybe."
A
man in gray coveralls entered the little steel lock chamber. "Well done,
sirl" he said. "I think we're pulling clear. Will you follow
me?"
"What
is it?" asked Marin wildly. "Where are we going?"
"I
made a deal with the Society," said Langley. "They'll get us out of
the Solar System. We're going to be free, both of us."
Inwardly,
he wondered.
They
went down a narrow hall. The ship thrummed around them. At the end of the
passage, they came into a small room studded and glittering with instruments.
One screen held a view of the hard stars of space.
Goltam
Valti surged from his chair to pound Langley's back and pump his hand and roar
a greeting. "Marvelous,
Captain!
Excellent! A lovely job, if you pardon my immodesty."
Langley
felt weak. He sat down, pulling Marin to his lap without thinking about it.
"Just exactly what did happen?" he asked.
"I
and a few others slipped out of the Society tower," said Valti. "We
took an air speedster to the estate of a . . . sympathetic . . . Minister,
where we maintain a little bastion. Two spaceships were required: one to create
a brief diversion, and this one to pull you up and escape in the
confusion."
"How about the other
boat? Won't they catch that?"
"It
has been arrarlged for. There will be a lucky shot which brings it down—bomb
planted aboard, you know. It's robot manned, carefully cleaned of all traces of
ownership except one or two small indications which may suggest Centaurian
origin to Chanthavar." Valti winced. "A pity to lose so fine a
vessel. It cost a good half-million solars. Profits are hard to come by these
days, believe me, sir."
"As soon as Chanthavar
checks on you, finds you missing—"
"My
good captainl" Valti looked hurt. "I'm am not quite an amateur. My double is already peacefully and lawfully asleep in my Own quarters.
"Of
course," he added thoughtfully, "if we can find Saris, it may well be
necessary for me to leave Sol altogether. If so, I do hope my successor can
handle the Venusian trade. It's a difficult one; it can so easily go into the
red."
"All
right," said Langley. "It's done. I'm committed. What's your plan of
action?"
"That
depends on where he is and what methods will be required to establish contact.
But this flitter is fast, silent, screened against radiation; it has weapons,
and there are thirty armed men aboard. Do you think it will suffice?"
"I
. . . believe so. Bring me some maps of the Mesko area."
Valti nodded at the little
green-furred creature Thakt, which had been sitting in a comer. It tittered and
scuttled out.
"Charming
young lady," bowed Valti. "May I ask
her name?"
"Marin,"
she said in a thin voice. She got off Langley's lap and stood backed against
the wall.
"It's all right,"
said the spaceman. "Don't be afraid."
"I'm
not afraid," she said, trying to smile. "But bewildered."
Thakt
returned with a sheaf of papers. Langley frowned over them, attempting to find
his way through an altered geography. "It was one time on Holat," he
said. "Saris and I had taken the day off to go fishing, and he showed me
some caves. I told him about Carlsbad Cavems in New Mexico, and he was very
interested. Later, shortly before we left for Earth, he mentioned them again,
and I promised to take him there. As we were going over some maps of Earth, for
the benefit of several Holatan philosophers, I showed him their location. So if he could get maps of the modem world,
Carlsbad wouldn't be far away, and he'd know it was an unexplored warren. Of
course, it may be colonized or something by now, or have gone out of
existence, for all I know."
Valti
followed his pointing finger. "Yes ...
I believe I've heard of the spot," he said with a touch of excitement.
"Corrad Cavems—yes, here. Is that the location?"
Langley
used a large-scale map to orient himself. "I think so."
"Ah,
then I do know. It's part of the estate of Minister Ranull, who keeps a good
deal of his property in a wild desert condition as a park. Sometimes his guests
are shown Corrad Cavems, but I'm sure that nobody ever goes very far into them.
They must be quite deserted for most of the time. A brilliant suggestion,
Captainl My compliments."
"If
it doesn't pan out," said Langley, "then I'm just as much in the dark
as you."
"We'll try. You shall
have your reward regardless." Valti spoke into a communicator. "Well
go there at once. No time to lose. Would you like a stimulant drug . . . ?
Here. It will give you alertness and energy for the next several hours, and you
may need them. Excuse me, I have some details to arrange." He left, and
Langley was alone with Marin. She watched him for a while without speaking.
"All
right," he said. "All right, I made my choice. I figured the Society
would make better use of this power than anybody else. But of course, you're a
citizen of Sol. If you don't approve, I'm sorry."
"I
don't know. It is a very great burden to take on yourself." She shook her
head. "I can see what led you 'to it. Maybe you are right, maybe not, I
can't say. But I'm with you, Edwy."
"Thank
you," he said, shakenly, and wondered if, in spite of himself, he might
not be falling in love with her. He had a sudden image of the two of them,
starting again somewhere beyond the sky. Of course that depended on whether
they got away from Sol.
XI
It
had felt^good to shed his
over-colorful pajamas for a spaceman's coverall, boots, helmet, a gun. Langley
had never quite realized how much clothes make the man. But walking through a
hollow immensity of darkness, feeling the underground chill and hearing a
mockery of echoes, he knew again the helplessness and self-doubt which had been
strangling him.
There
were light-tubes strung throughout miles of the caverns, but a sneak expedition
could not turn them on; they served only to indicate regions where Saris would
surely not be. Half a dozen men walked beside Langley, the reflected glow of
flashbeams limning their faces ghostly against shadow. They were all crewmen, strangers
to him. Valti had declared himself too old and cowardly to enter the tunnels;
Marin had wanted to come but been refused permission.
A
tumbled fantasy of limestone, great rough pillars and snags leaped from the
gloom as beams flashed around. This place couldn't have changed much, thought
Langley. In five thousand years, the slow drip and evaporation of cold water
would have added a bit here and there, but Earth was old and patient. He felt
that time itself lay buried somewhere in these reaching leagues.
The
man who carried the neural tracker looked up. "Not a flicker yet," he
said. Unconsciously, his voice was hushed, as if the stillness lay heavy on it.
"How far down have we come? A long ways—and there are so many branches.
Even if he is here, we may never find him."
Langley
went on. There was nothing else he could do. He didn't think Saris would have
gone further underground than necessary. The Holatans weren't exactly
claustrophobic, but they were creatures of open land and sky. It went against
their instincts to remain long enclosed.
Logic
helped somewhat. Saris hadn't had a map of the caves. He'd have slipped in
through the main entrance, like his present followers, because he wouldn't have
known where any other approach was. Then he would look for a room to live in,
with exits and a water supply. Langley turned to the man with the dowsing unit.
"Isn't there a pool or river somewhere near?"
"Yes. Water over in that direction.
Shall we try?"
"Uh-huh."
Langley groped toward the nearest tunnel. A ridge of stone clubbed his ankles.
Beyond, the passage narrowed rapidly until he had'to crawl.
"This
may be it," he said. Echoes shivered around his words. "Saris could
easily slip through. He can go four-footed anytime he wants, but it's a hard
approach for a man."
"Waitl
Here, you take the tracker, Captain," said someone behind him. "I
think it kicked over, but all these people ahead of me make too much
interference."
Langley
squirmed around to grasp the box. Focusing it, he squinted at the green-glowing
dial. It was responsive to the short-range impulses emitted by a nervous system
and— yes, by God, the needle was quivering more than it shouldl
Excited,
he crawled further, the harsh damp wall scraping his back. His flashbeam was a
single white lance thrust into blindness. His breathing was a loud rasp in his
throat.
He
came suddenly to the end and almost went over. The tunnel must open several
feet or yards above the floor. "Saris!" he called. The echoes flew
about; this was a good-sized room. Somewhere he heard running water.
"Saris Hronnal Are you there?"
A
blaster bolt smashed after him. He saw the dazzle of it. There were spots
dancing before his eyes for minutes afterward, and the radiation stung his
face. He snapped off the light and jumped, hoping wildly that it wasn't too far
to the ground. Something raked his leg, the jolting rattled his teeth, and he
fell to an invisible floor.
Another
beam flamed toward the tunnel mouth. Langley felt blood hot and sticky on his
calf. The Holatan knew just where the opening was, he could ricochet his bolts
and fry the men within. "Saris! It's me—Edward Langley—I'm your
friend!"
The
echoes laughed at him, dancing through an enormous night. Friend • • • friend . . . friend . . . friend
. . . The underground
stream talked with a cold frantic voice.
If
the outlaw had gone mad with fear and loneliness, or if he had decided in bleak
sanity to kill any human who ventured here, Langley was done. The incandescent
sword of an energy beam, or the sudden closing of jaws in his throat, would be
the last thing he ever felt. It had to be tried. Langley dug himself flat
against the rock. "Saris! I've come to get you out of here! I've come to take
you home!"
The
answer rumbled out of blackness, impossible to locate through the echoes:
"Iss you? What do you want?"
"I've
made arrangements . . . You can get back to Holatl" Langley was shouting
in English, their only common language; the Holatan dialects were too unlike
man's for him to have learned more than a few phrases. "We're your
friends, the only friends you've got."
"Sso."
He could not read any expression into the tone. He thought he could feel the
vibrations of a heavy body, flitting through the dark on padded feet. "I
can not be sure. Please to the pressent situation wit' honesty describe."
Langley
put it into a few words. The stone under his belly was wet and chill. He
sneezed and snuffled. "It's the only chance for all of us," he
finished. "If you don't agree, youll stay here till you die or are dragged
out."
There
was a silence, then: "You I trust,
I know you. But iss it not that thesse otherss you hawe deceiwed
possible?"
"I—what?
Oh. You mean maybe the Society is playing me for a sucker too? Yes. It could
be. But I don't think so."
"I
hawe no dessire for dissection," said the one who waited.
"You
won't be. They want to study you, see how you do what you do. You told me your
thinkers back home have a pretty good idea of how it works."
"Yes.
Not'ing could from the gross anatomy of my brain be learned. I t'ink such a
machine ass your . . . friendss . . . wish could eassily be built." Saris
hesitated, then: "Wery well. I musst take chancess, no matter what
happenss. Let it be sso. You may all enter."
When the lights picked him out, he stood tall
and proud, waiting with the dignity of his race among the boxes of supplies
which had been his only reliance. He took Langley's hands between his and
nuzzled the man's cheek. "Iss good to see you again," he said.
"I'm
. . . sorry for what happened," said Langley. "I didn't know—"
"No.
The uniwerse full of surprisses iss. No matter, if I can go home again."
The
spacemen accepted him almost casually; they were used to non-human
intelligence. After binding Langley's injury, they formed a cordon and
returned. Valti raised ship as soon as all were aboard and then conferred with
them. "Is there anything you require, Saris Hronna?" he asked through
the American.
"Yess.
Two witaminss which seem to be lacking in Eart' chemistry." Saris drew
diagrams on a sheet of paper. "Thesse iss the structural formulass in
Langley's symbology."
The
spaceman re-drew them in modem terms, and Valti nodded. "They should be
easy to synthesize. I have a molecule maker in my hideaway."
He tugged at his beard. "We must go there first, to make preparations for
departure. I have a fight-speed cruiser in a secret orbit. You 11 be put aboard
that and sent to our base in the 61 Cygni system. That's well outside the Solar
and Centaurian spheres of influence. Then your abilities can be studied at
leisure, sir, and your own payment rendered, Captain Langley."
Saris
spoke up. He had his own bargain to make. He would co-operate if he was
afterward returned to Holat with a crew of technicians and ample supplies. His
world lay too far off to be in direct danger from the stars of this region, but
some party of wandering conquistadors might happen on it—and Holat had no
defenses against bombardment from space. That situation must be rectified.
Armed robot satellites would not stop a full-dress invasion fleet—nothing would
do that except possibly another fleet—but they would be able to dispose of the
small marauding groups which were all that Holat really had to worry about.
Valti
winced. "Captain, does he realize what the bonuses for a trip of that
length are? Does he know how much it would cost to set up those stations? Has
he no sympathy for a poor old man who must face an audit of his books?"
" 'Fraid not,"
said Langley with a grin.
"Ah
. . . what assurances does he want that we will keep our end of such an
agreement?"
"He'll
have control over your development of the nullifier —you can't make it without
him, both his empirical evidence and his theoretical knowledge—so that part's
taken care of. When he sees the project nearing the end, hell want your ships
prepared for him, ready to go. And hell want a bomb planted on the one carrying
him, under his control. Women and children will stay aboard while the work is
being done for Holat, and at the first sign of treachery hell blow the whole
thing up."
"Dear
me!" Valti shook a doleful head. "What a nasty suspicious mind he
has, to be sure. I should think one look at my honest face—Well, well, so be
i£. But I shudder to think what the expense is going to do to our cost
accounting."
"Oh,
hell, man, you can amortize that debt over 2000 years. Forget it. Now, where
are we going first?"
"We
maintain a small hideaway in the Himalayas—nothing palatial; our tastes are
humble. I must render a report to my chiefs on Earth, get their approval of the
plan, and prepare documents for the Cygni office. It will only take a litde
while."
Langley went off to the ship's sick bay. He'd
taken a nasty gash in his leg, but
treatment was routine these days: a clamp to hold the edges of the wound
together, a shot of artificial enzymes to stimulate regeneration. In a few
hours, the most radical surgery could be completely and scarlessly healed.
Langley
found Marin in the amidships saloon. He sat down beside her and took her hand.
"It won't be long now," he said. "I think we've done what's
best—removed Saris' power from the place where it could only cause destruction.
Best thing for Sol, too. And now we're bound on our own way."
"Yes."
She didn't look at him. Her face was white, and there was a strained expression
on it.
"What's
the matter?" he asked anxiously. "Aren't you feeling well?"
"I—I
don't know, Edwy. Everything seems so odd, somehow, as if this were a
dream." She stared cloudily before her. "Is it? Am I sleeping
somewhere and—"
"No. What is the
trouble? Can't you describe it?"
She
shook her head. "It's as if someone else were sharing my brain, sitting
there and waiting. It came on me all of a sudden. The strain, I suppose. Ill be
all right."
Langley
scowled. Worry gnawed at him. If she took sick . . .
Just
why was she so important to him? Was he falling for her? It would be very easy
to do. Quite apart from her looks, she was brave and intelligent and witty. He
could see himself spending a contented lifetime with her.
Peggy . . . Jim . . . Bob . . . No, not her too. Not her, God, not again!
There
was a small jarring shock, and the engine drone died. Saris Hronna stuck his
whiskered snout through the door. "We iss landed," he announced.
"Come out."
The
ship lay cradled in a brighdy lit cave; behind her was a huge concrete door
which must lead to the mountain slope. It would be a high, wild land. There
were probably snowfields and glaciers left here on the roof of the world— cold,
windy, empty, a place where men could hide for years.
"Have
you any defenses?" asked Langley as Valti led the way past the hull.
"No. Why should we? They would only add
more metal to be detected from above. As it is, every possible thing here is
made of plastic or stone. I am a peaceful man, Captain. I rely more on my
cerebral cortex than my guns. In five decades, this lair has been
unsuspected."
They
entered a hall off which several doors opened. Lang-ley saw what must be a
radio room, presumably for emergency use^only. Valti's men wandered off toward
their own quarters. They spoke little; the Society people seemed to frown on
idle chatter between themselves. But they seemed quite relaxed. Why not? They
were safe now. The fight was over.
Marin jerked, and her eyes widened. "What's
the matter?" asked Langley. His voice sounded hoarse and cracked.
"I—I
don't know." She was trying not to cry. "I feel so strange." Her
eyes were unfocused, he saw, and she moved like a sleepwalker.
"Valtil What's wrong
with her?"
"I'm
afraid I don't know, Captain. Probably just reaction; it's been a trying time
for a person not used to conflict and suspense. Let's put her to bed and I'll
get the ship's doctor to take a look at her."
Langley's victory crumbled
in his hands.
"Come,
Captain," said Valti, taking his arm. "Let's go make up Saris
Hronna's vitamin pills, and after that you could probably use some sleep
yourself. In twenty-four hours youll be out of the Solar System. Think
of-that."
They
were working in the laboratory when Saris stiffened. "She goess by,"
he said. "She iss walking been around and her mind feelss wery
strange."
Langley
ran out into the corridor. Marin stood looking at him with clearing eyes.
"Where am I?" she said weakly.
"Come on," he
answered. "Back to bed with you."
"I
feel better," she told him. "There was a pressing in my brain,
eveiything went dark, and now I am standing here— But I feel like myself
again."
The drugged glass stood untouched by her
bunk. "Get that down," said Langley. She obeyed, smiled at him and
went to sleep. He resisted a desire to kiss her.
Returning,
he found Saris putting a flask of pills into a pouch hung about his neck. Valti
was gone to do his paperwork, they were alone among the machines.
"I
feeled her mind clearing ewen ass I . . . listened," said Saris.
"Hass your race often such failingss?"
"Now
and then," said Langley. "Gears slip. I'm afraid we aren't as
carefully designed as your people."
"You could be so. We
kill the weaklingss young."
"It's
been done by my race, now and then, but the custom never lasted long. Something
in our nature seems to forbid it."
"And
yet you can desstroy a world for your own ambi-tionss. I shall newer
undersstand you."
"I
doubt well ever understand ourselves." Langley rubbed his neck and yawned.
He ached with weariness, now that the stimulant had worn off. "To hell
with it. I'm for some sack time."
He was wakened hours later by the crash of an
explosion. As he sat up, he heard blasters going off.
XII
Another
blowup shivered through
walls and into Langley's bones. Somebody screamed, somebody else cursed, and
there were running feet in the corridors. As he tumbled into bis clothes and
snatched his energy gun out, he wanted to vomit. Somehow they had failed.
He
flattened himself against the archaic manual door of the room given him and
opened it a crack. There was a stink of burned flesh outside. Two gray-clad
corpses sprawled in the passage, but the fight had swept past. Langley stepped
out.
There
was noise up ahead of him, toward the assembly chamber. He ran in that
direction with some blind idea of opening up on the attackers from behind. A
bitter wind was clearing smoke away and he gasped for breath. A remote part of
him realized that the entry port had been blown open and the thin mountain air
was rushing in.
Now—the
doorway! He burst through, squeezing the trigger of his blaster. There was no
recoil, but the beam hissed wide of the back he wanted. He didn't know how to
aim a modem gun, how to outwit a modem mind, how to do anything. Understanding
of the technique came just as someone spun around on a heel and kicked expertly
with the other foot. Langley's blaster was torn loose, clattered to the floor,
and he stared into a dozen waiting muzzles.
Valti's
crew was gathered around Saris Hronna. Then-hands were lifted sullenly; they
had been overpowered in the assault and were giving up. The Holatan crouched on
all fours, his eyes a yellow blaze.
Brannoch
dhu Crombar let out a shout of laughter. "So there you are!" he
cried. "Greetings, Captain Langley!" He towered over the tight-packed
fifty of his men. The scarred face was alight with boisterous good humor.
"Come join the fun."
"Saris . . ."
groaned the American.
"Please."
Brannoch elbowed a way over to him. "Credit me with some brains. I had
purely mechanical weapons made for half my party several days ago—percussion
caps of mercury fulminate setting off a chemical explosion. Thunderish hard to
shoot straight with 'em, but at close quarters we can fill you with lead and
he's powerless to stop it."
"I
see." Langley felt surrender rising in him, the buckling of all hope.
"But how did you find us?"
Marin
entered. She stood in the doorway looking at them with her face congealed to a
mask, the face of a slave.
Brannoch
jerked a thumb at her. "The girl, of course," he said. "She told
us."
Her
inhuman composure ripped. "Nol" she stammered. "I never—"
"Not
consciously, my dear," said Brannoch. "But while you were under your
final surgery, a posthypnotic command was planted by a conditioning machine.
Very powerful, such an order—impossible to break it. If Saris was found, you
were to notify me of the circumstances at the first opportunity. Which, I see,
you did."
She
watched him with a mute horror. Langley heard a thundering
in his head.
Very
distantly, he made out the Centaurian's rumble: "You might as well know,
Captain. It was I who took your friends. They couldn't tell me anything, and
against my wishes they . . . died. I'm sorry."
Langley turned away from
him. Marin began to weep.
Valti
cleared his throat. "A nice maneuver, my lord. Very well executed. But
there is the matter of several casualties among my own people. I'm afraid the
Society can't permit that sort of thing. There will have to be
restitution."
"Including
Saris Hronna, no doubt?" Brannoch grinned without humor.
"Of
course. And reparations according to the weregild schedule set by treaty.
Otherwise the Society will have to apply sanctions to your system."
"Withdrawal
of trade?" snorted Brannoch. "We can do without your cargoes. And
just try to use military force!"
"Oh,
no, my lord," said Valti mildly. "We are a humane people. But we do
have a large share in the economic life of every planet where we have offices:
investments, local companies owned by us. If necessary, we could do deplorable
things to your economy. It isn't as rigid as Sol's, you know. I doubt if your
people would take kindly to . . . say . . . catastrophic inflation when we
released several tons of the praseodymium which is your standard, followed by
depression and unemployment when a number of key corporations retired from
business."
"I
see," said Brannoch, unmoved. "I didn't intend to use more force on
you than necessary, but you drive me to it. If your entire personnel here
disappeared without trace—111 have to think about it. I'd miss our gambling
games."
"I've
already filed a report to my chiefs, my lord. I was only waiting for their
final orders. They know where I am."
"But
do they know who raided you? It could be fixed to throw the blame on Chanthavar
. . . Yes. An excellent idea."
Brannoch
turned back to Langley. He had to grip the spaceman's shoulder hard to attract
his attention. "Look here," he asked, "does this beast of yours
speak any modern language?"
"No," said Langley, "and if
you think I'm going to be your interpreter, you've got another think
coming."
The
heavy face looked pained. "I wish you'd stop considering me a fiend,
Captain. I have my duty. I don't hold any grudge against you for trying to get
away from me. If you cooperate, my offer still stands. If not, I'll have to
execute you, and nothing will be gained. Well teach Saris the language and make
him work anyhow. All you could do is slow us up a little." He paused.
"I'd better warn you, though. If you try to sabotage the project once it's
under way, the punishment will be stiff."
"Go
ahead, then," said Langley. He didn't give a damn, not any more.
"What do you want to say to him?"
"We
want to take him to Thor, where he'll aid us in building a nullifier. If
anything goes wrong through his doing, he'll die, and robot ships will be sent
to bombard his planet. They'll take a thousand years to get there, but they'll
be sent. If, on the other hand, he helps, he'll be returned home."
Brannoch shrugged. "Why should he care which party wins out? It's not his
species."
Langley
translated into English, almost word for word. Saris stood quiet for a minute,
then:
"Iss grief in you, my
friend."
"Yeah,"
said Langley. "Reckon so. What do you want to do?"
The
Holatan looked thoughtful. "Iss hard to say. I hawe little choice at
pressent. Yet from what I know of today'ss uniwerse, iss not best to aid Sol or
Centauri."
"Brannoch
has a point," said Langley. "We're just another race. Except for the
Society offering you a little better deal, it doesn't affect your people."
"But
it doess. Wrongness in life, anywhere in all space, iss wrongness. Iss, for
instance, chance that someday someone findss out a for traweling faster than
light met'od. Then one race on the wrong pat' iss a general menace. Also to itself,
since other outraged planetss might unite to exterminate it."
"Well
... is there anything we can do, now,
except get ourselves killed in a fit of messy heroism?"
"No.
I see no out-way. That doess not mean none exists. Best to follow the scent ass
laid, while snuffing after a new track."
Langley
nodded indifferently. He was too sick of the whole slimy business to care much
as yet. Let the Centaurians win. They were no worse than anybody else.
"Okay, Brannoch," he said. "We'll string along."
"Excellentl"
The giant shivered, as if with a nearly uncontrollable exuberance.
"You realize, of
course," said Valti, "that this means war."
"What else?"
asked Brannoch, honestly surprised.
"A war which, with or
without nullifiers, could wreck civilization in both systems. How would you
like, say, the procyonites to come take over the radioactive ruins of
Thor?"
"All
life is a gamble," said Brannoch.. "If you didn't load your dice and
mark your cards—I know blazing well you do, tool—you'd see that. So far the
balance of power has been pretty even. Now we will have the nullifier. It may
tip the scales very far indeed, if we use it right. It's not a final weapon,
but it's potent." He threw back his head and shook with silent laughter.
Recovering
himself: "All right. I've got a little den of my own, in Africa. Well go
there first to make preliminary arrangements—among other things, a nice
convincing synthetic dummy, Saris' corpse, for Chanthavar to find. I can't
leave Earth right away, or he'd suspect too much. The thing to do is tip my
hand just enough to get declared persona non grata, leave in disgrace—and come
back with a fleet behind mel"
Langley found himself hustled outside, onto a
slope where snow crackled underfoot and the sky was a dark vault of stars. His
breath smoked white from his mouth; breathing was keen and cold, and his body
shuddered. Marin crept near him, as if for warmth, and he stepped aside from
her. Tool!
No . . . no, he wasn't being fair to her, was
he? She had not been responsible when she had betrayed him, with less will of
her own than if someone had held a gun at her back. But he couldn't look at her
now without feeling unclean.
A
spaceship hovered just off the ground. Langley walked up the ladder, found
himself a chair in the saloon and tried not to think. Marin gave him a glance
full of pain and then took a seat away from the others. A couple of armed
guards, arrogant blond men who must be Thorians themselves, lounged at the
doors. Saris had been taken elsewhere. He was not yet helpless, but his only
possible action would be the suicidal one of crashing the ship. And Brannoch
seemed willing to chance that.
The
mountains fell away under their keel. There was a brief booming of sundered
air, and then they were over the atmosphere, curving around the planet toward
central Africa.
Langley
wondered what he was going to do with himself, all the remaining days of his
life. Quite possibly Brannoch would establish him on some Earth-type world as
promised. He wouldn't see the war, but all his life there would be nightmares
in which the sky tore open and a billion human creatures were burned, flayed,
gutted and baked into the ground. And yet what else could he have done? He had
tried and failed. Wasn't it enough?
No, said some distant New
England ancestor in him.
Time
slipped by. He was getting so many minutes closer to his death, he thought
wearily. Although Africa was on the dayside now, Brannoch's ship went down.
Langley supposed that something had been "flanged up, fake recognition
signals maybe, to get it by the sky patrols. There was a viewscreen, and he
watched a broad river which must be the Congo. Neat plantations stretched in
orderly squares as far as he could see, and scattered over the continent were
medium-sized cities. The ship ignored them, flying low it reached a small
cluster of dome-shaped buildings.
"Ah," said Valti. "A plantation administrative center-
perfectly genuine too, I have no doubt. But down under-
ground, hm." '
A
section of dusty earth opened metal hps and the ship descended into a hangar.
Langley followed the rest out and into the austere rooms beyond. At the end of
the walk there was a very large chamber; it held some office equipment and a
tank.
Langley
studied the tank with a glimmer of interest. It was a big thing, a steel box
twenty feet square by fifty long, mounted on its own antigravity sled. There
were auxiliary bottles for gas, pumps, engines, meters, a dial reading an
internal pressure which he translated as over a thousand atmospheres. Nice
trick, that, he thought. Was it done by force-fields, or simply today's
metallurgy? The whole device was a great, self-moving machine, crouched there
as if it were a living thing.
Brannoch
stepped ahead of the party and waved gaily at it. His triumph had given him an
almost boyish swagger. "Here they are, you Thrymkas," he said.
"We bagged every one of them!"
XIH
Thé flat microphonic voice answered bleakly: "Yes. Now, are you certain that
no traps have been laid, that you have not been traced, that everything is in
order?"
"Of
course!" Brannoch's glee seemed to nose-dive; all at once, he looked
sullen. "Unless you were seen flying your tank here."
"We
were not. But after arrival, we made an inspection. The laxity of the
plantation superintendent—which means yours—has been deplorable. In the past
week he has bought two new farm hands and neglected to condition them against
remembering whatever they see of us and our activities."
"Oh,
well—plantation slaves! They'll never see the compound anyway."
"The probability is
small, but it exists and it can be guarded against. The error has been
rectified, but you will order the superintendent put under five minutes of
neural shock."
"Look
here—" Brannoch's lips drew back from his teeth. "Mujara has been in
my pay for five years, and served faithfully. A reprimand is enough. I won't
have—"
"You will."
For
a moment longer the big man stood defiantly, as if before an enemy. Then
something seemed to bend inside him, and he shrugged and smiled with a certain
bitterness. "Very well. No use making an issue of it. There's enough else
to do."
Langley's mind seemed to pick itself up and start moving again. He
still felt hollow, drained of emotion, but he could think and his reflections
were not pleasant. Valti
was hinting at this. Those gazabos in that glorified ashcan aren't just
Brannoch's little helpers. They're the boss. In their own quiet way, they're
running this show.
But what do they want out of
it? Why are they bothering? How can
they gain by brewing up a war? The Thorians could use more land,
but an Earth-type planet's no good to a hydrogen breather.
"Stand
forth, alien," said the machine voice. "Let us get a better look at
you."
Saris
glided forward, under the muzzles of guns. His lean brown form was crouched
low, unmoving save that the very end of his tail twitched hungrily. He watched
the tank with cold eyes.
"Yes,"
said the Thrymans after a long interval. 'Tes, there is something about him. We
have never felt those particular life currents before, in any of a hundred
races. He may well be dangerous."
"Hell be useful," said Brannoch.
"If
that effect can be duplicated mechanically, my lord,"
interrupted Valti in his most oily tone. "Are you so sure of the
possibility? Could it not be that only a
living nervous system of his type can generate that field ... or control it? Control is a most
complex problem, you know. It may require something as good as a genuine
brain, which no known science has ever made artificially."
'That
is a matter for study," mumbled Brannoch. "It's up to the
scientists."
"And
if your scientists fail? Has that eventuality occurred to you?
Then you have precipitated a war
without the advantage you were hoping for. Sol's forces are larger
and better coordinated than yours, my lord. They might win an all-out
victory."
Langley
had to admire the resolute way Brannoch faced an idea which had not existed for
him before. He stood a while, looking down at his feet, clenching and
unclenching his hands. "I don't know," he said at last, quietly.
"I'm not a scientist myself. What of it, Thrymka? Do you think it can be
done?"
"The chance of the task being an
impossible one has been considered by us," answered the tank. "It has
a finite probability."
"Well
. . . maybe the best thing to do is disintegrate him, then. We may be taking
too much of a gamble—because I won't be
able to fool Chanthavar very long. Perhaps we should stall, build up our
conventional armaments for a few years—"
"No,"
said the monsters. "The factors have been weighed. The optimum date for
war1 is very near now, with or without the nullifier."
"Are you sure?"
"Do
not ask needless questions. You would lose weeks trying to understand the
details of our analysis. Proceed as planned."
"Well
... all right!" The decision
made for him, Brannoch plunged into action as if eager to escape thought. He
rapped out his orders, and the prisoners were marched off to a block of cells.
Langley had a glimpse of Marin as she went by; then he and Saris were thrust
together into one small room. A barred door clanged shut behind them, and two
Thorians stood by their guns just outside.
The
room was small and bare and windowless. There were sanitary facilities, a pair
of bunks—nothing else. Lang-ley sat down and gave Saris, who curled by his
feet, a weary grin. "This reminds me of the way the cops back in my time
used to shift a suspect from one jail to another, keeping him a jump ahead of
his lawyer and a habeas corpus writ."
The
Holatan did not ask for explanations; it was strange how relaxed he lay. After
a while, Langley went on: "I wonder why they stuck us in the same
room."
"Becausse we can
together talk," said Saris.
"Oh,
you sense recorders, microphones, in the wall? But we're talking English.' '
"Doubtless
they iss . . . they hawe translation facilitiess. Our discussion iss recorded
and iss transslated tomorrow, maybe."
"Hm,
yeh. Well, there isn't anything important we can talk about anyway. Let's just
think up remarks on Cen-taurian ancestry, appearance and morals."
"Oh,
but we hawe much to discuss, my friend. I shall stop the recorder when we come
to such topics."
Langley
laughed, a short hard bark. "Good enoughl And those birds outside don't
savvy English."
"I
wish my t'oughtss to order," said the Holatan. "Meanwhile, see if
you can draw them out in conwersation. Iss especially important to leam
T'ryman motiwes."
"So?-
I should think you'd be more interested to know what's going to become of you.
They were talking about killing you back there, just in case you don't
know."
"Iss not so vital ass
you t'ink." Saris closed his eyes.
Langley
gave him a puzzled stare. VU never figure that critter out. The flicker of hope was faintly astonishing; he suppressed it and
strolled over to the door.
One of the guards swung up his gun,
nervously. It had a non-standard look about it. It was probably a smoothbore,
designed and built for this one job. "Take it easy, son," said
Langley. "I don't bite . . . often."
"We
have strict orders," said the Thorian. He was young, a little frightened,
and it thickened the rough accent. "If anything at all goes wrong, whether
it seems to be your fault or not, you're both to be shot. Remember that."
"Taking
no chances, huh? Well, suit yourselves." Langley leaned on the bars. It
wasn't hard to act relaxed and companionable—not any more, now when nothing
mattered. "I was just wondering what you boys were getting out of
it."
"What do you mean?"
"Well,
I suppose you came here along with the diplomatic mission, or maybe in a later
consignment. When did you hit Earth?"
"Three years ago," said the other
guard. "Outplanet service is normally for four."
"But
that don't include transportation time," pointed out Langley. "Makes
about thirteen years you're- gone. Your parents have gotten old,
maybe died; your girl friend has married someone else. . . . Back where I come
from, we'd consider that a hell of a long term."
"Shut up!" The answer was a bit too
stiff and prompt.
"I'm
not talking sedition," said Langley mildly. "Just wondering. Suppose
you get paid pretty well, eh, to compensate?"
"There
are bonuses for outplanet service," said the first guard.
"Big ones?" "Well-"
"I
kind of thought so. Not enough to matter. The boys go off for a couple of
decades; the old folks have to mortgage the farm to keep going; the boys come
back without money to get out of hock, and spend the rest of their lives
working for somebody else—some banker who was smart enough to stay at home. The
rich get richer and the poor get poorer.
Happened
on Earth about 7000 years ago. Place called Rome."
The
heavy, blunt faces—faces of stolid, slow-thinking, stub-bom yeomen—screwed up
trying to find a suitably devastating retort. But nothing came out.
"I'm
sorry," said Langley. "Didn't mean to needle you. I'm just curious,
you see. Looks as if Centauri's going to be top dog, so I ought to learn about
you, eh? I suppose you personally figure on getting a nice piece of land in the
Solar System. But why is Thrym backing you?"
'Thrym
is part of the League," said one of the men. Langley didn't miss the
reluctance in his tone. "They go along with us . . . they have to."
"But
they have a vote, don't they? They could have argued against this adventure. Or
have they been promised Jupiter to colonizeF'
'They
couldn't," said the guard. "Some difference in the air, not enough
ammonia I think. They can't use any planet in this system."
"Then
why are they interested in conquering Sol? Why are they backing you? Sol never
hurt them any, but Thor fought a war with them not so long ago."
"They were
beaten," said the guard.
"Like
hell they were, son. You can't beat a unified planet larger than all the others
put together. The war was a draw, and you know it. The most Earth and Thor
together could do, I'll bet, is mount guard on Thrym, keep the natives down
there where they belong. Thor alone could only compromise, and take the short
end of the stick at that. The Thrymans did win their point, you know; there
aren't any human colonies on the Proximan planets.
"So I still wonder
what Thrym's getting out of this deal."
"I
don't want to talk about it any longer!" said the guard angrily. "Go
on back."
Langley
stood for a moment, considering the situation. There were no soldiers in the
cell block except these two.
The
door was held by an electronic lock. Saris could open it with a mere effort of
will. But the two young men were keyed to an almost hysterical pitch. At the
first sign of anything unforeseen, they'd open up on their prisoners. There
didn't seem to be any way out of here.
He
turned back to Saris. "Got your thoughts uncoiled?" he asked.
"Somewhat." The Holatan gave him a
sleepy look. "You may be astonished at certain t'ingss I hawe to
say." "Go ahead."
"I cannot read the human mind—not its
actual t'oughtss, only its pressence and its emotional state. Giwen time, I
could learn to do more, but there iss not been time yet, ewen wit' you. But the
T'rymanss hawe a wery long time had to study your race."
"So
they can read our thoughts, eh? Hmmm . . . bet Chanthavar doesn't know that!
Then that inspection here they mentioned would have been via the
superintendent's mind, I suppose. But are you sure?"
"Yess. It iss a
certainly. Let me explain."
The
exposition was short and to the point. Every living nervous system radiates
energy of several kinds. There are the electrical impulses, which
encephalography had discovered in man even before Langley's time. There is a
little heat; there is the subtler and more penetrating emission in the
gyromagnetic spectrum. But the pattern varies: each race has its own norms. An
encephalographer from Earth would not find the alpha rhythm of the human brain
in a Holatan; he would have to learn a whole new "language."
On
most planets, including Earth, there is little or no sensitivity to such
emissions. The evolving life develops reactions to such vibrations as light
and sound and, these being sufficient for survival purposes, does not go on to
an ability to "listen in" on nervous impulses. Except for a few
dubious freaks—to this day, the subject of ESP in man was one for debate and
bafflement—humanity is telepathically deaf. But on some planets, through a
statistically improbable series of mutations, ESP organs do develop and most
animals have them. In the case of Holat, the development was unique—the animal
could not only receive the nervous impulses of others, but could at short range
induce them. This was the basis of Holatan emotional empathy; it was also the
reason Saris could control a vacuum tube. As if following some law of
compensation, the perceptive faculty was poor on the verbal level; the Holatans
used sonic speech because they could not get clear ideas across telepathically.
Thryman
telepathy was of the "normal" sort: the monsters could listen in, but
could not influence, except via the specialized nerve endings in their joined
feelers.
So
to read the thoughts of another being, they had to know that being's language
first. And Saris and Langley habitually thought in languages unknown to them.
What they detected was gibberish.
"I
. . . see." The man nodded. "It makes sense." He smiled, grimly.
"Keeping our mental privacy is one consolation, at least."
"There
iss others," replied the Holatan. "I hawe a warning to giwe you.
There iss soon to be an attack."
"Huhr
"Act
not so alarmed. But the female you hawe—Marin iss her name? In her I hawe
detected an electronic circuit."
"What?"
Langley sucked in his breath. There was an eerie tingle along his nerves.
"But she—"
"In
her iss been planted surgically a t'ing which I t'ink iss a wariable-frequency
emitter. She can be traced. I would hawe told Walti, but was not then familiar
wit' the human nerwous system. I t'ought it a normal pattern for your
fe-maless, ewen ass ours iss different from the maless. But now that I hawe
seen more of you, I realise the trut'."
Langley
felt himself shivering. Marin . . . Marin again! But how?
Then he understood. The
time she had been seized and
returned. It had been for a purpose, after
all. Langley had not been the goal of that raid. An automatic communicator
similar to Valti's, planted in her body by today's surgery-yes. And such a
device would be short-range, which meant that only a system of detectors spotted
around the planet could hope to follow her. And only Chanthavar could have such
a system.
"God
in heaven," he groaned, "how many people's Judas goat is she,
anyway?"
"We must be prepared," said the
Holatan calmly. "Our guardss will try to kill us in case of such, no?
Forewarned, we may be able to—"
"Or
to warn Brannoch?" Langley played with the idea a minute but discarded it.
No. Even if the Centaurians got clean away, Sol's battle fleet would be on
their heels; the war, the empty useless crazy war, would be started like an
avalanche. Let Chanthavar win, then. It didn't matter.
Langley
buried his face in his hands. Why keep on fighting? Let him take his lead like
a gentleman when the raid came.
No.
Somehow, he felt he must go on living. He had been given a voice, however
feeble, in today's history; it was upv to him to keep talking as long as
possible.
It might have been an hour
later that Saris' muzzle nosed him to alertness. "Grawity wibrationss. I
t'ink the time iss now."
XIV
A siren
hooted. As its echoes rang
down the hall, the guards jerked about, frozen for a bare instant.
The
door flew open and Saris Hronna was through. His tigerish leap smashed one man
into the farther wall. The other went spinning, to fall a yard away. He was
still gripping his weapon. He bounced to his feet, raising the gun, as Langley
charged him.
The
spaceman was not a boxer or wrestler. He got hold of the gun barrel, twisting
it aside, and sent his other fist in a right cross to the jaw. The Thorian
blinked, spat blood, but failed to collapse. Instead, he slammed a booted lack
at Langley's ankle. The American lurched away, pain like a lance in him. The
Centaurian backed, lifting the musket. Saris brushed Langley aside in a single
bound and flattened the man.
"Iss you well?"
he asked, wheeling about. "Iss hurt?"
"I'm
still moving." Langley shook his head, tasting the acridness of defeat.
"Come onl Spring the rest. Maybe we can still 'make a break during the
fracas.'
Shots and explosions crashed through the other rooms.
Valti stumbled forth, his untidy red head lowered bull-like.
"This wayl" he roared. "Follow mel There must be a rear
exit." '
The
prisoners crowded after him, running swiftly down the corridor to a door which
Saris opened. A ramp led upward to ground level. Saris hunched
himself—anything might be waiting beyond. But there was no alternative. The
camouflaged entrance flew up for him, and he bounded into a late daylight.
Black
patrol ships swarmed overhead like angry bees. There was a flyer near one of
the buildings. Saris went after it in huge leaps. He was almost there when a
blue-white beam from the sky slashed it in half.
Wheeling
with a snarl, the Holatan seemed to brace himself. A police vessel suddenly
reeled and crashed into another. They fell in flame. Saris sprang for the edge
of the compound, the humans gasping in his wake. A curtain of fire dropped over
his path. Valti shouted something, pointing behind, and they saw black-clad
slave soldiers rushing from the underground section.
"Stop
their weapons!" shrieked Langley. He had one of the muskets and he laid it
to his cheek and fired. The crack of it and the live recoil were a glory to
him. A man spun on his heel and fell.
"Too
many." Saris lay down on the bare earth, panting. "Iss more than I
can handle. I had little hope for escape anyhow."
Langley cursed and threw
down his gun.
The
corpsmen ringed them in, warily. "Sirs, you are all under arrest,"
said the leader. "Please accompany us."
Marin wept, quiedy and
brokenly, as she followed them.
Chanthavar
was in the plantation office. The walls were ringed with guards, and Brannoch stood
gloomily to one side. The Solarian was immaculate, and his cheerfulness hardly
showed at all.
"How
do you do, Captain Langley," he said. "And Goltam Valti, sir, of
course. I seem to have arrived in the well-known nick of time."
"Co
ahead," said the spaceman. "Shoot us and get it over with."
Chanthavar raised bis brows. "Why such a
flair for drama?"
he asked. '
An
officer entered, bowed, and reeled off his report. The hideaway was taken, all
personnel dead or under arrest, Solar casualties six killed and ten wounded.
Chanthavar gave an order, and Saris was herded into a specially prepared cage
and borne outside.
"In
case you're wondering, Captain," said the agent, "the way I found you
was—"
"I know," said
the spaceman.
"Oh?
Oh . . . yes, of course. Saris would have detected it. I was gambling
there—didn't think he'd realize in time what it was, and apparently he didn't.
There were other tracing procedures in readiness; this happens to be the one
which worked." Chanthavar's lips curved into his peculiarly engaging
smile. "No grudges, Captain. You tried to do what seemed best, I'm
sure."
"How about us?"
rumbled Brannoch.
"Well, my lord, the
case clearly calls for deportation.''
"All right. Let us go.
I have a ship."
"Oh,
no, my lord. We couldn't be so discourteous. The Technate will prepare
transportation for you. It may take a while—even a few months—"
"Till you get a head
start on the nullifier research. I see."
"Meanwhile,
you and your staff will kindly remain in your own quarters. I shall post guards
to see that you are not . . . disturbed."
"All
right." Brannoch forced his mouth into a sour grin. "I have to thank
you for that, I suppose. In your position, I'd have shot me down out of
hand."
"Someday,
my lord, your death may be necessary," said Chanthavar. "At present,
though, I owe you something. This affair is going to mean a good deal to my own
position, you understand. There are higher offices than my present one, and
they will soon be open for me."
He turned back to Langley. "I've already
made arrangemerits for you, Captain. Your services won't be required any
longer. We have found a couple of scholars who can talk Old American, and
between them and the hypnotic machines Saris can be given a near-perfect
command of the modern language in a few days. As for you, a position and an
apartment at the university in Lora has been fixed up. The historians,
archeologists and planetographers are quite anxious to consult you. The pay is
small, but you'll keep free-born rank."
Langley
said nothing. So he was to be taken out of the game already. That was the end.
Valti
cleared his throat. "My lord," he said pompously, "I must remind you that the Society—"
Chanthavar
gave him a long stare through narrowed eyes. The smooth face had gone utterly
expressionless. "You have committed criminal acts within the laws of
Sol," he said.
"Extraterritoriality—"
"It
doesn't apply here. At best, you can be deported." Chanthavar seemed to
brace himself, "nevertheless, I am letting you go free. Get your men
together, take one of the plantation flyers and go on back to Lora."
"My lord is most
gracious," said Valti. "May I ask why?"
"Never mind why. Get
out."
"My
lord, I am a criminal. I confess it. I want a fair trial by a mixed tribunal as
provided in Article VIII, Section 4, of the Treaty of Luna."
Chanthavar's
eyes were flat and cold. "Get out or 111 have you thrown out."
"I
demand to be arrested!" shouted Valti. "I insist on my right and
privilege of clearing my own conscience. If you won't book me, I shall complain
directly to the Technon."
"Very
well!" Chanthavar spat it out. "I have orders from the Technon itself
to let you go scot-free. Why, I don't know. But it's an order; it came as soon
as I filed report of the situation and of my intention to attack. Are you
satisfied?"
"Yes, my lord," said Valti blandly.
"Thank you for your kindness. Good day, gendemen." He bowed clumsily
and stumped out.
Chanthavar
broke into a laugh. "Insolent old beetlel I didn't want to tell him, but
he'd have learned it anyway in time. Now let him wonder along with the rest of
us. The Technon gets mysterious now and then. A brain planning a thousand years
ahead has to, I suppose." He rose and stretched. "Let's go. Maybe I
can still make that concert at Salma tonight."
Langley
blinked at the sunshine outside. The tropics of Earth had gotten still hotter
in 5000 years. He saw a group of armed men boarding a military flyer, and there
was a sudden wrenching in his heart.
"Chanthavar," he
asked, "can I say goodbye to Saris?"
"I'm
sorry." The agent shook his head, not without compassion. "I know
he's your friend, but there have been too many risks taken in this business
already."
"Well . . . will I
ever see him again?"
"Perhaps.
We aren't brutes, Captain. We don't intend to mistreat him if he
cooperates." Chanthavar waved to a smaller machine. "I think that's
yours. Goodbye, Captain. I hope to see you again sometime if I get the
chance." He turned and strode briskly off. The dust scuffed up under his
buskins.
Langley
and Marin entered the flyer. One silent guard went along and set the autopilot.
The flyer rose smoothly, and the guard sat down in front of them to wait with
drilled patience.
The girl was mute for a long while. "How
did they find us?" she asked at last. The spaceman told her.
She
didn't cry this time. There seemed to be no tears left. They said almost
nothing during the hour of buUeting-home-ward flight.
Lora
raised over a nighted horizon like a huge fountain of soaring metal pride. The
flyer buzzed around, finding a ledge on one of the smaller towers on the north
side. The guard nodded. "Your apartment is No. 337, right down the hall,
sir," he stated. "Good evening."
Langley
led the way. When the door opened for him, he saw a layout of four small rooms,
comfortable but unostentatious. There was a service robot, but clearly his new
position did not include live slaves.
Except—he
faced around to Marin and stood looking at her for a minute. She returned his
gaze steadily, but she was pale and there was a darkness in her eyes. This
blanched creature was not Peggy, he thought.
The
rage and bitterness rose in his throat like vomit. Here ended the saga. He had
tried, and all his hopes had been kicked down, and she was the one who had wrecked theml
"Get out," he said.
She
lifted a hand to her mouth, as if he had struck her, but no words would come.
"You
heard me." He walked over the floor—it yielded ever so litde as if it were
of rubbery flesh—and stared through the window. "I'm giving you your
freedom. You're not a slave now. Understand?"
She made no reply, not yet.
"Are there any
formalities involved?" he asked.
She
told him. There was no life in her voice. He dialed the records office and
filed notice that he, sole owner of chattel slave No. Such-and-such, was hereby
emancipating her. Then he turned, but he couldn't quite meet the green eyes.
"It
wasn't your fault," he said thickly. There was a thundering in his
temples, and his legs wobbled under him. "It wasn't anybody's fault. You
were just a helpless tool. Sure. I'm not condemning you. Nevertheless, I can't
stand having you around any longer. There's too much failure in you."
"I'm sorry," she
whispered.
"So
am I," he said insincerely. "Go on . . . get out . . . make something
of yourself." With a barely conscious impulse, he unfastened his purse
and threw it at her. "There. Good bit of money in that. Take it—use it to
establish yourself."
She looked at him with a bewilderment which
slowly cleared. "Goodbye," she said. Her back was straight as she
walked out. It wasn't till much later that he noticed she'd left his purse
where it fell.
XV
Tomorrow
and tomorrow and tomorrow.
This is the way the world ends.
They
were quiet, pleasant men in the university. They had grave good manners but
little formality, and they were considerate of the man from the past. Langley
recalled his own college days—he'd been a graduate assistant for a while and
had seen a bit of faculty life. Here there was none of the gossip and small
intrigue and hypocritical teas he remembered; but neither was there any spirit
of eagerness and intellectual adventure. Everything was known, everything
settled and assured; it remained only to fill in the details. Back in the 21st
century, masters' theses about the commas in Shakespeare had still been a
subject for humor-today, the equivalent was a matter of course.
Nevertheless, Langley found these graying,
brown-robed men congenial company. There was one historian in particular, a
little wizened man with a huge bald head, Jant Mardos, with whom he got quite
friendly. The chap had enormous erudition and a refreshingly sardonic
viewpoint. They used to spend hours talking, while a recorder took down everything
which was said for later evaluation.
For Langley, it was the
nights which were worst.
"The
present situation was, of course, inevitable," said Mardos. "If a
society is not to petrify, it must innovate, as yours did. But sooner or later
a point is reached at which further innovation becomes impractical, and then
petrification sets in anyway."
"Seems
to me you could still make changes," said the spaceman. "Political
changes, at least."
"The
Commercial Society has ranged for hundreds of light-years and found nothing
like what you dream of."
"Certainly
not. A group which wanted to get away from what it considered an evil
civilization would go further than that. And there's the idea of something hid
behind the ranges—"
"Immature!"
"Of course. Don't forget, the immature
human—or.society —is in process of growing up . \ . But speaking of the Society, I'd like to know more about it. I've got a kind of
suspicion—"
"There isn't a great deal of
information. They've been pretty secretive. They seem to have originated right
here on Earth, a thousand or so years ago, but the history is obscure."
"It shouldn't be," said Langley.
"Isn't the Technon supposed to keep complete records of everything
important? And surely the Society is important. Anyone could have foreseen
they'd become a major factor."
"Go
ahead," shrugged Mardos. "You can use the library as much as will
amuse you."
Langley found himself a desk and asked for a
bibliography.
It
was surprisingly small. By way of comparison, he got a reference
list for Tau Ceti IV, a dreary little planet of no special value—it was several
times as long as the first.
He
sat for some minutes meditating on the effects of a static culture. To him, the
paucity of information fairly screamed Cover-up. But
these so-called savants around him merely noted that few books and articles
were available, and proceeded to forget all about the subject.
He
plunged doggedly into the task of reading everything he could find on the
topic: economic statistics; cases where the Society, to protect itself, had
interfered in local politics on one or another planet; discourses on the
psychology produced by a lifetime aboard ship—and an item dated one thousand,
ninety-seven years ago, to the effect that one Hardis Sanj, representing a
group of interstellar traders (fist of names attached) had applied for a
special charter and that this had been granted. Langley read the charter: it
was a sweeping document; its innocuous language gave powers which a Minister
might envy. Three hundred years later, the Technon entered a recognition of the
Society as an independent state; other planets had already done so, the rest
soon followed suit. Since then there had been treaties and—
Langley
sat very still, four days after his research had begun. It added up.
Item:
The Technon had let the Society go without any argument, though otherwise its
basic policy was frankly aimed at the gradual re-unification of the accessible
galaxy.
Item: The Society had several hundred million members
by now, including personnel from many nonhuman races.
No One member of it knew more than a fraction of the
others. /
Item:
The rank and file of the Society, up through ships' officers, did not know who
their ultimate rulers were, but had been conditioned to obedience and a strange
lack of curiosity about them.
Item: The Technon itself had ordered
Chanthavar to release Valti without prejudice.
Item:
The economic data showed that over long periods of time, more and more planets
were becoming dependent on the Society for one or another vital element of
their industry. It was easier and cheaper to trade with the nomads than to go
out and get it for yourself; and the Society was, after all, quite neutral—
Like
helll
Langley wondered why no one else seemed to
suspect the truth. Chanthavar, now—but Chanthavar, however intelligent, was
conditioned too. His job was merely to carry out policy set by the machine, not
to inquire deeply. Of course no Minister could be permitted to know, and such
as did, from time to time, stumble on the facts, would disappear. Because if
any unauthorized person found out, the secret could not be kept; it would soon
be spread between the stars and the Society's usefulness would end—its usefulness
to the Technon.
Of
coursel The Society was founded soon after the colonies had broken away. There
was no hope of taking them over again in the foreseeable future. But a power
which went everywhere and filed reports for an unknown central office— a power
which everybody, including its own membership, believed to be disinterested and
unaggressive—there was the perfect agent for watching and gradually dominating
the other planets.
What
a machine the Technon must bel What a magnificent monument, the supreme final
achievement of an aging science! It's creators had wrought better than they
knew; their child grew up, became capable of thinking millennia ahead, until at
last it was civilization. Langley had a sudden,
irrational wish to see that enormous engine. But it could never be.
Was
that thing of metal and energy really a conscious brain? No. . . . Valti had
said, and the library confirmed, that the living mind in all its near-infinite
capacities had never been artificially duplicated. That the Technon thought,
reasoned, within the limits of its own function, could not be doubted. Some
equivalent of creative imagination was needed to run whole planets and to
devise schemes like the Society. But it was still a robot, a super-computer;
its decisions were still made strictly on the basis of data given it, and would
be erroneous to the same degree that the data were.
It
was a child—a great, nearly omnipotent, humorless child, fixing the destiny of
a race which had abdicated its own responsibilities. The thought was not
cheerful.
Langley
struck a cigarette and leaned back. All right. He'd made a discovery which
could shake an empire. That was because he came from an altogether different
age, with a different way of living and thinking. He had the unsubmissive
intellect of the free-bom, without mental blinkers.
But
what to do with his facts? He had a nihilistic desire to call up Valti and
Chanthavar and tell them. Blow the whole works apart. But no—who was he to
upset an applecart holding billions of lives, and probably get himself killed
in the process? He didn't have the judgment, he wasn't God —his wish was merely
a reflex of impotent rage.
So I'd better just keep my
mouth shut. If there was ever any
suspicion of what I've learned, I
wouldn't last a minute. I was important for a while, and look what happened.
Alone
in his apartment that night, he regarded himself in a mirror. The face had
grown thin and lost most of its tan. The gray streaks in his hair had spread.
He felt very old and tired. Regret nagged him. He simply didn't belong here.
Marin . . . What was she doing? Was she even alive? Or could you call it life,
down there on low-level? He didn't think she would sell herself; she'd starve to
death first with the angry pride he knew. But anything could happen in the Old
City.
Remorse clawed at him. He shouldn't have sent
her away.
He
shouldn't have taken out his own failure on her, who had only wanted to share
his burden. His present salary was small, hardly enough to support two, but
they could have worked something out.
Blindly, he dialed the city's main police
office. The courteous slave face told him that the law did not permit free
tracing of a commoner who was not wanted for some crime. A special service was
available at a price of—more money than he had. Very sorry, sir.
Borrow
the money. Steal it. Go down to low-level himself, offer rewards, anything, but
find her! And would she even want to come back?
Langley
found himself trembling. "This won't do, son," he said aloud, into
the emptiness of the room. "You're going loco fast. Sit down. Sit down and
do some thinking for a change."
But
all his thoughts scurried through the same rat race. He was the outsider, the
misfit, the square peg, existing only on charity and a mild intellectual
interest. There was nothing he could do. He had no training, no background; if
it hadn't been for the university, itself an anachronism, he would be down in
the slums.
Some
deep stubbornness in him forbade suicide. But its other aspect, insanity, was
creeping after him. This sniveling self-pity was the first sign of his own
disintegration. How long had he been here at the university? About two weeks,
and already he was caving in.
He
told the window to open. There was no balcony, but he leaned out and breathed
hard. The night air was warm and damp. Even this high, he could smell the miles
of earth and growing plants. The stars wavered overhead, jeering at him
with remoteness.
Something
moved out there, a flitting shadow. It came near, and he saw dully that it was
a man in a spacesuit. He was flying with a personal antigravity unit, police
model. Who were they after now?
The black armor swooped close. Langley jumped
back as it came through the window. It landed with a thump that quivered in the
floor.
"What
the hell—" Langley stepped closer. One metal-gaunt-leted hand reached up,
unfastened the blocky helmet, slapped it back. A huge nose poked from a tangle
of red hair.
"Valtil"
"In the flesh," said the trader.
"Quite a bit of flesh too, eh?" He polarized the window as he ordered
it shut. "How are you, Captain? You look rather weary."
"I
. . . am." Slowly, the spaceman felt his heartbeat pick up, and there was
a tautness gathering along his nerves. "What do you want?"
"A
little chat, Captain, merely a little private discussion. Fortunately, we do
keep some regulation Solar equipment at the office. . . . Chanthavar's men are
getting infernally interested in our movements; it's hard to elude them. I
trust we may talk undisturbed?"
"Ye-e-es. I think so.
But—"
"No
refreshment, thank you. I have to be gone as soon as possible. Things are
starting to happen again." Valti chuckled and nibbed his hands together.
"Yes, indeed. I knew the Society had tentacles in high places, but I never
thought our influence was so great."
"C-c-c—"
Langley stopped, took a deep breath and forced himself into a chilly calm.
"Get to the point, will you? What do you want?"
"To
be sure. Captain, do you like it here? Have you quite abandoned your idea of
making a new start elsewhere?"
"So I'm being offered
that again. Why?"
"Ah
. . . my chiefs have decided that Saris Hronna and the nullifier effect are not
to be given up without a struggle. I have been ordered to have him removed from
confinement. Believe it or not, my orders were accompanied by authentic,
uncounterfeitable credentials from the Technon. Obviously,
we have some very clever agents high in the
govemrnent of Sol, perhaps in the Servants corps. They were able to give the
machine false data such that it automatically concluded its own best interests
lay in getting Saris away from Chan-thavar."
Langley
went over to the service robot and got a stiff drink. Only after he had it down
did he trust himself to speak. "And you need me," he said.
"Yes,
Captain. The operation will be hazardous in all events. If Chanthavar finds
out, he will naturally take it on himself to stop everything till he can
question the Technon further. Then, in the light of such fresh data, it will
order an investigation and learn the truth. So we must act fast You will be
needed as Saris' friend in whom he has confidence, and the possessor of an
unknown common language with him—he must know ours already—so he will know what
we are about and cooperate with us."
The
Technonl Langley's brain spun. What fantastic new scheme had that thing hatched
now?
"I
suppose," he said slowly, "we'll be going to Cygni first as you
originally planned."
"No."
The plump face tightened, and there was the faintest quaver in the voice.
"I don't really understand. We're supposed to turn him over to the
Centaurians."
XVI
Langley
made no reply. There didn't
seem to be anything to say.
"I
don't know why," Valti told him,. "I often think that we, the
Society, must have a Technon of our own. The decisions are sometimes
incomprehensible to me, though they have always worked out for the best. It
means war if either side gets the nullifier . . . and why should the Centaurian
barbarians get the advantage?"
"Why
indeed?" whispered Langley. The night was utterly still around him.
"I
can only think that—that Sol represents a long-range menace to us. It is, after
all, a rigid culture. If it became dominant, it might act against us, who
cannot be fitted into its own static pattern. It's probably best in the light
of history that the Centaurians take over for a while."
"Yeah," said
Langley.
This
tore it. This knocked everything he had thought into a ten-gallon hat.
Apparently the Technon was not the
real boss of the nomads. And yet—
"I tell you this in all honesty,"
said Valti. "It might have been easier to keep you in ignorance, but that
was a risk. When you found out what we were up to, you and Saris could make
trouble between you. Best to get your free consent at the start.
"For
your own help, Captain, you are offered a manned spaceship in which you can
find your own planet, if you don't like any known to us. Nor need you worry
about be-
traying
Saris; he'll be no worse off on Thor than on Earth. Indeed you will be in a
position to bargain and assure good treatment for him. But I must have your
decision now."
Langley
shook his head. This was too much, too suddenly. "Let me think a bit. How
about Brannoch's gang? Have they been in touch with you?"
"No.
I know only that we are supposed to get them out of the embassy tower, where
they are being kept under house arrest, and provide transportation to Thor for
them. I have papers from the Technon which will get us in there too, if we use
them right."
"Haven't they
contacted anybody?"
It couldn't be seen through the rigid
spacesuit, but Valti must have shrugged. "Officially, no. Certainly not
us. But in practice, of course, the Thrymans must have variable-frequency communicators
secreted in their tank, where human police could hardly go to search. They
must have been talking to their agents on Earth by that means, though what was
said I don't know. Chanthavar realizes as much, but there's little he can do
about it except to have the Thrymans destroyed, and that goes against the
gentlemanly code. These high-ranking lords of different states respect each
other's rights; they never know when they might find themselves in the same
fix."
"So."
Langley stood immobile, but the knowledge was rising in him and he wanted to
shout it.
He
hadn't been wrong. The Technon did rule the Society. But there was, there must
be, an additional complication, and he thought he had grasped its nature.
"I ask you again,
Captain," said Valti. "Will you help?"
"If
not," said the spaceman dryly, "I suppose your disappointment would
be quite violent."
"I
would infinitely regret it," murmured Valti, touching the blaster at his
side. "But some secrets are rather important." His small pale eyes
studied the other. "I will, however, accept your word if you do agree to
help. You're that kind of man. Also, you could gain little or nothing by
betraying us."
Langley
made his decision. It was a leap into darkness, but suddenly he felt calm
rising within himself, an assurance which was like a steadying hand. He was
going somewhere again. It might only be over a precipice, but he was out of the
maze and walking like a man.
"Yes," he said.
"I'll come along. If."
Valti waited.
"Same
terms as before. The girl Marin is to accompany us. Only first I've got to find
her. She's been manumitted— down on a low level somewhere. When she's back
here, 111 be ready to leave."
"Captain, it may take
days to—"
"That's
too damn bad. Give me a fistful of money and 111 make a stab at locating her
myself."
"The
operation is set for tomorrow night. Can you do it by then?"
"I think so—given enough money."
Valti
emitted a piteous groan, but dug deep. It was a very fat purse which Langley
clipped to his belt. He also held out for a small blaster, which he holstered
beneath his cloak.
"Very
well, Captain," said the trader. "Good luck. Ill expect you to be in
the Twin Moons at 2100 hours tomorrow night. If not . . ."
"I
know." Langley drew a finger across his throat. "Ill be there."
Valti
bowed, lowered his helmet, and left the same way he had come.
Langley
could have wept and howled for sheer excitement, but there wasn't time. He went
out of the apartment and down the halls. They were deserted at this hour. The
bridge-way beyond was still jammed, but when he took a grav-shaft going down he
was alone.
It
brawled and shouted in the commons. Crowds milled about him. In his drab
university gown he met little respect and had to push his way . . . down to
Erie Town.
It lay on the border of the slum section, but
was itself orderly and well policed. There were some humans living in or near
it, he knew, hired help. A nonhuman had no interest in a woman, except as a
servant. It would be the safest place for a girl thrown out of high-level to
go. At least, it was the logical place to begin his search.
He
had been a clumsy amateur, grown mentally paralyzed by his own repeated
failures in a world of professionals. That feeling was gone now. The magnitude
of his determination lent an assurance which was almost frightening. This
time, by God, nothing was going to get in his way without being trampled downl
He
entered a tavern. Its customers were mostly of a scaly, bipedal race with
snouted heads, who didn't need special conditions of atmosphere or temperature.
They ignored him as he walked through the weird maze of wet sponge couches they
favored. The light was dull red, hard to see by.
Langley
went over to a corner where a few men in the livery of paid servants were
drinking. They stared at him; it must be the first time a professor had come in
here. "May I sit down?" he asked.
"Kind of
crowded," snapped a sulky-looking man.
"Sorry. I was going to
buy a round, but—"
"Oh, well then,
sit."
Langley
didn't mind the somewhat constrained silence that fell. It suited him
perfecdy. "I'm looking for a woman," he said.
"Four doors
down."
"No
... a particular woman. Tall, dark
red hair, upper-level accent. I think she must have come here about two weeks
ago. Has anyone seen her?"
"No."
"I'm
offering a reward for the information. A hundred solars."
Their
eyes widened. Langley saw avarice on some of the faces and flipped his cloak
back in a casual way to reveal his gun. Its possession was a serious offense,
but nobody seemed inclined to cry out for the police. "Well, if you can't
help me I'll just have to try somewhere else."
"No
. . . wait a minute, sir. Take it easy. Maybe we can." The sulky man
looked around the table. "Anybody know her? No? It could be inquired
about, though."
"Sure."
Langley peeled off ten ten-solar notes. "That's to hire inquirers. The
reward is extra. But it's no good if she isn't found inside . . . hm . . .
three hours."
His
company evaporated. He sat down, ordered another drink, and tried to control
his impatience.
Time dragged. How much of
life went in simply waitingl
A
girl came up with a suggestion. Langley sent her off to look too. He nursed his
beers: now, as never before, he had to have a clear head.
In
two hours and eighteen minutes, a breathless litde man panted back to the
table. "I've found her!"
Langley's
heart jumped. He stood up, taking it slow. "Seen her?"
"Well,
no. But a new maid answering her description did hire out to a Slimer—a
merchant from Srinis, I mean—just eleven days ago. The cook told me that, after
somebody else had tracked down the cook for me."
The
spaceman nodded. His guess had been right: the servant class would still know
more gossip than a regiment of police could track down. People hadn't changed
so much. "Let's go," he said, and went out the door.
"How about my
reward?"
"You'll get it when I
see her. Control your emotions."
They
went down a broad street full of strangeness. The little man stopped outside a
door. "This is the place. I don't know how we get in, though."
Langley punched the scanner button. Presently
the door opened, to reveal a human butler of formidable proportions. The
American was quite prepared to slug a way past him if necessary.
"Excuse me," said Langley.
"Do-you have a new maid, a tall redhead?"
"Sir, my employer
values his privacy."
Langley
ruffled a sheaf of large bills. "Too bad. It's worth a good deal to me. I
only want to talk with her."
He
got in, leaving his informant to jitter outside. The air was thick and damp,
the light a flooding greenish yellow which hurt his eyes. The outworlders would
employ live servants for prestige, but must have to pay rather well. The
thought that he had driven Marin to this artificial swamp was like teeth in his
soul.
She
stood in a chamber full of mist. Droplets of fog had condensed to glitter in
her hair. Unsurprised eyes watched him gravely.
"I've come," he
whispered.
"I knew you
would."
"I'm . . . can I say
how sorry I am?"
"You needn't, Edwy.
Forget it."
They
returned to the street. Langley paid off his informant and got the address of a
hotel. He walked there, holding her hand, but said nothing till they were
safely alone.
Then
he kissed her, half afraid that she would recoil from him. But she responded
with a sudden hunger. "I love you," he said. It was a new and
surprising knowledge.
She smiled. "That
makes it mutual, I think."
Later,
he told her what had happened. It was like turning on a light behind her eyes.
"And we can get away?" she asked sofdy. "We can really start
over? If you knew how I've dreamed of that, ever since—"
"Not
so fast." The grimness was returning; it put an edge in his voice and he
twisted his fingers nervously. "This is a pretty complicated situation. I
think I know what's behind it—maybe you can help fill in the gaps.
"I've
proven to myself that the Technon founded the Society and uses it as a spy and
an agent of economic infiltration. However, the Technon is stuck away in a
cave somewhere. It can't go out and supervise affairs; it has to rely on
information supplied by its agents. Some of these agents are official, part of
the Solar government; some of them are semiofficial, members of the Society;
some are highly unofficial, spies on other planets.
"But
two can play at the same game, you know. There's another race around which has
a mentality much like the Technon's—a cold, impersonal mass-mind, planning centuries
ahead, able to wait indefinitely long for some httle seed to sprout. And that's
the race on Thrym. Their mental hookup practice makes them that kind: an individual
doesn't matter, because in a very real sense each individual is only a cell in
one huge unit. You can see it operating in a case like the League, where
they've quietly taken over the key positions, made themselves boss so gradually
that the Thor-ians hardly realize it even today."
"And
you think they have infiltrated the Society?" she asked.
"I
know damn well they have. There's no other answer. The Society wouldn't be
turning Saris over to Brannoch if it were truly independent. Valti tried hard to
rationalize it, but I know more than he does. I know the Technon thinks it
still owns the Society, and that it'd never give Centauri an advantage."
"But it has, you
say," she protested.
"Uh-huh.
Here's the explanation as I see it. The Society includes a lot of races. One of
those races is Thryman. Probably they're not officially from Thrym. They could
have been planted on a similar world—maybe with some slight surgical changes
in their appearance—and passed themselves off as natives. They got members into
the nomad bureaucracy by the normal process of promotion and, being very able,
eventually these members got high enough to learn the truth: that the Technon
was behind the whole show.
"What
a windfall for them! They must have infiltrated the Society on general
principles, to get control of still another human group, but found they'd also
gotten a line into the Technon itself. They can doctor the reports it gets from
the Society—not every report, but enough. That power has to be saved for
special occasions, because the machine must have data-comparison units. It must
be capable of 'suspicion,' to do its job. This is a special occasion.
"Chanthavar,
Brannoch and Valti were all acting at cross purposes because there hadn't been
time to consult the Technon; otherwise it would normally have told Valti to
keep hands off the affair, or at least to cooperate with Chanthavar. When it
was informed, you know, it ordered Valti's release.
"But
then the Thrymans got busy. Even imprisoned, they must have been in touch with
their agents outside, including high-ranking Thrymans in the Society.
"I
don't know exactly what story has been fed the Technon. At a guess, I'd
suggest something like this: A trading ship has just come back with news of a
new planet inhabited by a race having Saris' abilities. They were studied, and
it turned out that there is no way to duplicate that nullifying effect
artificially. The Thrymans are perfectly capable of cooking up such a report
complete with quantitative data and mathematical theory, 111 bet.
"All right. This report, supposedly from
its own good, reliable Society, reaches the Technon. It makes a very natural
decision. Let the Centaurians have Saris, let them waste their time
investigating a blind alley. It has to look real, so that Brannoch won't
suspect; therefore, work through Valti without informing Chanthavar.
"So . . . the end result is that
Centauri does get the nulli-
fier! And the first news the Technon has of this is when the
invading fleet arrives able to put every ship in the Solar
System out of action!" »
Marin made no reply for a while. Then she
nodded. "That sounds logical," she said. "Damnably logical. I
remember now . . . when I was at Brannoch's, just before coining to
you, he spoke with that tank. He mentioned
something about Valti being troublesome and ripe for assassination, and the
tank forbade him to do it. Shall we tell Chanthavar?" "No," said
Langley.
"But do you want the
Centaurians to win?"
"Emphatically
not. I don't want a war at all, and letting this information out prematurely
would be a sure way to start one. Can't you see the wild scramble to cover up,
purge, strike at once lest you be further subverted?
"The
fact that Brannoch himself is in the dark, that he knows nothing about this
supremely important Society business, indicates to me that Thrym doesn't
exactly have the interests of the League at heart either. The League is only a
means to a much bigger and deadlier end."
He
lifted his head. "So far, darling, my attempts to sit in on this game have
been pretty miserable flops. I'm risking both our lives against what I tbink
is the future of the human race. It sounds rather silly, doesn't it? One litde
man thinking he can change history all by his lonesome. A lot of trouble has
been caused by that delusion.
"I'm
gambling that this time, for once, it's not a mistake-that I really can carry
off something worthwhile. Do you think I'm right? Do you think I even have a
right to try?"
She
came to him and laid her cheek against his. "Yes," she whispered.
"Yes, my dearest."
XVII
Langley
didn't exactly smuggle
Marin back to his apartment—if she were noticed, it wouldn't excite much comment—but
he did try to be discreet about it. Then he surprised himself by sleeping
better than he had done for weeks.
On
the following day, he took microcopies of all the library data on the Society,
as well as having the robot prepare a summary, and stuck the spool in his
purse. It was dismaying to reflect what a series of thin links his hopes
depended on. Valti's character was one of these; he thought the trader could shake off a lifetime's
conditioning enough to look a few facts and a little reasoning in the face, but
was he sure?
The
sun slipped down under the horizon. Langley and Marin ate supper in the
apartment without tasting it. Her eyes were thoughtful as they looked across a
twilit world.
"Will you miss
Earth?" he asked.
She
smiled gently. "A little. Now and then. But not too much, with you
around."
He
got up and took a gown from the clothes chute for her. With its cowl over her
hair, she had an appealing boyish look. She looked like a very youthful
student. "Let's go," he said.
They went down the hall, to the flange and
the moving
bridgeway.
A crowd laughed and chattered around them, gaily dressed, off on a restless
hunt for pleasure. The lights were a hectic rainbow haze.
Langley
tried to suppress the tension within himself. There was nothing to be gained by
this jittering wonder about the forces leagued against him. Relax, breathe deep, savor the night air and
the vision of stars and spires, he thought. Tomorrow you may be dead.
He couldn't. He hoped his wire-taut nerves weren't shown by his face. Walk slowly, gravely, as befits a man of learning. Forget that you have a gun
under your arm.
The
Twin Moons was a fairly well-known tavern of the slightly shady kind, nestled
on the roof above the low-level, just under the giant leap of metal which was
Interplanetary Enterprises Tower. Walking in, Langley found himself in a
Martian atmosphere: deep greenish-blue sky, a modern canal and an ancient
fragment of red desert. There was a blur of scented smoke and the minor-key
whine of a Martian folk song. Private booths were arranged along one wall with
the appearance of caves in a tawny bluff. Opposite was a bar and a stage, on
which a shapely eodysiast was going through her contortions in a bored fashion.
The timeless hum and clatter of a well-filled inn was low under the music.
2045.
Langley elbowed up to the bar. 'Two beers," he said. The robot extended an
arm with glasses, pumped them full from the arm itself, and sprouted a metallic
hand for the money.
A
man with the sun-darkened skin and gangling build of a Martian nodded at him.
"Don't see many professors in a place like this," he remarked.
"It's our night out," said Langley.
"Mine
too, I suppose. Can't wait to get home again, though. This planet's too damn
heavy. 'Course, Mars is all shot these days too. We ran the Solar System once.
Those were the good old days. Now we're just nice obedient children of the
Technon, like everybody else."
A
black uniform came up behind. The Martian snapped his mouth shut and tried to
look innocent.
"Excuse
me, sir," said the policeman. He tapped Langley's shoulder. "They're
waiting for you."
The
spaceman's world buckled—just for a moment. Then he recognized the now
beardless face under the helmet. This man had pulled a blaster on Brannoch's
agents, down in the slums. It seemed very long ago.
"Of
course," he said, -and followed him. Marin trailed behind. They entered a
booth.
It
was full of uniforms. One bulky shape wore light combat armor; Valti's tones
came through the helmet. "Good evening, Captain, my lady. Is everything
clear?"
"Yes. All set, I think."
"This
way. I have an understanding with my host." Valti pressed his finger to a
spot on the decorative design. The rear wall opened, and the first stairs
Langley had seen in this age led upward to a tiny room where two uniforms of
Ministerial military officers were laid out. "Put them on, please,"
said Valti. "I think you can better act an aristocrat than a slave. But
let me do the talking, except to Saris."
"Okay."
Marin shed her robe and climbed into the
tunic with no sign of embarrassment. Hair drawn up under a light steel cap,
cloak falling carelessly from her shoulders, she could pass for a teen-age
Minister who had pulled rank to come along on this mission for a lark.
Valti
explained the plan, then led the way down again, out of the booth and into the
street. The party numbered a score.
It seemed very little to throw against all the might of Sol.
Nothing
was said as the bridgeways carried them toward the military research center on
the western edge of town. Langley wanted to hold Marin's hand, but that was
impossible just now. He sat thinking his own thoughts.
Their destination was a tower jutting up from
the sheer cliff-like wall of the city. It stood somewhat apart from its
neighbors, and there were probably guns and armor behind its smooth plastic
facade. As Valti's group got off onto a central flange and walked toward the
entrance, three slave guards stepped from an offside niche. They bowed in unison,
and one -asked the visitors' business.
"Special
and urgent," said Valti. The box over his head muffled his accent.
"We are to remove a certain object of study secretly to a safer place.
Here are our papers."
One
of the guards trundled out a table bearing instruments. The authorization was
scanned microscopically; Langley guessed that Technon documents had some
invisible code number which was changed daily at random. The retinal patterns
of several men were scanned and compared with those recorded on the papers. Then
the chief sentry nodded. "Very good, sir. Do you require assistance?"
"Yes,"
said Valti. "Bring a police van around for us. Well be out soon. And don't
admit anyone else till we're gone."
Langley thought of automatic guns hidden in
the walls.
But the door dilated for him and he followed Valti down a
corridor. They went past several pillbox rooms whose per-
sonnel did not interfere; then they had to stop at a second
check point. After that they went on to Saris' prison; the
papers told them where it was. v
The
Holatan lay on a couch behind bars. The rest of the chamber was an enigmatic
jumble of laboratory equipment. There were sentries with mechanical as well as
energy guns, and a pair of technicians working at a desk. They had to call up
their boss for another discussion before they could release their captive.
Langley
had gone up to the cell. Saris made no sign of recognition. "Hello,"
said the spaceman sofdy, in English. "Are you all right?"
"Yess.
So far they iss only electrical and other measure-mentss made. But iss hard to
be caged."
"Have you been taught
the present language?"
"Yess. Very well,
better than English."
Langley
felt weak with relief. His whole precarious plan had depended on this one
assumption and on the amazing Holatan linguistic ability.
"I've
come to get you out," he said. "But itll take some doing. You'll have
to cooperate and risk your neck."
Bitterness
edged the bass purr: "My life? Iss all? That iss not much . . . now."
"Marin knows the facts and what my
scheme is. Now youll have to be told. But itll be the three of us against
everybody else." Swiftly, the man sketched out his knowledge and plans.
The
golden eyes flared with a quick fierce light, and muscles bunched under the
fur. But the voice said only: "Iss well. We will try it thus." The
careful tone showed boredom and hopelessness.
Valti
won his point with the supervisor. A long metal box with a few airholes was
pushed in on an antigravity sled. Saris was prodded into it from his cell, and
the fid locked over him. "Shall we go, my lord?" asked Valti.
"Yes,"
said the American. 'The arrangements are complete."
'
Several men pushed the floating box back down the halls. Even with its weight
nullified, the inertia was still considerable, and turning on the propulsion
unit might set off automatic alarms. When they came back on the flange, a
large black flyer hovered waiting for them. Saris' crate was put into the rear
compartment, the men piled in with it or into the cab, and Valti started it off
for the Centaurian embassy.
Shoving
back his helmet for a breath of air, the trader revealed a sweating face. 'This
is getting more ticklish by the minute," he complained. "If only we
could go direct to my flitter! That superintendent back in the lab will be
calling up Chanthavar soon, 111 bet
my nose. Then the grease will be off the griddle!"
Langley debated trying bis scheme now, before
they took on the next enemy. Bypassing Brannoch entirely? No. There wasn't
time. And Saris was almost helpless behind a mechanical lock. Langley bit his
lip and waited.
The
van stopped near the ambassadorial tower, of which the League had the upper
third for apartments and offices. Valti led half his group toward the entrance.
Again he had to produce papers and go through a check; Chanthavar was keeping
the place heavily guarded. This time his ostensible orders were to remove
certain key Centaurian personnel; he hinted that they were to be taken on a
one-way ride, and the chief watchman grinned.
"Fetch the box
in," reminded Langley.
"What?" asked
Valti, astonished. "Why, my lord?"
"They
may try something desperate. You never know. This will be a shock to them. Best
to be prepared."
"But
will the . . . device . . . function properly, my lord?"
"It will. I've tested
it."
Valti
teetered on the edge of decision, and Langley felt sweat start out on his
palms. If the trader said no ... 1
"All right, my lord.
It may be a good idea at that."
The
box wavered slowly through an opened portal. There was no one in sight; the
lesser fry were probably sleeping in their own quarters. Brannoch's private
door was ahead. It opened as they approached, and the Thorian loomed huge in
it.
"What's
this?" he asked coldly. His heavy form crouched under the wildly colored
pajamas, ready for a final despairing leap at their guns. "I didn't
invite you."
Valti
threw back his helmet. "You may not be sorry for this call, my lord,"
he said.
"Oh,
youl And Langley too, and— Come in!" The giant led them to his living
room. "What's this, now?"
Valti
explained. The triumph flaring in his face made Brannoch look inhuman.
Langley stood by the
floating metal coffin. He couldn't speak to Saris, couldn't warn him of
anything or tell him, "Now." The Holatan lay blind in an iron dark, only
the senses and powers of his mind to reach forth.
"You
hear that, Thrymka?" shouted Brannoch. "Let's gol 111 call the
men—"
"Nol"
Brannoch checked himself in mid-stride.
"What's the matter?"
"Do not call them," said the
artificial voice. "We have expected this. We know what to do. You go with
them, alone; we will follow soon on our sled."
"What in all
space—"
"Hurry!
There is more at stake than
you know. Chanthavar may come any instant, and we have much to do yet."
Brannoch
wavered. Given a moment to think, he would remember Saris' abilities, notice
the sudden slight accent of his Thrymans. But he had just been roused from
sleep, he was used to obeying their orders—
Valti
shoved him. Relief was obvious on the florid countenance. "They're right,
my lord. It'd be devilish hard to get their tank out inconspicuously, and it
would take minutes to collect all your men. Let us be gonel"
Brannoch
nodded, kicked his feet into a pair of shoes, and went out the door between his
supposed guards. Langley stole a glance at Marin, her face was white with
strain. He hoped the crazy thunder of his own heart didn't show.
So
far, so good. Stopping at the embassy had been unavoidable, but the extra
opposition picked up there had been kept down to one man—and a man who
Langley's conscience required should be told the truth.
Saris had not only meant to take control of the Thryman
microphones, but to short out the circuits of their anti-
gravity sled, leave them sitting helplessly behind. Had he
done that? Was he strong enough? Perhaps! —
It
would be strange, though, if those shrewd and suspicious intelligences were
content with an arrangement which would leave them the prisoners of any
accident. There must be means for repairing the apparatus, robot tools
controllable from inside the tank. There were surely means of calling up the
entire ring of Centaurian spies and saboteurs, throwing them all away just to
break through Chanthavar's men and get into a concealed spaceship and flee.
The
Thrymans were going to escape. There was no way of preventing that. They were
probably going to pursue. And Chanthavar wouldn't be peacefully asleep much
longer, either. The question was whether Valti's group could get out of tracer
range before one or the other party was in action.
It'll be interesting to find out, thought Langley.
XVHI
In
his own forgotten world,
they would never have accomplished this much. Somewhere along the line, there
would have been a man with enough independence of mind to hold up the
proceedings while he checked with his superiors. But a slave is not bred or
trained to think for himself. This may be one reason why freedom, unstable,
inefficient, stamped to oblivion again and again, still rises new through all
history.
The van slipped swiftly across a darkened
planet. Lora became a bright star cluster on the horizon, and then it was lost.
Only night could be seen. Langley doubted that he would ever look on that city
again. It had flashed over his experience for a few weeks, but now it was as if
it and all its millions had never been. It gave him some understanding of
Valti's philosophy, his acceptance of the impermanent and the doomed as
essential to the scheme of things.
Brannoch's
sinewy face was etched against shadow by the dim light of the instrument panel.
"Do you know why the Society has decided to help us?" he asked.
"No, I don't, my
lord," said the trader.
"There's
money in it somewhere. Big money. Unless you plan some treachery—" For a
moment, teeth gleamed white; then the Thorian laughed. "No. Why should you
bother with me at all, if not for the purpose you stated?"
"Of
course, my lord, the League will not be ungrateful for all my exertions?"
"Oh,
yes, yes, you'll have your squeeze, never fear. Ill get it back from Earth.
This does mean war, you know. There's no stopping the war now. But if I know
these fat-gutted Ministers, they'll keep their fleet in this system to protect
their own precious hides—long enough to give us a chance at the nullifier. Well
make a couple of heavy raids just to throw a scare into them." Brannoch
stared darkly ahead of him. "I wonder what Thrymka wanted to stay for. I
wonder how big their web really is. Someday I hope to do something about them
too . . . the damned spidersl"
The
van slanted toward a small clump of forest. When it grounded, Valti tumbled
out. "I've got the flitter here. If you please, sirs!"
A
blaster cut the lock on Saris' box. The Holatan emerged in one supple bound,
and the party groped forward between trees.
'They
iss all wit' energy weaponss here," murmured the alien in English.
"All but one, the tall fellow there. Can you handle him?''
"I'd better be able to," said
Langley between clenched jaws.
The
flitter loomed huge in the grove, like a pillar of night. "Where are the
rest of your gang?" asked Rrannoch as he went up the ladder to the
airlock.
"Snugly
in bed, my lord," said Valti. His voice sounded loud and flat in the
immense hush. Somewhere, far off, crickets were chirping. It would probably be
the last time he heard crickets, thought Langley. There were twenty men to
capture.
This
spaceboat was meant for velocity rather than comfort. A single long room held
passenger chairs and the pilot's seat. Valti sloughed off his armor, planted
his large bottom in the control chair, and moved thick fingers in an astonishingly
graceful dance over the panel. The boat shivered, roared and leaped for the
sky.
Atmosphere
fell behind. Earth rolled huge and lovely against a curtain of incandescent
stars. Langley looked at her with a wrenching of farewell. Goodbye, Earth. Goodbye, hill and forest,
tall mountains, windy plains, great march of
seas under the moon. Goodbye, Peggy.
A
computer chattered quietly to itself. Lights blinked on the panel. Valti locked
a switch in place, sighed gustily and turned around. "All right," he
said. "She's on automatic, a high-acceleration path. We'll Teach our ship in half an hour. You may as well relax."
"Easier said than
done," grunted Brannoch.
It grew very still in the
narrow metal chamber.
Langley
threw a glance at Saris. The Holatan nodded, ever so
faintly. Marin saw the gesture, and her own head bobbed. It was time.
Langley
put his back to the wall
near the controls. He drew
his blaster. "Don't move," he said.
~"
Someone
cursed. A gun jumped up with blinding speed. It didn't fire.
"Saris has a grip on
every weapon in here except mine and Marin's," said Langley. "You'd
better sit still and listen —No, you don'tl" He sent a beam roaring at the
tall man with the old-style weapon. The trader howled as it fell from seared
fingers.
"Sorry
to do that." Langley spoke low. There was sweat trickling down his face.
"I don't want to hurt anybody. But there are some pretty big issues
involved. Will you give me a chance to explain?"
"Captain—" Valti shuffled closer.
Marin waved him back with a ferocious gesture. Saris crouched in the after end
of the room, shivering with effort.
"Listen
to me." Langley felt a vague annoyance that his tone should be pleading.
Wasn't the man with the gun supposed to be unquestioned boss? But Valti's
litde eyes were sliifting back and forth, watching for any chance at all.
Brannoch's legs were gathered under his chair, ready to leap. The trader
spacemen were snarling, building up courage for a rush to overwhelm him.
"I
just want to tell you some facts," said Langley. "You've all been the
dupes of one of the biggest, brassiest swindles in history. You think you're
working for your own good— Valti, Brannoch—but I'm going to show you otherwise.
You've got half an hour to wait in any event, so you might as well listen to
me."
"Go ahead," said
Brannoch thickly.
The
American drew a shaky breath and launched into his account: the subversion of
League and Technate and Society by a foreign and hostile power working for its
own ends. He gave Valti the spool he had along, and the man put it in a scanner
and studied it with maddening deliberation. A clock spun off lazy minutes, and
Earth receded in the boat's wake. The room was hot and silent.
Valti
looked up. 'What are you going to do if I don't cooperate?" he asked.
"Make you." Langley waved his gun.
The bushy red head shook, and there was a
curious dignity over the pot-bellied form. "No. I'm sorry, Captain, but
it won't go. You can't operate a modern spaceship. You don't know how, and my
old carcass isn't worth so much that 111 do it for you."
Brannoch
said nothing, but his eyes were chips of blue stone.
"Can't you see,
man?" shouted Langley. "Can't you think?"
"Your
evidence is very slender, Captain. All the facts are susceptible of other
interpretations."
"When
two hypotheses conflict, choose the simpler one," said Marin unexpectedly.
Valti
sat down. He rested his chin on one fist, closed his eyes, and looked suddenly
old.
"You
may be right," said Brannoch. "I've had my suspicions of those
animated pancakes for a long time. But well deal with them later—after Thor is
in a stronger position."
"Nol"
cried Langley. "You blind, bloody fool, can't you see? This whole war is
being engineered by them. They must regard men as dangerous vermin. They can't
conquer us by themselves, but they can get us to bleed each other white. Then they can mop up!"
A
bell rang. Langley turned his head, and brought it around at Marin's scream.
Brannoch was almost on him. He waved the Centaurian back, who grinned
impudentiy, but he let Valti go up to look at the instruments.
The
trader faced them all and announced flatly: "Someone has slapped a tracer
beam on us. We're being followed."
"Who?
How far? How fast?" Brannoch snapped the questions out like an angry dog.
"I
don't know. It may be your friends from Thrym, it may be Chanthavar."
Valti fiddled with some knobs and considered the reading of meters.
"Good-sized ship. Overhauling us, but we'll get to ours about ten minutes
ahead of them. It takes a while to warm up the generators for an interstellar
jump, so we may have to fight during that time." His eyes were steady on
Langley. "If the good captain will permit that."
The
American drew a shuddering breath. "No. Ill let them blow us all up
first."
Valti
chuckled. "Do you know, Captain, I believe you . . . and your somewhat fantastic hypothesis."
"That you'll have to
prove," said Langley.
"I
shall. Men, please toss all your guns over here. The captain can mount guard on
us if he won't find it boring."
"Wait
a minutel" A nomad stood up. "Are you going against the orders of the
chiefs?"
"I am—for the good of
the Society."
"I won'tl"
Valti's
answer cracked like a pistol shot. "You will, sir, or I'll personally
break your back across my knee-. I'm your skipper this trip. Shall I read you
the articles concerning obedience to the skipper?"
"I—yes, sir. But I'll
file a complaint at—"
"Do
so by all means," agreed Valti cheerfully. "Ill be right there in the
office with you, filing my own."
The
blasters clattered at Langley's feet. Saris lay down, trembling with
exhaustion.
"Tie up
Brannoch," said the American.
"Of
course. . . . You'll pardon the liberty, my lord? Well leave you in the
flitter, you can free yourself and scoot away."
Brannoch glared murder, but
submitted.
"Are you satisfied,
Captain?" asked Valti.
"Perhaps. Why do you
believe me now?"
"Partly
the evidence you showed, partly your own sincerity. I respect your
intelligence."
Langley shoved his blaster
back into its sheath. "Okay!"
It
had seemed a chancy thing to do, but Valti only nodded and resumed the pilot's
chair. 'We've almost arrived," he said. "Time to put on the brakes
and match velocities."
The spaceship grew enormously. She was a long
black cylinder, floating through a wilderness of stars. Langley saw her gun
turrets stark against the Milky Way. There was a slight shock, a noise of metal
making contact, and the boat had joined airlocks.
"Battle
stations!" snapped Valti. "You may come" with me, Captain."
He plunged toward the exit.
Langley
stopped by Brannoch. The giant met his eyes and gave him a savage grin.
"Good work," he said.
"Look," answered the spaceman,
"when you get loose, flit away from here but not too far. Listen in on any
radio conversation. Think over what I've told you. Then, if you're wise, youll
get in touch with Chanthavar." I . . . may.
"God help you if you
don't. Goodbye, Brannoch."
Langley
went through the airlock. He was the last man, and the ship's outer door
clashed to behind him. He didn't know the layout of this cruiser, but followed
his hunches as he ran down the corridors. There was a roaring of machines about
him; the ship was making ready to fight.
He located the main control chamber in a few
minutes. Valti sat there, with Marin and Saris hovering in the background. The
vessel must be almost entirely automatic, a robot in her own right, for one man
to guide her thus.
A
stellar globe gave a simulacrum of the cold star-spattered dark outside. Valti
located a moving speck on it and adjusted a telescreen for an enlarged view.
The approaching ship was a steel sphere.
"Thryman
make," said Valti. "I'd know those lines anywhere. Let's see what
they have to say." He punched the radio keys.
Thryman!
Then they must have escaped almost as soon as the others were gone, bulling
through with the guns they doubdess had somewhere on their tank, reaching a
hidden warship and taking it into space with nearly impossible speed. They
would have known the orbit of Valti's craft from the Technon. Langley shivered,
and Marin huddled close to him.
"Hello,
Thrymka." Valti spoke almost casually into his set. Eyes and hands were
still moving, punching buttons, adjusting dials, observing the ready lights
which flashed on for one compartment after another through his vessel.
The
machine voice crackled back: "You have been followed. If you are wise,
you will surrender to us at once. The Solar patrols got a tracer on us. They
are following close behind, and rather than let them have you, we will destroy
everything."
Solar!
Langley whistled.
Chanthavar had been pretty quick on the draw too, it seemed. But, of course,
the Thry-man getaway would have alerted him if nothing else did. "Party's
getting sort of crowded," he muttered. Valti threw down a switch. The
celestial globe reflected tiny splotches of fire which must be earthshaking
explosions.
"The
ships fight themselves," he remarked calmly. "Our crew has little to
do but stand by the emergency manual controls in case we take a hit."
The
two craft maneuvered for position, hurling their own tonnage through the sky as
lightly as a fencer dances. Nuclear missiles flashed out, to be hunted down
and exploded by counter-missiles. Long-range energy beams probed heaven with
lightning. All that Langley sensed was the howl of generators, the crazy dance
of sparks in the globe, and the busy clicking of the ship's robot brain.
Saris
snarled hungrily. "Could I be out there myself!" he raged.
"Could I get my teet' in theml"
Langley
drew Marin to him. "We may be rubbed out before we can break free,"
he said. "I feel awfully helpless." "You did wonderfully,
Edwy," she answered. "Well ...
I tried. I love you, Marin." She sighed with a great happiness. "That
is enough." The walls trembled, and the air was filled with anger. A
voice
choked from the intercom: "Near miss at Seven, sir. Outer plates holed,
radiation blast, no air loss yet." "Carry on," said Valti.
Even
a nuclear explosion had to be very close to do much damage in vacuum. But a
single shell which did touch the ship before going off would make molten rain
of her.
"Here
comes Chanthavar," said Valti. "I have an idea. Hell be listening in
on the radio, so . . ." He flipped the keys. "Hello, Thrymka. Hello,
there. The Solarians are going to be on us in a minute. I like them even less
than you, so let's settle our own differences later, shall we?"
There
was no reply. The Thrymans never wasted speech, and they must see through such
a transparent fraud.
But
two Solar cruisers were sweeping in, and they had heard. The nearest turned in
a graceful arc which would have been impossible without the gravity drive, and
opened fire on the Thryman ship. Valti whooped and sent his vessel surging
forward. One craft could not withstand the assault of two.
The
screens did not show that eye-searing detonation. They refused the load, went
blank, and when they functioned again a few seconds later the Thrymans were a
rapidly expanding cloud of gas.
The
two Solar warcraft circled cautiously, probing at the nomad with a few shells
and beams. A siren hooted. Valti laughed aloud. "The superdrive is ready.
We can pull out of here now."
"Wait,"
said Langley. "Call them up. I want to speak to them."
"But
they may fall on us together while we parley and—" "Damn it, man,
Earth has got to know too! Call theml" But it was Chanthavar who came in
first. His voice
snapped
crisply from the
communicator: "Hello, there,
Society.
Stand by to be boarded."
"Not so fast, buster." Langley
leaned over Valti's shoulder,
seeking the microphone. "We can pull a
switch and be ten
light-years away, but I've got something to
tell you."
"Oh
. . . you." Chanthavar's tone held something close to amusement. "You
againl My respect for amateurs has gone up considerably tonight. I'd like to
have you on my staff."
"You
won't. Now listen." Langley rattled off what he knew as fast as he could.
There
was a humming stillness. Then Chanthavar said slowly: "Can you prove
this?"
"You
can prove it to yourself. Study the same documents I did. Pull in all the
Centaurian agents you can find and question them—the Thrymans must have some
humans in their pay. Put the facts and the hypothesis before the Tech-non, ask
it for a re-evaluation. It must be capable of adding two and twol"
"You . . . may be
right, Langley. You may be right."
"You
can damn well bet I'm right. The Thrymans have no use for us. We're as
monstrous to them as they are to us, and the war they had to fight convinced
them we're dangerous to boot. Their aim must be nothing more or less than the
extermination of the entire human race. Perhaps I'm wrong —but can you afford
to take a chance on it?"
"No," said
Chanthavar quiedy. "It doesn't look that way."
"Get
hold of Brannoch. He's floating around somewhere in this vicinity. You and he
and the Society—all the planets —are going to have to bury your little
ambitions. If you don't, you're through. Together you can face anything."
"Well need that
nullifier effect."
"No,
you won't. You can't conquer a planet the size of Thrym, but you can drive its
natives back and keep them there if you all combine forces. Afterward, it'll be
a healthy knowledge for you that somewhere in the galaxy is a planet of free
men who have a weapon you can't stop. It may even give you some ideas about
freeing yourselves. . . . Goodbye, Chanthavar. Good luckl"
He
switched off the radio and stood up, feeling a sudden enormous calm.
"Okay," he said. "Let's travel."
Valti gave him a strange look. Only later,
remembering, did Langley recognize it as the look a man gives his leader.
"Best to go to Cygni first and let the Society—the real Society—know."
"Yes,"
agreed Langley. "Then to Holat, to build defenses for them as we promised.
You're going home, Saris."
The great dark head rubbed
against his knees.
"And
then?" asked Valti. His hands were setting up the control pattern for the
jump.
"And
then," said Langley with an exuberant laugh, "Marin and I are off to
find us a world where tve can feel at homel"
"Do you mind if I come along?"
whispered Valti.
Marin
gripped Langley's hand. They regarded each other, without eyes for anything
else. And when they looked around them again, there was a new sun in the sky.
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