Chapters 41
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1 01 - Industrial Revolution, Part One 17:20
Industrial Revolution, Part 1. Well, yes," Amsbaugh admitted. It was a unique war in many ways, including its origin. However, there are so many analogies to other colonial revolutions. His words trailed off, as usual. "'I know. Earth's mercantile policies and so forth,' said Lindgren. He fancies himself a student of interplanetary history. This has led to quite a few arguments, since Amsbar, who teaches in that field, joined the club. Mostly they're good. I went to the bar and got myself another drink, listening as the mine owner's big voice went on. "'But what began it?' When did the Asterites first start realizing they weren't pseudo-parts of a dozen terrestrial nations, but a single nation in their own right?
There's the root of the Revolution, and it can be pinned down, too. "'Where, metaphor?' cried someone at my elbow. I turned and saw Missy Blades. She had come quietly into the lounge and started mixing in gin and bitters. The view window framed her white head in Orion as she moved toward the little cluster of seated men. She took a fat cigar from her pocket. Strockett on her shoe sole, and added her special contribution to the blue cloud in the room after she sat down. Excuse me, she said. I couldn't help that. Please go on. Which I hope relieves you of any fear that she's an unforgettable character. Oh, yes, she's old Satan now. Her toil and guts and conniving make up half the biography of the sword.
She manned a gun turret at Surrey's, and was mate to the Tyrfing in some of the earliest Saturn ones when men took their lives between their teeth because they needed both hands free. Her sons and grandsons filled the belt with their brawling ventures. She can drink any ordinary man to the deck. She's one of the three women I've admitted to the club, but she's also one of the few genuine ladies I've known in my life. Oh, well," Lindgren grinned at her. I was saying, Missy, the germ of the Revolution was when the stations armed themselves. You see, that meant more than police powers. It implied a degree of sovereignty. Over the years, the implication grew. Correct. Orloff nodded his bald head.
I remember how the Governing Commission squirreled when the station managers first demanded the right. They foresaw trouble. But if the stations belonging to one country put in space weapons, what else could the others do? They should have stuck together and all been firm about refusing to allow it, Emspar said. From the standpoint of their own best interests, I mean. They tried to, Arloff replied. I hate to think how many communications we sent home from our own office, and the others must have done the same. But Earth was a long way off. The station bosses were close. Inverse square law of political pressure. I grant you, arming every new little settlement proved important. Amspar said, but really it expressed nothing more than the first inchoate stirrings of asteroid nationalism, and the origins of that are much more subtle and complex.
For instance, uh, you've got to have a key event somewhere, Lindgren insisted. I say that this was it. A silence fell, as will happen in conversation. I came back from the bar and settled myself beside Missy. She looked for a while into her drink, and then out to the stars. The slow spin of our rocket now brought the dippers into view. Her faded eyes sought the Polestar, but its Earth's, not her own any more, and I wondered what memories they were sharing. She shook herself the least bit and said, I don't know about the sociological ins and outs. All I know is a lot of things happened, and there wasn't any pattern to them at the time. We just slogged through as best we were able, which really wasn't very good.
But I can identify one of those wriggling roots for you, Sigurd. I was there when the question of arming the stations first came up, or rather, when the incident occurred that led directly to the question being raised. Our whole attention went to her. She didn't dwell on the past as often as we would have liked. A slow, private smile crossed her lips. She looked beyond us again. As a matter of fact, she murmured, I got my husband out of it. Then, quickly, as if to keep from remembering too much, do you care to hear the story? It was when the S.O.O.D. was just getting started. It established themselves an S.S.C. 45. Oh, never mind a catalogue number. S.O.O.D. Enterprises, because Mike Blade's name suggested it.
What kind of name would you get out of Jimmy Jungle, even if he was a senior partner? It sounded too much like a collision with a meteorite, so naturally the asteroid also came to be called the sword. They began on the borrowed shoestring that was usual in those days. Of course, on the belt, a shoestring has to be mighty long, and finances got stretched to their limit. The older men here will know how much had to be done by hand, in mortal danger, because machines were too expensive. But in spite of everything, they succeeded. The station was functional, and they were ready to start business. When? It was no coincidence that the Jupiter craft were arriving steadily when the battleship came. Construction had been scheduled with this in mind, that the sword should be approaching conjunction with the King Planet, making direct shuttle service feasible, just as the chemical plant went into service.
We need not consider how much struggle and heartbreak had gone into meeting that schedule. As for the battleship, she appeared because the fact that a station in just this orbit was about to commence operations It was news important enough to cross the solar system and push through many strata of bureaucracy. The heads of the recently elected North American government became suddenly fully aware of what had been going on. Michael Blades was outside, overseeing the installation of a receptor, when his earplug buzzed. He thrust his chin against the tuning plate, switching from gang to inter-office band. Mike, said Avis Page's voice. He wandered up front. Now... He objected. Whatever for? Courtesy visit from the NASS Altair.
You've lost track of time, my boy. What the jumping blue blazers are you talking about? We've had our courtesy visit. Jimmy and I both went over to pay our respects, and we had Rear Admiral Hulse there to dinner. What more do you expect for Harry's sake? Don't you remember? Since there wasn't room to entertain his officers, you promised to take them on a personal guided tour later. I made the appointment the very next watch. Now's the hour. Oh, yes, it comes back to me. Yeah. Hulse bought a magnum of champagne with him, and after so long a time drinking recycled water my capacity was shucked to pieces. I got a warm glow of good fellowship on and offered. Let Jimmy handle it. I'm busy. The party's too large, he says.
You'll have to take half of them. Your gig will dock in thirty minutes. We'll depute somebody else. They're to be rude, Mike. Have you forgotten how sensitive they are about rank at home? Avis hesitated. If what I believe about the mood back there is true, we can use the goodwill of high-level Navy personnel and any other influential people in sight. Blades drew a deep breath. You're too blinking sensible. Remind me to fire you after I've made my first ten million bucks. What'll you do for your next ten million, then? Snipped his secretary file, clerk-confident advisor, etc. Nothing. I'll just squander the first. Goody. Can I help? I'll be right along. Blades switched off. His ears felt hot, as often of late when he tangled with Avis, and he unlimbered only a few choice oaths.
"'Troubles,' said Carlos O'Donnell. Blade stood a moment, looking around before he answered. It was on the wide end of the sword, which was shaped roughly like a truncated pyramid. Beyond him and his half-dozen men stretched a vista of pitted rock, jutting crags, gulf-black shadows under the glare of flood-lamps. A few kilometres away, The farthest horizon ended, chopped off like a cliff. Beyond lay the stars, crowding that night which never ends. It grew very still while the gang waited for his word. He could listen to his own lungs and pulse, loud in the spacesuit. He could even notice its interior smell, its blend of plastic and oxygen cycle chemicals, flesh and sweat. He was used to the sensation of hanging upside down on the surface, grip-soled boots holding him against that fractional g by which the asteroid's rotation overcame its feeble gravity.
But it came to him that this was an airy, bat-fashion way for an Oregon farm boy to stand. Oregon was long behind him, though, not only the food factory where he grew up, but the coasts where he'd fished and the woods where he'd tramped. No loss. There'd always been too many tourists. You couldn't escape from people on Earth. Cold and vacuum and raw rock and everything. The belt was better. It annoyed him to be interrupted here. Could Carlos take over as foreman? No, Blades decided. Not yet. The gas receptor was an intricate piece of equipment. Carlos was a good man of his hands. Every one of the hundred-odd in the station necessarily was, but he hadn't done this kind of work often enough. I have to quit.
Blades said. Secure the stuff and report back to Buck Myers over at the dock, the lot of you. His crew's putting in another recoil pier, as I suppose you know. They'll find jobs for you. I'll see you here again on your next watch. He waved. Being half the nominal ownership of this place didn't justify snobbery when everyone must work together or die, and stepped off toward the nearest entry lock with that flowing spaceman's pace which always keeps one foot on the ground. Even so, he didn't unshackle his inward railing lifeline until he was inside the chamber. On the way, he topped at Gaunt Ridge and had a clear view of the balloons that were attached to the completed receptors, those that were still full, both enormous like ghostly moons.
The jovian gases that strained their tough elastomer did not much blur the stars seen through them, but they swelled high enough to catch the light of the hidden sun and shimmer with it. The nearly-discharged balloons hung thin, straining outward. Two full ones passed in slow orbit against the constellations. They were waiting to be hauled in and coupled fast, to release their loads into the station's hungry chemical plant, but there were not yet enough facilities to handle them at once, and the palace castle would soon be arriving with another. Blades found that he needed a few extra curses. Having cycled through the airlock, he removed his suit and stowed it. Also, the heavy gloves which kept him from frostbite as he touched its space-cold exterior.
Tastefully clad in a navy surplus long-john, he started down the corridors. Now that the first stage of burrowing within the asteroid had been completed, most passages went through its body, rather than being plastic tubes snaking across the surface. Nothing had been done thus far about facing them. They were merely shafts, two meters square, Lined with doorways, ventilator grills, and fluoropanels. They had no thermocoils. Once the nickel-iron mass had been sufficiently warmed up, the waste heat of man and his industry kept it that way. The dark chipped-out tunnels throbbed with machine noises. Here and there a girly picture of sentimental landscape from Earth was posted. Men moved busily along them, bearing tools, instruments, supplies.
They were from numerous countries, those men, though mostly North Americans, but they had acquired a likeness, a rangy, leathery look, and a free-swinging stride that went beyond their colorful coveralls. "'Hi, Mark. How's she spinning?' "'Hey, Mark. You heard the lady's story about the Martian and the Bishop.' "'Spare me a minute. We got trouble in the separated manifolds.' "'What's the hurry, Mike? Your battery's overcharged.' Blades waved the hails aside. There was need for haste. He could move fast indoors, under the low weight, which became lower as he approached the axis of rotation, with no fear of tumbling off, but it was several kilometers from the gas receptor end to the people end of the asteroid.
He rattled down a ladder and entered his cramped office out of breath. Avis Page looked up from her desk and wrinkled her freckled nose at him. "'You thought to take a shower, but there isn't time,' she said. "'Here, use my Auntie Stinker.' She threw him a spray cottage with a deft motion. I got your suit and beardex out of your cabin. Have I no privacy? he grumbled, but grinned in her direction. She wasn't much to look at. Not ugly. She's small, brunette, and unspectacular. But she was a supernova of an assistant. Make somebody a good wife, some day. He wondered why she hadn't taken advantage of the situation here to snaffle the husband. A dozen women, all but two of them married, and a hundred men.
It was a ratio even more lopsided than the norm in the belt. Of course, with so much work to do, and with everybody conscious of the need to maintain cordial relations, sex didn't get much chance to rear its lovely head. Still, she smiled back with a gentleness that he found disturbing when he noticed it. Shoo, she said, your guests will be here any minute. You're to meet them in Jimmy's office. Blades ducked into the tiny washroom. He wasn't any 3V star himself, he decided as he smeared cream over his face. Big, homely, red-haired, but not something you'd be scared to meet in the dark alley either, he added smugly. In fact, there had been an alley in Arecipolis. Things were expected to be going so smoothly by the time they approached conjunction with Mars that he could run over to that sinful, ginful city for a vacation.
Long overdue. Whew. He wiped off his whiskers. Shucked the zip-skin and climbed into the white pants and high-coloured blue tunics that must serve as formal garb. Emerging, he stopped again at Avis's desk. Any messages from the palace? he asked. No, the girl said, but she ought to be here in another two watches, right on Sked. You worry too much, Mike. Somebody has to, and I haven't got Jimmy's Buddhist ride-with-the-punches attitude. You could cultivate it. She grew curious. The brown eyes lingered on him. Worries can change us. You make me fret about you. Nothing's going to give me an ulcer but the shortage of booze on this rock. If Bill Mbelow should call about those catalysts while I'm gone, tell him—he ran off a string of instructions and headed for the door.
Jung's hangout was halfway around the asteroid, so that one chief or other could be a little nearer the scene of any emergency, not that they spent much time at their desks. Short-handed and under-mechanized, they're forever having to help out in the actual construction. Once in a while, Blaze found himself harking wistfully back to his own days as an engineer with solar metals. He could pay, interesting if hazardous work on flying mountains where men had never trod before, and no further responsibilities. But most asteroids had the dream of becoming their own bosses. When he arrived, the Altair officers were already there, a score of correct young men in white-dressed uniforms, short, squat, and placid-looking.
Jimmy Jung stood, making polite conversation. Ah, there, he said. Lieutenant Zeska and gentlemen, my partner, Michael Blades. Mike, may I present... Alla Blades' attention stopped at Lieutenant Zeska. He heard vaguely that she was the head quartermaster officer, but mainly she was tall and blonde and blue-eyed, with a bewitching dimple when she smiled, and filled her gown the way a Selene-y Venus doubtless filled its casting mold. Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Blade, she said as if she meant it. Maybe she did. He gulped for air. And Commander Leibknecht, Jung said across several light-years. Commander Leibknecht! Commander Leibknecht! Oh, sure, excuse. Blade dropped Lieutenant Ziska's hand in reluctant haste.
How do you do, Commander Leibknecht? Somehow the introductions were gotten through. I'm sorry we have to be so inhospitable, Jung said. But you'll see how crowded we are. About all we can do is show you around, if you're interested. Of course you're interested, said Blades to Lieutenant Ziska. I'll show you some gimmicks I thought of myself. Jung scowled at him. We'd best divide the party and proceed along alternate routes, he said. We'll meet again in the mess for coffee, Lieutenant Ziska. Would you like to come with me, certainly? Blades said. Jung's glance became downright murderous. I thought, he began. Sure," Blades nodded vigorously. You being the senior partner, you'll take the highest ranking of these gentlemen, and I'll be in Scotland before you.
Come on, let's get started. May I? He offered the quarter-mistress his arm. She smiled and took it. He supposed that eight or ten of her fellows trailed them.
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2 02 - Industrial Revolution, Part Two 16:14
Industrial Revolution, Part Two.
The first disturbing note was sounded on the veranda. They had glanced at the cave-like dormitories where most of the personnel lived, at the recreation dome topside which made the life tolerable, at kitchen, sick bay, and the other service facilities. At the hydroponic tanks and yeast vats, which supplied much of the station's food, at the tiny cabins scooped out for the top engineers and the married couples. Before leaving this end of the asteroid, Blades took his group to the veranda. It was a clear dome jutting from the surface, softly lighted, furnished as a primitive officer's lounge, open to a view of half the sky. Oh, murmured Ellen Ziska, and consciously she moved closer to Blades. Young Lieutenant Commander Gilbertson gave her a somewhat jaundiced look.
"'You have seen deep space often enough before?' he said. To a powder helmet, her eyes glimmered, enormous in the dusk. "'Never like this.' The stars crowded close in their wintry myriads. The galactic belt glistened, diamond against infinite darkness. Vision toppled endlessly outward, toward the far mysterious shimmer of the Andromeda Nebula. Silence was not a mere absence of noise, but a majestic presence, the seething of suns. What about the observation terrace of Leiburg? Gilbertson challenged. That was different, Ellen Zysker said. Everything was safe and civilized. This is like being on the edge of creation. Blades could see why Goddard House had so long resisted the inclusion of female officers on ships of the line, despite political pressure at home and the Russian example abroad.
He was glad that finally given in. Now, if only he could build himself up as a dashing romantic type. But how long would the Altair stay? Her stopover seemed quite extended already, for a casual visit in the course of a routine patrol cruise. He'd have to work fast. Yes, we're pretty isolated, he said. The Jupiter ships just unload their balloons, pick up the empties, and head right back for our cargo. I don't understand how we can found an industry here when your raw materials only arrive at conjunction, Ellen said. Things will be different once we're in full operation, Blades assured her. Then we'll be doing enough business to pay for a steady input, transhipped from whatever depot is nearest to Jupiter at any time.
You've actually built this simply to process gas, Gilbertson interposed. Blades didn't know whether he was being sarcastic or asking a genuine question. It was astonishing how ignorant Earthside is. Even space-travelling airsiders often were about such matters. Jovian gas is rich stuff, he explained. Chiefly hydrogen and helium, of course, but the scoop ships separate out most of that during a pick-up. The rest is ammonia, water, methane, a dozen important organics, including some of the damn Dagonodist metallic complexes you ever heard of. We need them as the basis of a chemosynthetic industry, which we need for survival, which we need. If we're to get the minerals that were the reason for colonizing the belt in the first place, he waved his hand at the sky.
When we really get going, we'll attract settlement. This asteroid has companions waiting for people to come and mine them. Home ships and orbital stations will be built. In ten years there'll be quite a little city clustered around the sword. It's happened before, nodded tight-faced Commander Warburton of Gunnery Control. It's going to happen a lot often, Blade said enthusiastically. The belt's going to grow. He aimed his words at Alan. This is the real frontier. The planets will never amount to much. It's actually harder to maintain human-type conditions on so big a mass, with a useless atmosphere around you, than on a lump in space like this. And the gravity wells are so deep. Even given nuclear power, the energy cost of really exploiting a planet is prohibitive.
Besides which, the choice minerals are buried on the kilometers of rock. On a metallic asteroid you can find almost everything you want directly under your feet, no limit to what you can do. But your own energy expenditure, Gilbertson objected. It's no problem. As if on cue the worldlets spin brought the sun into sight. Tiny but intolerably brilliant, it flooded the dome with harsh radiance. Blades lowered the blinds on that side. He pointed in the opposite direction towards several sparks of equal brightness that had manifested themselves. Hundred-metre parabolic mirrors, he said. Easy to make. You spray a thin metallic coat on a plastic backing. They're in orbit around us, each with a small gg unit to control drift and keep it aimed directly at the sun.
The focused radiation charges heavy-duty accumulators which we can then collect and use for a power source in all our mobile work. Do you mean you haven't any nuclear generator? asked Warburton. He seemed curiously intent about it. Blades wondered why, but nodded. That's correct. We don't want one. Too dangerous for us, nor is it necessary, even at this distance from the sun, and allowing for assorted inefficiencies. A mirror supplies better than five hundred kilowatts, twenty-four hours a day, year after year, absolutely free. Hmm, yes. Warburton's lean head turned slowly about to rake blades with a look of calculation. I understand that's the normal power system in stations of this type. But we didn't know if it was used in your case, too.
Why should you care, Blades thought. He shoved aside his faint unease and urged Ellen toward the dome railing. Maybe we can spot your ship, Lieutenant, er, Miss Zisker. Here's a telescope. Let me see. A orbit ought to run about so. He hunted until the Altair swam into the viewfield. At this distance, the spheroid looked like a tiny crescent moon, dully painted. But he could make out the sinister shapes of a rifle turret and a couple of missile launchers. Have a look, he invited. Her hair tickled his nose, brushing past him. It had a delightful sunny odour. How small she seems, the girl said, with the same note of wonder as before. And how huge when you were bored. Big, all right, Blades knew, unloaded to the hatches with nuclear hellfire, but not massive.
A civilian spaceship carried meteor plating, but since that was about as useful as wet cardboard against modern weapons, Warcraft sacrificed it for the sake of mobility. The self-sealing hull was thin magnesium. The outer shell periodically renewed as cosmic sand eroded it. I'm not surprised we orbited instead of docking, Ellen remarked. We'd have butted against your radar and bellied into your control tower. Well, actually, no. Said Blades. Even half finished, our dock's big enough to accommodate you. As you'll see today, don't forget, we anticipate a lot of traffic in the future. I'm puzzled why you didn't accept our invitation to use it. Doctrine, Warburton clipped. The sun came past the blind and touched the officers' faces with incandescence.
Did some look startled, one or two open their mouths as if to protest and then snap them shut again at a warning look? Blades' spine tingled. I never heard of any such doctrine, he thought, least of all when a North American ship drops in on a North American station. Is there some intentional crisis brewing? he inquired. Why, no, Ellen straightened from the telescope. I'd say relations have seldom been as good as they are now. What makes you ask? Well, the reason your captain didn't— Never mind, Warburton said. We'd better continue the tour, if you please. Blades filed his misgivings for later reference. He might have fretted immediately, but Ellen Ziska's presence forbade that. A sort of pally exclusion principle.
One can't have two spins simultaneously, can one? He gave her his arm again. Let's go on to central control, he proposed. That's right behind the people section. You know, I can't get over it, she told him softly. This miracle you've wrought, I've never been more proud of being human. Is this your first long space trip? Yes. I was stationed at Port Colorado before the new administration reshuffled armed service assignments. They did? How come? I don't know. Well, that is, during the election campaign the Social Justice Party did talk a lot about old-time officers who were too hidebound to carry out modern policies effectively, but it sounded rather silly to me. Warburton compressed his lips. I do not believe it is proper for service officers to discuss political issues publicly, he said like a machine gun.
Ellen flushed. Sorry, Commander. Blades felt a helpless anger on her account. He wasn't sure why. What was she to him? He'd probably never see her again. A hell of an attractive target, to be sure, but after so much celibacy, he was highly vulnerable. But did she really matter? He turned his back on Warburton and his eyes on her. A five thousand percent improvement, and diverted her from her embarrassment by asking, Are you from Colorado then, Miss Siska? No, Toronto. How'd you happen to join the Navy, if I may make so bold? Gosh, that's hard to say, but I guess mostly I felt so crowded at home, so pigeonholed. The world seemed to be nothing but neat little pigeonholes. Aha, same here. I was also a square of pigeon in a round hole.
She laughed. Luckily, he added. Space is too big for compartments. Her agreement lacked vigor. The Navy must have been a disappointment to her, but she couldn't very well say so in front of her shipmates. If she could be gotten away from them. How long will you be here? he inquired. His pulse, thuttered. We haven't been told, she said. Some work must be done on the missile launchers, Warburton said. That's best carried out here, where extra facilities are available if we need them. Not that I expect we will. He paused. I hope we won't interfere with your own operations. Far from it, blades beamed at Ellen. Or, more accurately, this kind of interference I don't mind in the least. She blushed and her eyes fluttered.
Not that she was a fluffhead, he realized, but to avoid incidents, Navy regulations enforced an inhuman correctness between personnel of opposite sexes. After weeks in the black, meeting a man who could pay a compliment. Without risking court-martial, it must be like a shot of adrenaline. Better and better. Are you sure? Warburton persisted. For instance, won't we be in the way when the next ship comes from Jupiter? She'll approach the opposite end of the asteroid, Blade said. Won't stay long, either. How long? One watch, so the crew can relax a bit among those of us who are off duty. It'd be a trifle longer if we didn't happen to have an empty bag at the moment, but never very long, even running under thrust the whole distance.
Dupes a good ways off. They have no time to waste. When is the next ship due? The Pallas Castle is expected in the second watch from now. Second watch? I see. Orberton stalked on with a brooding expression on his Puritan face. Blades might have speculated about that, but someone asked him why the station depended on spin for weight. Why not put in an internal field generator, like a ship? Blades explained patiently that an Emmet, large enough to produce uniform pull-through, A volume as big as the sword was rather expensive, eventually when we were a few megabucks ahead of the game. Do you really expect to become rich? Alan asked. Her tone was odd. No Earthsider had that chance any more, except for the great corporations.
Individually rich. We can't fail to. I tell you this is a frontier like nothing since the Conquistadors. We could very easily have been wiped out in the first couple of years, financially or physically, by any of a thousand accidents. But now we're too far along for that. We've got a maid, Jimmy and I. What will you do with your wealth? Live like an old-time sultan, Blades grinned. Then, because it was true, as well as because he wanted to shine in her eyes, mostly, though, we'll go on to new things. There's so much that needs to be done. Not simply more asteroid mines. We need farms, timber, parks, passenger and cargo liners, every sort of machine. I'd like to try getting at some of that water frozen in the Saturnian system.
Altogether, I see no end to the jobs. It's no good on depending on Earth for anything. Too expensive. Too chancy. The belt has to be made completely self-sufficient. With a nice rake-off for sword enterprises, Gobitson scoffed. Why, sure. Aren't we entitled to some return? Yes, but not so out of proportion as the belt companies seem to expect. They were only using natural resources that rightly belonged to the people, and the accumulated skills and wealth of an entire society. Ah, the people didn't do anything with the sword. Jimmy and I and our boys did. No society was around here grubbing nickel iron and riding out gravel storms. We were. Let's leave politics alone, Warburton snapped. But it was mostly Ellen's look of distress was shot blades up.
To everybody's relief, they reached central control about then. It was a complex of domes and rooms, crammed with more equipment than blades could put a name to. Computers were in Jung's line, not his. He wasn't able to answer all of Warburton's disconcertingly sharp questions, but in a general way he could. Whirling through vacuum with a load of frail humans and intricate artifacts, the sword must be at once machine, ecology, and unified organism. Everything had to mesh. A failure in a thermodynamic balance. A miscalculation in supply inventory. A few mirrors perturbed out of proper orbit might spell Ragnarok. The chemical plants, purifications, and syntheses were already a network too large for the human mind to grasp as a whole, and it was still growing.
Even where men could have taken charge, automation was cheaper, more reliable, less risky of lives. The computer system housed in central control was not only the brain, but the nerves and heart. Not the sword. Entirely cryotronic, eh? Warburton commented. It seems to be the usual practice at the stations. Why? The least expensive type for us, Blades answered. There's no problem in maintaining liquid helium here. Warburton's gaze was peculiarly intense. Cryotronic systems are vulnerable to magnetic and radiation disturbances. Uh-huh, that's one reason we don't have a nuclear power plant. This far from the sun, we don't get enough emission to worry about. The asteroid's mass screens out what little may arrive.
I know the TIM system is used on ships, but if nothing else, the initial cost is more than we want to pay. What's TIM? inquired the Altars chaplain. Thermally integrated, macro-minetarized, Ellen said crisply. Essentially, ultra-minetarized ceramic-to-metal sail vacuum tubes running off thermionic generators. They're immune to gamma ray and magnetic pulses. Easily shielded against particle radiation and economical power, she grinned. Don't tell me there's nothing about them in Leviticus, Padre. Very fine for a ship's autopilot, Blades agreed. But as I said, we needn't worry about rad or mag units here. We don't mind sprawling a bit, and as for thermal efficiency, we want to waste some heat. It goes to maintain internal temperature.
In other words, efficiency depends on what you need to effish, Ellen bantered. She grew grave once more. and studied him for a while before she mused, the same person who swung a pick a couple of years ago, nowadays with something as marvelous as this. He forgot about worrying.
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3 03 - Industrial Revolution, Part Three 28:56
But he remembered later, when the gig had left and Zheng called him to his office. Avis came to by request. As she entered, she asked why. "'You were visiting your folks, Earthside, last year,' Zheng said. "'Nobody else in the station has been back as recently as that.'" What can I tell you? I'm not sure. Background, perhaps. The feel of the place. We don't really know, out in the belt, what's going on there. The beamcast news is hardly a trickle. Besides, you have more common sense in your left little toe than that big Mick yonder has in his entire copper-plated head. They seated themselves in the cobwebby low-gee chairs around Jim's desk. Blades took out his pipe and filled the bowl with his tobacco ration for today.
Wouldn't it be great, he thought dreamily. If this old briar turned out to be in Aladdin's lamp, and the smoke condensed into a blonde she-Canadian. Wake up, will you? Jung barked. Huh? Blade started. Oh, sure. What's the matter? You looked like a fish on Friday. Maybe, with reason. Did you notice anything unusual with that party you were escorting? Yes, indeed. What? About 175 centimeters tall, yellow hair, blue eyes. And some of the smoothest fourth order curves I ever— Mike, stop that! Avis sounded appalled. This is serious. I agree she'll be leaving in a few more watches. The girl bit her lip. You're too old for that mooncalf rot and you know it. Agreed again. I feel more like a bull. Blades made pawing motions on the desktop.
There's a lady present, Jung said. Blades saw that Avis had gone quite pale. I'm sorry, he bloated. I never thought. I mean, you've always seemed like— One of the boys, she finished for him in a brittle tone. Sure. Forget it. What's the problem, Jimmy? Jung folded his hands and stared at them. I can't quite define that, he answered, word by careful word. Perhaps I have simply gone space dizzy. But when we called on Admiral Hulse, and later when he called on us, didn't you get the impression of, well, wariness? Didn't he seem to be watching and probing every minute we were together? Odin called him a cheerful sort, Blade nodded. Stuff was molasses on Pluto, but I suppose—suppose he's just natural that way."
Zheng shook his head. It wasn't a normal standoffishness. You've heard me reminisce about the time I was on Vesta with the North American technical representative when the convention was negotiated. Yes, I've heard that story a few times, said Avis dryly. Remember, that was right after the Europa incident. It had come close to a space war, undeclared, but it would have been nasty. We were still close. Every delegate went to that conference cocked and primed. Hose had the same manner. A silence fell. Blades said at length, well come to think of it, he did ask some rather odd questions. He seemed to twist the conversation now and then, so he could find things out like our exact layout, emergency doctrine, and so forth.
It didn't strike me as significant, though. Nor me, Jung admitted. Taken in isolation, it meant nothing. But these visitors today— Sure, most of them obviously didn't suspect anything untoward, but that Liebknecht now. Why was he so interested in central control? Nothing new or secret there, yet he kept asking for details like the shielding factor of the walls. So did Commander Warburton, Blaze remembered. Also he wanted to know exactly when the palace is due, how long shall stay. Hmm, yes, whether we have any radio linkage with the outside, like to Ceres or even the nearest commission base. Did you tell them that we don't? Avis asked sharply. Yes, shouldn't I have? It scarcely makes any difference, Jung said in a resigned voice.
As thoroughly as they went over the ground, they'd have seen what we do and do not have installed so far. He leaned forward. Why are they hanging around? he asked. I was handed some story about overhauling the missile system. Me too, Blades said. But you don't consider a job complete till it's been tested? And you don't fire a test shot to even a dummy this close to a station. Besides, what could have gone wrong? I can't see a ship departing at Earth-Hobbit for a long cruise without everything being in order, and they didn't mention any meteorites, any kind of trouble en route. Furthermore, why do the work here? The Navy Yards are Ceres. We can't spare them any decent amount of materials or tools or help."
Blades frowned, his own half-formulated doubts shouldered to the fore. Which was doubly unpleasant after I'd been considering Elenziska. They tell me the international situation at home is okay, he offered. Avis nodded. What news factors we get in the mail indicate as much, he said. So why this hanky-panky? After a moment in a changed voice, Jimmy, you begin to scare me a little. I scare myself, Jung said. Every morning when you de-beard, Blade said, but his heart wasn't in it. He shook himself and protested. Damnation, they're our own countrymen. We're engaged in a lawful business. Why should they do anything to us? Maybe Avis can throw some light on that," Jung suggested. The girl twisted her fingers together.
Not me, she said. I'm no politician. But you were home not so long ago. You talked with people, read the news, watched the 3V. Can't you at least give us an impression? No. Well, of course, the preliminary guns of the election campaign were already being fired. The Social Justice Party was talking a lot about, oh, it seems so ridiculous that I didn't pay much attention. They talked about how the government had been pouring billions and billions of dollars into space, while overpopulation produced crying needs in America's backyard, Cheng said. We know that much, even in the belt. We know the appropriations are due to be cut. Now the SJs are in. So what? We don't need a subsidy any longer," Bledes remarked.
It'd help a lot, but we can get along without it if we have to, and personally I prefer that. Less government money means less government control." Sure," Avis said. There was more than that involved, however. The SJs were complaining about the small return on the investment, not enough materials coming back to Earth. Well, for Jupiter's sake," Blades exclaimed. What do they expect? We have to build up our capabilities first. They even said, some of them, that enough reward never would be gotten. That, under existing financial policies, the belt would go in for its own expansion, use nearly everything it produced for itself, and export only a trickle to America. I had to explain to several of my parents' friends that I wasn't really a socially responsible capitalist.
Is that all the information you have? Jung asked, when she fell silent. I suppose so. Everything was so vague. No dramatic events. More of an atmosphere than a concrete thing. Still, you confirm my own impression. Jung said. The blades jerked his undisciplined imagination back from the idea of a thing with bug eyes and tentacles, cast in reinforced concrete, and listened as his partner summed up. The popular feeling at home has turned against private enterprise. You can hardly call a corporate monster like systemic developments a private enterprise. The new president and Congress share that mood. We can expect to see it manifested in changed laws and regulations. But what's this got to do with a battleship parked a couple of hundred kilometers from us?
If the government doesn't want the asteroids to develop much further, Blades bit hard on his pipe stem, they must know we have a caviar mine here. We'll be the only city in this entire sector. But we're still a baby, Avis said. We won't be important for years to come. Who'd have it in for a baby? Besides, we're Americans too, Chung said. If that were a foreign ship, the story might be different. Wait a minute. Could they be thinking of establishing a new base here? The convention wouldn't allow, said Blades. Treaties can always be renegotiated, or even denounced. But first you have to investigate quietly, find out if it's worth your while. Ha-ha! What lovely money that'd mean! And lovely bureaucrats crawling out of every file cabinet, Jung said grimly.
No, thank you. We'll fight any such attempt to the last lawyer. We've got a good basis, too, in our charter. If the suit is tried on Ceres, as I believe it has to be, we'll get a sympathetic court as well. Unless they ring in an Earthside judge, Avis warned. Yeah, that's possible. Also, they could spring proceedings on us without notice. We've got to find out in advance so we can prepare. Any chance of pumping some of those officers? Afraid not, Avis said. The few who'd be in the know are safely back on shipboard. We could invite him here individually, said Blades. As a matter of fact, I already have a date with Lieutenant Ziska. What? Hervis' mouth fell open. Yup, Blade said complacently. End of the next watch, so she can observe the palace arriving.
I'm to fetch her on a scooter. He blew a fat smoke ring. Look, Jimmy, can you keep everybody off the porch for a while then? Starlight, privacy, soft music on the piccolo. Who knows what I might find out. You won't get anything from her? Hervis spat. No secrets or anything. Still, I look forward to making the attempt. Come on, pal, pass the word. I'll do as much for you sometime. "'Times like that never seem to come for me,' Jung groaned. "'Oh, let him play around with his suicide blonde,' Avis said furiously. "'We others have work to do. I'll tell you what, Jimmy, let's not eat in the mess tonight. I'll draw our rations and fix us something special in your cabin.' A scooter was not exactly the ideal steed for a knight to convey his lady.
It amounted to little more than three saddles and a locker. Set atop an accumulator-powered gyro-gravitic engine sufficient to lift you off an asteroid and run at low acceleration. There were no navigating instruments. You locked the autopilot's radar-gravitic sensors onto your target object, and it took you there, avoiding any bits of debris which might pass near. But you must watch the distance indicator and press the deceleration switch in time. If the pilot was turned off, free maneuver became possible. But that was a dangerous thing to try before you were almost on top of your destination. Stereoscopic vision fails beyond six or seven meters, and the human organism isn't equipped to gauge cosmic momenta.
Nevertheless, Ellen was enchanted. This is like a dream, her voice murmured in Blade's earplug. The whole universe, on every side of us. I could almost reach out and pluck those stars. You must have trained in powered spacesuits at the Academy, he said, for lack of a more poetic rejoinder. Yes, but that's not the same. We had to stay near Luna's night side to be safe from solar particles and a bit of great chunk out of the sky, and then everything was so regulated, disciplined. We did what we were ordered to do, and that was that. Here I feel free. You can imagine how free, hastily. Do you use this machine often? Well, yes. We have about twenty scooters at the station. They're the most convenient way of flitting with a load.
Out to the mirrors to change accumulators, for instance, or across to one of the companion rocks where we're digging some oars, that the saw doesn't have. That kind of work. Blaze would frankly rather have had her behind him on a motor skimmer, hanging on as they careened through a springtime countryside. He was glad when they reached the main forward airlock and debarked. He was still gladder when the suits were off. Lieutenant Zisker in dressed uniform was stunning, but Ellen in civvies, a fluffy, low-cut blouse, And close-fitting slacks was a hydrogen blast. He wanted to roll over and pant, but settled for saying, Welcome back, and holding her hand rather longer than necessary. With a shy smile, she gave him a package.
I drew this before leaving, she said. I thought, well, your life is so austere. A demi of Sanderman, he said reverently. I won't tell you you shouldn't have, but I will tell you you're a sweet girl. No, really, she flushed. After we've put you to so much trouble. Let's go crack this, he said. The palace has called in, but she won't be visible for a while yet. They made their way to the veranda, picking up a couple of glasses en route. Bless his envious heart, Jimmy had warned the other boys off as requested. I hope Avis cooks him a Gourn Bleu dinner, Blaze thought. Nice kid, Avis, if she'd quit trying to, what, mother me? He forgot about her, with Ellen to seat by the rail. The milky way turned her hair frosty and glowed in her eyes.
Blades poured the port with much ceremony and raised his glass. "'Tis to your frequent return," he said. Her pleasure dwindled a bit. "'I don't know if I should drink to that. We aren't likely to be back—ever. Drink anyway. Gling-glang-gloria." The rims tinkled together. "'After all,' said Blades, "'this isn't the whole universe. We'll both be getting around. See you on Luna? Maybe.' He wondered if he was pushing matters too hard. She didn't look at ease. Oh, well, he said. If nothing else, this has been a grand break in the monotony for us. I don't wish the Navy ill, but if trouble had to develop, I'm thankful it developed here. Yes. How's the repair work progressing? Slowly, I hope. I don't know.
You should have some idea of being in Q.M. No supplies have been drawn. Blade stiffened. What's the matter? Ellen sounded alarmed. Huh? A fine conspirator I make if she can see my emotions on me in neon capitals. Nothing, nothing, it's just seemed a little strange, you know, not taking any replacement units. I understand the work is only a matter of making certain adjustments. Then they should have finished a lot quicker, shouldn't they? Please, she said unhappily, let's not talk about it. I mean, there are such things as security regulations. Blades gave up on that tack, but Jung's idea might be worth probing a little. Sure, he said. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry. He took another sip as he hunted for suitable words.
A beautiful girl, a golden wine, and vice versa. Why couldn't he simply relax and enjoy himself? Did he have to go fretting about what was probably a perfectly harmless conundrum? Yes. However, recreation might still combine with business. Permit me to daydream, he said, leaning close to her. The Navy's going to establish a new base here, and the Altair will be assigned to it. Daydream indeed, she laughed, relieved to get back to a mere flirtation. Ever hear about the convention of Vesta? Trees can be renegotiated, Blades plagiarized. What do we need an extra base for, especially since the government plans to spend such large sums on social welfare? They certainly don't want to start an arms race, besides.
Blades nodded. Jimmy's notion did seem pretty thin, he thought with a slight chill, and now I guess it's completely whiffed. Mostly to keep the conversation going, he shrugged and said, my partner and me, too, aside from the privilege of your company, wouldn't have wanted it anyhow. Not that we're unpatriotic, but there are plenty of other potential bases and would rather keep government agencies out of here. Can you these days? Pretty much. We're under a new type of charter as a private partnership. The first such charter in the belt, as far as I know, though there'll be more in the future. The Bank of Surrey's financed us. We haven't taken a nickel of federal money. Is that possible? Just barely.
I'm no economist, but I can see how it works. Money represents goods and labor. Hitherto those have been in mighty short supply out here. Government subsidies make up the difference, enabling us to buy from Earth. But now the asteroids have built up enough population and industry that they have some capital surplus of their own to invest in projects like this. Even so, frankly, I'm surprised that two men by themselves could get such a loan. It must be huge. Wouldn't the bank rather have lent the money to some corporation? To tell the truth, we have friends who pulled wires for us. Also, it was done partly on ideological grounds. A lot of asteroids would like to see more strictly homegrown enterprises not committed to anyone on Earth.
That's the only way we can grow. Otherwise, our profits, our net production, that is, will continue to be siphoned off for the mother country's benefit." Well, Ellen said with some indignation. That was the whole reason for planting asteroid colonies. You can't expect us to set you up in business at enormous cost to ourselves, things we might have done at home, and get nothing but tar in return. Never fear. We'll repay you with interest, Blades said, but whatever we make from our own work, over and above that, ought to stay here with us. She grew angrier. Your kind of attitude is what provoked the voters to elect social justice candidates. Nice name, Nat, mused Blades. Who can be against social justice?
But you know I think I'll go into politics myself. I'll organize the North American Motherhood Party. You wouldn't be so flippant if you'd go see how people have to live back there. As bad as here? Phew. Nonsense, you know that isn't true, but bad enough, and you aren't going to stick in these conditions. Only a few hours ago you were bragging about the millions you intend to make. Millions and millions if my strength holds out, layered blades thinking of the alley in Arisopolis. But he decided that this was then, and Ellen was now, and what had started as a promising little party was turning into a dismal argument about politics. Let's not fight, he said. We've got different orientations, and we'll only make each other mad.
Let's discuss our next bottle instead. The Coq d'Or in Paris, shall we say. Or Moraine's in New York. She calmed down, but her look remained troubled. You're right. We are different, she said, low, isolated. "'Living and working under conditions you can hardly imagine on earth. And you can't really imagine our problems. Yes, you're becoming another people. I hope it'll never go so far that—' No, I don't want to think about it.' She drained her glass and held it out for a refill, smiling. "'Very well, sir. When do you next plan to be in Paris?' An exceedingly enjoyable while later, the time came to go watch the Palace Castle maneuver in. In fact, it had somehow gotten past that time, and they were late.
But they didn't hurry their walk aft. Blades took Ellen's hand, and she raised no objection. Schoolboyish, no doubt. However, he had reached the reluctant conclusion that for all his dishonourable intentions, this affair wasn't likely to go beyond the schoolboy stage. Not that he wouldn't keep trying. As they glided through the refining and synthesising section which filled the broad half of the asteroid, the noise of pumps and regulators rose until it throbbed in their bones. Ellen gestured at one of the pipes which crossed the corridor overhead. Do you really handle that big a volume at a time? She asked above the racket. No, he said. Didn't I explain before? The pipe's thick because it's so heavily armored.
I'm glad you don't use that dreadful word cladded. But why the armor? High pressure? Partly. Also there's an inertrons lining. Jupiter gas is hellishly reactive at room temperature. Metallic complexes especially. But think what a witch's brew the stuff is in every respect. Once it's been refined, of course, we have less trouble. That particular pipe is carrying it raw. They left the noise behind and passed on to the approach control dome at the receptor end. The two men on duty glanced up and immediately went back to their instruments. Radio voices were staccato in the air. Blades led Ellen to an observation port. She drew a sharp breath. Outside, The broken ground fell away to space and the stars.
The ovoid that was the ship hung against them, lit by the hidden sun, a giant even at her distance, but dwarfed by the balloon she towed. As that bubble tried ponderously to rotate, rainbow gleams ran across it, hiding and then revealing the constellations. Here, on the asteroid's axis, there was no weight, and one moved with underwater smoothness, as if disembodied. Oh, a fairy tale. Helen sighed. Four sparks flashed out of the boat blisters along the ship's hull. Scoop ships, Blades told her. They haul the cargo in, being so much more maneuverable. Actually, though, the mother vessel is going to park her load in orbit while those boys bring in another one. See, there it comes into sight. We still haven't got the capacity to keep up with our deliveries.
How many are there? Scoop ships, that is. Twenty. But you don't need more than four for this job. They've got terrific power. Haster, with her to dive from orbit down into the Jovian atmosphere, ram themselves full of gas, and come back. There they go. The palace castle was wrestling the great sphere she had hauled from Jupiter into a stable path computed by central control. Meanwhile, the scoop ships, small only by comparison with her, locked onto the other balloon as it drifted close. Energy poured into their dry fields. Spiring downward, transparent globe and four labouring spacecraft vanished behind the horizon. The palace completed her own task, disengaged her tow bars and dropped from view, headed for the dock.
The second balloon rose again, like a huge glass moon on the opposite side of the sword. Still, it grew in Ellen's eyes, kilometre by kilometre of approach. So much mass wasn't easily handled, but the breaking curve looked disdainfully smooth. Presently she could make out the scoop-ships in detail, elongated teardrops with the intake gates, yawning in the blunt forward end, cockpit canopies raised very slightly above. Instructions rattled from the men in the dome. The balloon veered clumsily toward the one free receptor. A derrick-like structure released one end of a cable, which streamed skyward. Things that Ellen couldn't quite follow in this tricky light were done by the four tugs. Mechanisms of their own extended to make their toe fast to the cable.
They did not cast loose at once, but continued to drag a little, easing the impact of centrifugal force. Nonetheless, a slight shudder went through the dome as slack was taken up. Then the job was over. The scoop ships let go and flitted off to join their mother vessel. The balloon was winched inward. Space-suited men moved close, preparing to couple valves together, and eventually... Blades said into the abrupt quietness, that cargo will become food. Fabric, vitril, plastiboard, reagents, fuels, a hundred different things. That's what we're here for. I've never seen anything so wonderful, Ellen said raptly. He laid an arm around her waist. The intercom chose that precise moment to blare. Attention.
Emergency. All hands to emergency stations. Blades get to Jen's office on the double. All hands to emergency stations. Blades was running before the siren had begun to howl. Rear Admiral Barkley Hulse had come in person. He stood as if on parade, towering over Zheng. The asteroid was red with fury. Avis Page crouched in a corner, her eyes terrified. Blades bowed through the doorway and stopped, hardly short of a collision. What's the matter, he puffed. Plenty, Zheng snarled. These incredible fumble-thumbed oafs, his voice broke. When he gets mad, it means something. Hulse nailed Blades with a glance. Good day, sir, he clipped. I have to report a regrettable accident which will require you to evacuate the station.
Temporarily, I hope. Huh? As I told Mr. Jung and Miss Page, a nuclear missile has escaped us. If it explodes, the radiation will be lethal, even in the heart of the asteroid. What? What? Blades could only gobble at him. Fortunately, the palace castle is here. She can take your whole complement aboard and move to a safe distance where we search for the object. How the devil? Hulse endowed himself a look of exasperation. Evidently, I'll have to repeat myself to you. Very well. You know we have had to make some adjustments on our launchers. What you did not know was the reason. Under the circumstances, I think it's permissible to tell you that several of them have a new and secret experimental control system.
One of our missions on this cruise was to carry out field tests, while it turned out that the system is still full of, ah, bugs. Gunnery Command has endless troubles with it, has had to keep tinkering the whole way from Earth. Half an hour ago, while Commander Warburton was completing a reassembly, lower ranks aren't allowed in the test turrets. Something happened. I can't tell you my guess as to what, but if you want to imagine that a relay got stuck, that'll do for practical purposes. A missile was released under power. Not a dummy, the real thing. And release, automatically, arms the warhead. The news was like a hammer blow. Blades spoke in obscenity. Sweat sprang forth under his arms and trickled down his ribs.
No such thing was expected, Hoth went on. It's an utter disaster, and the designers of the system aren't likely to get any more contracts. But as matters were, no radar fix was gotten on it, and it was too soon too far away for gyro-gravitic pulse detection. The thrust vector is unknown. It could be almost anywhere now. Well, naval missiles are programmed to reverse acceleration if they haven't made a target within a given time. This one should be back in less than six hours. If it first detects our ship, everything is all right. It has optical recognition circuits that identify any North American warcraft by type, disarm the warhead, and steer it home. But if it first comes within 50 kilometers of some other mass, like this asteroid or one of the companion rocks, it will detonate.
We'll make every effort to intercept, but space is big. You'll have to take your people to a safe distance. They can come back, even after a blast, of course. There's no concussion and vacuum, and the fireball won't reach here. It's principally an anti-personnel weapon. But you must not be within the lethal radius of radiation. The hell we can come back," Avis cried. I beg your pardon," Hulse said. You imbecile! Don't you know Central Control here is cryotronic? Hulse did not flicker an eyelid. So it is, he said expressionlessly. I had forgotten. Blade's mastered his own shock enough to grate, well, we sure haven't. If that thing goes off the gamma burst or kick up so many minority carriers in the transistors that the p-type crystals will act n-type and the n-type act p-type for a whole couple of microseconds, every one of them will flip simultaneously.
The computer's memory and program data systems will be scrambled beyond hope of reorganization. Magnetic pulse, too, Zheng said. The Fireball Plasma will be full of inhomogeneities moving at several percent of light speed. Their electromagnetic output hitting our magnetic core units will turn them from super to ordinary conduction. Same effect, total computer amnesia. We haven't got enough shielding against it. Your TIM systems can take that kind of a beating. Ours can't. Very regrettable, Hoth said. You'd have to reprogram everything. Reprogram what? Avis retorted. Tears started forth in her eyes. We've told you what sort of stuff our chemical plant is handling. We can't shut it down on that short notice.
It'll run wild. There'll be sodium explosions, hydrogen, organic combustion. Nothing left here but wreckage. Holst didn't unbend a centimeter. I offer my most sincere apologies. If actual harm does occur, I'm sure the government will indemnify you. And of course my command will furnish what supplies may be needed for the palace castle to transport you to the nearest commissioned base. At the moment, though, you can do nothing but evacuate and hope we will be able to intercept the missile. Blades knotted his fists. A sudden comprehension rushed up in him, and he bellowed, "'There isn't going to be an interception. This wasn't an accident!' Hulse backed a step and drew himself even straighter. "'Don't get overwrought,' he advised.
You louse-bitten, egg-sucking, bloated, faggot-porter! How stupid you think we are! A stupid as your S.J. bosses? By heaven we're staying! And see if you have the nerve to murder a hundred people! Mike! Mike! Avis caught his arm. Hulse turned to Zheng. I'll overlook that unseemly outburst, he said, but in light of my responsibilities and under the provisions of the Constitution, I am hereby putting this asteroid under martial law. You will have all personnel aboard the Pallas Castle and at the minimum distance of a thousand kilometres within four hours of this moment, or be subject to arrest and trial. Now I have to get back and commence operations. The Altair will maintain radio contact with you.
Good day, he bowed curtly, spun on his heel, and clacked from the room. Blades started to charge after him. Jung caught his free arm. Together he and Avis dragged him to a stop. He stood cursing, the air ultraviolet, until Alan entered. "'I couldn't keep up with you,' she panted. "'What's happened, Mike?' The strength drained from Blades. He slumped into a chair and covered his face."
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4 04 - Industrial Revolution, Part Four 32:44
Industrial Revolution Part 4 Jung explained in a few harsh words. Oh, Ellen gasped. She went to Blades and laid her hands on his shoulder. My poor Mike. After a moment, she looked at the others. I should report back, of course, she said, but I won't be able to before the ship accelerates. "'So I'll have to stay with you till afterward. Miss Page, we left about half a bottle of wine on the veranda. I think it would be a good idea if you went and got it,' Avis bridled. "'And why not you?' "'This is no time for personalities,' Jung said. "'Go on, Avis. You can be thinking what records and other paper we should take while you're on your way. I've got to organize the evacuation. As for Miss Ziska, well, Mike needs somebody to pull him out of his dive.' "'Her?' Avis wailed and fled.
Jung sat down and flipped his endicom to phone central. Get me Captain Yenichevsky aboard the palace, he ordered. Hello, Adam. About that general alarm. Blades raised a haggard countenance toward Ellen's. You'd better clear out, along with the women and any men who don't want to stay, he said. But I think most of them will take the chance. They're on a profit-sharing scheme. They stand to lose too much if the place is ruined. What do you mean? It's a gamble, but I don't believe Hoss's sealed orders extend to murder. If enough of us stay put, he'll have to catch that thing. He jolly well knows its exact trajectory." You forget we're under martial law, Zheng said aside to him. If we don't go freely, he'll land some PPs and march us off at gunpoint.
There isn't any choice. We've had the course. I don't understand, Ellen said shakily. Zheng went back to his intercom. Blades fumbled out his pipe and rolled it empty between his hands. That missile was shot off on purpose, he said. What? No, you must be sick. That's impossible. I realize you didn't know about it. Only three or four officers have been told. The job had to be done very, very secretly, or there'd be a scandal, maybe an impeachment. But it's still sabotage. She shrank from him. You're not making sense. Their own story doesn't make sense. It's ridiculous. A new missile system wouldn't be sent on a field trial clear to the belt before it had had enough tests closer to home to get the worst bugs out.
A wirehead missile wouldn't be stashed anywhere near something so unreliable, let alone be put under its control. The testing ship wouldn't hang round a civilian station while her gunnery chief tinkered, and Hulse, Warburton, Liebknecht, they were asking in such detail about how radiation-proof we are. I can't believe it. Nobody will. Not back home. Communication with Earth is so sparse and garbled. The public will only know there was an accident. We'll give a hoot about the details. We couldn't even prove anything in an asteroid court. The Navy would say classified information, and that it stopped the proceedings cold. Sure, there'll be a board of inquiry composed of naval officers, probably honorable men, too.
But what are they going to believe? The sworn word of the Godhead House colleague or the rantings of an asteroid bum. "'Mac, I know this is terrible for you, but you've let it go to your head,' Alan laid a hand over his. "'Suppose the worst happens. You'll be compensated for your loss.' "'Yeah, to the extent of our personal investment. The Bank of Surrey still has nearly all the money that was put in. We didn't figure to have them paid off for another ten years. They, or their insurance carrier, will get the indemnity.' And after our fiasco, they won't make us a new loan. They were just barely talked into it, the first time around. I dare say systemic developments will make them a nice, juicy offer to take this job over.
Ellen colored. She stamped her foot. You're talking like a paranoiac. Do you really believe the government of North America would send a battleship clear out here to do you dirt? Not the whole government. A few men in the white positions is all that's necessary. I don't know if Hulse was bribed or talked into this. But probably he agreed as a duty. He's the prim type. A duty? To destroy a North American business? Zheng finished at the intercom in time to answer, Not permanent physical destruction, Miss Ziska. As Mike suggested, some corporation will doubtless inherit the sword and repair the damage. But a private, purely asteroid business. Yes, I'm afraid Mike's right. We are the target. In Mercy's name, why?
From the highest motives, of course, Zheng sneered bitterly. You know what the Social Justice Party thinks of private capitalism. What's more important, though, is that the sword is the first belt undertaking not tied to Mother Earth's apron strings. We have no commitments to anybody back there. We can sell our output wherever we like. It's notorious that the asteroids are itching to build up their own self-sufficient industries. Quite apart from sentiment, We can make bigger profits in the belt than back home, especially when you figure the cost of sending stuff in and out of Earth's gravitational well, so certainly we'd be doing most of our business out here. Our charter can't simply be revoked.
First, a good many laws would have to be revised, and that's politically impossible. There is still a lot of individualist sentiment in North America, as witness the fact that businesses do get launched, and that SJs did have a hard campaign to get elected. What the new government wants is something like the eighteenth-century English policy toward America. Keep the colonies as a source of raw materials and as a market for manufactured goods, but don't let them develop a domestic industry. You can't come right out and say that, but you can let the situation develop naturally. Only, here the sword is obviously bound to grow rich and expand in every direction, if we're allowed to develop, to reinvest our profits.
will become the nucleus of independent asteroid enterprise. If, on the other hand, we're wiped out by an unfortunate accident, there's no nucleus, and a small change in the banking laws is all that's needed to prevent others from getting started. Q.E.D. I dare say Hulse does think he's doing his patriotic duty, said Blades. He wants to guarantee North America our natural resources, and the long run, maybe our allegiance, if he has to commit sabotage too bad, but it won't cost him any sleep. No, Alan almost screamed. Jung sagged in his chair. We're very neatly trapped, he said like an old man. I don't see any way out. Think you can go work now, Mike? You can assign group leaders for the evacuation.
Blades jumped erect. I can fight, he growled. With what? Can openers? You mean you're going to lie down and let them break us? Avis came back. She thrust the bottle into Blade's hands as he paced the room. Here you are, she said in a distant voice. He held it toward Ellen. Have some, he invited. Not with you. You're subversive. Averis brightened noticeably, took the bottle and raised it. Then here's to victory, she said, drank, and passed it to Blade's. He started to gulp, but the wine was too noble, and he found himself savoring its course down his throat. Why? He thought vaguely. Do people always speak with scorn about Dutch courage? The Dutch of real guts. They fought themselves free of Spain and free of the ocean itself.
When the French or Germans came, they made the enemy see their ally. The bottle fell from his grasp. In the weak acceleration, it hadn't hit the floor when Avis rescued it. Give me that, your butterfingers," she exclaimed. A free hand clasped his arm. Whatever happens, Mike, she said to him, we're not quitting. Still, Blaze stared beyond her. His fists clenched and unclenched. The noise of his breathing filled the room. Jung looked around in bewilderment. Ellen watched with waxing horror. Avis's eyes kindled. Holy smoking seagull, Blaze whispered at last. I really think we can swing it. Captain Yenichevsky recoiled. You're out of your skull. Probably, said Blaze. Fun, huh? You can't do this. We can try.
Do you know what you're talking about? Insurrection, that's what? Quite likely piracy. Even if your scheme worked, you'd spend the next ten years at rehab, at least. Maybe, provided the matter ever came to trial. But it won't. That's what you think. You're asking me to compound the felony into misappropriate the property of my owners to put. Yanachefsky shook his head. Sorry, Mike. I'm sorry as hell about this mess. They won't be party to making it worse. In other words, Blades replied, you'd rather be party to sabotage and proposing an act of legitimate self-defense, if it is actually a conspiracy to destroy the station. Adam, you're a spaceman. You know how the Navy operates. Can you swallow that story about a missile getting loose by accident?
Yanishevsky bit his lip. The sounds from outside filled the captain's cabin. Voices, footfalls, whir of machines and clash of doors. As the palace castle readied for departure, Blades waited. Maybe right, said Yanachevsky at length, wretchedly. Though I also should jeopardize his career. He's not. There's a scapegoat groomed back home, you can be sure, like some company that we debarred from military contracts for a while, and get nice fat orders in other fields. I've kicked around the system enough to know how that works. If you're wrong, though, if this is an honest blunder, then you risk committing treason. Yeah, I'll take the chance. Not I. No, I've got a family to support, Yanachevsky said.
The blades regarded him bleakly. If the SJs get away with this stunt, what kind of life will your family be leading ten years from now? It's not simply that we'll be high-class peons in the belt, tied hand and foot to a short-sighted government. How much progress we'll be able to make? Our countries are colonies out here too, remember, and some of them are already giving their people a freer hand than we've got. Do you want the Asians, the Russians, or even the Europeans to take over the asteroids? I can't make policy. In other words, Mama knows best. Believe, obey, anything put out by some bureaucrat who never set foot beyond Luna. Is that your idea of citizenship? You're putting a mighty fine gloss on peeling yourself out," Yanishevsky fled.
Sure, I'm no idealist, but neither am I a slave, Blades hesitated. We've been friends too long, Adam, for me to try bribing you. But if the worst comes to the worst, we'll cover for you. Somehow. And if contrarywise we win, then we'll soon be hiring captains for our own ships and you'll get the best offer any spaceman ever got. No, scrim, I've got work to do. Blades braced himself. I didn't want to say this, but I've already informed a number of my men. They're as mad as I am. They're waiting in the terminal. A monkey wrench or a laser torch makes a pretty fair weapon. We can take over by force. That'll leave you legally in the clear. That with so many witnesses around, you'll have to prefer charges against us later on.
Yanachevsky began to sweat. "'We'll be sent up,' said Blades. "'But it'll still have been worth it.' "'Is it really that important to you?' "'Yes, I admit I'm no crusader, but this is a matter of principle.' Yanachevsky stared at the big red-head man for a long while. Suddenly he stiffened. "'Okay, I'll let the count of no other. I'll go along with you.' Blades wobbled on his feet, and he collapsed with relief. "'Good man,' he quoked. "'But I will not have any of my officers or crew involved.' Blades rallied and answered briskly. "'You needn't. Just issue orders at my boys that have access to the scoop ships. They can install the equipment, jockey the boats over to the full balloons, and even couple them on.' Inechevsky's fears had vanished once he made his decision, but now a certain doubt registered.
"'That's a pretty skilled job.' "'These are pretty skilled men. It isn't much of a manoeuvre.' Not like making a Jovian skydive. Well, okay, I'll take your word for their ability, but suppose the elder spots those boats moving around. She's already several hundred kilometers off and getting farther away, running a search curve which I'm betting my liberty and my honor. I certainly don't want to hurt my own country's navy. I'm betting that search curve is guaranteed not to find the missile in time. They'll spot the palace as you depart. Oh, yes. Our people will be aboard as per orders, but no finer detail will show in so casual an observation. Again I'll take your word. What that's going to do to help?
Nothing you weren't doing before. Leave the piratics to us. I'd better get back. Blades extended his hand. I haven't got the words to thank you, Adam. Yanachevsky accepted the shake. No reason for thanks. You dragooned me. A grin crossed his face. I must confess, though. I'm not sorry you did. Blades left. He found his gang in the terminal. Two dozen engineers and rockjacks clumped tautly together. What's the word? Kalos Odenau shouted. Clear track, Blades said. Go right ahead. Good. Fine. I always want to do something vicious and destructive. Odenau laughed. The idea is to prevent destruction, Blades reminded him and proceeded toward the office. Avis met him in corridor four. Her freckled countenance was distorted by a scowl.
"'Hey, Mike, wait a minute,' she said low and hurriedly. "'Have you seen Lasiska?' "'The Lieutenant? Why, no. I left her with you, remember, hoping you could calm her down.' "'Uh-huh. She was incandescent mad, called us a pack of bandits, but then she started crying. Seemed to break down completely. I took her to your cabin and went back to help Jimmy. Only when I checked that a minute ago she was gone.' "'What? Where?' "'How should I know?' But that she-devil's capable of anything to wreck our chances. You're not being fair to her. She's got an oath to keep. All right," said Avis sweetly. Far be it from me to prevent her fulfilling her obligations. Afterwards, she may even write you an occasional letter.
I'm sure that'll brighten your rehab cell no end. What can she do? Blades argued, with an uneasy sense of whistling in the dark. She can't get off the asteroid without a scooter, and I've already got Sam's gang working on all the scooters. Is there no other possibility? The radio shack? With a man on duty there, that's out. Blades patted the girl's arm. Okay, I'll get back to work, but I'll be so glad when this is over, Mike. Looking into the desperate brown eyes, Blades felt a sudden impulse to kiss their owner. But no, there was too much else to do. Later, perhaps, he cocked a thumb upward. Carry on. Too bad about Helen, he thought as he continued toward his office. What an awful waste. To make a permanent enemy of someone with her kind of looks.
And personality. Come off that stick, you clap ahead. She's probably the Marion type anyway. In her shoes, though, what would I do? Not much. I'd pinch my feet. But damnation, Avis is right. She's not safe to have running around loose. The Radio Shack? Sparks is not one of the few who've been told the whole story and co-opted into the plan. She could blades cursed, whirled, and ran. His way was clear. Most of the men were still in their dorms, preparing to leave. He traveled in huge, low-gravity leaps. The radio shack rose out of the surface near the veranda. Blades tried the door. It didn't budge. A chill went through him. He backed across the corridor and charged. The door was only plasterboard.
He hit with a thud and a grunt, and rebounded with a numbed shoulder. But it looked so easy for the cops on 3V. No time to figure out the delicate art of forcible entry. He hurled himself against the panel again and again, heedless of the pain that struck in flesh and bone. When the door finally splinteringly gave way, he stumbled clear across the room beyond, fetched up against an instrument console, recovered his balance and gaped. The operator lay on the floor, swearing in a steady monotone. He had been efficiently bound with his own blouse and trousers. Which revealed his predilection for maroon shorts with zebra stripes. There was a lump on the back of his head, and a hammer that he'd close by.
Ellen must have stolen the tool and came in here with the thing behind her back. The operator would have had no reason to suspect her. She had not left the sender's chair, not even while the door was under attack. Only a carrier beam connected the sword with the Altair. She continued, doggedly, to fumble with dials and switches. Trying to modulate it and raise the ship. Praise it be. You haven't had advanced training in radio, Blade choked. That's a long-wearing set. Pretty special system. He weaved toward her. Come along now. She spat an unladylike refusal. Theoretically, Blade should have enjoyed the tussle that followed, but he was in poor shape at the outset, and was a good deal worse off by the time he got her pinioned.
Okay, he wheezed. Will you come quietly? She didn't deign to answer, unless you counted her butting him in the nose. He had to yell for help, to frogmatch her aboard ship. Palace Castle calling NASS Altair. Come in, Altair. The great ovoid swung clear in space, among a million cold stars. The asteroid had dwindled out of sight. A radio beam flickered across emptiness. Within the hull, The crew and a hundred refugees sat jammed together. The air was thick with their breath and sweat and waiting. Blades and Jung, seated by the transmitter, felt another kind of thickness. The pull of the internal failed. Earth normal weight dragged down every movement. The enclosed cabin began to feel suffocatingly small.
We'd get used to it again pretty quickly, Blades thought. Our bodies would, that is, but our own selves, tied down to Earth forever. No. The vision screen jumped to life. Anniessa Seltier acknowledging Palace Castle, said the uniformed figure within. Okay, Charlie, go outside and don't let anybody else enter, Zheng told his own operator. The spaceman gave a quizzical glance, but obeyed. I wish to report that evacuation of the sword is now complete, Zheng said formally. "'Very good, sir,' the navy face replied. "'I'll inform my superiors.' "'Wait! Don't break off yet. We have to talk with your captain.' "'Sir, I'll switch over to none of your damned chains of command,' blades interrupted. "'Get me Rear Admiral Halst direct.
Tootsweet, or I'll eat whatever fraction of you he leaves unchewed. This is an emergency. I've got to warn him of an immediate danger only he can deal with.' The others stared, first at Jun's obvious exhaustion. Then at the black eye and assorted bruises, scratches, and bites that adorned Blade's visage. I'll put the message through Channel Red at once, sir, the screen blanked. Well, here we go, Jung said. I wonder how the food in rehab is these days. Want me to do the talking? Blades asked. Jung wasn't built for times as hectic as the last few hours, and was worn to a nobbin. He himself felt immensely keyed up. He'd always liked a good fight. Sure. Jung pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket and began to fill the cabin with smoke.
You have a larger stock of rudeness than I. Presently the screen showed Hulse, rigid at his post on the bridge. Good day, gentlemen, he said. What's the trouble? Plenty, Blades answered. Clear everybody else out of there, let your ship over it free a while, and seal your circuit, Hulse written. Who do you think you are? Well, my birth certificate says Michael Joseph Blades. I've got some news for you concerning that top-secret gadget you told us about. You wouldn't want unauthorized personnel listening in. Hulse leaned forward till he seemed about to fall through the screen. What's this about a hazard? Fact. The Altair is in distinct danger of getting blown to bits. Have you gone crazy? Give me the captain of the palace.
Very small bits. Hulse compressed his lips. All right, I'll listen to you for a short time. You had better make it worth my while. He spoke orders. Blade scratched his back while he waited for the bridge to be emptied and wondered if there was any chance of a hot shower in the near future. Done, said Hulse. Give me your report. Blade glanced at the telltale. You haven't sealed your circuit, Admiral. Hulse said angry words, but complied. Now will you talk? Sure. The secrecy is for your own protection. You risk court-martial otherwise. Hulse suppressed. A retort. Okay, here's the word. Blades met the transmitted glare with an almost palpable crash of eyeballs. We decided, Mr. Jung and I, that any missile rig as haywire as yours represents a menace to navigation and public safety.
If you can't control your own nuclear weapons, you shouldn't be at large. Our charter gives us local authority as peace officers. By virtue thereof, and so on and so forth, we ordered certain precautionary steps taken. As a result, if that warhead goes off, I'm sorry to say that NASS Altair will be destroyed. I, you, have you, Hulse congealed. In spite of everything, he was a competent officer, Blades decided. Please explain yourself, he said without tone. Sure, Blades obliged. The station hasn't got any armament, but trust the human race to jury-rig that. We commandeered the scoop ships belonging to this vessel and loaded them with Jovian gas at maximum pressure. If your missile detonates, they'll dive on you."
Something like amusement tinged Hose's shocked expression. Do you seriously consider that a weapon? I seriously do. Let me explain. The ships are orbiting free right now, scattered through quite a large volume of space. Nobody's aboard them. What is aboard each one, though, is an autopilot taken from a scooter Hooked into the drive controls, each pilot has its sensors locked onto your ship. You can't maneuver fast enough to shake off radar beams and mass detectors. You are the target object, and there's nothing to tell those idiot computers to decelerate as they approach you. Of course no approach is being made yet. A switch has been put in every scooter circuit and left open. Only the meteorite evasion units are operative right now.
That is, if anyone tried to lay alongside one of those scoopships, It'd be detected and the ship would skitter away. Remember, Scoop Ship hasn't much mass, and she does have engines designed for diving in and out of Jupe's gravitational well. She can out-accelerate either of our vessels, or any boat of yours, and out-dodge any of your missiles. You can't catch her. Hulse snorted. What's the significance of this farce? I said the autopilots were switched off at the moment, as far as heading for the target is concerned. But each of those switches is coupled to two other units. One is simply the sensor box. If you withdraw beyond a certain distance, the switches will close. That is, the pilots will be turned on if you try to go beyond range of the beams now locked onto you.
The other unit we have installed in every boat is an ordinary two-for-a-dollar radiation meter. If a nuclear weapon goes off anywhere within a couple of thousand kilometers, the switches will also close. In either of those cases, the scoop ships will dive on you. You might knock out a few with missiles before they strike. Undoubtedly, you can punch holes in them with laser guns, but that won't do any good, except when you're lucky enough to hit a vital part. Nobody's aboard to be killed, and even much gas will be lost in so short a time. So to summarize, chum, if that rogue missile explodes, your ship will be struck by ten to twenty scoop ships, each crammed full of concentrated Jovian air. They'll pierce that thin hull of yours, but since they're already pumped full beyond the margin of safety, the impact will split them open and the gas will whoosh out.
Do you know what Jovian air does to substances like magnesium? You can probably save your crew, take to the boats and reach Commission base, but your nice battleship will be ganz kaput. Is your game worth that candle? You're totally insane, releasing such a thing. Oh, not permanently. There's one more switch on each boat, connected to the meteorite evasion unit, and controlled by a small battery. When those batteries run down, in about twenty hours, the pilots will be turned off completely. Then we can spot the scoop ships by radar and pick them up, and you'll be free to leave. Do you think for one instant the fantastic claim of acting illegally will stand up in court? No, probably not, but it won't have to.
Obviously you can't make anybody swallow your yarn if a second missile gets loose, and as for the first one, since it's failed in its purpose, your bosses aren't going to want the matter publicized. It'd embarrass them no end and serve no purpose except revenge on Jimmy and me, which there's no point in taking since the sword would still be privately owned. You check with Earth, Admiral, before shooting off your mouth. They'll tell you that both parties to this quarrel had better forget about legal action. Both will lose. So I'm afraid your only choice is to find that missile before it goes off. And yours? What are your alternatives? Fulce had gone grey in the face, but he still spoke stoutly.
Blades grinned at him. None whatsoever. We've burned our bridges. We can't do anything about those scoopships now, so it's no use trying to scare us or arrest us or whatever else may occur to you. What we've done is establish an automatic deterrent. Against an—an attempt—at sabotage that only exists in your imagination, Blade shrugged. That argument isn't relevant any longer. I do believe the missile was released deliberately. We wouldn't have done what we did otherwise, but there's no longer any point in making charges and denials. You'd just better retrieve the thing. Hulse squared his shoulders. How do I know you're telling the truth? Well, you can send a man to the station. He'll find the scooters lying gutted.
Send another man over here to the palace. He'll find the scoop ships gone. I also took a few photographs of the autopilots being installed and the ships being cast adrift. Go right ahead. However, may I remind you that the fewer people who have an inkling of this little intrigue, the better for all concerned. Hulse opened his mouth, shut it again, stared from side to side, and finally slumped the barest bit. Very well, he said, biting off the words, syllable by syllable. I can't risk a ship of the line. Of course, since the Rogue is still farther away than your deterrent allows the Altair to go, we shall have to wait in space a while. I don't mind. I shall report the full story to my superiors at home.
But unofficially, good. I'd like them to know that we asteroids have teeth. Signing off, then," Zheng stirred. Wait a bit, he said. We have one of your people aboard, Lieutenant Zesker. Can you send a gig for her? You didn't collaborate with us, Blades added. You can see the evidence of loyalty all over my mug. Good girl, Huss exclaimed savagely. Yes, I'll send a boat. Signing off. The screen blanked. Jung and Blades let out a long, ragged breath. They sat a while, trembling before Jung muttered, That skunk is good as admitted everything. Sure, said Blades, but we won't have any more trouble from him. Jung stubbed out his cigarette. Poise was returning to both men. There could be other attempts, though, in the next few years, he scowled.
I think we should arm the station, a couple of laser guns, if nothing else. We can say it's for protection in case of war. But it'll make our own government handle us more carefully, too. Well, you can approach the commission about it. Blades yawned and stretched, trying to loosen his muscles. But you can't let the owners and supervisors sign your petition, though. The next order of business came to his mind. He rose. Why didn't you tell Adam the good news? Where are you bound? To let Ellen know the fight is over. Is it, as far as she's concerned? That's what I'm afraid to find out. By what need an armed escort? Blades went away from the cubicle, past the watchful radio man and down the deserted passageway beyond.
The cabin given her lay at the end, locked from outside. The key hung magnetically on the bulkhead. Blades unlocked the door and tapped it with his knuckles. "'Who's there?' she called. "'Me,' he said. "'May I come in?' "'If you must,' she said, freezingly." He opened the door and stepped through. The overhead light shimmered off her hair. And limbed her figure with shadows. His heart bumped. You, uh, you can come out now, he faltered. Everything's okay. She said nothing, only regarding him from glacia blue eyes. No harm's been done, except to me and Sparks, and we're not mad, he groped. Shall we forget the whole episode? If you wish. Ellen, he pleaded. I had to do what seemed right to me. So did I.
He couldn't find any more words. I assume that I'll be returned to my own ship, she said. He nodded. Then, if you will excuse me, I best make myself as presentable as I can. Good day, Mr. Blades. What's good about it, he snarled and slammed the door on his way out. Avis stood outside the jam-packed saloon. She saw him coming and ran to meet him. He made Swabo with his fingers and joy blazed from her. My! She cried. I'm so happy. The only gentlemanly thing to do was hug her. His spirits lifted a bit as he did. She made a nice armful. Not bad looking, either. Well, said Armspaw, so that's the inside story. How very interesting. I never heard it before. No, obviously it never got into any official record, Misty said.
The only announcement made was that there'd been a near accident and that the station tried to make counter-missiles out of scoop ships. But that the quick action of N.A.S.S. Altair was what saved the situation. The captain was commended. I don't believe he ever got a further promotion, though. Why didn't you publicise the facts afterwards? Lindgren wondered. When the revolution began, that is, it would have made good propaganda. Nonsense, Missy said. Too much else had happened since then. Besides, neither Mike nor Jimmy nor I wanted to do any cheap emotion fanning. We knew the asteroids weren't any little. Pink-bottomed angels, and other people backed Sunward a crew of devils. There were rights and wrongs on both sides.
We did what we could in the war, and we hated every minute of it, and when it was over, we broke out two cases of champagne and invited as many Earthsiders as we could get to the party. They had a lot of love to carry home for her. A stillness fell. She took a long swallow from her glass and sat looking out at the stars. Yes," Lindgren said finally. I guess that was the worst fighting against our own kin. Well, I was better off in that respect than sir," Missy conceded. I've made my commitment so long before the trouble that my ties were nearly all but here. Twenty years is time enough to grow new roots. Really? Olaf was surprised. I haven't met you often before, Mr. Blade, so evidently I've had a false impression.
I thought you were a more recent immigrant than that. Sharks, no," she laughed. I only needed six months after the Alto incident to think things out, resign my commission, and catch the next belt-bound ship. You don't think I'd let a man like Mike get away, do you?
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5 05 - Captive of the Centaurianess, Chapter One 17:35
The hero is the child of his times, in that his milieu furnishes him with motives and means, and yet the hero seizes the time and shapes it as he will, and he remains an enigma to his contemporaries and to the future. Nowhere is this better illustrated than in the strange story Of the three whose discoveries and achievements determined the whole course of history, the driving idealism and bold military genius of Dian Kolas, the mighty wisdom profound and benign of Urushkidin, above all perhaps the transcendent clarity of mind and inspired leadership of Ballantyne. These moulded are century and all centuries to come, and yet we will never understand them. They are too far beyond us. And their essential selves must be forever a mystery.
Valabai Resmulsen. History of the Twenty-Third Century, Volume One.
The tender loomed above the crowd of passengers and leave-takers, a great shining bullet caught in floodlights against the dark, and Ray Ballantyne quickened his steps. By heaven he'd made it. The flight from San Francisco to Quito, the nail-biting dawdle as he waited for the airbus, Then the flight out to the Ecuador spaceport, the last walk through the vast, echoing hollowness of the terminal, out onto the field, and there it was, there the little darling lay, waiting to carry him from Earth up to the Jovian Queen in safety. He kissed his fingers at the tender and shoved rudely through the swarm of people and Martians. He'd already missed the first trip up to the liner, and the thought of waiting for the third was beyond endurance.
As the heavy hand fell on his arm, Ballantyne whirled, his heart slamming against his teeth and his spine dropping out. The thick-set man compared his thin, sharp features with the photograph in the other paw, nodded and said, All right, Ballantyne, come along. C'est la maghazia, gibbered the engineer. No hablo ingles. I said come along, said the detective wearily. I thought you'd try to leave Earth. This way. Ballantyne's free hand reached up and crammed the fellow's hat down over his eyes. Wrenching loose, he turned and ran for the gangway, upsetting a corpulent Latin woman en route, and pursued by a volley of imprecations. He shoved aside the passenger before him, and ran into the solid wall of an impassive Jovian ship's officer.
The Jovian, a tall, muscular blonde in the dazzling crispness of white uniform, looked at him with the thinly-veiled contempt of a proper confid, The lesser breeds of humanity. Ticket and passport, please, he said stonily. Ballantyne shoved them at him, glancing shakily back to the detective who had become entangled with the indignant woman and was being slapped with a handbag and violably cursed. With maddening deliberation, the Jovians scanned the engineer's papers, compared them with a list in his hand, and waved him on. The detective caromed against the same immovable barrier. Let me buy, he gasped. Your ticket and passport, please. Said the Jovian. That man is under arrest. Let me buy. Your ticket and passport, please.
I tell you I'm an officer of the law, and I've a warrant for that man. Let me buy. Proper authorization may be obtained at the main office, said the Jovian coldly. The detective tried to rush, encountered a bit of expert judo, and tumbled back into the crowd. Every able-bodied Jovian was a well-trained military reservist. Proper authorization may be obtained at the main office, repeated the immovable barrier. To the next man. Your ticket and passport, please. Ray Ballantyne dashed the sweat off his brow and permitted himself a nasty chuckle. By the time the hapless detective had gone through all that red tape, the tender would be well on its way. Before one of his country's secret police, the Jovian would have quailed and said nothing.
But this was Earth, and the Conferds loved to bait terrestrials, and there was no better way than by demanding the endless papers which their file clerk mentalities The engineer went on into the tender, found a seat, and strapped himself in. He was clear. Before heaven, he was away. Even the long Vanbrugh arm did not reach to Jupiter. Ballantyne's alleged crimes weren't enough for the Earth government to ask his extradition. He could stay on Ganymede till the whole business had blown over, and then... well. He sighed, relaxing, a medium-sized young man, slender and wiry, with close-cropped yellow hair. And features a little too sharp to be handsome. His thin, deft fingers rearranged his overly colorful tie and straightened his sports jacket.
Always wanted to see the Jovian system anyway, he rationalized. The tender's airlock sighed shut, and a stewardess went down the aisle handing out anti-acceleration pills. She had the full-bodied, pure-blooded, good looks of the ideal Jovian, together with their frankly repellent air of hard, purposeful efficiency. The rockets began to throb, warming up, and the siren hooted. Ballantyne turned to the man beside him, obsessed with the idiotic desire for conversation found in all recent escapees from the law or the dentist. "'Going home, I see,' he remarked. The man was a tall specimen in a grey Jovian army uniform, with Colonel's planets on his shoulders and a chest full of ribbons and medals, about forty, closely shaven head, iron jaw, ramrod spine.
He fixed the earthling with a chill, pale eye and said, And you, I see, are leaving home. Two scintillating deductions. Um, uh, well? Ballantyne looked away, his ears ablaze. The Jovian clutched his heavy portfolio tighter to his side. The tender shook itself, howled, and jumped into the sky. Ballantyne leaned back in the cushioned seat, staring out the port at the fire-starred unfolding of space. The Jovian Colonel sat rigid as before, not deigning to yield to the pressure. They came up to the Jovian Queen, where the Great Lina held her orbit about Earth, and Ballantyne glimpsed her long metal shape, blinding in the raw sunlight as the tender swung in for contact. When the airlocks joined, there was a steady one gravity as the spaceship rotated on her axis.
Whatever you could say against the Jovians, and that was quite a bit. They did maintain the best transport in the solar system. Earth's heavy passenger and freight haulers were in tight financial straits, competing with the state-subsidized lines of Jupiter. An expressionless, uniformed steward took charge of the passengers as they entered the ship, herding them to their respective destinations. Ballantyne lugged his valise toward third-class section. He'd have to share his cabin with two others. How had the mighty fallen? Thinking over the decline and fall of the Ballantyne pocketbook, he sighed and the suitcase seemed to drag at him. It hit Ganymede pretty broke unless he opened his assigned door.
"'Put me down!' Ballantyne dropped his suitcase and his jaw. Within a narrow cabin a Martian was struggling in the clutch of a six-foot-armoured woman. "'Put me down!' he spluttered. He coiled his limbs snake-like around the woman's brawny arms. On a Martian's four thick, rubbery, walking tentacles have formidable strength. She didn't seem to notice. She laughed and shook him a bit. I beg your pardon? guessed Ballantyne, backing away. You are forgiven, said the woman. Her voice was a husky contralto, burdened with a rippling, slurring accent he couldn't place. He shot out one Martian-encumbered arm, grabbed him by the coat, and hauled him inside. You be the urge, my friend. Is it not justice that I have the lower berth?
"'It is nothing at the sort,' screamed the Martian, fixing Ballantyne with round, bulging, and indignant yellow eyes. "'My position, my eminence, clearly entitle me to every consideration and tentest hulking monster.' The earthling let his gaze travel up and down the woman's smooth-muscled form, and said in an awed whisper, "'I think you'd better accept the lady's generous offer, but I seem to have the wrong cabin.' "'Are you Ray Ballantyne of Earth?' asked the woman. He pleaded guilty. "'Then you belong with us.' I have little to pass in the least. You may have the cart." Thanks, shivered Ballantyne, sitting down on it. The Martian seemed to give the fight up as a bad job, and allowed himself to be placed on the upper bunk.
To think of it, he squeaked, that I, the great old Rishkadan of a mushkite turtle, should be manhandled by a savage who does not know a logarithm from an exponent. Rishkadan? Ballantyne knew the name of the Martian mathematician. The latter-day Gauss or Einstein, and stared as if this was the first Martian he had seen in his life. The Rushkadan looked like any other of his race, at least to the inexperienced eye. A great, grey-skinned cupular of a body balanced four feet high on the walking tentacles, with the two slim, three-fingered arm tentacles writhing from either side of a wide, lipless mouth sat beneath that torse. Big, unwinking eyes behind horn-rimmed spectacles, flat nose, Elephantine ears.
Not thee, Ouschkeden, he gasped. "'Tis only one Ouschkeden," said the Martian. The Amazon sat down on her own bunk and laughed, a homeric shout of laughter ringing between the metal walls and shivering the furniture. "'Welcome to the earth, man,' she cried. "'You are cute. I think I will like you. I am the uncollective catantumar,' she grabbed his hand in a bone-cracking grip. One of the Centaurians, said Ballantyne feebly. Yes, so you call it, she opened her trunk and began unpacking. Ballantyne watched her with appreciation and some curiosity. He'd only seen the Alpha Centaurian visitors on television before now. She looked human enough externally, aside from a somewhat different convolution of the ears.
Internally there were plenty of peculiarities, among them a skeletal and tissue structure considerably harder and denser than that of Homo Salis. Alpha Centauri III, of Iran as its more advanced nation had decided to call it after learning from the terrestrial explorers that it was a planet, was earth-like enough in a cool, embracing way, but it had half again the surface gravity. Sexual differentiation also varied a bit from the solar norm. The Centaurian men were somewhat smaller and weaker than the women. They stayed at home and did the housework, while their wives conducted the business. In the warlike culture of Kratantumur and its neighbor states, that meant going out, cutting the other army into hamburger, and stealing everything which wasn't bolted down.
This, Deanne Colas, was something to write home about as far as looks went. Her size and the broadsword at her waist were intimidating, but her build was magnificent in a statuesque, tiger-like way. She looked young, her skin smooth and faintly golden. A heavy mass of shining bronze hair coiled about the haughtily lifted head. Her face was close to the ideal of an ancient Hellenic sculptor, clean straight lines, firm jaw, brilliant grey eyes under heavy brows. She wore a light caress over her tunic, sandals, a bat-winged helmet on her head. It's strange that put you in the same cabin with me, said Ballantyne hesitantly. Oh, yeah, safe enough. She grinned. He flushed, reflecting that the ladies from Centauri were in little danger from any solar man.
Very likely it was the other way around. Then he recalled that their native titles translated into things like warrior, district ruler, chief, and so on. With their arrogant indifference to mere exploration and ethnology, the Jovians had probably assumed that Dayan Corlas was male, while he wasn't going to enlighten them. He looked up to Rushkidan, who was morosely stuffing a big, bold pipe. I know of your work, of course, he said hesitantly. I am, was a nuclear engineer, so maybe I even have some appreciation of what it's about. The Martian preened. Doubtless you're grafted very well, he said generously, as what any Et-man could, which is, of course, saying very little. But I may ask, sir, what are you doing here?
Oh, I have inhibited from the Jobian Academy of Sciences to lecture. Te'e commendably interested and seem to realize my fundamental importance. I will be glad to get off Earth. The air-pressured gravity periphery. But a man, a Martian of your distinction, traveling third class. Oh, they sent me a first-class ticket of course, but I turned it in. Bought a third class and banked a difference. He scowled darkly at Deanne Corliss. Tough if I must be treated so well. He shrugged, a Martian, shrugging as quiet his sight. It is of no matter. Wave, O2, Mars, as you insist on calling it, are so incomparably far advanced into philosophic virtues of serenity, generosity, and modesty that I can accept with equanimity.
Oh, said Ballantine, to the Centurion, and may I ask why are you going to Jupiter, Miss Coralas? You may call me Diane, she said sweetly, and I will call you Ray, so I wish only to see Jupiter, though I doubt it will be glamorous as Earth. The eyes glowed. You live in a fable. The flying and traveling machines, auto, automatic kitchen, television clocks and watches, exotic dress. I was worth ten years traveling just to see them. Valentine reflected on what he knew of Alpha Centauri. Even the fantastically fast new exploratory ships took ten years to cross the interstellar gulf to its wild planets, and there had only been three expeditions so far. The third had brought back a group of curious natives who were to report to their queen what the stranger's homeland was like.
He imagined that the spacemen had had quite a time. With that score of turbulent barbarians crammed into a narrow hull, though of course they'd pass almost the whole voyage in suspended animation. The visitors had spent about a year now on Earth and Luna, staring, asking endless questions, wondering what their hosts did with themselves now that the UN had brought the nations together and ended war. It hadn't been much trouble. Occasionally one of them would get mad and break somebody's jaw, and then they'd be the one who was invited to speak at a women's club. He chuckled to himself. Are these Yorvian humans like you? asked Deanne. Aha, he nodded. The moons were colonized from Earth about 125 years ago.
They declared their independence about sixty years past, and nobody thought it was worth the trouble to fight about it. Or maybe we should have. Why that? Oh, well, the colonists were misfits originally, remnants of the old Eurasian militarisms. They did do heroic work in settling and developing the Jovian system, but they live under a dictatorship and make no bones about despising Earth and considering themselves the destined rulers of all the planets. Last year, they grabbed the Saturnian colonies and Athenists of pretext, and Earth was too chicken-livered to do more than give them a reproachful look. Not that the UN has much of a navy these days compared to theirs. Deanne shrugged and went on unpacking.
She hung an extra sword on the wall, unshipped her armor and put it up and slipped into a loose, fur-trimmed robe. A rushkidan slithered to the floor and opened his own trunk, pulling out a score of fat books which he placed on the shelf over his bunk and expropriated the little table for his papers, pencils, and humidor. You know, uh... Dr. Arushkadan, said Ballantyne uneasily, I wish you weren't going to Jupiter. And why not? asked the Martian belligerently. Well, doesn't your reformulation of general relativity indicate a way to build a ship which can go faster than light? Among other things, yes, Arushkadan blew a malodorous cloud of smoke. Well, I don't think the Jovians are interested in science for its own sake.
I think they want to get you and your knowledge so they can build such ships themselves, which would be the last thing they need to take over the solar system. A Martian, said Rushkidan condescendingly, is not concerned with the squablings of the lower animals. Not impersonal, of course. Deanne pulled an idol from her trunk and put it on her shelf. It was a small wooden image, godly painted and fiercely tusked, each of its six arms holding some weapon. One, Ballantyne noticed. It was a carved, terrestrial, tommy gun. Quiet, please, she said, raising one arm. I'm about to pray to Omen the Terrible. Barbarian, guffawed Erushkadan. Deanne took a pillow and stuffed it in his mouth. Quiet, please, I said.
She smiled gently and prostrated herself before the guard. After a while, she got up. Erushkadan was still speechless with rage. She turned to Ballantyne and asked, Do the ships here carry light animals? I would like to make a small sacrifice, too.
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6 06 - Captive of the Centaurianess, Chapter Two 11:49
Captive of the Centurionus, Chapter 2. The bulletin board said that in the present orbital positions of the planets, the Jovian Queen would make a voyage at one Earth-gravity acceleration in six days, forty-three minutes, and twelve seconds, plus or minus ten seconds. That might be pure raggedace, although Valentine wouldn't have been surprised to learn that it was a sober truth. He hoped the time was overestimated. His cabin mates were a little wearing on the nerves. Erushkadan filling the room with smoke, sitting up till all hours, covering paper with mathematical symbols, and screaming at any interruption. Diane was nice-looking, but rather overwhelming. In some ways she was reminiscent of Catherine Vanbrugh.
The engineer shuddered. He slouched moodily into the bar and ordered a martini he could ill afford. The place was quiet, discreetly lit, not very full. His eyes fell on the stiff-laced Jovian Colonel, still clutching his portfolio like grim death, but talking with unusual animation to a stunning terrestrial redhead. It was clear that ideas about the purity of the Jovian stock Hardened in the fire and ice of outer space, tempered and beaten into the new and dominant mankind, had been temporarily shelved. If I had some money, thought Ballantyne gloomily, I could detach her from him and enjoy this trip. The bartender informed him, with some awe, that the man was Colonel Ivan Hosea Domenico Rushevsky Feldkamp, late military attaché of Jupiter's Terrestrial Embassy.
And an officer who had served with distinction in suppressing the Ionian Revolt, and asserting Jupiter's rightful claims to Saturn. Ray was more interested in the girl's name and antecedents, just as he thought an heiress on the pleasure trip. Expensive. A couple of genial Earthmen moved up and began talking to him. Before long they suggested a friendly game of poker. Oh ho, thought Ray, who knew that sort. Sure, he said. They played most of the time. For a couple of days, luck went back and forth, but in general, Ray won, and toward the end he was a couple of thousand yuan credits to the good. He let his eyes glitter with febrile cupidity, and the sharks, there were three of them all told, almost licked their lips.
Excuse me for a minute, said Ray, pocketing his winnings. I'll be back, and then we'll play for real stakes. You bet, said the sharks. They sat back. Lit anticipatory cigars and waited. And waited. And waited. Ray found the redhead remarkably easy to pry from the Colonel. The girl thought it would be just too much fun to go slumming and have the Captain's dinner with him in the third-class saloon. He led her down the thrumming corridor, thinking wistfully that before he knew it it'd be in Ganymede City, And as broke as he had been to start with. Ereshkidan crawled slowly by, waving an idle tentacle at him. The Martian walking system was awkward under Earth's gravity, and their table manners being worse than atrocious, they ate in a separate section.
It was Deanne who really started the trouble. She strode up behind Ray and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "'Where have you been?' she asked reproachfully. "'You have not been in our cabin for two days and nights now.' The redhead blushed. "'Oh, hello, Deanne,' said Ray annoyed. "'I'll see you later.' "'Of course you will,' she smiled. "'Ah, you dashed and glamorous earthmen! You make me feel so small and weak!' She topped him by a good two inches. They came into the doorway of the saloon, and three familiar figures barred Ray's passage. "'What the hell became of you, Ballantyne?' demanded one. His geniality was quite gone. He was gonna play some more with us. I forgot, said Ray huskily.
The three men looked bigger than they had somehow. It's not sporting to quit when you're so far ahead, said another. Yeah, said a third. You ought at least to give us some money back. I haven't got any, said Ray. Look, pal, things happen to people that ain't good sports, that ain't very popular, and things happen to them. Where's that money? They crowded in, hemming him against the wall. Beyond them he could see Colonel Wyshefsky Feldkamp staring coldly at the tableau. Ray wondered if he hadn't put the players up to this. He wouldn't have dared start trouble without some kind of sub-Rosa official hint. Come on back to our cabin and we'll talk this over, pal. The redhead squeaked and shrank aside.
A meaty hand closed on Ray's arm and dragged him half off his feet. Deanne bristled, one hand clapped to her sword. "'Are these men annoying you, Ray?' she asked. "'No, we just want a quiet little private talk with our friend,' said one of them. "'Just come along easy, Ballantyne.' "'Damn, I think they are annoying me,' said the engineer, the words rattling in a suddenly dry and tightened throat. "'Oh, well, in that case,' she smiled, reached out, and grabbed a collar. There was a minor explosion. The man catapulted into the air, hit the ceiling, corrobed off a wall, and bounced on the floor, sheer reflex and knives flying into the hands of the other two. "'All manner's good!' shouted Diane joyously.
She gave the nearest gambler a fistful of knuckles, tossed him into the air, clutched his ankles as he came down, and whirled him against the wall. The third was stabbing at her back. Blindly, Ray grabbed his arm and pulled him away. He snarled and lunged at the engineer, who tumbled backward, clutching after the nearest weapon. It happened to be Colonel Washefsky-Foutkamp's massive briefcase. He grabbed it free and brought it down on the gambler's head. It hit with a dull thwack, and the fellow lurched. Ray hit him again. The briefcase burst open and paper snowed through the air. Then Deanne got the enemy from behind and proceeded to tie him in knots. The redhead had already departed. Screaming, Ray sank to one shaky knee and looked up into the Colonel's livid face.
I'm terribly sorry, sir, he gasped. Here, let me help. He began stuffing papers back into the briefcase. A polished boot hit him where it would do the most good, and he skidded through the disorderly mass. You're an utterable fool, raged the voice above him. You would kick my friend, huh? asked Deanne indignantly. A revolver clanked from the Colonel's belt. That will do, he snapped. Consider yourself under arrest. Deanne's broad, smooth shoulders sagged a little. I'm so sorry, she said meekly. Let me help you, Sir Lado. She stooped and picked up one of the unconscious men. Much, rapped the Colonel. Yes, sir, whispered Deanne abjectly. Then, being almost next to him, she rammed her burden into his belly.
He sat down with a thunderous oof, and Deanne kept him behind the ear. That was fun, she grinned, picking up the revolver and sticking it into her belt. What shall we do now?
You're... said Oreskidan assuredly. A typical human. Ray looked despairingly out of the brig at him. What else can I do? He asked wildly. I couldn't fight a ship full of Jovians. It was all I could do to talk Deanna into surrendering. I mean in fighting in the first place, said Ereshkidan. I hate standing over a female. Why don't you lot of animals have a regular rutting season as we do in Uthu? Then you could spend time thinking of something else, too. Something constructive. Well, Ray couldn't suppress a wry smile. Those are constructive thoughts of a sort. But what happened to Deanne? Oh, they questioned her. Found she couldn't really let her go. But they wouldn't let her see you. I suppose Earth would raise more of a stink over her being arrested than it's worth to the Jovians.
But what's her literacy got to do with it? The Colonel's papers, you idiot. They're very secret. Doubtless they're information about Earth's defences obtained by his spies and to be brought home by him in person. But I didn't read them either. You saw them. They implanted in your subconscious memories, and the hypno treatment could extract them. An illiterate like the Anne likes to work, Gestaltz. She would not remember even subconsciously. But you, well, tatty's luck. Maybe Earth can save you. Oh, no. Ray clutched his head. They won't bother. They don't give a damn. I'm wanted back there, and old Vambrer will be only too pleased to see me get the works. Vambrer! "'Tanot, American Counselor?' "'Uh-huh,' Ray leaned gloomily against the door.
"'I was just a plain, ordinary engineer, till Uncle Hosmer left me a million credits. Damn him, I'll be fries in hell!' "'A man left you money, and you don't like it?' Oreshkidan's eyes bugged, so they seemed in some danger of falling out. "'Shalmuwanusa! What did you do with it?' "'I spent it! I spent damn near every millow in a year!' "'On what?' "'Oh, wine, women, song, the usual?" Ereshkidan clapped his tentacles to his eyes and groaned. "'A million credits!' "'Got me into high society,' went on Ray. "'I made out as if I had more than I did. I met Catherine Vambrough. That's the counsellor's daughter, and she got ideas that I might make a good fifth husband. Or would it be sixth? Well, she wasn't a bad-looking wench, and I, oh, well, about the time my money gave out and I went into debt, she was really after me.
It was somewhat urgent.' I skipped, of course. Old Vanburg got the cops after me. I barely escaped. He's got enough influence to— Well, it boils down to the fact that the Jovians can do anything to me their little hearts desire. He strained against the bars. Can't you do anything, sir? Your fame is so illustrious. Can't you slip the word to somebody? The Martian puffed out his chest above his eyes as simpered. Then he said with mild regret, No, I cannot entangle myself into empirical. My domain is to beauty and purity of mathematics. Alone, I advise you to accept your fate with philosophy. Perhaps I can lend you ec banotis, titis, and the unimportance of temporal sorrows. It has many consoling thoughts."
He waved affably and waddled off. Ray sank to the bunk. Presently a squad of soldiers arrived to escort him to the tender which would take him down to Ganymede. Colonel Rushevsky Falkamp was there. As stiff as ever, though the bandage behind his ear set his cap somewhat askew. Where am I going? asked Ray. To Kemp Mullenhof, outside the city, said the Jovian with a hard satisfaction. It is where we keep spies until we get ready to question and shoot them.
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7 07 - Captive of the Centaurianess, Chapter Three 18:31
Captive of the Centurionus. Chapter 3. It took Deanne Corlas about two Earth days to decide that she didn't like Ganymede. The Jovians had been very courteous, apologized in a stiff way for the unfortunate misunderstanding aboard ship, and assigned her a brawny young sergeant as guide. Their armament was much more in evidence and much more interesting than Earth's, but granting that spaceships and atomic bombs and guided missiles were more effective than swords and bows and mounted lances, they took all the fun out of war and left nothing to plunder. She missed the brawling mirth of the war camps of Varan among these bleak-faced and endlessly marching men in their drab uniforms. The civilians were almost as depressingly clad And even more orderly and obedient than those of Earth.
Only the arrogant, be-meddled officer-cast had any touch of dash or glamour about it. The terrestrial concept of sexual equality had been interesting, even exciting in a way, but these Jovians had inverted the natural order of things to a repulsive extent. She had seen the sights, and those were impressive enough. The grim, rocky face of Ganymede, with mighty Jupiter, Eternally high in the dusky heavens. The bustling, crowded, machine-crowned underground cities, level after level of apartments, farms, factories, shops, barracks. But Earth could show more. Her guide promised to take her to the other moons of the Jovian Confederacy, but she felt as bored by the thought as he seemed to be. She got the impression that she was hurried along from sight to sight and speech to speech.
Without ever a chance to talk to anyone and find out what really was dreamed and striven for on this land. To be sure, the Jovians all talked endlessly about a superior way of life and their right to return to the green vales of Earth whence their forefathers had been cruelly made to flee. But if they were going to fight, why didn't they just hop in their ships and go there? The dictator's face seemed to be framed wherever she turned. A small and puffy-eyed man in an elaborate uniform, Martin Wilder the Great. A guide, the sergeant, one Robert Hammond, said in an odd tone that she might be introduced to the dictator. He looked hurt when she yawned. And what had become of Ray? Hammond knew nothing, and seemed to care less.
The secret police officer had said he would be held for a short time as a lesson, and then released, but surely he'd look her up if he were free. She contrasted the earthling's liveliness with the quiet men of Iran, and thought that he would be an ornament to anyone's harem, even if there couldn't be issue between the two species. On the third day she got up, she decided to ask Council of Ormen. She watched, singing a cheerful song of clattering swords and sundering skulls, stowed away a breakfast that was sufficed two humans, and walked into the sitting-room the apartment assigned her. Hammond was waiting, very straight and correct in his uniform. "'Good day,' he said, bowing from the waist.
"'Today we'll go topside again and visit the Devil's Garden. Then at 11.45 proceed to Robinsburg, where we will launch until 1300, and then go on to—' "'I must take an omen first,' said Diane. "'I beg your pardon. You need not do so. You have done no wrong.' Diane prostrated herself before the guard, then struck with a sudden thought. Gestured at Hammond. You two. What? Fared the sergeant. You two. She might be offended if you do not pray. Madam, said Hammond, stiff with indignation, I'm a joven of the machine age, not a savage groveling before superstition. Deanne got up, knocked him to the floor, and rubbed his nose on the carpet before Ehrman. You're well pleased to grovel, she said urbanely.
It is good manners. She laid herself prone again, keeping one hand on the sergeant's head, and repeated several magic formulas. Then she rose to her knees, fished three Centaurian dice from her pocketed kilt, and tossed them. Aha! she cried. The omen says, let me see now, I am not a Maya, I think they go to Orishkidan, she bailed deeply before omen. Thank you, my lady, now come, we go find Orishkidan. You can't, gibbered Hemant. He's doing important work. He's at the academy. Diane strolled out and he trailed futilely in her wake, still protesting. She inquired her way along the many tunnels and corridors and ramps to the Academy of Science. There were no slideways. Everyone walked. The Jovian leaders, with their concern over physical fitness, insisted that there be as much assorted exercises as possible.
To Deanne, weight was feathery. She bounded twenty or thirty feet at a time when the crowd thinned enough. The academy, a combined college and technical research institute, had a good-sized sector to itself. There was a broad open space covered with turf, and the uniformed students and professors went from one to another of the doors which opened on the grass. Deanne loomed over an undersized academician. She gibbered in answer to her that Dr. Rushkadan was in that sector, and then scuttled away. There was an armed sentry in front of the door. Seeing none elsewhere, Deanne concluded shrewdly that he was posted because of the potential military applications of Rushkadan's work. He slanted his rifle across her path.
I must see the Martian, said Deanne mildly. Please to let me by. "'No one saves him without a pass,' said the guard. Deanne shoved him aside and opened the door. He yelled and grabbed her arm. That was his big mistake. "'A man,' said the Varanian reprovingly, "'should have respect for women.' She yanked the rifle from him and hit him in the stomach with the butt. He flew across the plaza, retching, rolled to one elbow and snatched at his sidearm. Deanne leaped, landing on his face with a crunch of bone and a small explosion of blood and teeth. She turned back, hefting the rifle appreciatively. The earthlings and Varane had been regrettably stingy about giving modern weapons to the natives. Assorted people, including Hamand, fled in all directions as he entered the doorway.
Down a long hall, peering into the rooms on either side, up a staircase, another century before a frosted glass door gaped at her. She smiled reassuringly, moved closer to him, and got her hands on his throat. Shortly thereafter, she had his rifle and revolver. Loud voices drifted through the door, and Deanne, who was not at all stupid, listened with interest. One was—yes, that was Arushka Dan himself, bubbling like an indignant tea kettle. I will not, sir. Do you hear me? I will not. I demand a return passage from this far satellite at once. Come now, Dr. Rischkeden, be reasonable, was that the voice of Ryszczewski Feldkamp. After all, can you complain of your treatment? You have mass-conditioned quarters, servants.
I pay every consideration. I came here to lecture and complete my mathematical research. Now I find you have arranged no letters for me and expect me to supervise an engineering project, as if I were a empiricist. But, Dr. Rushkidan, after all, science advances by checking its theory against the facts. If with your help we create the first... Faster than light sheep, it will be a triumphant confirmation of- My theories need no confirmation. They are at development a certain relativity postulate, a piece of pure mathematics, and all is elegance and booty. If they agree or disagree with the facts, that is of not interest to any proper native of auto. The mathematics is enough. And I will have nothing to do with applied physics.
And furthermore," the squeaky voice rose even higher, "...you want only to military applications? You will astute me to some vulgarity? You do not appreciate me, and I am going back to auto!" I'm afraid," said the man slowly. The dead is impossible. Deanne entered. Are they annoying you? She asked. A rushkadan whirled about. The room was thick with the fumes of his pipe, and one of the two Jovians was with him. A bald man in the black uniform of the secret police was holding a handkerchief to his nose. The other one was Rushevsky Feldkamp, who started to his feet with an oath and grabbed for his revolver. Deanne held her own stolen gun on his midriff. No, she said. What are you doing here? gasped the officer.
There is Ray Ballantyne. Get out, guards! Deanne took one long leap across the office, seized Rushevsky Feldkamp by the neck, and hammered his forehead against the deck. Her free hand covered the secret policeman. There is Ray Ballantyne, she repeated. I'm glad you came, said Ariska Deanne. Shall we leave this unsyvilized place? Two armed soldiers appeared in the doorway. Deanne brought her gun around. The silenced weapon hissed. One of the men tumbled with a hole drilled in his forehead. She was rather proud of herself. She'd never had so much chance for target practice. There wasn't much time for self-praise, though. The other man already had his rifle up. Deanne dropped behind the desk, and the stream of slugs ripped through the wood.
After her, she bunched her muscles and threw the desk. There was a crash of splintering wood as it knocked down the Jovian. The secret police officer had his gun out and trained on her. Rishkadan snaked forth a tentacle and pulled him off his feet. Deanne stopped to slug Ryshevsky Feldkamp before she got her hands about the policeman's throat. There is a rare Ballantyne, she growled. Come on, come on, we have to get out of here. whaled the Martian. Which is the way out? I'll show you. Come along, quick. This way. Dan frog-matched the Jovian cop toward a rear door. The booted feet were thudding up the stairs toward the office. Ruskidan held a pistol in each hand, gingerly as if he feared they would blow up.
He led the way into a hall and down a long, echoing ramp. Hurry, hurry, he gasped. Sure, men, sir. We have to hold Jorby Confederacy after us. A voice bellowed atop the ramp, and a slug wanged after them. Deanne whirled and fired back, using the helplessly pinioned captive as a shield. They retreated slowly, rounding a corner and going on down a long slope to a heavy steel door. Rushgadan opened it, slamming it frantically as they went through. They were in a hangar where several small spaceships rested on their rail-mouthed cradles. Mechanics stared at the trio. "'Quick!' snapped the Martian. "'Teleportage ships!' The prisoner opened his mouth. Deanne laid a friendly hand on the back of his neck and squeezed a little.
"'Yes, I did a boat to ship, but it was my loovers. Hurry!' the man said. "'Yes, sir!' A lifetime's training in blight obedience spoke there behind the puzzled face. A teardrop-shaped rocket was trundled forth. Deanne looked nervously back at the door. Pursuit was most likely playing it safe, posting men outside while others went around to block all remaining exits. Once that was done, they'd close in. "'I'll warm up the engine for you, sir,' said one of the mechanics. "'Feel taken now,' said Deanne. "'But you can't. You'll carbon the tubes, be likely to crash.' "'I said now!' Deanne propelled her captive ahead of her through the airlock, and Arushkadan crawled after. The valves clanged shut after them.
I hope you can fly one of these things, said Deanne, lashing the secret police to a recall chair. I hope so, too, said Arushkadan. Deanne stood over her prisoner. That is Ray Ballantyne, she asked. The Earthman who was arrested after Lana a few days ago. I don't know, he gasped. Deanne drew her knife, smiling nastily. Cam Molenhoff, you savage, outside the city to the north. You'll never make it. You'll kill us all. The cradle rumbled forward to the hangar airlock. Arushka Dan took the pilot chair and strapped himself in and lit his pipe with nervous, boneless fingers. Deanne whistled tunelessly between her teeth. It was dark in the airlock chamber as the pumps evacuated it. Why bother with this Ballantyne?
asked the Martian. What claim is he on us? It will need our luck and mad genius for us to escape with our own lives. We need his luck too, maybe, said Deanne shortly. The outer valve swung open and they trundled over the rails to the surface of Ganymede. Behind them, the dome covering the city rose against a background of sore-toothed mountains and dark, faintly starlit sky. A dwarfed sun lit the spaceport filled with pale, cold luminance. There were not many vessels in sight. No liner or freighter was in, and the military ports were elsewhere. One lean black patrol ship stood not far off. "'They will be out after us soon," said Dian. "'What can you do about the boat here, huh?' "'We will see,' said O'Rishkadan.
He touched studs, levers, and buttons. The engines thuttered. The little vessel shook. Let's go! The rocket stood on her tail and climbed for the sky. A rush-gadan brought her around, the gyros screaming at his clumsy management, and lowered her on her jets directly above the patrol ship. An atom-driven iron blast is not good for a patrol ship. Now, said Deanne as they took off again, you, my policeman friend, will call this camp Moolenhof and tell them to release Ballantyne to us. If you do that, we will set you down somewhere. If not, well," she tested the edge of her knife on his ear, you may still be a police, but you will not be very alive. You can't escape, said the Jovian with a certain hollow lack of conviction.
You better throw yourself on the leader's mercy. Diane knocked a few teeth loose. You savage, he gasped. You cruel, murdering. I thought your jobins were always talking about the claws of war and the ruthless Superman, snickered O'Rushkadan. Also, destiny and things. Better call to camp, as she says. A few minutes later, the ship lowered into the walled enclosure of Camp Mullenhoff. It was a dreary place, metal barracks lying harsh under the guns of the watchtowers, space-suited prisoners clumping to work through the thin, chill air of Ganymede. A detail hurried up and shoved an unarmed, suited form into the airlock. The leader's voice rattled over his helmet radio of the ship's celly receiver.
"'Major, sir, are you sure they want this man in the city now? We've just got an alert to look out for a couple of escaped desperados.' Deanne slammed the outer valve in his face by the remote control lever, and the little ship stood on her tail again and flamed skyward. A somewhat battered Ray Ballantyne crawled out of his suit and blinked at them. It had been a rough two or three days, though they hadn't gone very far with him. The truth drugs must have satisfied them that he was not an intentional spy, and thereafter they had simply held him until orders for his execution should come. He swayed into Deanne's arms. Oh, my poor Ray, she murmured, my poor, poor little Ertlin. Wait a minute, he began weakly.
Just lie still. I'll take care of you. That's what I'm afraid of. Let me go. They sat down again on a remote mountaintop, gave the policeman a space suit, and kicked him out of the ship. He was still wailing about barbarous and inhuman treatment. He said something, too, about wild beasts. And now, said Deanne, let us get back to Earth before the Ovians find us. This crane will never make Earth, said Ray. I've flown him. Let me hit these controls or I should get in. They heard it as well, the ominous sizzling and knocking from the engine-worm's shields, and felt the ship tremble with it. "'Is Tantacarbon in to mine was talking about?' asked the Martian innocently. "'I'm afraid so,' Ray shook his head.
"'We'll have to land somewhere before the rockets quit altogether. Then it'll take a week for the radioactivity to get low enough, so we can go back there and clean them out.' "'And all the Yovi and Army, Navy, Police and Fire Department are chasing us by now,' said Diane. Her clear brow wrinkled. "'I fear that Armand is offended "'cause I left her among the heathen back there.
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8 08 - Captive of the Centaurianess, Chapter Four 16:57
Captive of the Centurianus. Chapter Four. They used the last sputter of flame to sit down in the wildest and remotest valley they could find. Looking at the port, Grey wondered if they hadn't, perhaps, overdone it. Beyond the little ship, there was a stretch of seamed and gullied stone. A rough, craggy waste sloping up toward the fang-peaked, razorback ridge of the hills. Weird, flickering play of shadows between the looming boulders as the thin wind blew a veil of snow across the deep, greenish-blue sky. Jupiter was an amber scimitar low on the northern horizon, though near the South Pole were the sprawling panorama of sharp stars around it fading out near the tiny sun. Snow lay heaped in drifts beyond the wind-scoured rocks.
The far-green blink of glaciers reflected the pale, heatless sunlight from the hills. Snow. Well, yes, thought Ray, it was snow of a sort. All the water and ganymede was, of course, solid ice. So were the carbon dioxide and ammonia. But the temperature often dropped low enough to precipitate methane or nitrogen. The moon's atmosphere, what there was of it, consisted mostly of argon, nitrogen, methane, and vapours of the frozen substances Not especially breathable. The colonists used the standard green plant air renewal system, obtaining extra oxygen from its compounds and water in the ice strata, and heated their dwellings from the central atomic energy units. Ray hoped the ship's equipment was in working order.
There was a native life out there, a few scrubby, gray-leaved thickets, a frightened leaper bounding kangaroo-like into the hills. The biochemistry of Ganymede was a weird and wonderful thing. Which human scientists were still a long way from understanding, but involved substances capable of absorbing heat energy directly and releasing it as needed. The carnivores lacked the secretions, obtaining them from their prey, and had given the colonists a lot of trouble because of their fondness for the generous supply of heat a human necessarily carried around with him. What do we do now? asked Ray. Deanne's eyes lit with a hopeful gleam. Hunt, monsters? She suggested. Baaah! Udiskidan snaked his way to the small desk, bolted to the cabin floor, and extracted paper and pencil from the drawers.
I shall develop an interesting aspect of unified field, Terry. Do not disturb me. Ray looked around the ship. Behind a forward cabin, which held bunks and a little cooking outfit, as well as the controls, there was a larger space, cluttered with assorted physical apparatus. Beyond that, he supposed, were the gyros. Air plant and misbehaving engines. Is this a laboratory boat? inquired. Yes, said the Martian. I chose it because Tau is always kept ready to go out for a Geibon field test and new apparatus. Give me a table of elliptical integrals, please. Look, said Ray, we've got to do something. The Jovians will be combing this damned moon for us, and it's not so big that we have much chance of their not finding us before we can clean out those tubes.
We've got to prepare and escape. Arushkadan fixed him with a bespectacled stare. Well, maybe, maybe get ready to flee into the hills. How long would we last out there? The Martian turned back to his work and blew a cloud of smoke. No, I will devote myself to the booties of poor mathematics. But if they catch us, they'll kill us. They won't kill me, said Arushkadan smugly. I'm too valuable. Come on, Ray, said Deanne. Let's go monster hunting. The earthman blew up, jumping with rage. In the low gravity, his leap cracked his head against the ceiling. Oh, my poor Ray, Dianne folded him in a bird's embrace. Let me go, dammit! I want to live if you don't. Be serene, advised Erushkadan. Look at it from the aspect of eternity.
You are one of the lower animals, and your life is of no importance. You... Octopus, you conceited windbag! If I needed any proof that Martians are inferior, you'd be it. Tempah, Tempah, Ereshkidan wagged a flexible finger at Ray. Be objective, my friend, and if your philosophy is so deficient that it will not prove a priori that Martians are always right, by definition, then consider the facts. Martians are beautiful. Martians have an old and peaceful civilization. Even physically we are superior. We can leave under Earth conditions, but I dare you to go out on Mars without a space suit. I double-dog dare you. Martians, gritted Ray, didn't come to Earth. Earthmen came to Mars. Certainly. We had no reason to visit Earth.
But you, of course, came to Mars to admire our booty and wisdom. Now please fetch me that table of integrals. There is nothing we can do to help ourselves, said the Earth. So we might as well go hunting. Afterward, we can make a love. Oh no," Ray grunted. If I had that damn interstellar drive, I'd get out of this hole so fast that, that, that— Yes, asked Deanne. Gods of Pluto, whispered the man. That's it. That's it. Get me to the table, screamed Oreshkadan. The drive. The faster-than-light drive. Ray did a jig, bouncing from floor to wall to ceiling. We've got a ship full of equipment. We've got the system's only authority on the subject. We'll build ourselves a faster-than-light engine. Rishkadan grumbled his way back into the lab.
I'll get it myself, Tan, he muttered. See if I care. The engine! The engine, Deanne, we can escape! Rey grabbed her by the arms and tried to shake her. We can go home. Her eyes filled with tears. You want to leave me, she accused. You want to get rid of me. No, no, no, I want to save all our lives. Come on, give me a hand. We've got some heavy stuff to move around. Deanne shook her head, pouting. No, she said. You don't love me. I won't help you. Oh, Lord. Look, Deanne, I love you. I adore you. I worship at your feet. But give me a hand. Deanne brightened considerably, but said only, Prove it. Ray kissed her. He kissed back, and he yelled as his ribs began to give way. "'Somewhere at the time, honey.
I want only to save your life. Don't you see?' "'Some out of time,' said Deanne firmly. "'It's not now. Come here, you.' "'Stop that noise,' yelled Arishkadan and slammed the laboratory door. "'Veva honeymoon on the ram,' sighed Deanne happily. "'You shall ride the battle at my side.' Much later, the aroma of coffee drew Arishkadan back into the forward cabin. A disheveled and weary-looking Ray Ballantyne was puttering around the hotplate, while Deanne sat polishing her sword and humming to herself. Now, said Ray, turning with what seemed like relief to the Martian, just how does this new drive of yours work? It's not a drive, and it does not work. It is a stretcher of poor mathematics, said Erushka Dan.
Anyway, Tetiwi is beyond the comprehension of anybody but myself. Give me some coffee. But you must have an idea or work in practice. Oh, no doubt if I wanted to take the time I could to buy something, but I'm engaged in developing a new theory of cosmic origins. Erishkaran slurped coffee into himself. We've got to build it and escape. I told you you're of neither booty nor importance. Why should I take time with you? But look, if the Jovians capture you, they'll force you to build it for them. They have ways, and then they'll overrun Mars along with all the other planets. The only thing that's held them back so far is the difficulty of interplanetary logistics, but when you have ships that can cross the orbit of Pluto in a matter of hours or minutes, that isn't a problem any longer.
That would be unfortunate, yes, but I'm in the midst of a very new and important train of thought. It would be more unfortunate if that were lost time if a few ephemeral Jobians conquered the system. They wouldn't last a thousand years. But a genius like me is bought once in a million, Deanne hefted her sword. Do as Ray says, she observed. You'll dare not hurt me, said Arushka down with a smug expression. Or you'll never get away. I went over to the desk and began investigating the drawers again. What do they keep in tear tobacco? I cannot work without my pipe. Jovians, said Ray glumly, don't smoke. They consider it a degenerate habit.
The Martians howl, rattle the coffee pot on the hot plate. No tobacco! Only your own supply, back in Ganymede City, and I dare say the Jovians have confiscated and destroyed it by now. That puts the nearest cigar store somewhere in the asteroid belt. Oh no! There's no cosmology ruined but tobacco shortage! Arushka Dan stirred thinking a moment, then came to a sudden decision. Mr. Helford, if the nearest tobacco is millions of miles away, we must build a faster-turn light engine at once! Ray made no attempt to follow the Martians' long-winded equations in detail. What he was interested in was making use of them, and he proceeded with slashing approximations that brought screams of almost physical agony from a rushkadan.
Essentially, though, he recognized that the scientists' achievement lay in making what seemed to be a final correlation of relativity and wave mechanics, something which even the Goldfarb-Olson formulas had not fully reached. Relativity deals with solid bodies moving at definite velocities. It cannot exceed that of light, but in wave mechanics the particle becomes a weird and shadowy psi function, and is only probably where it is. In the latter theory, point-to-point transitions are not velocities, but shifts in the node of a complex wave. It turned out that the electronic wave velocity, which, unlike the group velocity, is not limited by the speed of light, and could be imparted to matter under the right conditions, so that the most probable position of the electron Went from point to point at a bewildering rate.
The trick was to create the right conditions. A field of nuclear space drain is set up by the circuit, and the ship, reacting against the entire mass of the universe, moves without need of rockets. Right? asked the Earthman. Wrong, said Rush Kadan. Well, we'll build it anyway, said Wei. Here, Deanne, bring that generator over this way, will you? I want to go monster hunting, she sobbed. Bring it over, you lummox. Deanne. Glared, but stooped over the massive machine, and between Ganymedean gravity and Varanian muscle, staggered against the floor with it. Ray was checking circuits on the oscilloscope. Arushkadan sat grumbling about heat and humidity, and fanning himself with his ears. The lab was a mess of tubes, condensers, rheostats, and tangled wire.
I'm stuck, wailed Ray. I need to register having so-and-so many ohms along with such-and-such a capacitance. Find me one, quick. If you'd specify your units more precisely, began Ereshkidan huffily. Ray parred through the litter on the floor, putting one object after another into his testing circuit, glancing at the meters and throwing it across the room. It's vital, he said. Fill this door, maybe, said Deanne innocently, holding out the ship's one and only frying pan. Get out, screamed Ray. I go monster hunting, she pouted. Absent-mindedly, Ray tested the frying pan. It was nearly right. By Luna, if he sawed off the handle. Hey! yelped the Rishkadan. I don't like the thought of eating cold beans, cold canned meat, and raw eggs any better than you, said Ray.
But damn it, we've got to get out of here. He soldered the emasculated pan into its circuit. Starward, the cause of human empire, he muttered viciously. Martial empire, corrected the Rishkadan. It'll be Jovian Empire if we don't clear out of here. Okay, big brain, what comes next? How should I know? How can you expect me to think in this foul, thick air without tobacco? Rushkadan turned his back. Deanne clumped in, space-suited, sword in one hand, and a rifle in the other. I saw monsters out there, she said. I'm going out to kill them. Oh, yeah, sure, muttered Ray without looking up from his slide rule. Rushkadan, you've got to calculate the resident psi function for me. What? said the Martian.
By heaven, you snake-legged bagpipe, I'm the captain here and you'll do as I say. Up your rectifier, Oreshkadan was emptying his ashtray in search of tobacco shreds. The airlock clanged behind Deanne. I'll be damned, murmured Ray. She really is going out after them. It is a good idea, said Oreshkadan a trifle more amiably. Do I have sense the radiations of our ship? I'm probably coming to crack it open. Oh, well, if that's all. Huh? Ray sprang to the nearest port and lucked out. Gany dragons, he groaned. I thought they'd been exterminated. Toes two don't seem to know it, said Arushka Dan uneasily. All right, I'll calculate your function for you. There were two of the monsters moving toward the boat.
They looked like thirty feet of long-legged alligator, but the claws and beaks had ripped metal in earlier days of colonization. Deanne lifted her rifle and fired. A dragon screamed, thin and faint in the wispy atmosphere, and turned his head and snapped. Deanne laughed and bounded closer. Another shot, and another. Something hit her and the gun flew from her hand. The dragon's tail smote again, and Deanne soared skyward. As she hit the ground, the two monsters leaped for her. Hi, Oman, she yelled, shaking her wringing head till the ruddy hair flew within the helmet. She crouched low and then sprang. Up over the fanged head, striking down with her sword as she went by. The monster whirled after her, greenish blood streaming from the cut and freezing.
Deanne backed against a looming rock, spread her feet, and lifted the sword. The first dragon struck at her, mouth agape. Deanne hewed out again, the sword a leaping blaze of steel, the blow smashing home. And exploding its force back into her own muscles. The dragon's head sprang from the neck. She rolled under the lashing claws and tail to get free. The headless body struck the other dragon, which promptly began to fight it. Dianne circled warily about the struggle, breathing hard. The live dragon trampled its opponent underfoot, looked around, and charged her. The ground shuddered under its galloping mass. Dianne turned and fled. The dragon roared hollowly as she went up the long slope of the nearest hill.
She saw a high crag and scrambled to its top, the dragon rampaging below her. Nyaaah, she thumbed her faceplate. Come and get me. The monster's dim brain finally decided that the ship was bigger and easier prey. Turning it lumbered down the hillside. Deanne launched herself into the air and landed astride its neck. The dragon hooted and snapped after her. She climbed higher. Grabbed its horn with one gauntlet at hand and hung on for her life. The steed began to run. Poo bang away over the hills with the moonscape blurring in speed. Wind shrieked thinly about Dianne's helmet. She bounced off her seat and came down again. A landslide rumbled behind her. The dragon zoomed up the ridge, leaped from a bluff, and started across the cratered plain beyond.
Dianne dragged the horn, turning its head. Fighting the monster into a circular stampede. Ha, Omen! she yelled. Ha, Katantuma! In an hour or so, the dragon stopped and stood gasping. Deanne slid stiffly to the ground, whirled her sword over her head, and decapitated the monster. And she skipped home, laughing. Deanne! cried Ray as she came through the airlock. Deanne! We thought you were dead! Oh, it was fun! she grinned. Fix me a sandwich. She sat down, got up rather quickly, and opened her arms to Ray. He retreated nervously toward the lab. Uwishkadan snickered and slammed the door in his face.
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9 09 - Captive of the Centaurianess, Chapter Five 15:35
Captive of the Centurionus, Chapter 5 The eighty-six-hour day of Ganymede drew to a close. Jupiter was at the half now, a banded amber giant in a sky of thronging wintry stars. Frey wiped his grimy hands and sighed. Done, he said, looking fondly at the hay-wired mess. Filling half the lab, and reaching back toward the engines. We've done it. We've conquered the stars. My little earthling is so clever, simpered Deanne. I'm horribly afraid, said Arushka then, that this minor achievement of mine will eclipse my true accomplishments in the popular mind. Oh well, he shrugged. I can always use the money. Uh, yeah, I never thought of that, said Ray. I'm safe enough from Vanburn now. You don't arrest the man who's given Earth the galaxy.
But by gosh, there's a fortune in this little gadget, too. For me, of course, when I have patented it, said Erushkadan. What? yelled Ray. You? Certainly. I invented it, didn't I? I shall patent it, too. Tell me, should I chart an exorbitant royalty, or would there be more money in my sales at small price? Look here, snarled Ray. I happen to know how this thing is put together, too. Do you? grinned Erushkadan nastily. Ah. Ray looked at the jungle of apparatus and gulped. He had only a few fragmentary drawings. By Einstein, he had no idea how the damn thing worked. But we helped you, he protested, feebly. When you pay your mules and cows, I may consider keeping you a small percentage, said Rishka down, loftily.
You've already got more money than you know what to do with, you bloated capitalist. I happen to know you invested your Nobel Prize in mortgages and then foreclosed. And why not? When the royalties and tis-en-yers start coming in and I get my second Nobel Prize, maybe ten I can offer an occasional cigar. You earthlings, they be reward genius. All these years I've had to smoke that foul pipe. And that reminds me, we have to test this machine. Where's the nearest tobacco store?" Ray sighed and gave up. Martians had replaced Scotchmen in the lexicon of thrift, but Ereshkadan set some kind of new record. He sat down in the pilot chair and started the atomic generator on high-level conversion. I hope it works, he muttered nervously.
His fingers moved over the improvised control panel for the star drive. Hang on, folks, here goes nothing. Nothing, said Deanne after a long silence. He's correct. Oh, Lord, what's the matter now? Ray went back to the new engine. Its circuits were alive. Tubes glowed and indicators blinked, but the boat sat stolidly where it was. "'I told you not to use those approximations,' said Arushkadan. Ray fiddled with the main drive settings. "'It's like any other gadget,' he complained. "'You sweat yourself dry designing it from theory, and then you have to tinker till it works.' He began changing the positions of resistors and condensers, cutting sections out of the circuit to work on them. Arushkadan shredded a piece of paper, wetted it, and tried to smoke it.
"'Ray!' Deanne's voice came sharp and urgent from the foil cabin. "'I saw a rocket flare.' "'Oh, no!' he sprang back to her and peered into the night sky. A long trail of flame harked across it, and another, and another. "'The Jovians,' he groaned, "'they've found us.' "'They may not see us,' said Deanne hopefully. "'I have metal detectors. We're done for.' "'Well, we can only die once. Kiss me, sweetheart.' Deanne folded Ray in one arm, while the other reached for her sword. The patrol rockets went over the horizon. Breaking and swam back. Blast flames spattered off the valley floor, and frozen gas vapours boiled furiously up toward mighty Jupiter. The boat telescreen blinked its indicator light.
Numbly, Ray tuned it in. The lean, hard face of Colonel Ryshevsky Feldkamp sprang into its frame. "'Ah, there you are,' said the Jovian. "'If we surrender,' said Ray, "'will you give us safe conduct back to Earth?' "'Certainly not, but you may be allowed to live.'" A rushkadan spoke from the lab. "'Valentine, I tend to trouble lies in this square-wave generator. If we double to voltage—' The first patrol ship sizzled to a landing. Rozhersky felt Kemp lean forward till his face seemed to project on the screen, and Ray had a wild desire to punch its nose. "'So you've been working on the project,' he said. "'Well, so much of the more labor spared us.' Diane cut loose with a short-range blast as she had located somewhere in the lab ship.
The Rushko Dan will die before he surrenders to you, said Ray belligerently. I will do nothing of the sword, said the Martian. Experimentally, he cut the square wave generator back into the circuit and turned a dial. The boat lifted off the ground. Hey there, roared the Colonel. You can't do that. The Jovian soldiers who had been pouring from the grounded ship looked stupidly upward. Shell them, snapped the Colonel. Ray slammed the main star drive switch clear over. There was no feeling of acceleration. They were suddenly floating weightless, and Jupiter whizzed past the forward port. Stop! howled the Jovian. The engine throbbed and sang, energy pulsing in great waves through its shuddering substance.
The stars crawled eerily across the ports. Apparition, gasped Ray. We're approaching the speed of light. Space swam and blazed with a million, million suns. They punched near the forward port. Thinning out toward the rear as the ship added its fantastic velocity vector to their light rays. A distorted pale green globe grew rapidly before the vessel. What planet is that up ahead? pointed Deanne. I think, muttered Ray. He looked out the rearward port. I think it was Neptune. Triumph! chortled Rishkadam, rubbing his tentacles together. My theory is confirmed, not that it needs confirmation, but now even a nightman can see that I am always right, and oh, how they'll have to pay. The colors of the stars shifted toward blue in front and red behind.
Dapper effect thought Ray wildly. He was probably seeing by radio waves and gamma rays now. How fast were they going anyway? He should have thought to install some kind of speed gauge, several times the velocity of light at least. "'Ah, this is fun,' laughed Deanne. "'We'd better stop while we can still see the solar system,' said Ray, and cut the main drive. The ship kept on going. "'Hey!' screamed the Earthling. "'Stop! Whoa!' "'We can't stop,' said Arushka Dan cruelly. "'We're in a certain pseudo-velocity state now. The engine merely accelerates us.' "'Well, how on the hell do you break?' groaned Ray. "'I don't know. We'll have to figure that out.' I thought you knew this would happen. Now I do.
Ray floated free of his chair, beating his forehead with his fists. I hope to heaven we can do it before the food runs out. Deanne looked at the Rooshkadan speculatively. If worst comes to worst, she murmured. Roast Martian. Let's get busy, gasped the Rooshkadan. It took a week to improvise a braking system. By that time they were no longer very sure where they were. This is all my fault. Said Diane contritely. If I had brought Ormond along, she would have looked after us. One thing that worries me, said Ray, is the Jovians. They aren't fools, and they won't be sitting on their hands waiting for us to come back and give the star drive to Earth. First, said Erushka Dan snappishly, there is the problem of finding our sun.
Ray looked out the port. The ship was braked, and in the normal space-time state of matter, was floating amidst a wilderness of unfamiliar constellations. It shouldn't be too hard, he said thoughtfully. Look, there are the Magellanic Clouds, I think, and we should be able to locate Rigel or some other bright star. That way we can get a fix and locate ourselves relative to Sol. There are no astronomical tables aboard ship, pointed out Erishkadan. And I certainly don't clutter my brain with me and numerical data. Which star is Rigel? asked Deanne. Why, well, that one. No, it might be that one over there. Or perhaps... How should I know? growled Ray. We will simply have to get back to where we came, as nearly as we can judge it, said Erushka Dan.
Maybe we can find someone who knows, suggested Diem. Ray thought of landing on a planet and asking a winged, three-headed monster. Pardon me, do you know which way Sol is? To which the monster would doubtless reply, Sorry, I am a stranger here myself. He chuckled wily. They encountered a difficulty which all the brave, futuristic stories about exploring the galaxy seemed to have overlooked. They had headed out in the ecliptic plane, very nearly on a line joining the momentary positions of Jupiter and Neptune. That didn't help much, though, in a boat never meant for interplanetary flight, and thus carrying only the ephemerides of the Jovian system. Presumably they had gone in a straight line, so that one of the zodiacal constellations was at their back and should still be recognisable.
But the high-velocity distortions of the outside view had precluded anyone's noticing which stars had been where. Ray floated over to the port, and looked out at the eerie magnificence of unknown space. If I'd been a boy scout, he lamented, I might know the constellations. The thing to do is to head back toward anyone which looks halfway familiar, since that must be the one which was at our stern, but I only know Orion and the Big Dipper. He looked at Arushkudan with accusing eyes. You're the great astrophysicist. Can't you tell one star from another?" Certainly not," said the Martian huffily. Now astrophysicist Eppard looked at the stars if he can help it. Oh, you want a con-con-star picture," said Deanne innocently.
Ray said, I mean one we knows. We see the stars from Sol or from Centauri. You're nice to look at, honey, and right now I can't help wishing you Varanians were a little more intellectual. Oh, I know the stars," said Deanne. Every noble learns them. Let me see. She floated around the chamber from port to port, staring out and muttering to herself. Oh, yes, there is Kunata the hunter, threatened by a woman-devouring monster, not changed much. Huh? Ray and Oishkadan pushed themselves over beside her. By gosh, said the earthling, it does look like Virgo. I think, or one of them. Diane, I love you to pieces. Let's get home quick, then, she beamed. I want to be on a planet. During the outward flight she had been somewhat discomfited by discovering the erotic importance.
of gravity. You stay at home, screeched Erushka down. How would nob you get a shot more than you know the stars? I had to learn them, she said. Every noble on the land has to know. What you call it, Astrology. I ask that we plan our battles wisely. Astrology, screamed the Martian. You are an- An astrologer? Why, of course, I thought you were too, but it seems like your solarians are more backward than I suppose. Shall I cast your horoscope? Astrology, groaned Rishkadan. He looked ill. Well, said Ray helplessly, I guess it's up to you to pilot us back, DM. Why, sure, she jumped into the pilot's seat. Anchors away. Brought home by an astrologer, groaned Rishkadan. The ignominy of it all. Ray started the new engine.
They could accelerate all the way back and use the brake to stop almost instantly. It shouldn't take long. All set, he called, and the rising note of power thrummed behind his words. Get up, yelled the Anne. She swung the ship around and slammed the main drive switch home. Ray looked out at the weirdly distorted heavens. There should be some way to compensate for that aberration, he murmured. A viewplate using photocells, with the electron beam control fields hooked into the drive circuit. Sure, simple. He floated back to the lab and began assembling scattered apparatus. In a few hours he emerged with a gadget as uncouth as the engine itself, but there was a set of three telescreens which gave clear views in three directions.
Deanne smiled and pointed to one of them. See now, Valar, the victorious warrior returning from battle, this captive man slung across her saddle-bow is taking shape. She said. That, said Ray, is Earth's major. You Iranians have a fantastic imagination. The blue-white giant of a sun flamed ahead, prominences seething millions of miles into space. Deanne's eyes sparkled and she applied a sideways vector to the star drive. Yippee! she howled. Hey! screamed the Earthman. They whizzed past the star, playing tag with the reaching flames while Deanne roared out a Centaurian battle chant. Ray's subconscious mind spewed forth every prayer he had ever known. Okay, we are past it, said Diane. Don't do such things, he said weakly.
Darling, said the girl, I think we should spend our honeymoon flying through space like this. The stars blurred past. The galaxy's conquerors looked at the splendor of open space and ate cold beans out of a can. I think, said Diane thoughtfully, We should go first to Varan. Alpha Centauri, asked Arushkadan. Nonsense! We're going back at once to Utu and Sibili society. We may need help at Sol, said the girl. We have been gone now long, about two weeks. Much could have happened in that time. But it's not practical, objected Ray. Deanne grinned cheerfully. And how will you stop me? Varan. Oh well, I've always wanted to see it anyway. The Centaurian began casting about, staring by the aspect of the sky.
Before many hours she was slanting in toward a double star with a dim red dwarf in the background. This is it, she said. This is it. Okay, answered Ray. Now tell me how you find a planet. Hmm, well, Deanne scratched her ruddy head. Ray began to figure it aloud. The planet's Let me see now. Yeah, they're in the plane of the two stars that have to be. So if you go out to a point in that plane where Alpha A, your sun, seems of about the right size, and then swing in a circle of that radius, you should come pretty close to Varan. It has a good-sized moon, doesn't it, and its color is greenish-blue. Yes, we should be able to spot it." "'You are so clever," sighed Dianne. "'Ha!' sneered Arushka down.
At a mere fraction of the velocity of light, Ray thought of the consequences of hitting a planet when going faster than light, and wished he hadn't. The spaceboat moved around Alpha A. It seemed only minutes before Deanne pointed and cried joyously, "'There we are! There is home! After many years, home!' "'I would like to know what we are going to do when we get there,' said Arush Gadan. It was not answered. Deanne and Ray were too busy bringing the vessel down into the atmosphere and across the wild surface. "'Katan Tuma!' cried the girl. "'There is my homeland. See, there is the mountain old mother hast done. There is the city miter. Hold on.
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10 10 - Captive of the Centaurianess, Chapter Six 12:29
Mater was a huddle of thatch-roofed wooden buildings at the foot of a fantastically spired grey castle, sitting amid the broad fields and forests and rivers of Catan Tumor, with the mountains shining in the far distance. Deanne set the ship down just outside the town, stood up, She went up and stretched her tigress body with an exultant laugh. Home, she cried. Gravity. Oh, yeah, Ray tried to lift his feet. It went slowly, with some strain, half again the pull of earth. Erushkadan groaned and wheezed his painful way to a chair and collapsed all over it. Let's go. Deanne snatched up her sword, set the helmet rakishly on her bronze curls, and opened the airlock. When Ray hesitated, she reached and yanked him out.
The air was cool and windy, pungent with a million cents of earth and growing things, tall clouds sailing over high blue heaven, and even the engineer was grateful for it after the stuffiness of the boat. He looked around him. Not far off was a charming rustic cottage. It was like a scene from some forgotten idyll of Earth's old past. Looks good, he said. A four-foot arrow hummed past his ear and rang like a gong in the ship's hull. Yelp! Ray dove for shelter. Another arrow zipped in front of him. He whirled at a storm of contralto curses. There were half a dozen women pouring from the charming rustic cottage, a battle-scarred older one and five tall young daughters waving swords and axes and spears.
A couple of men peered nervously from the door. Ha, Oman! yelled Dan. She lifted her sword and dashed to meet the onslaught. The oldest woman caught the Amazon's blow on a raised shield, and her axe clanged off Deanne's helmet. Deanne staggered, shook her head, and struck out afresh. The others closed in, yelling and jabbing. Deanne's sword met the nearest axe halfway and broke across. She stooped, picked the woman off her feet, and whirled her over her head. With a shout, she threw the old she-warrior into two of her nearest daughters, and the trio went down in a roar of metal. Centaurian hospitality, that way. A backhanded blow sent him reeling. He looked up to see a yellow-haired girl looming over him.
Before he could do more than mutter, she had slugged him again and thrown him over one brawny shoulder. Hoofs clattered down the narrow dirt road, a squad of armoured women riding animals reminiscent of Percoran's, but horned and red of hide, recharging from the town. They swept into the fight, wielding clubbed lances with fine impartiality, And it broke up in a sullen wave of red-splashed femininity. Nobody Ray saw from his upside-down position had been killed, but there were plenty of slashes, and the intent had certainly been there. The harsh, barking language of Cat and Tumor rose on either side. Finally an understanding seemed to be reached. One of the riders pointed a mailed hand at Ray's captor and snapped an order.
The girl protested, was overruled, and tossed him pettishly to the ground. He recovered consciousness in a minute or two. Deanne picked him up tenderly. Poor Ray, she murmured. We play too rough for you here, huh? What was it all about, he mumbled. All these people were mad because we landed in their field, but the Queen's Riders stopped the fight in time. It is only lawful to kill people on the regular dwelling grounds inside the city limits. We must have law and order, you know. I see, said Ray faintly. It was a large and turbulent crowd which gathered at sunset to hear Dianne speak. She and her companions were on a raised stand in the market square, together with the scarred, arrogant queen and her troop of pikewomen and cavalry.
In the guttering red flare of torches, Ray looks down on a surging lake of women, the soldier peasants of Catan Tumor gathered from all the hinterland, brandishing their weapons and beating clangorous shields in lieu of applause. Here and there, public entertainers circulated. Thinly-clad men with flowers twined into their hair and beards, strumming harps and watching with great liquid eyes. Faye was still not quite sure what the girl's plan was, and by now didn't much care. A combination of the dragging Varanian gravity and the potent Varanian whine made him so sleepy that he could barely focus on the milling crowd. Orooshkadan slept the sleep of the just, snoring hideously. Dianne ended her harangue and the racket of metal invoices shook the surrounding walls.
After that, though long-winded arguments were sometimes degenerated into fistfights until Ray himself dropped off to sleep. He was shaken awake by Dianne and looked blearily around him. Dawn was streaking the horizon with cold, colourless light, and the mob was slowly and noisily dispersing. He groaned as he stretched his stiffened body. and tried to brush the dew off his clothes. A natural life, huh? he said miserably, and sneezed. It has been decided, cried the girl. She was still as fresh as the morning. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes ablaze. They agreed at last, and now the Varvord goes over the land and envoys are bound for Almaro and Corrin to get allies. How soon can we leave, Ray?
Leave, he asked stupidly. Leave for where? "'Five for you, but of course.' "'You're tired, my little bird. Come with me, and we shall rest in the castle.' Ray groaned again. How do you equip an army of barbarians, still in the early Iron Age, to cross four and a third light-years of space? A preliminary question, perhaps, is, do you want to? Ray emphatically didn't, but he had very little choice in the matter. He was soon given forcibly to understand that men kept their place—' And did as they were commanded. He went to Arushkadan and poured out his sorrows. The Martian, after an abortive attempt to steal the spaceship and sneak home, had been given a room in one of the castle towers, and was covering large sheets of local parchment with equations.
This place thought Ray as octopuses in the belfry. They want to go to Jupiter and fight the Jovians, he said. What of it? asked Arushkadan, lighting his pipe. He had found that dried bark could be smoked. They may even succeed. Primitives have often overcome more advanced and better armed hosts. Read the history of Ed sometime. But they'll take us along. Oh, that is different. The Martian riffled through his papers. Let me see. I think equations 549 through 6 to 7 indicate yes, here we are. It is possible to project the same time a driving beam is used in the Faster Than Light Engine so as to impart the desired velocity vector to external objects, to ward her away from you. Or, look here, a differentiation of this equation shows it would be equally simple to break intranuclear bonds by drawing only a certain type of particle into the pseudo-condition.
The atom would turn feed on its own energy. Ray looked at him in awe. You, he whispered, have just invented the tractor beam, the presser beam, the disintegrator, and the all-purpose, all-fuel atomic motor. I have. Is there money in there? Ray went to work. The three expeditions from Sol had left a good deal of assorted supplies and equipment behind for the use of later arrivals. Most of this had been stored in a local temple, and sacrifices were made yearly to the digital computer. It took an involved theological argument to obtain the stuff. The point that Orman had been rescued was conceded to be a good one, but it wasn't till the High Priestess suddenly disappeared that the material was forthcoming.
The Ballantyne-Aroishkadan circuits were simple things, once you knew how to make them. With the help of a few tolerably skilled smiths, Ray hammered out enough of the new type atomic generators to lift the fleet off Varan and across to Sol. He built the drive circuits carefully, designing them to burn out after landing again on Varan. The prospect of the Amazon planet's people flitting whether they pleased in the galaxy was not one any sane man could cheerfully contemplate. The spaceships were mere hoax of varnished and greased hardwood, equipped with airlocks and slapped together by the carpenters and Mater in a few weeks. The crossing would be made so rapidly that heating in air-plants wouldn't be needed.
Once the hay-wired star-drives were installed, a pilot sketchily trained for each vessel, and every hull crammed with a couple of hundred yelling warriors, The fleet was ready to go. They poured in, ten times as many as the thirty ships could hold, riding and hiking from the farthest of the continent's little kingdoms, to be in on the most glorious piracy of their dreams. Only Dianne cared much about Hormon, who was after all merely her personal Joss, and only Rey gave a good damn about the menace of Jupiter. The rest came to fight and steal, and see new countries. They were especially eager to kidnap husbands. The polyandrous system of Varan worked undue hardships on many women, and Deanne shrewdly gave preference to the unmarried in choosing her followers.
As to the practicability of the whole insane idea, Ray didn't dare think about it. Three hectic months after his arrival at Centauri, the barbarian fleet left for Sol. Jupiter swam enormously in the forward ports, diademed with the bitter glory of open space, growing and growing as the ship rushed closer. Ray pushed his way through the restless crowd of armed women, and jammed the boat. "'Deanne,' he pleaded, "'couldn't I at least call up Earth and find out what's happened?' "'Why, I suppose so,' she said, not taking her eyes of the swelling giant before them. "'But be quick, please.' The human fiddled with the telescreen. A few months ago, the notion of calling over nearly half a billion miles with that undersized thing would have been merely ridiculous, but that was another by-product of Arooshkadan's theory.
You used an electron wave with unlimited velocity as a carrier beam for your radio photons. It induced a similar effect in the other transmitter. No distance diminution. No time lag. Anyway, not within the limits of anything so small as the solar system. Ray got the standard wavelength of the UN Public Relations Office, the only one which he could call freely without going through a lot of red tape. A blurred face looked out at him. He hadn't refined his circuits to the point of eliminating distortion. And the UN official resembled something seen through ten feet of rippled water, at least his image did, but the voice was clear enough. Who is this, please? Ray Ballantyne returning from Alpha Centauri on the first Faster Than Light spaceship, calling from the vicinity of Jupiter.
This is no time for joking. Who the devil are you, and what do you want? Please report. I want to give the UN patrol the secret of Faster Than Light travel. Stand by to record. Hey! screamed Erushka down. "'I never said I'd keep—' Deanne put her foot on his head and pushed him against the floor. "'Oh, well,' he said. "'True to incredible generosity of myself, then the secret is made available.' "'Ready to regard,' asked Ray tightly. "'I said your humour is in very bad taste,' said the official, and switched off with an ugly scowl. Ray blinked weakly at the set for a while. Then he tuned in on Earth broadcasts until he caught a news programme. Jupiter had declared war a month ago, defeated the UN Navy in a running battle off Mars, seized bases on Luna, and was threatening atomic bombardment of Earth unless terms were met.
Oh gosh, said Ray. Such an invasion could only be launched on a shoestring, said Arushka Dan. The UN still has bases closer to Horn. It can cut Jobian supply lines. And meanwhile, poor old Earth is reduced to radioactive rubbish, said Ray gloomily. And those grunt brains in charge won't believe I've got the decisive weapon to save them. Would you believe such a claim? No, but this is different, dammit. Ganymede dead ahead, shouted Deanne. Stand by for action. Get ready to make a landing.
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11 11 - Captive of the Centaurianess, Chapter Seven 11:28
Captive of the Centurionus. Chapter 7. The flagship spaceboat, slanted into the moon's atmosphere with a whoop and a holler, blazed across the ragged surface and lowered outside the great dome of Ganymede City. The clumsy hoax behind her wallowed after at a more leisurely pace. Lacking spacesuits, The Amazons were faced with a certain problem of entry. Deanne hovered over the spaceport and opened her disintegrators full blast. The port disappeared in a sudden tornado of boiling rock and leaping blue fires. When she had sunk a fifty-foot pit, she went down into it, hung before the side of it facing the city, and narrowed the disc beam to a drill. In moments she had cut a tunnel through to the lower levels of the city.
Air began streaming out, ghost white. It was freezing water vapor, but it would take quite a few minutes for the pressure within to fall dangerously low. Meanwhile, Deanne sailed blithely through her tunnel, disintegrated various walls and bulkheads to clear a landing space, and sat down amid the ruins of the city's factory level. All out, she cried. I cut on to my. Ray buckled on his helmet with shaky fingers, drew his sword, and followed her out the airlock, more because of the press of bodies behind. Then from any desire for glory. In fact, he admitted to himself, he was scared witless. Only Arushkadan stayed behind. The lucky devil. The rest of the barbarian fleet streamed in one by one, landing clumsily and discharging their clamorous hordes.
When the clear air was filled, they landed on top of each other, and the armored warriors jumped down in a flash of edged metal. After they were all in, Arushkadan projected a beam and melted the passageway shut. Against the escape of air and heat. Also thought very sickly, against a quick retreat. Hoo-ha! Deanne sawed, shrieked in the air above the helmeted heads of her mailing army. She started down the nearest corridor, running and bounding and whooping. The Amazons were hard on her heels, and the racket of clashing armour and girlish voices was shattering. Up a long staircase, five steps at a time, into the hall beyond that. Spilling out over a broad plaza. A machine gun raved and Ray saw three centaurions tumble to the floor.
As he dove for it himself, he looked across the square and into the muzzle of the thing where it sat in one of the branch corridors. There might be only a skeleton garrison left in the city, but it had reacted with terrifying swiftness. Ray tried to dig through the metal floor plates. The air was suddenly thick and whistling. A solid rain of spears and arrows loosed. It didn't leave much of the machine gun crew. One of the Amazon officers, they had some notion of firearms, picked off the .50 caliber under one arm. When a squad of Jovian soldiers appeared down the hallway, she held it against her knee and used it Tommy gun style. It worked. Ray was carried along by the tide. In this weird struggle, modern firearms weren't of decisive use.
Boiling through the miles of gloomy hallways and narrow apartments, The fight was almost entirely hand to hand, and that was exactly what the Varanians loved. Dianne vaulted over a row of bodies and hit a Jovian squad with all her mass and momentum. She trampled two men underfoot, but her sword howled in a shearing arc around her. A Jovian grenadier hurled his pineapple in her direction. She snatched it out of the air and tossed it back. Wildly he caught it and threw it again. Dianne laughed and pitched it once more. Very shortly before it went off. Turning, she skewered one Jovian, kicked another in the belly, used her sword's guard as a knuckle-duster against a third, and cut down a fourth in almost the same motion.
The squad broke up. Rey saw an inviting door and scurried for it. There was a bed to hide under. Two Jovian soldiers came in at that moment, fleeing the barbarians. Rey's helmet and cuirass were as good as a uniform, or he would have shouted, Hail Wilder, as it was the nearest man lunged at him with a bayonet. Ray's sword clattered against the weapon, driving it briefly aside. The Jovian snarled and probed inward, but a bayonet is clumsy compared to a well-handled blade, and Ray had done a little fencing. He beat the assault back and thrust under the fellow's guard. The other man had been circling, trying to get in on the fun. Now he charged. Ray whirled to meet him and tripped on his scabbard.
He clanged to the floor, and the rushing Jovian tripped on him. Ray got on the man's back. Pulled off his helmet and beat his head against the floor. Rising, he checked the two rifles. Empty. The Jovians must have used all their clips in an attempt to stem the Centaurian thrust, which explained their choice of cold steel against him. But they had full cartridge belts. Ray reloaded one of the guns and felt better. Peering carefully out the door, he saw that the fight had moved somewhere else. He started back toward the ships, the safest place he could think of. As he rounded a corner, a tummy-gun blast nearly took his head off. He yelled, dropped to the floor just in time, and let the gun fall from his hands.
A hard boot slammed against his ribs. "'Get up!' He lurched to his feet and stared into the faces of a Jovian detachment, the black-clad elite guard of the Dictator himself. Martian Walder the Great huddled in their midst. Colonel Washefsky Felkamp was at the head, in charge of Jupiter's home defence, Ray thought wildly. And tried to stretch his arms higher. The Jovian officer glared at him for a long moment. So you are responsible. I had nothing to do with it, so help me, I didn't, protested Ray between the clattering of his teeth. You brought the savages in, you and your damned first-of-the-light engine. If it went for your hostage value, I'd shoot you now. As it is, I'll wait till later. March!
They went carefully down the glutted Hall Street. The Centurians had been picking up souvenirs from every shop. The apartment they passed. Don't think this will accomplish anything, said Wilder pompously. You may have driven us from our capital, but we have already called for help from the other cities, from the whole Jovian system. The fleet is on its way. So the Amazons had taken Ganymede City, and now they'd be too busy looting to think about counterattacks from outside. Ray groaned. We have to get out of here, sir, said Rushevsky Felkamp. We don't want you to be caught in the fighting. No, no, that would never do, said Wilder quickly. There is a military airlock this way, with spacesuits.
We can get out on the surface. I will strike a new medal, chattered the dictator. Defense of the homeland medal. And afterward we will take those ships, Wachowski Felkham's hard face lit with a terrible glee. And then the stores are ours. Hoo-ah! The shout rang down the hallway. Ray saw a Centaurian band staggering under armloads of assorted plunder emerge from a side passage. The Jovians brought their rifles up. Something like an atomic bomb hit the group from the rear. Deanne's war-cry shrieked above the sudden din. She hadn't been altogether a fool. Ray was shoved back against the wall by the sudden whirlpool of struggling bodies. He ducked as a Iranian sword whistled above her head. Deanne was wading in among the Jovians, kicking, striking, hewing like a maniac.
She split one enemy apart, pitched another into a third, turned around and chopped loose. Her warriors got to work at her side. A panting Jovian backed up close to Ray, lifting his rifle anew to shoot down the bronze-haired girl. The Earthman thoughtfully removed the soldier's pistol from its holster and shot him. My little hero, cried Deanne happily. I love you so much. She beat down another man's gun and broke his head. The fight ended. Most of the Jovians had simply been knocked galley west and submitted in a stunned way to being bound and hoisted to Varanian shoulders. Ray had a glimpse of Martin Walder the Great, and Colonel Rushevsky Falcamp being dragged off by a squat, and muscular Amazon with a silly smirk on her sword-scarred face.
They were destined for her harm, and he couldn't think of two people he'd rather have it happen to. Only there were those Jovian ships. Ray had no way just then of knowing that Arishkadan had prudently taken the spaceboat outside again and was using its long-range beams to disintegrate the fleet as it came down. He hummed an old Martian work-song to himself as he did. There are times when even a philosopher must take measures.
Official banquets and notoriously dull affairs in the present celebration was no different. That the Luna-based invaders had capitulated on hearing of the disaster at home, that a democratic government with UN membership had been set up for permanently disarmed Jupiter, and that the stars were open to mankind seemed to call forth only bigger and better platitudes. Ray Ballantyne, drowsy with food and cocktails, nearly snow-blind with white tablecloth, would have fallen asleep except for the fact that his shoes pinched him. So he listened with some surprise to the president of his alma mater, telling what an outstanding student he'd been. As a matter of fact, he recalled, he'd damn near been expelled.
Hirushka Dan, crammed into a Martian-designed tuxedo, smoked a throttled pipe as his right, and made calculations on the tablecloth. Deanne Corlas, her shining hair braided around a stolen Jovian tiara, looked stunning in a low-cut evening gown on his left. The dagger at her waist was to set a new fashion on earth, and there had been some confusion when she insisted on having Ormond the Terrible placed in front of her, and Grace said to the idol, Oh, well. In this jointless genius of science, Ormond's university is pleased to honor with a doctorate of law. She leaned over and whispered in his ear. It could only be heard for three yards around. Ray, what will you do now? I don't know, he murmured back.
I want to get a patent on that damn interstellar drive before a rush-go-down does, but after that, well— It was a lot of fun while it lasted, wasn't it? Deanne's smile was wistful. But I've been thinking, Ray. I'm going back to Varan and carve me out to throne. You, well, Ray— You are too fine and beautiful for such rough work. You belong here in the glamour and bright lights, not out with a lot of coarse and ruly women who might hurt you. You know," he said, I think you've got something there. I will always remember you," she said sentimentally. Maybe some day when we are old we can meet again and bar the youth with talk of our great days. She looked around. If only we could sneak out here and have a "'Fareville, party of Aion.
I know a bar—' "'Hm,' Ray stroked his chin. "'This calls for tactics. "'If we could sort of slump down in our chairs, as if we were tired, and, Lord, I am, and gradually sink out of sight, we could crawl under the table and through that door.' As he crept down the hall, Ray heard Arushkadan call on for a speech to begin the detailed exposition of his latest theory."
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12 12 - What Shall it Profit? 40:00
What shall it profit? If you would build a tower, sit down first and count the cost, to see if you have enough to finish it. The price may be much too high. The chickens got out of the coop and flew away three hundred years ago, said Barwell. Now they're coming home to roost. He hiccoughed. His finger wobbled to the dial and clicked off another whisky. The machine pondered the matter and flashed an apologetic sign. Please deposit your money. Oh, damn," said Barwell. I'm broke. Raddick shrugged and gave the slut a two-credit piece. It slid the whisky out on a tray with his change. He stuck the coins in his pouch and took another careful sip of beer. Barwell grabbed the whisky glass like a drowning man.
He would drown, thought Raddick, if he sloshed much more into his stomach. There was an Asian whine to the music drifting past the curtains into the booth. Raddick could hear the talk and laughter well enough to catch their raucous overtones. Somebody swore as Dice rattled wrong for him. Somebody else shouted coarse good wishes as his friends took a hostess upstairs. He wondered why Vice was always so cheerless when he went into a place and paid for it. "'I am going to get drunk tonight,' announced Barwell. "'I am going to get so high in the stony sky you'll need a radar to find me. Then I shall raise the red flag of revolution.' "'And tomorrow?' asked Radek quietly. Barwell grimaced. "'Don't ask me about tomorrow.
Tomorrow I'll be among the great leisure class. To hell with euphemisms. The Unemployed.' Nothing I can do that some goddamn machine can do quicker and better, so a benevolent state will feed me and clothe me and house me and give me a little spending money to have fun on. This is known as citizens' credit. They used to call it a dole. Tomorrow I shall have to be more systematic about the revolution, join the League or something." The trouble with you, Radek needled him, is that you can't adapt. Technology has made the labor of most people, except the first-rank creative genius, unnecessary. This leaves the majority with a void of years to fill, somehow—a sense of uprootedness and lost self-respect, which is rather horrible.
And in any case, they don't like to think in scientific terms. It doesn't come natural to the average man. Falwell gave him a bleary stare out of a flushed, sagging face. "'I suppose you're one of the geniuses,' he said. "'You got work.' "'I'm adaptable,' said Raddick." He was a slim, youngish man with dark hair and sharp features. I'm not greatly gifted, but I found a niche for myself. Newsman. I do legwork for a major commentator. Between times, I'm writing a book. My own analysis of contemporary historical trends. It won't be anything startling, but it may help a few people think more clearly and adjust themselves. And so you like this rotten solar union? Bawa's tone became aggressive. Not everything about it, no.
So there is a wave of anti-scientific reaction all over Earth. Science is being made a scapegoat for all our troubles. But like it or not, you fellows will have to accept the fact that there are too many people and too few resources for us to survive without technology. Some technology, sure," admitted Barwell. He took a ferocious swig from his glass. Not this hell-born stuff we've been monkeying around with. I tell you the chickens have finally come home to roost. Radek was intrigued by the archaic expression. Farwell was no moron. He'd been a correlative clerk at the Institute for several years, not a position for fools. He'd read, actually read books, and thought about them, and today he had been fired.
Radek chanced across him drinking out a vast resentment, and attached himself like a reverse lamprey, buying most of the liquor. There might be a story in it, somewhere. There might be a lead to what the Institute was doing. Radek was not anti-scientific, but neither did he make guards out of people with technical degrees. The Institute must be up to something unpleasant. Otherwise, why all the mystery? If the facts weren't uncovered in time, if whatever they were brewing came to a head, it could touch off the final convulsion of Lynch law. Barwell leaned forward, his finger wagged. Three hundred years now. I think it's three hundred years since X-rays came in. Damn scientists fooling around with X-rays, atomic energy, radioactives.
Sure, safe levels, established tolerances, but what about the long-range effects? What about cumulative genetic effects? Those chickens are coming home at last." No use blaming our ancestors," said Radek. Be rather pointless to go dance on their graves, wouldn't it? Barwell moved closer to Radek. His breath was powerful with whiskey. But are they in those graves? He whispered. Huh? Look, been known for a long time, ever since first atomic energy work, heavy but non-lethal doses of radiation shorten lifespan. You grow old faster if you get a strong dose. Why do you think with all our medicines we're not two, three hundred years old? Background counts gone up, that's why. Radioactives in the air, in the sea, buried under the ground.
Gamma rays not entirely absorbed by Shilding. Sure, sure, they tell us the level is still harmless, but it's more than the level in nature by good big factor, two or three. Radek sipped his beer. He'd been drinking slowly, and the beer had gotten warmer than he liked, but he needed a clear head. That's common knowledge, he stated. The lifespan hasn't been shortened any either. Because of more medicines, more ways to help cells patch up radiation damage. Oh, but worst radiation sickness been curable for a long time. Barwell waved his hand expansively. They knew even back then, he mumbled. If radiation shortens life, radiation sickness cures ought to prolong it, huh? Reasonable? Only the goddamn scientists, population problems, social stasis, if everybody lived for centuries.
Kept it secret, easy to do, change your name and face over ten, twenty years, keep to yourself, don't make friends among the short-lived. You might see him grow old and die. Might start feeling sorry for him, and that would never do, would it? Coldness tingled along Radek's spine. He lifted his mug and pretended to drink. Over the rim, his eyes stared at Barwell. That's why they fired me. I know, I know, I got ears. I overheard things. I read North and on Tinnan for me. They fired me. It's why they didn't murder me. Barwell shuddered and peered at the curtains, as if trying to look through time. Do you think, maybe? No, said Radek. I don't. Let's stick to the facts. I take it you found mention of work on, shall we say, increasing the lifespan?
Perhaps a mention of successes with rats and guinea pigs, right? So what's wrong with that? They wouldn't want to announce anything till they were sure of the hysteria. Barwell smiled with an irritating air of omniscience. Moranat, friend, Moranat. Lots more. Well, what? Barwell peered about him with exaggerated caution. One thing I found in files. Plans of whole buildings and grounds. Great big room, lots of room, way, way underground. Secret. Only the kitchen was making food and sending it down there. Human food. Food for people I never saw. People who never came up. Barwell buried his face in his hands. Don't feel so good whirling. Radek eased his head to the table, out like he spent credit.
The newsman left the booth and addressed a bouncer. Chap in there has had it. Uh-huh. Want me to help you get him to your boat? No, I hardly know him. A bill exchanged hands. Put him in your darkroom to sleep it off. Give him breakfast with my compliments. I'm going out for some fresh air.
The wreck house stirred on a Minnesota bluff, overlooking the Mississippi River. Beyond its racket and multicolored glare, there was darkness and wooded silence. Here and there the lights of a few isolated houses gleamed. The river slid by, talking, ruffled with moonlight. Luna was nearly full, squinting into her cold, ashen face. Radek could just see the tiny spark of his city. Stars were strewn carelessly over heaven. He recognized the ember that was Mars. Perhaps he ought to emigrate, Mars, Venus, even Luna. There was more hope on them than Earth had. No mechanical package to cheer. People had work to do, and in their spare time made their own pleasures. No civilization cracking at the seams, because it could not assimilate the technology it must have.
Out in space, men knew very well that science had carried them to their homes and made those homes fit to dwell on. Radek strolled across the parking lot and found his airboat. He paused by its iridescent teardrop to start a cigarette. Suppose the Institute of Human Biology was more than it claimed to be, more than a set of homes and laboratories. Where congenial minds could live and do research. It published discoveries of value, but how much did it not publish? Its personnel kept pretty aloof from the rest of the world, not unnatural in this day of growing estrangement between science and public. But did they have a deeper reason than that? Suppose they did keep immortals in those underground rooms.
A scientist was not ordinarily a good political technician, but he might think he could be. He might react emotionally against a public beginning to throw stones at his house, and consider taking the reins, for the people's own good, of course. A lot of misery had been caused the human race for its own alleged good. Or if the scientist knew how to live forever, he might not think Jill Smith or Carlos Ibanez or Huang Yuan or Johannes Umfanduma good enough to share omitality with him. Radek took a long breath. The night air felt fresh and alive in his lungs. After the tavern's staleness. He was not currently married, but there was a girl with whom he was thinking seriously of making a permanent contract.
He had friends, not loosened razor minds, but decent, unassuming, kindly people, brave with man's old, quiet bravery in the face of death and ruin and the petty tragedies of every day. He liked beer and steaks, fishing and tennis, good music and a good book, and the exhilarating strain of his work. He liked to live. Maybe a system for becoming immortal, or at least living many centuries, was not desirable for the race, but only the whole race had authority to make that decision. Raddick smothered himself twistedly and threw the cigarette away and got into the boat. Its engine murmured, sucking cast power. The riding lights snapped on automatically, and he lifted into the sky. It was not much of a lead he had.
But it was as good as he was ever likely to get. He set the autopilot for southwest Colorado and opened the jets wide. The night whistled darkly around his cabin. Against one stars, he made out the lamps of other boats flitting across the world and somehow intensifying the loneliness. Work to do. He called the main office in Dallas unit and taped a statement of what he knew and what he planned. Then he dialed the nearest library and asked the robot for information on the Institute of Human Biology. There wasn't a great deal of value to him. It had been in existence for about 250 years, more or less concurrently with the Psychotechnic Institute, and for quite a while affiliated with that organization.
During the Humanist Troubles, when the psychotechs were booted out of government on Earth and their files ransacked, it had disassociated itself from them. And carried on unobtrusively how much of their secret records had been taken along. Since the restoration, it had grown, drawing on many prominent researchers and making discoveries of high value to medicine and bioengineering. The current director was Dr. Marcus Lang, formerly of New Harvard, the University of Lunar, and, no matter, had been running the show for eight years, after his predecessor's death. Or had Takugama really died? He couldn't be identical with Lang. He'd been a short Japanese, and Lang was a tall negro, too big a jump for any surgeon, not to mention their simultaneous careers.
But how far back could you trace Lang before he became fakeable records of birth and schooling? What young fellow named Yamatsu Hideki was now polishing glass in the labs and slated to become the next director? How fantastic could he get on how little evidence? Radek let the text fade from the screen and sat puffing another cigarette. It was a while before he demanded references from the biology of the aging process. That was tough sledding. He couldn't follow the mathematics or the chemistry very far. No good popularizations were available. But a newsman got an ability to winnow what he learned. Radek didn't have to take notes. He'd been through a mind training course. After an hour or so, he sat back and reviewed what he'd gotten.
The living organism was a small island of low entropy in a universe tending constantly toward gigantic disorder. It maintained itself through an intricate set of hemostatic mechanisms. The serious disruption of any of these brought the life processes to a halt. Shock. Disease. The bullet in the lungs. Or the axe in the brain. Death. But hundreds of thousands of autopsies Had never given an honest verdict of death from old age. It was always something else, cancer, heart failure, sickness, stroke. Age was at most a contributing cause, decreasing resistance to injury and power to recover from it. One by one, the individual causes had been licked. Bacteria and protozoa and viruses were slaughtered in the body.
Cancers were selectively poisoned. Cholesterol was dissolved out of the arteries. Surgery patched up damaged organs, and the new regeneration techniques replaced what had been lost, even nervous tissue. Offhand, there was no more reason to die unless you meant murder or an accident. But people still grew old. The process wasn't as hideous as it had been. You needn't shuffle in arthritic feebleness. Your mind was clear, your skin wrinkled slowly. Centenarians were not uncommon these days. But very few reached 150. Nobody reached 200. Imperceptibly, the fires burned low. Vitality was diminished. Strength faded. Hair whitened. Eyes dimmed. The body responded less and less well to regenerative treatment.
Finally, it did not respond at all. You got so weak that some small thing you and your doctor could have laughed at in your youth took you away. You still grew old, and because you grew old, you still died. The unicellular organism did not age, but age was a meaningless word in that particular case. A man could be immortal via his germ cells. The microorganism could too, but it gave the only cell it had. Personal immortality was denied to both man and microbe. Could sheer mechanical wear and tear be the reason for the decline known as old age? Probably not. The natural, regenerative powers of life were better than that, and observations made in freefall where strain was minimized indicated that white null gravity had an alleviating effect and was no key to living forever.
Something in the chemistry and physics of the cells themselves, then. They did tend to accumulate heavy water. That had been known for a long time. Hard to see how that could kill you. The percentage increase in a lifetime was so small, it might be a partial answer. You might grow old more slowly if you drank only water made of pure isotopes, but you wouldn't be immortal. Radek shrugged. He was getting near the end of his trip. Let the Institute people answer his questions. The Four Corners country is so named because four of the old American states met there, back when they were still significant political units. For a while in the twentieth century, it was overrun with uranium hunters who made small impressions on its tilted emptiness.
It was still a favorite vacation area, and the resorts were lost in that great huddle of mountains and desert. You could have a lot of privacy here. Gliding down over the moon-ghostly Pueblo ruins of Mesa Verde, Radek peered through the windscreen. There ahead, lights glowed around the walls, spread across half a mesa. Inside them was a parkscape of trees, lawns, gardens, arbors, cottage units. The institute housed its people well. There were four large buildings at the center, and Radek noted gratefully that several windows were still shining in them. Not that he had any compunctions about getting the great duck to lay out of bed, but he ignored the public landing field outside the walls and set his boat down in the paved courtyard.
As he climbed out, half a dozen guards came running. They were husky men in blue uniforms, armed with stunners, and the dim light showed faces hinting they wouldn't be sorry to feed him a beam. Radek dropped to the ground, folded his arms, and waited. The breath from his nose was frosty under the moon. What the hell do you want? The nearest guard pulled up in front of him and laid a hand on his shotgun. Who the devil are you? Don't you know this is private property? What's the big idea, anyway? Take it easy, advised Radek. I have to see Dr. Lang at once. Emergency. You didn't call for an appointment, did you? No, I didn't. All right, then. I didn't think he'd care to have me give my reasons over a radio.
This is confidential. The men hesitated, uncertain before such an outrageous violation of all civilized canons. I don't know if Rand is busy. If you want to see Dr. McCormick, Dr. Lang, and ask him if I may, tell him I have news about his longevity process. As what? Radek spelled it out and watched the man go. Another one made some ungracious remark and frisked him with needless ostentation. A third was more urbane. Sorry to know this, but you understand we've got important work going on. Can't have anybody busting in. Sure, that's all right. Raddick shivered in the thin shell air and pulled his cloak tighter about him. Fivuses and stuff around. If any of that got loose, you understand? Well, it wasn't a bad cover-up.
None of these fellows looked very bright. IQ treatments could do only so much that after you got down to the limitations of basic and unalterable brain microstructure. And even among the more intellectual workers, how many barwells were there, handling semi-routine tasks, but not permitted to know what really went on under their feet? Radek had a brief, irrational wish that he'd worn boots instead of sandals. The first guard returned. He'll see you, he grunted, and you better make a good because he's one mad doctor. Radek nodded and followed two of the men. The nearest of the large square buildings seemed given over to offices. He was led inside, down a short length of glow-lit corridor, and halted while the scanner on the door marked Lang Director observed him.
His clean boss said one of the escort. All right, said the Enunciator. Let him in, but you two stay just outside. It was a spacious office, but austerely furnished. A tello window reflected green larches and a sun-spattered waterfall somewhere on the other side of the planet. Lang sat alone behind the desk. His hands engaged with some papers that looked like technical reports. He was a big, heavy-shouldered man, his hair gray, his chocolate face middle-aged and tired. He did not rise. Well, he snapped. My name is Arnold Raddick. I'm a news service operator. Here's my card if you wish to see it. Pharaoh had it easy, said Lang in a chill voice. Moses only called the seven plagues down on him. I have to deal with your sort.
Radek placed his fingertips on the desk and leaned forward. He found it unexpectedly hard not to be stared down by the other. I know very well I've laid myself open to a lawsuit by coming in as I did, he stated. Possibly when I'm through, I'll be open to murder. Are you feeling well? There was more contempt than concern in the deep tone. Let me say first off, I believe I have information about a certain project of yours. One, you badly want to keep a secret. I've taped a record of my office of what I know and where I'm going. If I don't get back before ten hundred hours, central time, and wipe that tape, it'll be heard by the secretary. Lang took an exasperated breath. His fingernails whitened on the sheets he still held.
Do you honestly think we will be so, I won't say unscrupulous, so stupid as to use violence? No, said Raleigh. Of course not. All I want is a few straight answers. I know you're quite able to lead me up the garden path, feed me some line of pap, and hustle me out again, but I won't stand for that. I mention my tape only to convince you that I'm in earnest." "'You're not drunk,' murmured Lang, "'but there are a lot of people running loose who ought to be in a mental hospital.'" "'I know,' Radek sat down without waiting for an invitation. "'Anti-scientific fanatics. I'm not one of them.'" You know Daryl Burkhardt's news commentaries. I supply a lot of his data and interpretations. He's one of the leading friends of genuine science, one of the few you have left.
Radek gestured at the card on the desk. Read it. Right there. Lang picked the card up and glanced at the lettering and tossed it back. Very well. There's still no excuse for breaking in like this. You—it can't wait, interrupted Radek. There are a lot of liars at stake. Every minute we sit here, there are perhaps a million people dying, perhaps more, I haven't the figure. And everyone else is dying all the time, millimeter by millimeter. We're all born dying. Every minute you hold back the cure for old age, you murder a million human beings. This is the most fantastic— Let me finish. I get around, and I'm trained to look a little bit more closely at the facts everybody knows. The ordinary commonplace facts we take for granted and never think to inquire about because they're so ordinary.
I've wondered about the Institute for a long time. Tonight I talked at great length with a fellow named Barwell. Remember him? A clerk here. You fired him this morning for being too nosy. He had a lot to say. Hmm. Lang sat quiet for a while. He didn't rattle easily. He couldn't be snowed under by fast, aggressive talk. While Radek spat out what clues he had, Lang calmly reached into a drawer and got out an old-fashioned briar pipe, stuffed it, and lit it. So what do you want? he asked when Radek paused for breath. The truth, dammit! There are privacy laws. It was established long ago that a citizen is entitled to privacy if he does nothing against the common weal. And you are! You're like a man who stands on a riverbank and has a life belt and won't throw it to a man drowning in the river."
Lang sighed. I won't deny we're working on longevity, he answered. Obviously we are. The problem interests biologists throughout the solar system, but we aren't publicizing our findings as yet for very good reason. You know how people jump to conclusions. Can you imagine the hysteria that would arise in the already unstable culture if there seemed to be even a prospect of immortality? You yourself were a prime case. On the most tenuous basis of rumour and hypothesis, you've decided that we have found a vaccine against old age, and are hoarding it. You come bursting in here in the middle of the night, demanding to be made immortal immediately, if not sooner, and you're comparatively civilized.
There are enough lunatics who come here with guns and start shooting up the place. Radek smiled bleakly. "'Course, I know that. And you ought to know the outfit I work for is reputable. If you have a good lead on the problem, but haven't solved it yet, you can trust us not to make that fact public.' "'All right,' Lang mustered an answering smile, oddly warm and charming. "'I don't mind telling you, then, that we do have some promising preliminary results, but—' And this is the catch. We estimate it will take at least a century to get anywhere. Biochemistry is an inconceivably complex subject. What sort of results are they? It's highly technical. Has to do with enzymes. You may know that enzymes are the major device through which the genes govern the organism all through life.
At a certain point, for instance, the genes order the body to go through the changes involved in puberty. At another point, they order that gradual breakdown we know. There's aging. In other words, said Radek slowly, the body has a built-in suicide mechanism. Well, if you want to put it that way. I don't believe a word of it. It makes a lot more sense to imagine that there's something which causes the breakdown. A virus, maybe. And the body fights it off as long as possible. But at last it gets the upper hand. The whole key to evolution is the need to survive. I can't see life evolving in its own anti-survival factor. But nature doesn't care about the individual friend, Radek. Only about the species.
And the species with the rapid turnover of individuals can evolve faster, become more effective. Then why does man, the fastest evolving Metazoan of all, have one of the longest lifespans? He does, you know, among mammals at any rate. Seems to me that our bodies must be all around better than average. Better able to fight off the death virus. Fish live a longer time, sure, and maybe in the water they aren't so exposed to the disease. Mayflies are short-lived, have they simply adapted their life cycle to the existence of the virus? Lang frowned. You appear to have studied the subject enough to have some mistaken ideas about it. I can't argue with a man who insists on protecting his cherished irrationalities with fancy verbalisms.
And you appear to think fast on your feet, Dr. Lang. Raddick laughed. Maybe not fast enough, but I'm not being paranoid about this. You can convince me. How? Show me. Take me into those underground rooms, and show me what you actually have. I'm afraid that's simple— All right, Raddick stood up. I hate to do this, but a man must either earn a living or go on the public freeloading roll, which I don't want to do. The facts and conjectures I already have will make an interesting story. Lang rose too, his eyes widening. You can't prove anything. Of course I can't. You're sitting on all the proof. But the public reaction. God in heaven, man, those people can't think. No. They can't, can they? He moved toward the door.
Good night. Radek's muscles were taut. In spite of everything that had been said. A person hounded to desperation could still do murder. There was a great quietness as he neared the door. Then Lang spoke. The voice was defeated, and when Radek looked back, it was an old man who stood behind the desk. You win. Come along with me. They went down an empty hall after dismissing the guards and took an elevator below ground. Neither of them said anything. Somehow— The sag of Lang's shoulders was a gnawing in Radek's consciousness. When they emerged, it was to transfer past a sentry, where Lang gave a password and okayed his companion to another elevator, which purred them still deeper. I—the newsman cleared his throat awkwardly.
I repeat what I implied earlier. I'm here mostly as a citizen interested in the public welfare, which includes my own, of course, and my family's, if I ever have one. If you can show me valid reasons for not breaking the story, I won't. I'll even let you hypno-condition me against doing it, voluntarily or otherwise." Thanks," said the director, his mouth curved upward, but it was a shaken smile. That's decent of you, and we'll accept. I think you'll agree with our policy. What worries me is the rest of the world. If you could find out as much as you did—Radak's heart jumped between his ribs—then you do have immortality. Yes, but I'm not immortal. None of our personnel are, except—here we are.
There was a hidden susurrus of machinery as they stepped out into a small, bare entry room. Another guard sat there, beside a desk. Past him was a small door of immense solidity—the door of a vault. You'll have to leave everything metallic here," said Lang. A still object could jump so fiercely as to enter you. Your watch would be ruined. Even coins could get uncomfortably hot. Eddy currents, you know. We're about to go through the strongest magnetic field ever generated. Silently, dry-mouthed, Radek piled his things on the desk. Lang operated a combination lock on the door. There are nervous effects, too, he said. The field is actually strong enough to influence the electric discharges of your synapses.
Be prepared for a few nasty seconds. Follow me and walk fast. The door opened on a low, narrow corridor several meters long. Radek felt his heart bump crazily, his vision blurred. There was panic screaming in his brain and a sweating tingle in his skin. Stumbling through nightmare, he made it to the end. The horror faded. They were in another room, with storage facilities and what resembled the spaceship's airlock in the opposite wall. Lang grinned shakily. No fun, is it? "'Was it for?' gasped Rannick. "'To keep charged particles out of here, and the whole set of chambers is five hundred metres underground, sheathed in ten metres of lead brick and surrounded by tanks of heavy water. This is the only place in the solar system, I imagine, where cosmic rays never come.' "'You mean?' Lang knocked out his pipe and left it on a kaboon.
He opened the lockers to reveal a set of air suits, complete with helmets and oxygen tanks. We put these on before going any further, he said. Infection on the other side? We're the infected one. Come on, I'll help you. As they scrambled into the equipment, Lange added conversationally, This place has to have all its own stuff, of course, its own electric generators, and so on. The ultimate power source is isotopically pure carbon burned in oxygen. We use a nuclear reactor to create the magnetic field itself, but no atomic energy is allowed inside it. He led the way into the airlock, closed it, and started the pumps. We have to flush out all the normal air and substitute that from the inner chambers.
How about food? Barwell said food was prepared in the kitchens and brought here. Synthesized out of elements recovered from waste products. We cook it topside, taking precaution. A few radioactive atoms get in, but not enough to matter as long as we're careful. We're so cramped for space down here we have to make some compromises. I think— Radek fell silent. As the lock was evacuated, his unjointed air-suit spread-eagled and held him prisoner, but he hardly noticed. There was too much else to think about, too much to grasp at once. Not till the cycle was over, and they had gone through the lock, did he speak again. Then it came harsh and jerky. I begin to understand. How long has this gone on?
It started about two hundred years ago. An early Institute project. Lang's voice— It was somehow tinny over the helmet foam. At that time, it wasn't possible to make really pure isotopes in quantity, so there were only limited results, but it was enough to justify further research. This particular set of chambers and chemical elements is 150 years old. A spectacular success, a brilliant confirmation from the very beginning, and the Institute has never dared reveal it. Maybe they should have. Back then, maybe people could have taken the news. But not now. These days the knowledge would whip men into a murderous rage of frustration. They wouldn't believe the truth. They wouldn't dare believe, and God alone knows what they'd do.
Looking around, Raddick saw a large plastic-lined room, filled with cages. As the lights went on, white rats and guinea pigs stirred sleepily. One of the rats came up to nibble at the wires and regard the humans from beady pink eyes. Lang bent over and studied the label. This fellow is sixty-six years old, still fat and sassy, in perfect condition, as you can see. Our oldest mammalian inmate is a guinea pig, a hundred and forty-five years. This one here. Lang stared at the immortal beast for a while. It didn't look unusual, only healthy. How about monkeys? he asked. We tried them, finally gave it up. A monkey is an active animal. It was too cruel to keep them penned up forever. They even went insane, some of them.
Footfalls were hollow as Lang led the way toward the inner door. Do you get the idea? Yes, I think I do. If heavy radiation speeds up aging, then natural radioactivity is responsible for normal aging. Quite, a matter of cells being slowly deranged through decades in the case of man. The genes which govern them being mutilated, chromosomes ripped up, nucleoplasm and cytoplasm irreversibly damaged, and of course, a mutated cell often puts out the wrong combination of enzymes, and if it regenerates at all, it replaces itself by one of the same kind. The effect is cumulative. More and more defective cells every hour. A steady bombardment all your life. Here on Earth, seven cosmic rays per second ripping through you.
And you yourself are radioactive. You include radiocarbon and radioportassium and radiophosphorus, earth and the planets, the atmosphere, everything radiates. Is it any wonder that at last our organic mechanism starts breaking down? The marvel is that we live as long as we do. The dry voice was somehow steady. Radek asked, And this place is insulated? Yes. The original plant and animal life in here was grown exogenetically from single-cell zygotes, supplied with air and nourishment built from pure, stable isotopes. The Institute had to start with their forms, naturally. At that time it wasn't possible to synthesize proteins to order, but soon our workers had enough of an ecology to introduce higher species, eventually mammal.
Even the first generation was only negligibly radioactive. Succeeding generations have been kept almost absolutely clean. The lamps supply ultraviolet, the air is recycled, while in principle it's no different from an ecological unit spaceship. Radek shook his head. He could scarcely get the words out. People? Humans? For the past 120 years. It wasn't hard to get germplasm and grow it. The first generation reproduced normally, the second could if lack of space. Didn't force us to load their food with chemical contraceptives. Behind his faceplate, Lang grimaced. I'd never have allowed it if I'd been director at the time, but now I'm stuck with the situation. The legality is very doubtful. How badly do you violate a man's civil rights when you keep him a prisoner, but give him immortality?
He opened the door, an archaic manual type. We can't do better for them than this, he said. The volume of space we can enclose in a magnetic field of the necessary strength. It was already at an absolute maximum. Light sprang automatically from the ceiling. Radek looked in at a dormitory. It was well kept, the furniture ornamental. Beyond it, he could see other rooms, recreation, he supposed, vaguely. The score of hoax in the beds hardly moved. Only one woke up. He blinked, yawned, and shuffled toward the visitors, quite nude, his long hair tangled across the low forehead, a loose grin on the mouth. Hello, Bill," said Lang. Hmm. Got something? Got something for Bill? A hand reached out, begging.
Raddick thought of a trained ape he'd once seen. This is Bill, Lang spoke softly, as if afraid his voice would snap. Our oldest inhabitant, 119 years old, and he has a physique of a man of 20. They're mature, you know, reach their peak, and never fall below it again. Got something, duck, huh? "'I'm sorry, Bill,' said Lang. "'I'll bring you some candy next time.' The moron gave an animal sigh and shambled back. On the way he passed a sleeping woman and edged toward her with a grunt. Lang closed the door. There was another stillness. "'Well,' said Lang, "'now you've seen it.' "'You mean—' "'You don't mean a mortality makes you like that.' "'Oh, no, not at all. But my predecessors chose low-grade stock on purpose.' Remember those monkeys.
How long do you think a normal human could remain sane, cooped up in a little cave like this, and never daring to leave it? That's the only way to be immortal, you know. And how much of the race could be given such elaborate care, even if they could stand it? Only a small percentage. Nor would they live forever. They were already contaminated. They were born radioactive. And whatever happens, who's going to remain outside and keep the apparatus in order?" Radek nodded. His neck felt stiff, and within the airsuit he stank with sweat. I've got the idea. And yet, if the facts were known, if my questions had to be answered, how long do you think a society like ours would survive? Radek tried to speak, but his tongue was too dry.
Lang smiled grimly. Apparently I've convinced you. Good. Fine. Suddenly his gloved hands shut out and gripped Radek's shoulder. Even through the heavy fabric, The newsman could feel the bruising fury of that clasp. And you're only one man, whispered Lang, an unusually reasonable man for these days. There'll be others. What are we going to do?
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13 13 - The Virgin of Valkarion, Chapter One 17:08
The Virgin of Valkyrian. Chapter One. Tonight, so spake the temple prophecy. A sword-scarred outlander would come riding, her queen would play the tavern bard, and the thirty-ninth dynasty should fall with the mating of the moons. The sun was low in the west. And a thin, chill wind was blowing along the hills when Elfrick saw Valkarion below him. He reined in his hengist and sat for a moment scouting the terrain with the hard-learned caution of many wandering years. Save for himself, the broad highway that flung its time-rattled length down the rock slope was empty. On either hand, the harsh, gullied hills stretched away to the dusky horizon, wind whispering in grey scrub and low, twisted trees.
Here and there, evening fires glimmered red from peasants' huts, where the broken columns of temples and ruins these many thousand years loomed against the darkening greenish-blue. Behind him, the land faded toward the raw, naked desert from which he had come. A falc hovered on silent wings far above, watching for a movement that might mean prey. Otherwise, he was alone. Still, he felt uneasy. The prickling not due to the gathering cold tingled along his spine, and he had spent too much of his life in the nearness of death to ignore such warnings. He looked ahead, down the great road. It twisted and swooped between the fantastically wind-carven crags, a dim white ribbon in the deepening twilight.
The smooth stone blocks were cracked apart by ages so long that the thought made his head real, and in places The harsh, wiry vegetation had grown through and over it, but still the old imperial way was there. The ancients had built mightily. Halfway down the huge slope of Hillside, the road ran into Valkarion City. Below that level, the cliffs dropped sharply, white with old salt streaks, to the dead sea bottoms, a vast depression, sand and salt, and thin, bitter plant growth. Reaching out to the sunset horizon. Lights were winking on in the city. It was not far, and Alfred had no wish to sleep in the open or under some peasant's stinking roof. So, why not go ahead? The city, his goal, was there, and not to hold him from its save.
The Hengist wickered and stamped its broad cloven hoofs. Its eyes rolled uneasily, and Alfred's hand slid to his sword-hilt. If the beast Also sensed a watchfulness. He caught the stir in the thick brush clump out of the corner of one eye. Only a hunter would have noticed it. Only a rover at once, without stopping to think, would have struck Spurs into his mount. The Hengist leaped, and the dart whispered past Alfric's face. One scratch from the poisoned missile of the southern blowguns was enough to kill a man. Alfric yelled and flung his Hengist at the brush. The sword whined from its scabbard. Flamed in his hand. Two men slipped from the thicket as he crashed into it. They were of a race foreign even to these southlands, small and lithe and amber-skinned.
They wore only loincloths, all hair had been shaved from their heads and bodies, and the iron slave colours were about their necks. Vaguely, Alphic was aware of the brands on their foreheads, but at the moment he was only concerned with their weapons. One skipped aside. Raising the blowgun to his lips, Alphric yanked the javelin from its holster by his saddle and launched it left-handed through the slave's belly and out his back. Steel hissed beside him as the other swung with a scimitar. The Hengist screamed as the blade cut its sleek grey hide. The forehoofs lashed out, the great hooked beak snapped, and the slave lay a bloody ruin on the Imperial way. Alphric reined in his prancing mount, And looked around, breathing hard.
An ambush. By the bear of Ruho. It meant to kill him. But why? A poor, solitary wanderer was no worthwhile quarry for footpads. Anyway, these weren't outlaws but slaves. They must have been set here with orders to destroy some specific person. But no one in Valkarion knew Alfrick. He was a stranger without friend or enemy. Had they mistaken him for someone else? That would be hard to do even in this dim light. He was too plainly a barbarian outlander. It made no sense. By Luiger, it made no sense. He leaned over, studying the dead men. They were secretive, even in the sprawled, puppet-like helplessness of death. He could learn nothing, except, hold, what was that owner's brand? Double Crescent.
The Double Crescent. The knowledge shocked home like a spear thrust, and Alfred sat silent for a long moment. The double crescent, the sign of the two moons, that meant the slaves were temple property. They'd been under orders of the priesthood of the moons, which was the old imperial faith, and still the state religion of Arcarion. But if the temple sent out assassins? Ulfric's eyes travelled up to Ameris, the farther moon, high in the darkening heavens. The narrow one, Danos, had not yet risen, out of the west, as was its strange want. But its rocket-like speed would carry it up to and beyond the farther before dawn. Aye, aye, now he remembered that tonight the moons would mate. On such nights, the temple no doubt had great ceremonies afoot.
Perhaps this matter of the assassination was involved in some religious proceeding. Whispered legends and the mouldering history books alike agreed that the turning points of the old empire's fate had come on nights when the moons mated. No doubt, that still held good for the withered remnant of territory which Valkyrian still ruled. The moons were not important in the religion of the Aslakan barbarians, whose chief gods were the wind and the stars, and nameless powers of winter and death. But a tingle of fear ran along Alfrick's spine at the thought of what might be abroad that night, to Luigo with it, his lean face twisted in a snarl. And he snapped sword and javelin back in place, and rode trotting on toward Valkarion.
Come ambush or priesthood or the moons themselves, he meant to sleep in the city tonight. Behind him, the hovering falc wheeled down toward the two still forms sprawled on the highway. The sun slipped into the dead sea-bottom, and night came with a silent rush. Amaris rode high in a froth of stars, painting the hills with a dim, Eerie silver in which monstrous shadows lurked. The wind blew stronger, colder, with a faint smell of salt like the ghost of the long-dried ocean. Alphric wrapped his warren cloak tighter about him against its searching chill. Save for the vast, echoing howl of the wind, the hiss of sand and rustle of leaves, he was alone in the dark. He heard the creak and jingle of his harness, the rapid clop-clop of the hengist's hoofs.
Against a background of hooting night. The crumbling city walls loomed darkly before him, rearing enormously against the myriad brilliant, unwinking stars. He had half expected to find the gates closed, but instead a fire blazed in the tunnel, which the gateway made through the walls. A dozen city guards stood about it. They sprang to alertness as he rode up, a sudden wall of spears leaning forth in front of him. Behind that shining steel The light picked out helmets and corslets and faces drawn tight with strain. "'Who goes?' called One. His voice shook a little. "'A stranger, but a friend,' said Alphic in his north-accented Valkyrieona. He rode into the circle of firelight and sat in a watchful quiet as their eyes raked him.
Plainly, he was an outland barbarian, taller by head than most of the Southerners. His hard-thewed body Clad in the plain leather and wingmail of a northern warrior. His sword a double-edged claymore, rather than the scimitar or short-sword of the south. His skin was a sunburned, leathery brown, where theirs was tawny. His long, slant eyes a brilliant green, where theirs were dark, and though jewelled rings in his pointed ears. He went clean-shaven in accordance with southern custom, but the high cheekbones, thin, straight nose and long jaw were not theirs. Demanded the guard captain. What is your errand? I am Alfrick, the Auden's son of Aslak, he answered, truly enough. And I am simply wandering about in search of employment.
Perhaps Valkyrie could use another sword-arm, or some merchant may want a good warrior to help guard his caravan, or—he spread his calloused hands in a general gesture—no need to add that perhaps some highwayman was in town recruiting, or some would-be rebel was in search— Of an experienced war captain who had helped for the loot, in his years of adventuring, Alfred had held most jobs, lawful or other ways. The guards seemed more taut and wary than the occasion warranted. Surely they had passed stranger and more dubious visitors than a single barbarian. Perhaps they wanted a bribe to let him by, or... The captain nodded stiffly. You may enter, since you are alone, he said, and then with a friendliness not quite natural.
If you wish good cheap lodging, and a place where men come who might want to hire a fighter, try the Falcon Fire Drake. First turn to your right, three streets down, one to your left. Good luck, stranger." Alfred scowled. For a moment he paused, tensing. There was something here. Toluiga, with it. His nerves were still on edge from the fight. If something was supposed to happen, let it. Thanks, he said, and rolled into the city. It was like most of the old Imperial towns. Somewhat larger and busier than the rest, no more. On either side of the broad paved street rose the ancient columned facades of the empire, proud building even now, when their treasures were long gone and their corners worn smooth by the winds of millennia.
There were lamps lighting the main ways, their yellow glow splashing on a milling throng of folk. Most were native Valkyrianas, merchants in their flowing cloaks and fur-trimmed silken robes. Workers and artisans in tunics of blue or grey. Peasants in clumsy homespun garments and fur caps, swaggering young soldiers in red tunics and polished metal. Painted harlots. Ragged beggars. Near-naked slaves. The others of a city where life still pulsed strong through the days of glory were more thousands of years behind than it was pleasant to count. But there were strangers, robed traders from Tsung-chi and Beg-sa-ra. Riding their humped dromads, black-skinned men of Suda and Astrac, coppery feather-cloaked mercenaries from Talus Yutl, fair-headed barbarians from Valmanstad and the Marskin Hills, all the world seemed met at Valkarion, in a babble of tongues and a swirl of colours.
There were many of the tonsured priests of the moons abroad in long red and black robes, with a double crescent hanging from a silver chain about the neck. After each shaven pate, Padded one or more of the Yellow Slaves, silent and watchful, hand on knife or blowgun. Alfrick scowled and decided he had best find lodging before venturing out into such company. A trading center, like Valkarion, necessarily tolerated all creeds, still, someone had tried to kill him. He edged out of the throng and followed the captain's directions. They brought him into one savory part of town, where moldering blank-walled houses Crowded a winding labyrinth of narrow, unlightened streets and stinking alleys. Men of dubious aspect moved furtively through the shadowy maze, or brawled drunkenly before the tarry inns and bawdy houses.
A strange place for a city guardsman to direct him to. But no priests or soldiers were in sight, which was recommendation enough. Alfred rode on until he saw the sign of the falcon fire drake creaking in the chill, gusty wind above a gloomy doorway. He dismounted and knocked, one hand on his dagger. The door groaned open a crack, and a thin, scar-faced man looked out, his own hand on a knife. I want lodging for myself and my hengist, said Alfrick. The landlord's hooded eyes slid up and down the barbarian's tall form. An indrawn breath hissed through his lips. You from the Northlands? he asked. Aye. Alfrick flung open the door and stepped into the taproom. It was dim and dirty and low-sealed. A few smoky torches, throwing a guttering light on the hard-faced men who sat at the tables, drinking the sour yellow wine of the South.
They were all armed, all wary. The place was plainly a hangout of thieves and murderers. Ulfric shrugged broad shoulders. He'd stayed in such places often enough. How much do you want? he asked. Ah! the landlord licked his lips nervously. Two coistercies for supper now and breakfast tomorrow, one sold-a-room and go. The rate was so low that Alfred's eye is narrowed, and his ears cocked forward in an instinctive gesture of suspicion. These Southerners all named several times the price they expected to get, but he had never haggled one down as far as this fellow's asking price. Done, he said at last. But if the food is bad, or the bed lousy, or the women diseased, I'll throw you in your own pot and cut my breakfast off your ribs.
"'T'will not be needful, noble sir," whined the landlord. He waved a thin little slave-boy over. "'Take care of the gentleman's hengis.' Alfred sat down at a corner table and ate his meal alone. The food was greasy, but not bad. From the shadows he watched his fellow guests sizing up their possibilities. That big spade-bearded fellow, he might be the head of a gang which would find an expert sword-swinger useful, and the little wizened man in the grey cloak might be a charlatan in need of a bodyguard. He grew slowly aware of their own unease. There were too many sharp glances thrown in his own direction, entirely too many, too much whispering behind hands, too much furtive loosening of sheathed daggers.
There was something infernally strange going on in Valkaria. Alfred bristled like an angry jacquard, but throttled in patience and got up, time enough to find all that out tomorrow. He was tired now from his long ride. He would sleep, and then in the morning look the city over. He mounted the stairs, conscious of the glances following him, and opened the door the boy showed to him. There he paused, and his hard jaw fell. The room was just a room, small, lit by one stump of candle. No furniture save a bed. Its window looked out on an alley which was like a river of darkness. It was the woman who held Alphric's eyes. She was clad only in the usual gaudy silken shift, and she sat plucking thin cords in the usual one-stringed harp.
Her rings and bracelets were ordinary cheap gewjaws, but she was no common tavern bard, not she. Tall and lithe and tawny-skinned, she rose to face him. Her shining blue-black hair tumbled circly to her slim waist, framing a face as finely and proudly chiselled as a piece of ancient sculpture, broad, clear forehead, delicately arched nose, full mobile mouth, stubborn chin, long, smooth throat running down toward her high, firm breasts. Her eyes were wide set, dark and starry, brilliant as the desert nights. Her lips were like red flame. When she spoke, it was music purring under the wind that whimpered outside and rattled the window-sat. Welcome, stranger. Alfred gulped, licked his lips and slowly recovered his voice.
Thank you, my lovely, he moved closer to her. I had not, not thought to find one like you, here. But now that you have, she came closer and her smile blinded him. Now that you have, what will you do? What do you think? he laughed. She bent over and blew out the candle.
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14 14 - The Virgin of Valkarion, Chapter Two 14:42
The Virgin of O'Karion. Chapter Two. Afrik lost desire for sleep, the girl being as skilled in the arts of love as she was beautiful. But later they fell to talking. A dim shaft of moonlight streamed through the window and etched her face against the dark. A faint Mysterious rippling of light and shadow and loveliness. He drew her closer, kissed the smooth cheek, and murmured puzzledly. Who are you? Why are you working in a place like this, when you could be the greatest courtesan in the world? Kings would be your slaves, and armies would go to battle with your name on their lips. If they only knew you, she shrugged. Fortune does strange things sometimes, she said. I am Freya, and I am here Because I must be.
Her slim fingers ruffled his harsh black hair. But tonight, she breathed, I am glad of it, since you came. And who are you, stranger? I am Alphric, Cole the Wanderer, son of Beodan the Bald, son of Asgard the Tall, from the hills and lakes of Aslak. And why did you leave your home, Alphric? I was restless. For a bleak moment he wondered why, indeed, He had ever longed to get away from the wind-whispering trees, and the cool blue hills, and the small, salty, sun-glinting lakes of home. From his father's great hall on farmstead, from the brawling, lusty warriors who were his comrades, from the tall, sweet girls and joys of the hunt and feast. Well, it was past now, many years past. You must have come far," said Freyr.
Far indeed, over most of the world, I imagine. From Aslak, pasture-lands of Hengists, to the acrid red deserts of Beg-sarah, the scrub forests of Aztrak and Toloquiatl, the towered cities of Tsunchi, along the great canals which the ancient empire had built in its last days, still bringing a trickle of water from the polar snows to the starved southlands, through ruins, always ruins, the crumbling sand-filled bones of cities, Which had been like jewels a hundred thousand years ago and more. Her cool hands passed over his face, pausing at the long, dull white scar which slashed across his forehead and her left cheek. You have fought, she said. How you have fought? Aye, all my life, that scar, I got it at Altares, when I led the Bonsonian spears at the storming of the gates.
I have been war captain, sitting beside kings. And I have been hunted outlaw with the gams baying at my heels. I have drunk the wine of warlords and eaten the gruel of peasants, and stalked my own game through the rime-white highlands of Larkin. I have pulled down cities, and been flung into the meanest jails. One king put a price on my head, another wanted me to take over his throne, and a third went down the streets before me, ringing a bell and crying that I was a god. But enough," Alfred stirred restlessly. Somehow he felt again uneasy, as if. Freya purled his face to hers, and the kiss lasted a long time. Presently she murmured, We have heard some rumors of great deeds and clashing swords here in Valkyrie.
The story of the fall of Altaris is told in the marketplaces, and folk listen till far into the night. But why did you not stay with your kings and warlords in captured cities? You could have been a king yourself. I grew weary of it. He answered shortly. Weary? Of kingly power? Why not? Those courts are nothing, a barbarian ruling over one or two cities, and calling himself a king and trying drearily to hold the court worthy of the title. The same, always the same endless squabbling, carrion birds quarrelling among the bones of the Empire. I went on the next war, or to see the next part of the world, and ere long I learned never to stay too long in one place, lest The newness of it wear off. For I carry on as ever new, Alfrick.
A man could live his life here, and never see all there was. Perhaps, so they told me, and it was, after all, the old seat of the Empire, and its shrunken remnant of territory still greater than any other domain, so I came here to see for myself," Alfrick grinned, a wolfish gleam of teeth in the night. Also, I heard tales, restlessness, a struggle for power between Temple and Imperium. With the Emperor and old man, and the last of his line, unable to get a child on his young Queen Hildeborg, it seemed opportune. How so? He thought she breathed faster, lying there beside him. He chuckled, a harsh iron sound in his crowded throat. How should I know, except that when such a hell's broth is bubbling, a fighting man can always scoop up loot or power, or at the very least, adventure.
If nothing else, there might be the Empress. They say she's a half-barbarian herself, a princess of Chorodon, and a losty wench giving hospitality to every visiting noble or knight. He felt Freya stiffen a little, and added, But that doesn't interest me now, when I've found you. Freya, leave this place with me tomorrow, and you'll wear the crown jewels of Ocarion. Or I'll see your head on a pike above the walls," she said. Faintly through the window, in the whining night wind, they heard the crash of a great gong. "'Danos is rising,' whispered Freya. "'Tonight he mates with Mother Ramaris. It is said that the fates walk through the streets of Alcarion on such nights.' She shivered. "'Indeed, they do on this eve.' "'Perhaps,' said Alphric, though the hackle rose on his neck.
"'But how do you know?' "'Have you not heard?' Her voice shuddered, seeming to blend with the moan of wind and steady, slow boom of gong. "'Have you not heard?' The Emperor Orion is dying. He is not expected to last till dawn. The Thirty-Ninth Dynasty dies with him, and there is no successor. The wind mumbled under the eaves, rattling the window frame and flowing darkly through the alley. Ha! Alphic laughed harshly, exultantly. A chance! By Ruo! What a chance! All of a sudden he stiffened, and the voice of danger was a great shout in his head. He sat up. Cocking his ears and heard the faint scratch and scrape, an eye under the window coming close. He slid from the covers and drew her sword where it lay on the floor.
The boards felt cold under his bare feet. The night air fingered his skin with icy hands. What is it? whispered Freya. She sat up, the dark air tumbling past her frightened face. What is it, Alfred? He made no answer, but padded over to the window. Flattened against the wall, He stood waiting as a hand raised the sash from outside. The pale, cold light of Amaris fell on the hand that now gripped the sill. A body lifted itself, one handed, the other clutching a knife. For an instant, Alfrick saw the flat, hairless face in the moonlight, the double crescent brown livid against its horrible blankness. Then, in one rippling motion, the slave was inside the room. Alfrick thrust, slicing his heart.
As the man fell, another swarmed up behind him. He and Alphic faced each other, tableau for one instant of rivering moonlight and whining wind and remotely beating gong. Then the barbarian's long arms shot out, yanked the slave in, and twisted him in an unbreakable wrestler's grip. Talk, he hissed into the ear of the writhing creature. Talk or I'll break you bone by bone. Why are you here? He can't, said Freya. She came up to them, white in the moonlight. Her long hair blowing loose about her shoulders. The temple breeds these slaves, raises them from birth to utter fanatical obedience, and see, she pointed to the dead man gaping under the window. Stooping over, Alphic saw that he had an old tongue.
The northerner shuddered. With a convulsive movement, he broke the neck of his prisoner, and flung the body aside. What do they want? he panted. Why are they after me? There is a prophecy, but quick. There will be others. Out, down to the taproom. We must have protection. The assassins would hardly be so stupid as to leave us a way out," grunted Elfrig. Any down there who might help us are probably dead or made prisoner now. No doubt these men are friends on guard. Just outside the door, men will come in pretty soon when these don't come out. Aye, that would be the way of the temple. But where, then? Where? Elfrig flung on his kilt, dagger-belt, and Baldrick. Out the window. He whipped the girl to him, held her supple body against his, kissed her hard and swift as the swoop of a hunting fuck.
Goodbye, frere. You've been a wonderful companion. I'll see you again, if I live. But you can't leave me, she gasped. The slaves will burst through. Why should they harm you? They're after me. They will, he felt her shaking against him. They will. That's their way. Oh. The door shuddered as a heavy weight was flung against it. "'That's there,' snarled Alfrick, "'and the boat won't hold very long. I'd like to stay and fight. But come,' he grabbed his cloak off the floor and buckled it across Freya's slim, naked shoulders. "'I'll go first, then you jump.' He balanced down the windowsill, then leaped. Even as he fell, he wondered at the agility of the slaves who had crawled up the wall. It was of rough-set stone, but even so.
He hit the muck and cobblestones of the alley with the silent poise of a chakur. And turned up to the window. It was just above the pit-black shadows, a square of darkness in the moon-whitened wall. Come, he called softly. Freya's body gleamed briefly in the moonlight as she sprang. He caught her in his arms, set her down, and drew his sword. Let's go, he growled. But where will the city guards protect us? Some might, she answered shakily. But most are controlled by fear of the temple's curse. Best to go toward the palace. The Emperor's household troops are loyal to him and hate the priesthood which seeks to usurp his power. We can head that way, he nodded, meanwhile looking for a place to hide.
He took a hand and they trotted through the thick darkness toward the dim light, marking the end of the alley. Other feet padded in the gloom. Alfred snarled soundlessly and pulled himself and the girl against a wall. He was almost blind in the dark, but he strained his ears. Pointing them this way and that, in search of the enemy. The others had also stopped moving. They would be waiting for him to stir, and their own motionlessness would surely outlast the girls. Anyway, the pursuit from the room would be after him in another moment, when the door gave way. Run, he snapped. He felt a dart blow by the spot where he had spoken and lengthened his frantic stride. A form rose before him, vague in the night.
He chapped down with his sword and felt a grim joy at the ripping of flesh and sundering of bone. Now, out of the alley, into the street, not much wider or lighter, and down its shadowy length, the slaves would be behind, but there was a one-story house ahead of the usual flat-roofed construction. "'Hoop!' gasped Alfrick, and made a stirrup of his hands. He fairly flung the girl onto the roof. She gave him a hand up, bracing her feet against the parapet. They fell down together behind it. Alfrick heard the slaves' bare feet trotting below him, but dared not risk a glance. Snake-like, he and Freya slithered across the housetop. Only a narrow space separated them from the next. He jumped that and crossed over to another and higher roof.
From this, Alfrick peered into the street below. A couple of city guards were walking down it, spears at the ready. Alfrick wondered whether he should join them. No, there would be no shield against a blowgun dart sent from an alley. Anyway, they might be priest loyal. He put his mouth to Freya's ear, even then aware of the dark silky hair, tickling his lips and whispered, What's next? I don't know. She looked ahead over the knighted roofs to the great central forum, still ruddy bright with torches. Beyond it, the city climbed toward a double hill, only the crest of which was a building. One must be the palace, thought Alfric. It was in the graceful, colonnaded style of the later empire, white marble under a maris.
Nearly all its windows were dark, but he thought puzzledly that it was surrounded by a ring of fire. The other building was a great grey pile, sprawling its grim massiveness in a red blaze of light. From it came a steady gungbeat and a rising chant, the temple of the two moons, holding vigil at their wedding. The night was huge above them, a vault of infinite crystal black in which the stars glittered in their frosty myriads, and the Milky Way tumbled its bright, mysterious cataract between the constellations. The pale disk of Ameris rode high, painting the city and the hills and the Dead Sea floor with its cold, ghostly light, and now Danos was swinging rapidly out of the west, brightening the dark and causing weird double shadows.
But slowly writhed with its changing position. It was bitter chill. The wind blew and blew, hooting down the streets, banging signs and driving dead leaves and sand and bits of parchment before it. Alfred shivered, wishing for the rest of his clothes. In the waxing moonlight he could see sand devils whirling on the sea bottom, a witch's dance, and on such a night, trolls and ghosts and the fates themselves. Might well be abroad. He set his teeth against chattering and tried to fix his mind on real and desperately urgent problems. The priests seemed able to trace us, he said. At least, they knew I went for lodging. Best we worked toward the palace, as you say, but looked for a ruined house or some such place to hide in till morning.
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15 15 - The Virgin of Valkarion, Chapter Three 22:02
The Virgin of Alcarion, Chapter Three. The street below was deserted now. They jumped down to it and darted into the shadows on the other side. Slipping along the walls of buildings, they followed its twisting length for some time. An occasional cloaked form passed silently by. Otherwise there was only the bitter wind, echoing hollily along the tunnel-like streets. Of a sudden, Alfrick stiffened. He heard the measured tramp of feet, the city patrol approaching, just around the next corner. Whirling, he led the way into an alley, black as a cave mouth. It was blind, but there was a door at the end, from behind which came the twanging of harps, and the thin, evil whine of desert flutes. A tavern, shelter of a sort.
Moonlight glistened on steel as the half-dozen guardsmen passed the alley, passed, stopped, and turned back. They may be here, Alfred heard a voice. Cursing under his breath, the northerner opened the door and stepped through into a room barely lit by a few tapers, thick with smoke and the smell of unwashed bodies. Alfred's nostrils quivered at the heavy sweet odour of Shivash, and he noticed the floor covered with stupefied smokers. A little yellow man scurried back and forth, filling the pipes. At the farther end, with music and girls, were wine-drinkers, ragged men of ill aspect who looked up with hands on knives. Freya slammed the bolt down behind them, and Elphric brandished his great sword and said to them all, Show us the way out!
A fist beat on the door. A voice shouted, Open! In the name of the Holy Temple! No way out! gasped the landlord. "'There is always an exit to these dens,' snapped Frere. "'Show us, or we split your skull!' A man's knife-hand moved with blurring speed. Elfrig stepped the thrown dagger with his sword-blade in a clang of steel, caught it in mid-air, and hurled it back. The man screamed as it thunked into his belly. "'Out!' snarled the barbarian, and his glaive sang about the landlord's ears. "'Here!' cried the little man, running toward the end of the room. The door groaned as the guardsmen hurled themselves against it. The landlord opened a concealed trapdoor. Only darkness was visible below. Alfrick snatched a torch from the wall and saw a tunnel of dark stone.
Down, he rapped, and Freya jumped. He followed, bolting the trap behind him. It was heavy iron. The soldiers would have to work to break through it. The tunnel stretched hollowly away on either side. Freya broke into a run. An alfric loped beside her, the torch streaming in one hand, and the sword a gleam in the other. Their footfalls echoed through the cold, moist, dark. What is this? he asked. Old suet, not used now when water is scarce. A warren under the city, gasped Freya. We can hide here, then, he panted. No, only the temple knows all the passages. They have slaves guarding every exit. We'll be trapped unless we get out soon. Dim sky shawed ahead, a hole with a rusted iron ladder leading up into it.
Alfred doused his torch and swung noiselessly up the rungs to peer out. The manhole opened into one of the ruinous abandoned districts, crumbling structures and shards of stone, half buried by the drifting sand. Three guardsmen stood watching, spears at the ready. Otherwise there were only the moons and the wind and the silently watching stars. Alfred's lip twisted in a snarl, so the holes already plugged. But wait, all egresses could not be guarded yet. Best to go on in search of another. No, by the time the fugitives got there, it might be watched too. Here there was at least an absence of people to interfere. He sprang out and rushed at the three so swiftly that they were hardly aware of him before his blade was shrieking about them.
One man tumbled with his head nearly sheared off. Another yelled. Leaping back to thrust with his spear. Alfrick dodged the jab, grabbed the shaft in one hand, and pulled. The guardsman stumbled forward, and Alfrick's sword rang on his helmet. He dropped, stunned by the fury of the blow. The third was on Alfrick, like an angry jacour. His spear thrust furrowed along the barbarian's ribs. Alfrick closed in, grinning savagely in the cold, white moonlight, and thrust with his sword. The guard parried the blow with his small buckler, dropped his spear, and drew his short-sword. Bending low, he rushed in, probing for Alfreq's guts, and the northerner skipped aside barely in time. The broadsword chopped down through the guard's left leg.
Blood spurted. The man crashed to earth, and Alfreq stabbed him through the face before he could scream. The second was climbing dizzily to his feet. Alfreq knocked the sword from a nerveless hand. And brought his own blade against the guardsman's throat. Old, he said. One word, one movement, and you'll roll in the gutter with your comrades. Freya came up, the cloak blowing about her wonderful naked body in the wild wind. She was a fey sight under the moon's, and the prisoner groaned as he saw her. Lady! Lady, forgive! Forgive a traitor? she asked, wrath sparking in her voice. Why are the priests after me? rapped Elfrick. The guard stared. Surely, surely you know. I know nothing. Speak, if you want to remain a man.
The prophecy. The priests warned us about you, that you were the heathen conqueror of the prophecy. Later they said that— The guard's desperate eyes turned to Freya. They said you, your majesty. His voice trailed off. Say on, she snapped. Give me the priests' own words. By dammit I'll all swing for this. I am still Empress of Valkarion. Alfred looked at her in sudden shock. As if he had been clubbed. Empress. The Empress of Alcarion. But they said you were not. Your Majesty, the Emperor is dead. He died soon after sundown. As soon as I was gone, eh? A priest's work, I'm thinking. Someone will answer for that. Go on. The High Priest sent word over the city. He told her the prophecy. We all knew of that, but he told it anew.
He said the heathen king could still be slain, and offered a thousand Gildars to the man who did it. The guard gulped. Then he said, "'You forgive me, lady. You asked for his words.' He said, "'Since the dynasty was now dead, the temple would rule till further arrangements could be made.' But the Empress Hildeborg, half-barbarian, idolatrous witch, these were his words, your majesty, she lay under the temple's ban. He said she was to be killed, or better, captured, for the heathen stranger with whom she would probably join forces. He put the most solemn curse of the two moons on anyone who should aid you and the man, or even fail to help hunt for you. The guardsman sank to his knees, shaking.
Lady, forgive me. I have a family I was afraid to refuse. What of the household troops? she snapped. The priests sent a detachment of the city guards against them. A dreadful battle. The household repelled the attack, but now they are besieged in the palace. Little help there, then, Hildeborg laughed mirthlessly. All the city against us, and our only friends bottled in a ring of spears. You chose an unlucky time to enter Valkyrie on Alfrick. The barbarian's head was spinning. You are… the Empress, he gasped, and there's some nonsense about me. What is this prophecy? Why did you… His voice, helpless with bewilderment, faded off into the moaning wind. No time now. Someone may be along any moment.
Where to hide? Where to hide? Alfric's eyes travelled down to the two bodies sprawled on the street. Suddenly he laughed, a harsh metallic bark. Why, in the very lair of the foal, he said, as good citizens it behooves us to join the hunt for the outlaws. Here is suitable clothing for us. She nodded and fell at once to stripping the corpses. Alfric looked narrowly at the prisoner. If you betray us, he murmured. I won't, by the moons, I swear I won't. Indeed you won't, said Alphric, and lifted sword to cut him down. Hildeborg sprang up and grabbed his arm. That's a barbarous trick, she exclaimed angrily. You need only bind and gag him, and hide him in one of these ruins. Why worry about the life of a guardsman?
he asked contemptuously. Her dark head lifted in pride. I am Empress of the guardsmen, too, she said. As you like, shrugged Alphric. The captive turned a face of utter worship to the woman. "'You must secure me,' he said, his voice shaking. "'But when I'm released, my body and soul are yours forever, my lady.' Hildeborg smiled and proceeded to cut strips of cloth and dispose of the guard as she had said. Then she turned to Alphric. "'You are hard of heart,' she murmured. "'But perhaps Valkyrie needs one like you, strong and ruthless.' Her deep eyes glowed. "'How you fought, Alphric! How you fought!' The barbarian squatted down and began wiping blood off the looted armour. "'I've had enough,' he growled.
"'I've been udwinked and hounded over the whole damn city. I've been thrown into a broil I never heard of, and now I want some truth. What is this prophecy? Why are you here? What does everyone want?' he laughed humourlessly, "'besides our heads.' "'The prophecy. It is in the Book of the Sibyl, Alfrick. It was made, I know not how many thousands, or tens of thousands of years ago.' At the time of the Empire's greatest glory, there was a half-mad priestess who chanted songs of ruin and desolation which few believed. What could harm the Empire? But the songs were handed down through many generations by a few who had some faith, and slowly it was seen that the songs spoke truth. One thing came to pass after another, just as it was foretold.
Then the songs were collected by the priesthood, who used the book to guide their policies.
I've got no great faith in spaydom myself. These prophecies are true, Ralfric. Now and again they have erred, but I think that it is simply because the songs had been garbled in the long time they were handed down without much belief. All too often, the future history in the book has been written anew by time's own pen. Hildeborg slipped the guardsman's tunic over her slim form. Her eyes were half shut, dreaming. They say the Sibyl was loved by Danos, who gave her the gift of prophecy. And that Amaris jealously decreed she should foretell evil oftener than good. But a wise man at court, who had read much of the almost forgotten science of the ancients, told me he thought the prophecies could be explained rationally.
He said sometimes the mind can slip forward along the the world line, he called it, the body's path through a space and time that are one space-time. Sometimes, he said, one can remember the future. He said the Sibyl's mind could have followed the worldlines of her descendants, too, thus travelling many ages ahead, and be that as it may, she spayed truly, and her prophecy of tonight is... of... you. The warrior shook his dark head, feeling a sudden eerie weight of destiny. What was the tale? he whispered. The wind whipped the words from his mouth, and whirled them down the empty street. Hildeborg stood while he buckled the corslet on her, and her voice rose in a weird chant that sang raggedly across the ruined buildings, under the stars and the two flying moons.
Even Alfreq's hardy soul was shaken by the ominous words, his hands trembling ever so faintly as he worked. The Thirty-ninth Dynasty shall end on the night when Danos weds again with Ameris. Winds shall howl in the streets and bear away his soul. Childless shall the Emperor die, the Imperial Lyme shall die with him, and a stranger shall sit in the high throne of Valkarion. He shall come riding alone and friendless, riding a grey hengist into Valkarion on the evening of that night. A heathen from the north is he, a worshipper of the wind and the stars. A storm which shall blow out the last guttering candles of the Empire. From the boundless wastes of the desert shall he ride, ruin and darkness in his train, and the last long night of the Empire will fall when he comes.
Woe, Danos! Your temple will stand in flames when the heathen king is come. Woe, Mother Romaris! He will defile your holy altars and break them down. Gods themselves must die. Their dust will whirl on the breath of his wind-god. The last blood of the Empire will be swallowed by the thirsty desert. Woe for the heathen night which falls! Woe for the bitter grey dawn which follows! The moons of the Empire have set, and an alien sun rides baleful over Valkarion! There was silence after that, save for the hooting of wind and a thin, dry whisper of blowing sand. Danos swung higher, a pale cold eye in the frosty heavens. Alfrick clamped his teeth together and finished the disguise. The armour and clothing were strained on his tall form, ill-fitting, but with the cloak draped over and the helmet shadowing his face, he should pass muster.
Under the cloak, across his back, he had his broadsword. These short southern stabbers were no good. Hildeborg was better fitted. Slim and boyish in the shining steel, her long hair tucked under the crested helm, a spear carried proudly erect, she seemed a young goddess of war. Alfred thought dizzily that no such woman had ever crossed even his dreams. He hid the corpses in the ruins, and they started down the street together. We'll try to work through the line of siege into the palace, he said. Once we're with your troops, something must still be done. I doubt it. They are brave men, but few. Phew! Her voice was bitter. If we can. Alfred sank into thought for a while. Then suddenly he said, Now I know why the priests are after me, but what of you?
Where do you come into this picture? I knew about the prophecy, she replied. Also I knew what my fate was likely to be when Orion died. The temple and the Imperium, ostensibly the two pillars of the Empire, have long been struggling for power. Each side has its warriors and spies. Its adherents among the nobles and commons. Oh, the last several generations have been a weary tale of intrigue, murder, corruption, with first one side and now another on top. The temple wants a figurehead emperor, the imperium wants a subservient priesthood. Well, you know the story. Ah, sorry one. It should be ended with the sword, wipe both miserable factions out and start anew. She looked curiously at him. The Sybil was not wrong.
She murmured. The heathen come out of the north, with destruction alike, for the Empire and the gods. Loiga, I take it. I don't care about Valkyrie. Not even enough to destroy it. I only want to save my own neck. His hand stroked her arm softly. And yours. But go on. The Thirty-Ninth Dynasty was the last family with any pretensions to even a trace of the legendary Imperial blood, the Lion of Denos himself, and Aurion was the last of them. His sons slain in war, himself an old man without relatives. The imperial line had been weakening and dying for generations, inbred, enfeebled, degenerate, the blood of Danos running thinner in each new birth. Orion had sense enough to take a second wife of different stock, myself, Princess of Corridon.
Thereby he gained a valuable ally for Valkyrion, but no children, and now he is dead," Hildeborg sighed. So the Imperium is gone, the Temple is the sole power, and a strong and unscrupling high priest rules Valkarion. I think the priest, the Rokos, intends to proclaim Valkarion a theocracy, with himself as the head. But first, for reasons of politics and personal hatred, he must get rid of me. Why should he hate you? Hildeborg smiled, twistedly. He disapproves of barbarians. And my mother was from Valmanstadt. He disapproves of my laxness in religious matters. He knows I stand between him and absolute power. I gave Orion strength to oppose him and thwarted many of his measures. The commons think well of me.
I have done what I could to improve their lot, and he hates any hold on Vakarion's soul other than his own. I knew that with Orion dead and no heir of the blood, Hirokos would feel free to strike. I could not hope to match him for long. Especially since the law is that no woman may rule in Valkarion. My one chance seemed to lie in the new conqueror who was to come. Yet I could not approach him openly. The temple spies were everywhere, and anyway the prophecy was that he would be a destroying fury, worse perhaps than the priests. I had to sound him out first, and secretly. So I put a trustworthy guards captain in charge of the gate today, with instructions to direct the stranger to the falcon fire drake.
The landlord there was paid to make sure you would stay, and would take the room while I was in my guise of tavern-girl. So you came, but now it seems the priests were wear to my plan. They have acted swifter than I thought, striking instantly at my men. I expected at least a few days of truce, and I played into their hands by thus cutting myself off from all help. Now they need only hunt us down and kill us. "'Til take some doing,' growled Alphric. We may yet pull their cursed temple down about their shiv and skulls. And so the prophecy will be fulfilled. It will blow out the last dim flicker of light. She stopped, staring at him, and her voice came slowly. Barcarion, the last citadel of civilization, the last hope of the dying world, to be wasted by a heathen bandit.
Perhaps the priests are right, Alfrick of Aslak. Perhaps you should die. "'Louie, go take your damned prophecy,' he snarled. They stood tartly facing each other in the thin, chill moonlight. The wind blew and blew, whining between the empty ruins of houses, blowing the dust of their erosion along the empty street. "'I know your old Imperial towns,' said Alfred savagely. "'I've seen them, mouldering shells, half the place deserted because the population has shrunk so far, wearily dreaming of a dead past.' Grubbing up the old works and sitting with noses buried in the old books, while robbers howl in the deserts and thieving politicians loot the treasury. Year by year the towns crumble, bridges fall, canals dry up, people grow fewer, and nobody cares.
A world is blowing away in red dust, and nobody stirs to help. By the winds of Ruo, it's about time someone pulled down that tottering wreck you call Imperial Civilization. It's about time we forgot the past and started thinking and doing something about the present. The man who burns Valkyrian will be doing the world a service. Silence, under the wind and stars and the two moons marching toward their union. Hildeborg hefted her spear until the point gleamed near Elphic's throat. He sneered, out of bitterness and despair, and a sudden longing for her lips. Don't try to stick me with that toy. You saw what happened to the guards. And you would kill me? Her voice was all at once desolate. She dropped the spearhead to the ground.
No, but I would leave you. No, by the holy well I wouldn't, but I'd leave the damned city. He stepped forward, laying his hands on her mailed shoulders, and his voice rang with sudden earnestness. Ilderborg, that is your answer. No need to stay in this place of death. We can steal Hengists and bluff our way past the gates, and be in the hills ere dawn. If you fear for Valkarion at my hands, leave it. Leave it to rot and come with me. Come? Where? Home. Back to Aslak. Back to the blue hills and the windy trees and the little lakes dancing in the sun. To an open heaven and a wide land and free folk who look you honestly in the eye. Luigur take the Empire, as he will whatever we do. He laughed, a joyous sound echoing in the night.
We'll build our own stead and live as free-four could raise a dozen tall suns. Hildeborg, let's go. For a moment she stood silent. When she spoke, her voice trembled a little, and the moonlight glinted off tears in her eyes. I love you for it, Alfred, and gladly would go, but Sir Rokos is besieging the palace. He is gathering in all who ever spoke well of me. Shall my friends be hanged and burned, and hacked to bits, and I safe and aslac? You're a fool. What could you do for them? Die. But this is no quarrel of yours, Alfred. If you wish, go, and I shall not think of the less of you. Go, my dearest." He laughed again and kissed her for a long moment. You are a fool and a madwoman, and I love you for that, he said.
Come, we can still show these priests the colour of steel.
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16 16 - The Virgin of Valkarion, Chapter Four 20:03
The Virgin of Valkarion, Chapter Four.
They trotted rapidly along the ways, their mail clanking. Ere long they were out of the deserted district and approaching the Central Forum. It seethed with people. All Valkarion seemed to be out tonight, moving slowly, aimlessly. Under the compulsion of a nameless fear, the town buzzed with voices, low, secretive, and a shuffle of thousands of feet under the lamps and the bobbing torches. High over the muted tumult, blown on the harrying wind, chant and gongbeat came from the temple. Alfred and Hildeborg pushed their way through the milling, murmuring tide. The unease, the rising wave of fear, was like a tangible force. The northerner's skin prickled with it. Eyes, thousands of eyes, shifting and staring out of pale faces.
The city was full of eyes. He heard a voice as he came to the edge of the great plaza. Trusting forward, the tall barbarian looked over the heads of the crowd. There was a rostrum, surrounded by a tight ring of temple guards, and from atop it a robed priest was haranguing the throng. The dynasty is dead. And the wrath of the moons lies heavy over Valkyrion. Woe to the world, for the heathen fiend, the scourge of Danos, is loose. Yea, I bring hope. I, from all-merciful Mother Amaris, I bring cheer to the darkest hour. There is time, still time, to seize the barbarian, ere his power grows. There is still time, too, to seize and disown the half-caste witch Hildeborg. There is time to submit. To the wise rule of the temple, that the high priest may intercede with Allfather Danos.
Repent and be forgiven. Destroy the evil workers who brought this trouble on you, and the mating of the moons will yet bring forth a new birth of hope. Alphric grew aware of the muttering about him, the commons of Valkarion, laborer, artisan, merchant, peasant, turning thought over and growling it to his neighbor. An ill choice. To see the city ruined or bow to the shave-pates. I'm afraid. The moons are high and bitter-bright now. They're looking down on us. I'm afraid. It was Ildeborg who lowered the taxes. It was Ildeborg, and not Dotardorian or thieving Theracos, who whipped the army into shape and beat off the Syvonian invaders. What has the temple ever done for us? Save Milkus for our tithes and frighten our babes with stories of godly wrath?
Hush! The moons are watching! Hildeborg is beautiful. She's like a goddess as she runs through the streets and smiles on us. Amaris herself is not more beautiful. The temple is holy. The priest has burned my brother for sorcery. He had one of the old books, that was all. He tried to build the machine it told of, and they burned him. They have enough old books themselves. They sit on all the wisdom of the ancients, and none of us can so much as read. The fates are abroad tonight, I'm afraid. My son is in the household. He'll after his skin. He'll hang if he isn't dead already, unless— Oh, my son is in the city guards. He'd hold him to go hunt down the stranger and the Empress. The Empress. And off he went, a grim chuckle.
I think he's sitting quietly on some corner, waiting. There's an old battle-axe at home. My grandfather bore it in the Rurian War. I think I could still swing it if need be. I'm afraid— Alfred smiled, a steely grimace in the shadow of his visor. And led the way onward, but he was not to pass easily. He thrust aside a burly peasant who turned on him with a snarl. Mind your manners, guardsmen. It's not enough for you to be a traitor to the Empress. Aye, the shitty guards have sat about drinking and gaming and making the streets unsafe for our daughters, said another man harshly. They didn't get off their fat butts till this chance came to go yapping off the hill of the Borg. Alfred tried to shoulder past the ring of angry folk who gathered.
Aside! He called. "'Aside, or I use my spear!' "'Mind your man, his guardsman,' grinned the peasant. He came closer, and Afrik smelled the wine on his breath. "'I say we have a little fun with these priest-lovers, comrades. Or they squeal when we pummel them!' Afrik's fist shot out like a ball of iron. There was a dull smack, and the peasant flew back against the man behind. The barbarian flailed out with his spear-butt, and the crowd gave way. "'Through!' he muttered to Hildeborg. Quick, we have to get away. They're our friends, she whispered frantically. Can't we reveal and bring the guard down on this unarmed mob? We wouldn't last a moment. Come. A stone clanged against the girl's helmet. She staggered, half collapsing into Alphric's arms.
The crowd growled, beastlike, and shoved in closer. Aside, shouted Alphric. Make way or the curse of the moons is on you. You talk like a priest, said a labourer thickly. He lifted a heavy billet of wood. On em, boys! Kill em! Alfred laid the half-stunned girl on the ground, stood over her, and drew his broadsword. An outlander! shouted someone back in the sea of shadowy torch-lit, hating faces. A mercenary hunting our Empress! The mob surged against him. He thrust around with the sword, striking to disable, but not to kill. Though he'd slay if he had to, he thought desperately. Stones were flying. One hit him on the cheek. Pain knifed through his head. Hi, Ruo! he roared and banged a skull. The mob edged away a little.
Eyes and teeth gleamed white in the bloody torchlight. A trumpet blast sounded, harsh and arrogant of the rising voices. Someone screamed. Alfred saw spears aloft, steel gleaming red, a squad of guardsmen to the rescue. The rescue, he groaned, lifting Hildeborg. And sought to retreat through the crowd. Too late. The guards were hacking a bloody way through the mob. It scattered in panic, and the squad was there. Just in time, panted its chief. The folk are ugly. I've killed a dozen guardsmen already, to my knowledge. Couple of priests. I don't know how many temple slaves. Danos, smart the blasphemers. Thanks. Uffrick set the reviving girl on her feet. Now I have to go. Special mission. Urgent.
The chief looked sharply at him. You have a barbarous accent. He said slowly, and you're no Valkyrie owner, who Hildeborg groaned, stirring back to consciousness. Alphric! A boy! No! The officer stepped forth. Hildeborg's lovely face turned toward the light, and he gasped. She! Alphric picked up his spear and hurled it through the chief's throat. Then he lifted his dripping sword and stood by Hildeborg, waiting for the end. The Empress! The Empress and the Heathen, we've found them. The crowd had withdrawn, milling around the edges of the forum, too frightened and confused to help. The priest and his guards were coming on the double, yelling for help. Other armed men seemed to be springing from the ground.
Alive, shrilled the priest. Take them alive if you can. A thousand Gildars. The guards were well disciplined. They locked shields in a ring about Alfred and closed in. Man for man, he could have laughed at them, but this way. Hildeborg swayed on her feet beside him. So this is the end, she whispered. I love you, Alfrick. He howled his rage and sprang forward. The sword blurred in his hands, ringing young shields and helmets. A guard fell, shrieking, his right arm sheared off. Alfrick stabbed another in the neck, kicked a third in the groin and roared. They surged around him, hemming him in with their shields. Clubbed spears thudded against his helmet and rang it like a brazen gong. He staggered, shouted, struck out again.
The sword fell from his hands. He toppled into a clamoring darkness. Dimly, he was aware of being stripped of armor, chained hand and foot, hauled roughly to his feet. He lurched mechanically along, and slowly his head cleared. Through a mist of throbbing pain, he saw that Hildeborg walked beside him. Spears pricked their backs, the chains rattled on ankles and wrists. They were in the middle of a tight triple ring of guards, marching up the hill toward the temple. The villas of the mighty lay around them, white in the moonlight, fragrant with gardens. Alphic saw fountains splashing, and even then thought of the parched land beyond the walls, land that might flower again if it had that water.
But that would never be. He would swing high above the city. The fowks would pick at his eyes. Hildeborg would die, and the grip of the temple would be locked on Valkarion till its last stones were dust on the wind. Strength came back, a bleak resolve not to go down without one more fight. His brain began whirring. The old, cold craftiness of his turbulent lifetime surged forward, hopeless. They were caught. They were done. All his struggles were the vain writhings of a beast in a cage. So this ends it. Hildeborg's voice was weary. Then she smiled a little. But we made a good try, Alfrick. And warmly. And we have loved each other. That is enough. It is not, he answered. But it is something. Silence, commanded the priest.
Now there were on the hillcrest the mighty walls of the temple looming before them. Alfrick saw it a swarm with slaves and guards and priests of all degrees. The gung-beat was a steady, tremendous crashing. It seemed to fill the world with its brazen clamour. High rose the chant of the moon wedding. The warrior glanced aside, over to the palace. There was a bridge spanning the gully between the two hillcrests, and guards were on it. Other guards, city and temple, were besieging the palace. He saw their fires in a ring about it. They were setting up a great ballista whose stones he knew. Would bring the walls down in ruin. From the hilltop he could see over the moon-whitened desert and the vast reach of the old sea bottom.
Once it had been blue and alive, glittering with sunlight, the long waves rolling in to crash and foam and thunder on a dazzling beach. The harbor of Valkarion had been crowded with ships from all over the world, a forest of tall masts, a wild perfumery of salt and tar, and the spices of the south. And beyond, the land had been green, and white clouds had sailed through a soft blue summer sky. Well, it was gone. The world was dried into desert and scrubby forest and harsh meadowland, sand blue in the ancient beds of rivers and seas. The air was thin and chill and held a bitter tang of rust. The cities were in ruins. The empire was a shadow. And man was gone back to a few wretched remnants sinking into barbarism and death.
Alfrick looked up to the cold, splendid night sky. There was a tradition from the wise ancients, he had once been told, that those swarming, bright star hosts were other worlds and suns, happier maybe than this. It was some consolation. The moons were near their mating now. Bright Danos was sweeping triumphantly down on pale Mother Amaris. He would cover her. And then pass on, and out of that wedding would come the fate of the world. Cold fate, dark destiny, night and famine and death. The moons hurtling over a world sunk into final oblivion. Well, men died, sometime or other, and all they could do about it was to meet the end bravely. Alfred squared his shoulders and marched into the temple.
There was a long corridor at the end of which he saw a vast room. Flashing in gold and silver and fiery jewels, draped with the costliest ancient tapestries. Even then, Alphic's eyes gleamed greenly to loot that room. They turned off along another hall, and then down a stone-cut flight of steps into the temple dungeons. Alphic had been in enough jails before not to find the damp, rough-hewn rock tunnels strange, but Hildeborg shuddered and pressed closer to him. A scream echoed down the corridor, rose and fell. And died raggedly into the echoes. The priest smirked. A heretic is being shown the error of his ways, he said unctuously. He blasphemed against the moons and swore he would abide by the Empress.
Then the gods abide by him, said Hildeborg defiantly. The gods thrust them into a cell, little more than a cave chipped out of the hill's heart and locked their chains to staples in the walls. They were held barely able to move, facing each other. With a few scant inches between them. Miles between. A world between, thought Alfred wearily. He would never kiss her again. The guards clanged the door shut and left them in utter darkness. Hildeborg's voice trembled, but she spoke bravely. What can we do? Nothing now. The barbarian strained against his chains, felt their solidity and relaxed. Wait for a chance, maybe. Otherwise, die. I don't want to die, Elfrick. I want to live. I want to see the sky, and feel the wind, and bear your sons.
I don't enjoy the thought of death either, dearest, if we had fled to Aslak. But we didn't, and for myself I am still glad, though, that you should die too. Her voice broke, and he heard her quiet sobbing in the dark. He tried to find words, but they were awkward, so he fell into silence. Presently the door opened again. A man came in, with only two torch-bearing temple slaves accompanying. Alfred looked at his magnificent robes, and knew him for Therokos, the high priest. He was tall, stoop-shouldered, a little on the fat side, but well muscled underneath. His face was wide and heavy, sallow under the high-shaven forehead, the mouth hard and thin, the eyes small and black and glittering cold.
When he spoke, His voice was wondrous, a deep organ which he played like a master musician. So we meet again, your majesty, he said and bowed. There was little mockery in his tones. He seemed straightforward and businesslike. Hildeborg did not answer. She stood with her beauteous form in its ragged soldier's tunic pressed against the wall. Her sweat-dampened black hair clumped off her forehead, fell down her shoulders in a shining wave. In the restless torchlight her face was white and drawn, streaked with blood and dirt and the tracks of tears. But she gave the high priest glance for glance, and her lips were steady. Therakos looked Alfred's tall form up and down. "'And so you are the conqueror of the prophecy,' he murmured.
"'A mighty man. But just how did you think you could do it? Who are your allies in the city? What was your plan?' "'I'm Alfred of Aslak.' "'And I came here without friends or plan, knowing nothing of any prophecy,' answered the barbarian coldly. "'And you are a misbegotten son of a she-gown, with whose head I will yet play football.' "'Come now,' said the rocker softly. "'Surely you do not expect me to believe you are here by mere chance. Your cause is lost. You are doomed. But you can save yourself through the Inquisition, and die easily, if you will tell us what you know.' "'I know nothing, you Gerard.' You may know more after the Inquisitionists have worked on you a while, said the raucous coldly, then turning to Hildeborg, his voice suddenly rich and warm, throbbing with love and pity.
My lady, my lady, you do not know how I regret this, that the Empress of Algarion should, even for dire necessity, be thus humiliated as the greatest sorrow of my life. Hildeborg's lip curled. I see you weeping. She said coldly. But I do, my lady. My heart is ashes within me. Only need drove me to this, and it is not yet too late to repent, your Majesty. What the moons have taken, the moons can restore. Surely, my lady, said the Rokas reasonably, you can see the absolute necessity of my actions. Under the law you could not rule. And there was no imperial heir. Without the strong hand, leaderless Valkarion would have split under the quarrelling of the nobles and the lawlessness of the commons.
Easy prey for barbarian enemies such as this man, and the Sybil's warning would have come true. With the Imperium gone, the temple, sole remaining pillar of Valkarion, must bear the burden of state. In other words, said Helborg coldly, You will have yourself anointed Theocrat. The Moons have seen fit thus to honor my unworthiness, said the Ruckus, but it would still be well if we should unite our forces. You have many loyal friends, my lady, myself not the least of them. If you will but wed me, we can together unite the factions in the city, and build the Empire anew." She smiled, almost a sneer. Yours was a strange courtship. I have told you how the necessity grieved me," said the priest. Suddenly his voice came hard as steel, cold as winter and death.
It is now my duty to offer you a choice. Call on your troops to surrender, your followers in the city to desist from their treasonous activities, and wed me this night. He paused. Burn at the stake for blasphemy and witchcraft, but first you will be tied down, and every slave in the temple have his way with you. That might not be worse than leading my men into your hands, she fled, but her face was suddenly bloodless. You will be surprised how much worse it will be, especially since your men will die anyway, but I will offer you this too, if you call on them to surrender, those who do may go into exile. She stood a moment in silence, and Alphic knew what horror must be clawing her heart. Then she nodded toward him.
What of my protector here? The heathen bandit must die in any case, that the city may know itself safe from him and the prophecy, said the rockers. He still has his choice of easy hanging or slow torture, but if you refuse me, Hildeborg, he will no longer have the choice. He will go to hell by inches, cursing you for it. The lovely dark head bowed. It was as if a flame had gone out. Alfred felt ill at seeing her thus broken, given over to a lifetime's poisoning. Golden chains they would be, but no less heavy and galling. "'Goodbye, my dear,' he whispered. "'Goodbye. I will always love you.' She made no reply, but said to Therakos tonelessly, "'I yield me.' Lord.
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17 17 - The Virgin of Valkarion, Chapter Five 12:59
The Virgin of Valkarion, Chapter Five.
The High Priest's face lit, and Alfred realized dully that Theracus, too, loved the Queen, in his own cold way. "'You do well, beautiful one,' he said shakily. He came over and kissed her and fondled her stiff body. You have never done better, Black Witch. Now, come to your wedding. He signed to the two slaves, who scounced their torches and took a key from their master. They unlocked Hildeborg's chains, and she almost fell into Theracus's arms. He caressed her, murmuring softly. There, dear. Easy. You will wash and eat and— Rest. You will wear the robes of honor. Be at ease. You're safe now. You're mine forever. Aye. She braced herself, every muscle tautened under the silken skin, and suddenly she hurled the priest from her, sent him staggering against Elfrick.
Kill! she screamed. The barbarian snarled, wadled with a sudden murderous glory, and his manacled hands shut out. One gripped the raucous over the mouth. And the other sank steely fingers into the wattled throat. The two slaves sprang at him like wild garms. Knives flashed in the bloody light. Hildeborg snatched a torch and swept its flaming end across the eyes of one. He screamed wordlessly, rolling over and over, clawing at his face. Hildeborg snatched up his dagger and lunged at the other. Alfred groaned. What chance does she have against the deadly experience of a temple assassin? The raucous had gone limp. Alfrick flung the heavy body crashing into the slave. They went down together. Hildeborg leaped in, her knife rising and falling, and rising again, streaming red.
Then she was in his arms, shaken by wild sobbing. He held her close, kissed her, stroked her hair, and had time for a dim, wondering amazement that such a woman should have lain in his... his... fate. There was no time to lose. Unlock me, he said. Unlock me, and let's get out of this den of the Uyghur. She searched Therakos's robes for the key, found it, and cast the chains rattling aside. Elfric snatched up a knife with an uneasy glance at the door, but the noise had drawn no guards. They must be used to screams in this part of the temple. Therakos stirred, groaning. Elfric's big brown form stooped over him. Dagger against throat. Up with you, fat Gerard, hissed the northerner. Up, and not a word, or you'll be spilling guts over the floor.
The high priest climbed unsteadily to his feet. Now, lead us out by a secret way, rasped Afrik. There is none, groaned Therakos. Afrik slapped him with savage fury. Shut up! I know there is. You priests are like burrowing snakes. You've more than one exit to your halls. March, and if we meet guards, you'll die first. The Rakos flung him a glance of utter hate, but stumbled obediently ahead. The empty corridor echoed dully to their footfalls. Near its end, the Rakos pressed a camouflaged stud, and a section of the rock wall swung aside on eyes-less hinges. Hildeborg took a torch from the wall and closed the door behind them. They went down a long, sloping tunnel, so low that Alfred had to stoop.
You cannot hope to escape, said the ruckus, his voice again under his wondrous control. Best you give up peacefully, saving trouble and lives on both sides. In exchange, I will offer better terms than before. What? asked Alfred skeptically. Weapons, money, and hellengists. Then you can leave the city for the hell that awaits you. And my men, insisted Hildeborg, exile with you. Alfred pondered the proposal. If they could get free, with men at their back, they could always raise an army for a new attempt. But surely Therakos was aware of that, so if he had some trick, then it would be strange if he did not. How do we know you'll keep the bargain? He asked coldly. You have the honor of the hired priest.
answered Therakos laughterly. Alfred sneered, and Therakos added, Also, I assume you keep me prisoner until you are safe. It does not sound ill, mused Hildeborg. Nor did it to Alfred, but he shook his head stubbornly. I must trust him. Moreover, a new war, after he had time to get ready, would take time and lives, and might fail. If tonight is indeed the night of destiny, we can still strike. With what? Jeered Therakos. Afrik was not quite sure himself, but prodded the captive ungently onward. They came to another hinged rock, and Therakos opened that door for them. Afrik's spine crawled with a thought of what might lie beyond. He kept the dagger against Therakos's back as they stepped out. They were in the shadows of a ruined portico, in a deserted section at the bottom of the hill.
White and serene, The ancient columns lifted toward the two moons. The gracious remnants of elder days stretched on either side, half-buried by drifting sand. Black against the sky, the temple loomed on the hillcrest, but Alfred saw no movement. Hildeborg slipped against him. Now what shall we do? she whispered. He laughed softly, the old grim battlejoy flowing up in him. Weariness and despair fell off like an outworn cloak. There was new strength in his thews and a goal in his mind. I heard, down there, how Valkarion really hates the priests, he said. The city is seething with revolt, which wants only a leader. Could the common folk rise, and I think nigh all the city guards, impressed into priest service by fear, would come over to their side.
And you, they love you, Hildeborg. Could you go to shore, friends? "'Aye, there is Bronn, the merchant, and Captain Hassalon, the guard, and many. Then go, slip down to them, give them word and tell them to pass it on, to shout it over the city. You, the Empress, the divinely appointed Lady of Valkarion, tell the folk to rise against the temple. Let them storm the citadel, and they may have the looting of it," he chuckled. "'That should bring in the laggards.' "'But untrained mobs against the guards.' There will be other guardsmen on your side, and, this is my part, your household will also be there. But they're besieged. I'll get them out. Afrik stripped off the ruckus' gold-braided cloak and slung it over her shoulders.
This will cover you well enough so you can get to your friends unharmed. Now go, Hildeborg, and Ruho go with you. He kissed her with a wild hunger that dissolved into tenderness. Stay out of danger, he whispered. Stay in a safe place till I come for you, Hildeborg. Sirakos scuttled aside. Oh no, snarled Alfrick and stabbed. The priest tumbled, with blood rivering from his stomach, choking his screams. Alfrick took Hildeborg again in his arms. Goodbye, my dearest dear. She slipped into the shadows. Alfrick sighed, wondering with a brief heaviness if he would ever see her again. He knew full well how desperate his gamble was. Well, there was work to be done. He turned and ran crouched along the hell-side, weaving in and out of darkness.
The moons were almost at their mating now, flooding the city with chill, silver radiance. He grinned up at them, and what did they think of this ruination of their ancient godhead? He could hardly imagine them caring about it. Surely Danos, the swift warrior, and bright mother Amaris, Had more use for an honest fighting man and his warm-hearted love than for a bunch of snivelling shave-pates. All honour to the moons, but not to tyrants and murderers in their name. He was in the gully now, between temple and palace. Snake-like, he crawled under the shadow of the bridge to its farther end, where he peered cautiously around an abutment. The trampled gardens were full of city and temple guards, whose watch-fires ringed the palace.
He saw the light a gleam on spears and swords and armour, and had time to wonder if he would ever make it past them. But he had to try. He drew in a deep breath, tightened his muscles, and ran. Like a flying owl he ran, noiseless on bare feet, and none saw him before he was hugged against a low thorn tree near one of the fires. Up it he went, wincing as the thorns raked him and slipped along a branch almost overhanging the blaze. He caught sight of muttered conversation. When they finish those siege engines, down the palace goes, but the household will be like a swarm of stingerasts. I don't relish fighting the best swords in Valkyrie. No, but we outnumbered them. My cousin is in there. I hate to think if...
Alphric sprang, he sawed from his perch, and crashed into the chest of the man he had picked. The guard went down in a clang of armour and dry snap of breaking ribs. Alphric snatched his spear and jabbed it through the groin of another. Through that gap, then, he raced low and zigzag among the bushes. The siege line roared. The air was suddenly thick with spears and arrows. Alfred felt One rake his leg and cursed between gasps. To the palace. "'Open!' he howled. "'Open! Let me by in the name of the Empress!' If the garrison took this for a ruse and shot him, it was all over. He plunged up the long staircase, past the crouching craven sphinxes of the Empire. The doors had been broken down in the first assault, but the Imperials had put up a barricade.
He saw steel flash as he neared it. "'Hail the Borg!' he bawled. "'Live the Empress!' They held their fire. He fell under the barricade while their arrows hummed overhead. The disorderly temple pursuit broke into retreat, back out of bow shot. Alfred climbed over the barricade into the great palace antechamber. Its golden glory was gutted by fighting. Splashed with dry blood, the tapestries in rags and the furniture splintered. Dead men and wounded lay side by side against the walls, under the ancient murals of the Empire's greatness. A dozen tall cuirassiers, in gold and purple uniforms, now torn and bloodstained, stood waiting for him. Their spears and swords, axes and bows were at the ready, their haggard faces bleak with suspicion.
Who are you? demanded the captain. What is this? I'm Alphric of Aslac, panted the newcomer. A barbarian! THE barbarian! The outlander of the prophecy! They hefted their weapons, eyes narrowing, mouths drawing into tart lines. I'm with Hildeborg, against the temple, said Alphric. It was with my help she escaped their net. Now she leads all of us to overthrow her foes. How do we know you speak truth? snapped the captain. "'You'll know it when I lead you out against the temple.' "'Out? To be cut down by thrice our number? Go to.' "'They'll have more to worry about than us,' said Alphric. In hard, brief words, he told them the plan. At the end of it, the Tarl captain clapped his shoulder and said in a voice suddenly warm, "'That is a tale whose truth we can see for ourselves when the Empress's folk come up against the temple.
So I'll believe it for one. I am Ganymos of the Imperial Household. Welcome.' Alfred Kvaslak. The barbarian nodded, too weary for speech-making. Give me some water and wine and a little to eat, he said. I'll wash, refresh myself, and be ready to go with you at the time of uprising. If we hit the temple from the side, then it will fall. But he had scarcely gotten clean, donned a guardsman's armour, and stretched himself on a couch for a moment's nap when he heard the blare of trumpets. Ganymos burst into the room where he lay, shouting. The temple's men are storming us again in full force, and no help from the city in sight. Up! Up! And die!
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18 18 - The Virgin of Valkarion, Chapter Six 11:40
The Virgin of Ocarion. Chapter Six. Elfrick swung to his feet, suddenly raging. The Rokos, he growled. I thought the devil was lying dead, but someone must have found him. He knows the plan, means to thwart it by taking us before Hildeborg's force can be raised. Without us to attack from the flank... The temple may well drive off her assault. Ganymas fingered his short sword with an ominous side glance. Unless this be some treachery of yours, barbarian, he murmured. What difference has my coming made in your actions so far? snapped Alfred. The enemy camp would have come here to fight on your side when they attacked. Aye, truth, truth. But come, Ganymas smiled twistedly. If this is your night of destiny, as they say, Alfred, the fates of their work cut out for them.
A roar of battle rose as they came out into the antechamber. Ganymos groaned. There are too many ways into this damned building. We have to guard them all when we lost a quarter of our men the first time. If the temple men assault one point in strength, they'll be inside. Let them, blazed Alphric. His eyes were like a green fire under the swaying crystal candelabra. Send messengers to all entrances, Ganymos. Tell the men there to retreat, firing the palace to hinder pursuit. We'll gather all our forces here. Burn the palace, cried the guardsman. I swore to defend it. You swore to defend the Imperial family too, didn't you? If we can't get outside to help the Empress, there'll be a hell of a use to her.
Now go! There was no gainsaying the wild power which blazed in the northerner. Ganymus went, shouting. Elfrick swung joyously to the barricade, lifting the battle-axe he had taken in preference to a short-sword. The archers and spearmen were sending forth a deadly hail, but they could not halt the enemy charge. Alfrick saw that there was cavalry coming against the main entrance, with foot soldiers behind. If they got over or through the flimsy barrier, Spears! he roared. Spearmen, hold firm! He led the way to the barricade top and ranked his guardsmen. They were his now. He was again master of war, an equal of kings. In a tight line, with spears braced outward, Now hold! he shouted. Hold for the sake of Ruho!
The Hengists thundered up the stairs, against the portico, against and up the sides of the barricade in a living wave. For a moment, battle raged. The heap of wooden stone chunks broke some of the speed of the charge, but still it shocked against the spear line with a fury that trembled in the walls. Metal clanged. Men shouted. Hengists screamed in a boiling tide of struggle. Alphric saw a spearman fall, spitted on a lance. He snatched the shaft and thrust it into the throat of the Hengist breaking through. With all his straining force, he rammed it home and steed and Ryder tumbled back. The cavalry broke, Hengist's bucking, refusing to hit that gleaming line again. The temple infantry line scattered as the maddened animals trampled into it.
Householders were streaming into the antechamber, and Alfreq's nostrils quivered to the first acrid whiffs of smoke, with a burning palace behind them. The Imperials need have less fear of an attack from the rear. The infantry will be up against us in a moment, panted Ganymas. Aye, we'd better charge out while they're still disorganized, said Alfred. We'll assault the temple itself, and pray your moons help comms ere we're cut down. We'll die like men anyway, said Ganymas. Not like beasts in a trap. Thank you for that, stranger. Then, high Heldaborg, Alfred plunged over the barricade. The household guards followed, a wave that formed into a wedge and plunged across the gardens. The finest warriors of Alcarion hit the wavering temple forces, like a spear going home.
Axe and sword, spear and arrow, clang and roar of metal, whirring weapons, rushing blood, shouts and curses, screams, deep-throated oaths, death unchained in the gardens of Alcarion. Alfred led the way at the point of the wedge, smiting, smiting. No man could stand before his raging fury. His axe was a dazzle and thunder before him. Hewing, hewing, he led the household forth. Hildeborg! Hi, Hildeborg! The war-cry shouted over the hills, rang in echoes with the clamour of metal and shock of combat. Hildeborg! These householders fought like demons, thought Alfred dimly as he struck. At the faces and bodies which loomed briefly out of night and shadow, into the red dance of fire. How they fought, but, Ruho, if he only had a levy of Aslakan axemen behind him now.
They won through to the bridge, through and over, in a dash that drove the few guards before it like dry leaves before a gale. Alfrick turned, gasping to Ganymos. Hold the bridge, he said. As soon as we're all over, hold the bridge. That'll protect our way from cavalry. Hengiths can't go through that steep gully. And when the foot soldiers have gathered enough wits to come after us that way, you can throw spears down on top of them. Oh, your majesty. The title came without thought to the soldier's lips as he saluted and turned to hail a squad to stay with him. Alfrick led the assault of the rest on the temple. There were fewer guards on this side of the gully. He hewed at one. And felt the shock of the splitting skull through his arms and shoulders, rattling his teeth.
Howling, he yanked the weapon free and brought it up to knock aside a sword thrust and beat the fulmin to earth. Back the household drove the guards, back to the scowling walls of the temple. Weird battle, in darkness and cold, with the moons and the great rising flames for fitful illumination. Strange. To trade blows with men who were only red highlights against the roaring night. For a timeless interval, it was all clamour and death and flying steel. But the household was being carved away. Man after man fell, and now the palace besiegers were streaming through the gully. Ganymos and his squad cut off on the bridge. High Hildeborg, it had been a lovely fight, but it was nearing its end. Alfred looked up at the mighty sky.
And he saw the majestic shield of Danos slip over Amaris. The light was cut off. The Hiltop grew dimmer. The moons were mated. Oh, Hildeborg, if only—he looked along the wall, against which he now had his back, and saw the torches which swept up the hill, saw the dark mass of humanity, and heard its beast-cry for blood, and his heart leaped into his throat, and he laughed aloud under Danos. For here was life again. "'Aye, Hildeborg!' he roared. The remaining troopers heard him and lifted their weary heads to sea. They answered his cry then and hewed away to where he stood. And now the dismayed temple forces were breaking. The household swept along the walls toward the temple gates. Battle raged there as the rebel guards and the blood-howling mob bore down on the garrison.
Fire was already licking at the rafters. The temple would soon stand aflame, even as the palace was burning, as the Empire was burning and sundering. The two pillars of Alcarion were crashing to earth, and what would be left when they were gone? By the leaping fire blaze, Alfrig saw the torn and trampled bodies of priests and slaves. He recognized one battered face and stooped over for a closer look. The Rokkos lay dead. His wounds somehow bandaged and braced, his body cased in armour, he lay where he had fallen. Well, the High Priest had been a brave man in his way. Alfred gave him warriors salute and passed on to join the fight. An armoured figure astride a great war hangist was leading the charge.
Even without hearing that lovely voice crying its challenge, Alfred would have known her. He sprang forward, crying out, and seized the bridle. Pulling her aside, just as the gate's defense broke, and the attackers burst into the temple. I told you to stay in a safe place, he raged. Huge and blood smeared, his lean face painted red by the rising fires, his eyes like green ice in the moonlight, he stood looking up at her. Hildeborg laughed. You're still a poor fool, Laufric, she said. Could I stay at home while you were fighting for me? He took off her helmet. Her dark hair streamed down over his face as she leaned forward to kiss him. In the sky, Danos swept past Amaris and swung eastward toward the horizon.
Dawn came, chill and grey, full of weariness and the sobbing of women. Alfred stood leaning in a spear atop the flat roof of Bronn the Merchant, and looked out over the city. A leather cloak Hung from his broad shoulders against the thin, bitter dawn wind. His face was drawn into bleak lines. To him came Hildeborg, lovely in the cold, colourless light, her unbound locks floating in the breeze. He looked at her in a vague wonder as to how many women she really was, the passionate lover of the tavern, the haughty queen who had faced the captive guard and the captive priest. The wild war-goddess of the battle. And now this girl, slim and fair and mysterious, with wind-cooled cheeks and a secret laughter behind her eyes.
Which was the real one? Were they all Hildeborg? And would he ever know? He touched his arm. We've won, she whispered. Aye. Won, said Alfred tiredly. Won what? The temple is down. But so is the palace, and there's still riot and looting in the city. It will pass. Victory was dearly bought, but now it is ours. And you, Alfrick, are ruler of Valkarion. Aye, a heathen outlander. After last night, the household and the guards will follow you to hell and back, and the rest, she smiled slyly, will follow me, who follow you myself. A big task, too big, perhaps. For the son of an Aslagan peasant, Alfred smiled crookedly down at Hildeborg. "'Tis more for you, who are born a queen. Best I continue my travels."
"'The queen,' she said firmly, "'needs a king. You have come to the end of your wandering, Alfred.' She laughed, a clear beautiful sound in the quiet morning. "'You have no choice, my dear. The Sibyl grudgingly admits that the 40th dynasty, sons of the heathen.' "'We'll be among the greatest. But how can you have sons without—' Elfrick grinned. "'I surrender,' he said. "'Who am I to challenge the fates?' Down in the street, a hengist escaped from his owner in the rioting, whinnied his greeting to the early son.
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19 19 - Catalysis, Part One 23:46
Catalysis, Part One.
When you looked outside, it was into darkness. Going out yourself, you could let your eyes accommodate. At high noon, the sun was a sharp spark in a dusky heaven, and its light amounted to about one-ninth of one percent. The great fields of ice and frozen gases reflected enough to help vision, but upthrust crags and cliffs of naked rock were like blackened teeth. Seventy hours later, when Triton was on the other side of the primary that is always faced, there was a midnight thick enough to choke you. The stars flashed and glittered, a steely twinkle through a gaunt atmosphere, mostly hydrogen. Strange to see the old lost constellations of Earth, here on the edge of the deep. Neptune was at the foal, a giant, sprawling across eight degrees of sky, bluish-gray and smoky banded, but it caught so little sunlight that men groped in blindness.
They set up floodlights, or had lamps glaring from their tracks, to work at all. But nearly everything went on indoors. Tunnels. Connected the various buildings on the hill. Instruments were of necessity designed to operate in the open, without needing human care. Men rarely had occasion to go out anymore, which was just as well, for it takes considerable power and insulation to keep a man alive when the temperature hovers around sixty degrees Kelvin. And so you stood at a meter-thick port of insult glass and looked out, and saw... Only night. Thomas Gilchrist turned away from the view with a shudder. He had always hated cold, and it was as if the bitterness beyond the lab dome had seeped in to touch him.
The cluttered gleam of instruments in the room, desk piled high with papers and microspools, the subdued chatter of a computer chewing a problem, were comforting. He remembered his purpose and went, With a long, low-gravity stride to check the mineralogical unit, it was busily breaking down materials fetched in by the robo-samplers, stones never found on Earth, because Earth is not the mercury-sized satellite of an outer planet, nor has it seen some mysterious catastrophe in the unknown time back near the beginning of things. Recording meters wavered needles across their dials. Data tapes clicked out. He would soon have the basic information. Then he would try to figure out how the mineral could have been formed, and give his hypothesis to the computer for mathematical analysis of possibility and start on some other sample.
For a while Gilchrist stood watching the machine, a cigarette smouldered forgotten between his fingers. He was a short, pudgy young man, with unkempt hair above homely features. Pale blue eyes blinked nearsightedly. Behind contact lenses. His myopia was not enough to justify surgery. Tunic and slacks were rumpled beneath the grey smock. Behold the bold pioneer, he thought. His self-deprecating sarcasm was mildly non-sane, he knew, but he couldn't stop. It was like biting an aching tooth. Only a dentist could fix the tooth in an hour, while a scarred soul took years to heal. It was like his eyes. The trouble wasn't bad enough to require long, expensive repair, so he limped through life. Raphael Allemann came in, small and dark and cheerful.
Hello, he said. How goes it? He was one of the hill's organic chemists, as Gilchrist was the chief physical chemist, but his researches into low-temperature properties were turning out so disappointingly that he had plenty of time to annoy others. Nevertheless, Gilchrist liked him. As he liked most people. So, so, it takes time. Time we have enough of, mi amigo, said El Amarn. Two years we have been here, and three years more it'll be before the ship comes to relieve us, he grimaced. Ah, when I am back to Durango Unit, how fast my savings will disappear. You didn't have to join the Corps, and you didn't have to volunteer for Trident Station, Gilquist pointed out. The little man shrugged, spreading slender hands.
Confidential, I will tell you. I had heard such colorful tales of outpost life, but the only result is that I am now a married man, not that I have anything but praise for my dear Maywha, but it is not the abandonment one had hoped for. Gilchrist chuckled. Outer Planet Stations did have a slightly lurid reputation, and no doubt it has been justified several years ago. After all, the voyage was so long and costly that it could not be made often. He established a self-sufficient colony of scientists and left it there to carry on its researches for years at a time. But self-sufficiency includes psychic elements, recreation, alcohol, entertainment, the opposite, sex. A returning party always took several children home.
Scientists tended to be more objective about morals, or at least more tolerant of the other fellows than most. So when a hundred or so people were completely isolated, And ordinary amusements had parled. It followed out that there would be a good deal of what some would call sin. Not Triton, said Gilquist. He forgot that there's been another cultural shift in the past generation, more emphasis on the stable family. And I imagine the old man picked his gang with an eye to such attitudes. Result? The would-be rounders find themselves so small a minority that it has a dampening effect. Si, I know, but you have never told me your real reason for coming here, Thomas. Gilchrist felt his face grow warm.
Research, he answered shortly. There are a lot of interesting problems connected with Neptune. Elliman cocked a mildly sceptical eyebrow but said nothing. Gilchrist wondered how much he guessed. That was the trouble with being shy. In your youth, you acquired bookish tastes. Only a similarly oriented wife would do for you, so you didn't meet many women and didn't know how to behave with them anyhow. Gilchrist Who was honest with himself, admitted he'd had wistful thoughts about encountering the right girl here, under informal conditions where he had, and he was still helpless. Suddenly he grinned. I'll tell you what, he said. I also came because I don't like cold weather. Came to Neptune? Sure.
On Earth you can stand even a winter day, so you have to. Here, since the local climate would kill you in a second or two, you're always well protected from it. Gilchrist waved at the viewport. Only I wish they didn't have that bloody window in my lab. Every time I look out, it reminds me that just beyond the wall, nitrogen is a solid. Yo comprendo, said Aleman. The power of suggestion. Even now at your words I feel a chill. Gilchrist started with surprise. You know, somehow I have the same. Just a minute. He went over to a workbench. His inframicrometer had an air thermometer attached. To make temperature corrections. What the devil? he muttered. It is cooled off. Only eighteen degrees in here.
It's supposed to be twenty-one. Some fluctuation in temperature has an ozone content in humidity, reminded Alleman, that is required for optimum health. Not this time of day it shouldn't be varying. Gilchrist was reminded of his cigarette, as it nearly burned his fingers. He stubbed it out and took another, and inhaled to light it. I'm going to raise your handgear and complain, he said. This could play merry hell with exact measurements. Elman trotted after him as he went to the door. It was manually operated, and the intercoms were at particular points instead of every room. You had to forgo a number of earthside comforts here. There was a murmuring around him as he hurried down the corridor.
Some doors stood open, showing the various chemical and biological sections. The physicists had their own dome on the other side of the hill, and even so were apt to curse the stray fields generated here. If they had come this far to get away from solar radiations, it was only reasonable, as anyone but a chemist could see, that— The screen stood at the end of the hall, next to the tunnel stairs. Gilchrist checked himself and stood with a swift, wild pulse on his throat. Catherine Bardas was using it. He had often thought that the modern fashion of outbreeding yielded humans more handsome than any pure racial type could be. When a girl was half Greek and half Amerind, and a gifted biosynthesizer on top of it, a man like him could only stare.
Mohamed Jahangir's brown-bearded face registered more annoyance than admiration as he spoke out of the screen. Yes, Dr. Bardass, he said with a strained courtesy. I know. My office is being swamped with complaints. Well, what's the trouble? asked the girl. Her voice was low and gentle, even at this moment. I'm not sure, said the engineer. The dome's temperature is dropping, that's all. We haven't located the trouble yet, but it can't be serious. All I'm asking, said Catherine Bardath patiently, is how much longer this will go on, and how much lower it's going to get. I'm trying to synthesize a cell, and it takes precisely controlled conditions. If the air temperature drops another five degrees, my thermostat won't be able to compensate.
Oh, well, I'm sure you can count on repair being complete before that happens. All right, said Catherine sweetly. If not, though, I'll personally bung you out of the main airlock, sans spacesuit. Jehangir laughed and cut off. The light of flora tubes slid blue-black off the girl's shoulder-length hair as she turned around. Her face was smooth and dark. With high cheekbones and a lovely moulding of lips and nose and chin. Oh, hello, Tom, she smiled. All through here. Never mind, he fumbled. I was only going to ask about it myself. Well, she yawned and stretched, with breathtaking effect. I suppose I'd better get back and— Ah, why so, senorita, replied Alamon. If the work does not need your personal attention just now, come join me in a little drink.
It is near dinner time anyhow. "'All right,' he said. "'How about you, Tom?' He merely nodded, with fear of stuttering, and accompanied them down the stairs and into the tunnel. Half of him raged at his own timidity. Why hadn't he made that suggestion? The passages connecting the domes were all alike, straight, featureless holes lined with plastic. Behind lay insulation and the pipes of the common heating system. Then, more insulation, finally the hill itself. That was mostly porous iron. Surprisingly pure, though it held small amounts of potassium and aluminum oxide. The entire place was a spongy ferrous outcropping, but then Triton was full of geological freaks. How goes your work? asked Elamond sociably.
Oh, pretty well, said Catherine. I suppose you know we've synthesized virus which can live outside. Now we're trying to build bacteria to do the same. On a professional level, Gilchrist was not a bad conversationalist. His trouble was that not everyone likes to talk shop all the time. Is there any purpose in that, other than pure research, to see if you can do it? he inquired. I can't imagine any attempt ever being made to colonize this moon. Well, you'll never know, she answered. If there's ever any reason for it, dioxide-reducing germs will be needed. As well as having a nuclear heating system for a whole world, and what do your life forms use for energy, though? Hardly enough sunlight, I should think.
Oh, but there is. With the right biochemistry, with the right catalysts, analogous to our own enzyme. It makes a pretty feeble type of life, of course, but I hope to get bacteria which can live off the local auras and frozen gases by exothermic reactions. Don't forget, when it's really cold, a thermal engine can have a very high efficiency, and all living organisms are thermal engines of a sort. He took the stairs leading up into the main dome. Apartments, refectories, social centers, and offices. Another stair led downward to the central heating plant in the body of the hill. Gilchrist saw an engineer going that way with a metering kit and a worried look. The bar was crowded. This was a cocktail hour for the swing shift, and, popular opinion to the contrary, a scientist likes his meals regular and only lives off sandwiches brought to the lab when he must.
They found a table and sat down. Nobody had installed the dial units, so junior technicians earned extra money as waiters. One of them took their orders and chits. The ventilators struggled gallantly with the smog. It hazed the murals with which some homesick soul had tried to remember the green earth. A couple of astronomers at the next table were noisily disputing theories. Damn it! Pluto's got to be an escaped satellite of Neptune. Look at their orbits, and Pluto is where Neptune should be according to Bose's law. I know, I've heard that song before. I suppose you favour the Invader theory. What else will account for the facts? A big planet comes wandering in, yanks Neptune sunward, and frees Pluto.
But Neptune carries a satellite of the Invader. Triton has got to be a captured body, with this screwy retrograde orbit, and no need— Have you ever analysed the mechanics of that implausible proposition? Look here. A pencil came out and began scribbling on the long-suffering tabletop. Catherine chuckled. I wonder if we'll ever find out, she murmured. Gilchrist rubbed chilled fingers together. Blasted. The air was still cooling off. It'd be interesting to land a ship on Nepp himself and check the geology, he said. A catastrophe like that would leave traces. When they can build a ship capable of landing on a major planet without being squeezed flat by the air pressure, that'll be the day. I think we'll have to settle for telescopes and spectroscopes for a long, long time to come.
The girl's voice trailed off, and her dark, fine head poised. The loudspeaker was like thunder. Dr. Vesey! Dr. Vesey! Please contact Engineering Office! Dr. Vesey! Please contact Dr. Yehange! Over. For a moment, there was silence in the bar. I wonder what the trouble is, said Aleman. Something to do with the heating plant, I suppose. Again, Catherine's tones died, and they stared at each other. The station was a magnificent machine. It represented an engineering achievement which would have been impossible even fifty years ago. It kept a hundred human creatures warm and moist. It replenished their air and synthesized their food and raised a wall of light against darkness. But it had not the equipment to call across nearly four and a half billion kilometers of vacuum.
It had no ship of its own, and the great core vessel would not be back for three years. It was a long way to Earth. Dinner was a silent affair that period. There were a few low-voiced exchanges, but they only seemed to deepen the waiting stillness, and the cold grew apace. You could see your breath, and your thin garments were of little help. The meal was over, and the groups of friends were beginning to drift out of the refectory when the intercoms woke up again. This chamber had a vision screen, not an eye stirred from Dr. Samuel Vesey as he looked into it. His lips were firm. And his voice steady, but there was a gleam of sweat on the ebony skin, despite the cold. He stared directly before him and spoke.
Attention our personnel. Emergency situation. Your attention, please. After a moment he seemed to relax formality, and he spoke as if face to face. You've all noticed our trouble. Something's gone wrong with the heating plant, and Dr. Jahangir's crew haven't located the trouble so far. Now there's no reason for panic. The extrapolated curve of temperature decline indicates that at worst it'll level off at about zero centigrade. That won't be fun, but we can stand it till the difficulty has been found. Everyone is advised to dress as warmly as possible. Food and air plant crews are going on emergency status. All projects requiring energy sources are cancelled till further notice. According to the meters, there's nothing wrong with the pile.
It's still putting out as much heat as it always has. But somehow that heat hasn't gotten to us as it should. The engineers are checking the pipes now. I'll have a stat of the findings made up and issued. Suggestions are welcome, but please take them to my office. The engineers have their own work to do. Above all, don't panic. This is a nuisance, I know, but there's no reason to be afraid. All personnel not needed at once stand by. The following specialists please report to me. He read off the list. Our physicists. Then closed his talk with a forced grin and thumbs up. As if it had broken a dam, the message released a babble of words. Gilchrist saw Catherine striding out of the room and hastened after her.
Where are you going? he asked. What do you think, she replied, to put on six layers of clothes? He nodded. Best thing. I'll come along, if I may. My room's near yours.
A woman, still in her smock. Was trying to comfort a child that shivered and cried. A Malayan geologist stood with teeth clattering in his jaws. An engineer snarled when someone tried to question him, and ran on down the corridor. What do you think? asked Gilchrist inanely. I don't have any thoughts about the heating plant, said Catherine. Her voice held a thin edge, and too busy worrying about food and air. Gilchrist's tongue was thick and dry in his mouth. The biochemistry of food creation. An oxygen renewal died when it got even chilly. Finished dressing, they looked at each other in helplessness. Now what? The temperature approached its minimum in a nosedive. There had always been a delicate equilibrium.
It couldn't be otherwise, when the interior of the domes was kept at nearly 240 degrees above the surrounding world. The nuclear pile devoted most of its output to maintaining that balance, with only a fraction Going to the electric generators. Gilchrist thrust hands, which were mottled blue with cold, into his pockets. Breath smoked white before him. Already a thin layer of hoarfrost was on ceiling and furniture. How long can we stand this? he asked. I don't know, said Catherine. Not too long, I should think, since nobody has adequate clothes. The children should suffer pretty quickly. Too much drain on body energy. She clamped her lips together. Use your mental training. You can ignore this till it begins actually breaking down your physique.
Gilchrist made an effort, but couldn't do it. He could stop shivering, but the chill dank on his skin, and the cold, sucked in by his nose, was still there in his consciousness, like a nightmare riding him. I'll be dehumidifying the air, said Catherine. That'll help some. She began walking down the hall. I want to see what they're doing about the food and oxy sections. A small mob had had the same idea. It swirled and mumbled in the hall outside the service room. A pair of hard-looking young engineers, armed with monkey wrenches, stood guard. Catherine wormed her way through the crowd and smiled at them. Their exasperation dissolved, and one of them, a thick-set redhead by the name of old Mallory, actually grinned.
Gilchrist, standing moodily behind the girl, Could hardly blame him. How's it going in there? she asked. Well now, I suppose the old man is being sort of slow about his bulletins, said O'Malley. It's under control here. But what are they doing? Rigging electric heaters, of course. It'll take all the juice we have to maintain these rooms at the right temperature, so I'm afraid they'll be cutting off light and power to the rest of the hill, she frowned. It's the only thing, I suppose. But what about the people? They'll have to jam together in the refectories and club rooms. That'll help keep them warm. Any idea what the trouble is? Well, Mallory scowled. Well, get it fixed, he said. That means you don't know, he spoke it calmly.
The pile's all right, he said. We telemeted it. I'd have done it myself if you know how it is. He puffed up a trifle. They need a couple husky chaps to keep the crowd orderly. Anyhow, the pile's still putting out just as it should, still at five hundred degrees like it ought to be. In fact, it's even a bit warmer than that. Why, I don't know. Gilchrist cleared his throat. Then the trouble is with the heating pipes, he faltered. How did you ever guess? asked O'Malley, with elaborate sarcasm. Lay off him, said Catherine. We're all having a tough time. Gilchrist bit his lip. It wasn't enough to be a tongue-tied idiot. He seemed to need a woman's protection. Trouble is, of course, said O'Malley. The pipes are buried in insulation, behind good solid plastic.
They'll be hard to get at. Whoever designed this force ought to have to live in it," said his companion savagely. The same designs worked on Titan with no trouble at all, declared O'Malley. Catherine's face took on a grimness. There never was much point in making these out-of-planet domes capable of quick repair, she said. If something goes wrong, the personnel are likely to be dead before they can fix it. Now, now, that's no way to talk, smiled O'Malley. Look. I get off duty at 0800. Care to have a drink with me then? Catherine smiled back. If the bar is operating, sure. Gilchrist wondered numbly after her as she left. Cold gnawed at him. He rubbed his ears, unsure about frostbite. Odd how fast you got tired.
It was hard to think. I'd better get back to my lab and put things away before they turn off the electricity to it, he said. Good idea. Might as well tidy up my own place. Something flickered darkly in the girl's eyes. It'll take our minds off. Off gloom and cold, and the domes turned to blocks of ice, and a final night gaping before all men. Off the chasm of loneliness between the hill and the earth. They were back in the chemical section when Aleman came out of his lab. The little man's olive skin had turned a dirty grey. What is it? Gilchrist stopped, and something knotted hard in his guts. Madre de Dios, Eleman licked sandy lips. We are finished. It's not that bad, said Catherine. You do not understand, he shrieked.
Come here. They followed him into his laboratory. He mumbled words about having checked a hunch, but it was his hands they watched. Those picked up a Geiger counter and brought it over to a wall, and traced the path of a buried heating pipe. The clicking roared out.
End section 19
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20 20 - Catalysis, Part Two 21:21
Catalysis Part 2 Beta remission, said Gilchrist. His mouth felt cottony. How intense, whispered Catherine. Gilchrist set up an integrating counter and let it run for a while. Lo, he said, but the dosage is cumulative. A week of this will begin to show the effects. A month, and we're dead. There's always some small beta emission from the pipes, said the girl. A little tritium gets formed down on the pall room. It's never been enough to matter. Somehow the pall's beginning to make more H3 then. Gilchrist sat down on a bench and stared blankly at the floor. The laws of nature. Now the man had calmed down a bit, but his eyes were rimmed with white. Yes? asked Caffin when he stopped. She spoke mostly to fend off the silence.
I have sometimes thought what we know in science is so little. It may be the whole universe. It has been in a most improbable state for the past few billion years. Elman met her gaze, as if pleading to be called a liar. It may be that what we thought to be the laws of nature, those were only a little statistical fluctuation. Now we're going back onto the probability curve, muttered Gilquist. He shook himself. No, damn it. I won't accept that till I must. There's got to be some rational explanation. Leakage in the pipes, ventured Catherine. We'd know that. Nor does it account for the radiation. No, it's—his voice twisted up on him, and he groped out a cigarette. It's something unusual. It's something natural.
What is natural? said Elamon. How do we know, little creeping things as we are, living only by the grace of God? We have come one long way from home. His vision strayed to the viewport, for the kind of horror. Yes, thought Gilchrist, in the chilled darkness of his mind. Yes, we have come far, four and a half billion kilometers, further out from the sun. The planet-sized moon of a world, which could swallow ours whole without noticing. A thin hydrogen atmosphere, glaciers of nitrogen which turn to rivers when it warms up. Ammonious snow. And a temperature not far above absolute zero. What do we know? What is this arrogance of ours which insists that the truth on Earth is also the truth on the rim of space?
No! He stood up, shuddered with cold, and said slowly, We'd better go see Dr. Vesey. He has to know, and maybe they haven't thought to check the radiation. And then, Catherine stood waiting. Then we have to think our way out of this mess. He finished lamely. Let's start from the beginning, think back to how the heating plant works. Down in the bowels of the hill was a great man-made cave. It had been carved after the native iron, with rough pillars left to support the roof. Walls and ceiling were lined with impermeable metal, but the floor was in its native state. Who cared if there was seepage downward? The pile sat there, heart and life of the station. It was not a big one, just sufficient to maintain man on Triton.
Part of its energy was diverted to the mercury-vapour turbines, which furnished electricity. The rest went to heat the domes above. Now travel across trans-Jovian spaces is long and costly. Even the smallest saving means much. Very heavy insulation against the haze of neutrons, which the pile emitted, could scarcely be hauled from Earth. Nor had there been any reason to spend time and labor manufacturing it on Triton. Instead, pumps sucked in the hydrogen air and compressed it to about 600 atm. There is no better shield against high-energy neutrons. They bounce off the light molecules and slow down to a speed which makes them perfectly harmless laggates, which don't travel far before decaying into hydrogen themselves.
This, as well as the direct radiation of the pile, Turned the room hot some five hundred degrees. So what was more natural than that the same hydrogen should be circulated through pipes of chrome vanadium steel, which is relatively impenetrable even at such temperatures, and heat the domes? There was, of course, considerable loss of energy as the compressed gas seeped through the hill and back into the satellite's atmosphere, but the pumps maintained the pressure. It was not the most efficient system which could have been devised. It would have been ludicrous on Earth, but on Triton, terminal of nowhere, men had necessarily sacrificed some engineering excellence to the stiff requirements of transportation and labor.
And after all, it had worked without a hitch for many years on Saturn's largest moon. It had worked for two years on Neptune. Samuel Vesey drummed on his desk with nervous fingers. His dark countenance was already haggard, the eyes sunken and feverish. Yes, he said. Yes, it was news to me. Jehangir put down the counter. The office was very quiet for a while. Don't spread the word, said Vesey. We'll confine it to the engineers. Conditions are bad enough without a riot breaking loose. We can take several days of this radiation without harm, but you know how some people know about it. You've not been very candid so far, snapped Catherine. Just exactly what have you learned? Jehangir shrugged. There was a white frost rimming his beard.
There have been no bulletins, because there's no news, he replied. We checked the pile. It's still putting out as it should. The neutron flux density is the same as ever. It's the gas there and in our pipes which has gotten cold and radioactive. Have you looked directly in the pile room? Actually entered, demanded Alamon. Jehangir lifted his shoulders again. My dear old Jap, he murmured. At a temperature of five hundred and a pressure of six hundred? After a moment he frowned. I do have some men modifying a track so it could be driven in there for a short time, but I don't expect to find anything. It's mostly to keep them busy. How about the pipes, then? asked Gilchrist. Internal gas pressure and velocity of circulation is just about what it always has been, according to the meters, anyway, which I don't think are lying.
I don't want to block off a section and rip it out except as a last resort. It would just be wasted effort, I'm sure. Jehangir shook his turban head. No, this is some phenomenon which we'll have to think our way through, not bull through. V.C. nodded curtly. I suggest you three go back to the common rooms, he said. We'll be shunting all the powder food in Noxies soon. If you have any further suggestions, pass them on. Otherwise, sit tight. It was dismissal. The rooms stank. Some ninety human beings were jammed together in three long chambers and an adjacent kitchen. The ventilators could not quite handle that load. They stood huddled together, children to the inside, while those on the rim of the pack hugged their shoulders and clenched teeth between blue lips.
Little was said. So far, there was calm of a sort. Enough personnel had had intensive mind-training to be a steadying influence. But it was a thin membrane stretched near breaking. As he came in, Gilchrist thought of a scene from Dante's Hell. Somewhere in that dense mass, a child was sobbing. Their lights were dim. He wondered why, and distorted faces were whittled out of thick shadow. "'Get inside, in front of me,' he said to Catherine. "'I'll be all right,' answered the girl. "'It's a fact that women can stand cold better than men.' Elamon chuckled thinly. But our Thomas is well padded against it, he said. Gilchrist winced. He himself made jokes about his figure, but it was a cover-up. Then he wondered why he should care that he'll be dead anyway before long.
A colleague, Danton, turned empty eyes on them as they joined the rest. Any word? he asked. They're working on it, Catherine shortly. Good! When they hurry up, I've got a wife and a kid! We can't even sleep, it's so cold. Yes, thought Gilchrist, that would be another angle. Wariness to eat away strength and hope. Radiation would work fast on people in a depressed state. They could at least give us a heater in here, exclaimed Danton. His tone was raw. Shadows muffled his face and body. All the juice we can spare is going to the food and air plants. No use being warm if you starve or suffocate, said Catherine. I know, I know, but...well, why are we getting more light? There ought to be enough current to eat the plants and still furnish a decent glow in here.
Something else, Gilchrist hesitated. Something else is operating then, and sucking a lot of power. I don't know what. They say the pile itself is as hot as ever. Why can't we run a pipe directly from it? And get a mess of fast neutrons? Catherine's voice died. After all, they were being irradiated as they stood here and trembled. We've got batteries! It was almost a snarl from Danton's throat. Batteries enough to keep us going comfortably for days. Why not use them? I suppose the trouble hasn't been fixed by the time they're drained, challenged Gilchrist. Don't say that! Take it easy, advised another man. Danton bit his lip and faced away, mumbling to himself. The baby began to cry. There seemed no way of quieting it.
Turn that bloody brat off! The tone came sawtooth from somewhere in the pack. Shut up! A woman's voice, close to hysteria. Gilchrist realized that his teeth were rattling. He forced them to stop. The air was foul in his nostrils. He thought of beaches under a flooding sun, of summer meadows and a long, sweaty walk down dusty roads. He thought of birds and blue sky, but it was no good. None of it was real. The reality was here, just beyond the walls, when Neptune hung ashen above glittering snow. That was not snow, where a thin poisonous wind whimpered between barren snags, where the dark and the cold flowed triumphantly close. The reality would be a block of solid gas, a hundred human corpses locked in it like flies in amber.
It would be death and the end of all things. He spoke slowly, through numbed lips. Why has man always supposed that God cared? "'We don't know if he does or not,' said Catherine. "'But man cares, isn't that enough?' "'Not when the next man is so far away,' said Alemán, trying to smile. "'I will believe in God. Man is too small.' Danton turned around again. "'Why won't he help us now?' he cried. "'Why won't he at least save the children?' "'I said God cared,' answered Alemán quietly. "'Not that he will do our work for us.' "'Do the theology, you too,' said Catherine. "'We're going to pieces in here. Can somebody start a song?' Elliman nodded. Who has a guitar? When there was no response, he began singing a cappella.
La cucaracha, la cucaracha, ya no quiero camina. Voices joined in, self-consciously. They found themselves too few, and the song died. Catherine rubbed her fingers together. Even my pockets are cold now, she said wily. Gilchrist surprised himself. He took her hands in his. That may help, he said. "'Why, thank you, Sir Galahad,' she laughed. "'You! Oh! Hey there!' "'Oh, Mallory! Off-guard detail, now that everyone was assembled here, came over. He looked even bulkier than before, in half a dozen layers of clothing. Gilchrist, who had been prepared to stand impotently in the background, where the engineer distributed Blarney, was almost relieved to see the fare on him. He knew.' "'Any word?' asked Catherine.
"'Not yet,' he muttered. "'Why have we so little light?' inquired Alamon. "'What is there that draws the current so much? Surely not the heaters.' "'No, it's the pump, the air intake pump down in the pile room.' O'Malley's voice grew higher. "'It's working overtime, sucking in more hydrogen. Don't ask me why, I don't know. Nobody does.' "'Wait,' said Catherine eagerly. "'If the room's losing its warm gas, and having to replace it from the cold stuff outside, would that account for the trouble we're having?' "'No,' said O'Malley, dully.' You can't figure out where the hydrogen's disappearing to. And anyway, it shouldn't make that much difference. The energy output down there is about what's supposed to be, you know.
The ochre stood, trying to think. His brain felt jellied. Damn it, damn it, damn it. There must be a rational answer. He couldn't believe they had blundered into an ugly unknown facet of the cosmos. Natural law was the same, here or in the farthest galaxy. It had to be. Item, he thought wearily. The pile was operating as usual. Except that somehow hydrogen was being lost abnormally fast, and therefore the pump had to bring in more from Triton's air. But... Item. That couldn't be due to a leak in the heating pipes, because they were still at their ordinary pressure. Item. The gas in the pipes included some radioactive isotope, nevertheless. Item. It could not be hydrogen-3, because the pile was working normally, and its neutron leakage just wasn't enough to produce that much.
Therefore, some other element was involved. Carbon? There was a little methane vapour in Triton's atmosphere, but not enough. Anyway, carbon-13 was a stable isotope, and the powerworm conditions wouldn't produce carbon-14. Unless... Wait a minute! Something flickered on the edge of awareness. Danton had buttonholed O'Malley. We were talking about using the battery banks, he said. The engineer shrugged. And what happens after they're used up? No, we're keeping them as a last resort. His grin was hideous. We could get six or seven comfortable days out of them. Then let's have them. If you thumb-fingered idiots haven't fixed the system by then, you deserve to die. And you'll die right along with us, Lady Buck," O'Malley bristled.
Don't think the Black Gang's loafing. We're taking the cold and the radiation as much as you are. Radiation? Faces turned around. Gilchrist saw eyes gleam white. The word rose in a roar, and a woman screamed. Shut up! bawled O'Malley frantically. Shut up! Danton shouted and swung at him. The engineer shook his head and hit back. As Danton lurched, a man rabbit-punched O'Malley from behind. Gilchrist yanked Catherine away. The mob spilled over, a sudden storm. He heard a table splinter. Someone leaped at him. He had been an educated man, a most scientific and urbane man, but he had just been told that hard radiation was pouring through his body. And he ran about and howled. Gilchrist had a glimpse of an unshaven face, drawn into a long, thin box with terror.
Then he hit. The man came on, ignoring blows, his own fists windmilling. Gilchrist lowered his head and tried clumsily to take the fury on his arms. Catherine, he thought dizzily. Catherine was at least behind him. The man yelled. He sat down hard and gripped his stomach, retching. Alamon laughed shortly. A good kick is advisable in such unsporting circumstances, me amigo. Come on, gasped Catherine. We've got to get help. They fled down a tunnel of blackness. The riot noise faded behind, and there was only the hollow slapping of their feet. Lights burned ahead. V.C.'s office. A pair of engineer guards tried to halt them. Gilchrist choked out an explanation. V.C. emerged and swore luridly, out of hurt and bewilderment at his own people.
Are we having a tear gas bomb or a needler in the place? He brooded a moment, then whirled on Jahangir, who had come out behind him. Get a tank with compressed ammonia gas from the chem section and give them a few squirts if they're still kicking up when you arrive. That ought to quiet them without doing any permanent damage. The Chief nodded and bounded off with his subordinates. In this gravity, one man could carry a good-sized tank. Reesy beat her fist into his palm. There was agony in his face. Catherine laid a hand on his arm. You've no choice, he said gently. Ammonia is rough stuff, but it would be worse if children started getting trampled. Gilchrist, leaning against the wall, straightened.
It was as if a bolt had snapped home within him. His shout hurt their eardrums. Ammonia! Yes, said Visi dully. What about it? Breath smoked from his mouth, and his skin was rough with goose flesh. I... it's your... your answer! They had set up a heater in his laboratory so he could work, but the test was quickly made. Gilchrist turned from his apparatus and nodded, grinning with victory. That settles the matter. This sample from the power improves it. The air down there was about half ammonia. Vesey looked red-eyed at him. There hadn't been much harm done in the riot, but there had been a bad few minutes. How's it work? he asked. I'm no chemist. Alamarn opened his mouth, then bowed grandly. You tell him, Thomas.
It is your moment. Gilchrist took out a cigarette. He would have liked to make a cavalier performance of it, with Catherine watching, but his chilled fingers were clumsy, and he dropped the little cylinder. She laughed and picked it up for him. Simple, he said. With technicalities to discuss, he could speak well enough, even when his eyes kept straying to the girl. What we have done now is a Hebrew process chamber. It's method for manufacturing ammonia out of nitrogen and hydrogen. Obsolete now, but still of interest to physical chemists like myself. I haven't tested this sample for nitrogen yet, but there's got to be some, because ammonia is NH3. Obviously there's a vein of solid nitrogen down under the hill.
As the heat from the power worm penetrated downward, this slowly warmed up, some of it turned gaseous, generating terrific pressure, and finally that pressure forced the gas up into the power worm. Now, when you have a nitrogen-hydrogen mixture at 500 degrees and 600 atmospheres, in the presence of a suitable catalyst, you get about 45% yield of ammonia. You look that up, said Catherine accusingly. He chuckled. My dear girl, he said, there are two ways to know a thing. You can know it, or you can know where to look it up. I prefer the latter. After a moment, naturally this combination decreases the total volume of gas. So the pump has to pull in more hydrogen from outside to satisfy its barystat.
And more nitrogen is welling from below all the time. We've been operating quite an efficient little ammonia factory down there, though it should read equilibrium as to pressure and yield pretty soon. The Haber process catalyst, incidentally, is spongy iron with certain promoters. Potassium and aluminum oxides are excellent ones. In other words, it so happened that the hill is a natural Haber catalyst, which is why we've had this trouble. And I suppose the reaction is endothermic and absorbs heat, asked Catherine. No, as a matter of fact, it's exothermic, which is why the pile is actually a little hotter than usual. And that, in spite of having to warm up all that outside air. But ammonia does have a considerably higher specific heat than hydrogen.
So while the gas in our pipes has the same caloric content, it has a lower temperature. Hmm. V.C. rubbed his chin. And the radiation? Nitrogen plus neutrons gives carbon-14 a beta-emitter. All right," said Catherine. Now tell us how to repair the situation. Her tone was light. After all, the answer was obvious, but it didn't escape Gilchrist that she had asked him to speak. How was he thinking wishfully? We turn off the pile, empty the pipes, and go into the room in spacesuits, he said. Probably the simplest thing would be to drill an outlet for the nitrogen vein and drop a thermite bomb down there. That should flush it out in a hurry. Or maybe we can lay an impermeable floor. In any event, it shouldn't take more than a few days, which the batteries will see us through.
Then we can go back to operation as usual. PC nodded. I'll put your hand-gear on it right away. He stirred and extended his hand. As for you, Dr. Gilchrist, you've saved all our lives, and— Shucks! His cheeks frothat. It was my own neck, too. Before his self-confidence could evaporate, he turned to Catherine. Since we can't get back to work for a few days, how about going down to the bar for a drink? I believe it'll soon be functioning again. And, uh, there'll doubtless be a dance to celebrate later. I didn't know you could dance, she said. I can't, he blurted. They went out together. It was not merely inorganic reactions which require a catalyst.
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21 21 - World of the Mad, Part One 23:05
World of the Mad, Part One.
He walked slowly through the curling purple mists, feeling the ground roll and quiver under his feet, hearing the deep-voiced rumble of shifting stratifier underground. There were voices in the fog, singing in high, unhuman tones, And no man had ever learned what it was that sang, or could the wind utter sounds so elfishly sweet, almost words that haunted you with half understanding of something you had forgotten and needed desperately to remember. A face floated through the swirling mist. It was not human, but it was very beautiful, and it was blind. He looked away as it mouthed, voiceless murmurs at him. Somewhere a crystal tree was chiming, a delicate pizzicato of glass-like leaves vibrating against each other.
The man listened to it, and to the low muttering of the earth. For those at least were real, and he was not at all sure whether the other things were there or not. Even after two hundred years he wasn't sure. He went on through the mist. Flowers grew up around him. Great Fragile laceries of shining crystalline petals that budded and bloomed and died, even as he walked by. Some of them reached hungrily for him, but he sidestepped their groping mouths, with the unthinking ease of long habit. Compasses didn't work on Tanith, and only a few men could even operate a radio direction finder. But Langdon knew his way and walked steadily ahead. His sense of direction kept rotating crazily. It insisted he was going the wrong way.
No. Now the house lay over to the right. No. The left, and a few paces straight up. But by now, he had compensated for that. He didn't need eyes or kinesthetic sense to find his way home. There was a new singing in the violet air. Langdon checked his stride, with a sudden, eerie prickling along his spine. The mist eddied about him, thick and blinding, but now the city was growing out of it. He saw the towers and streets and thronging airways come raggedly into being. Suddenly he stood in the middle of the city. It was complete this time, not the few fragmentary glimpses he ordinarily had. The mist flowed through the ghostly spires and pylons, but somehow he could see anyway. The city lay for kilometers ahead.
It was not a human city. It lay under three hurtling moons, lit only by their brilliant silver. But it lived. It pulsed with life about him. The shining dwellers soared past, and seemed to leave a trail of little sparks, luminous against the night. They were not men, the old folk of Tanith, but they were beautiful. There was no sound. Langdon stood in a well of silence while the city lay around him, and he thought that perhaps he was the ghost, alone, and excommunicated, on a world which lay beyond even the dreams of man. But that was nonsense, he thought, angry with himself. It was simply that temporal mirages transmitted only light, not sound. He was here, now, alive, and the city was dust these many million years.
Two dwellers flew past him, male and female, with arms linked, laughing soundlessly into each other's golden eyes. The male's great glowing wings brushed through Langdon's body. He stood briefly in a shower of whirling light motes, and they didn't heed him. They didn't know he was there. They were only for each other, those two, and he was a ghost out of an unreal and unthinkably remote future. The mirage faded. Slowly, in bits and patches, it dissolved back into the purple fog. He was alone again. He shivered and hastened his steps homeward. The mist began to break, raggedly, as he came out of the forest. He went by a lake of life, with only a passing glance at the strangeness of the new shapes that seethed and bubbled, rose out of its slime and took shifting form.
And sank back into chemical disintegration. There was always something new, grotesque, and horrible, and sometimes eerily lovely, to be seen at such a place. But spontaneous generation was an old story to Langdon by now, and Eileen was waiting. He came out on the brow of a steep hill, which slanted down into the little cup-like valley where he had his dwelling. The hills were blue around it. Blue with grass that tomorrow night might be gold or green or grey, and the sky was currently blood-red. A grove of feather-like trees hid the house, swaying where there was no wind, and murmuring to each other in their own language, and a few winged things hovered darkly overhead. For a moment Langdon paused there, savouring the richness of it.
This was his home. His land. Back on Terra, they had forgotten the fullness that came with belonging to the Earth. But the men who colonized among the stars remembered. Looking back, Langdon thought that the real instability and alienness was in the solar system. Men had no roots there, and it was a secret woe in them, and made them feverish and restless, eager to taste from all cups, but shuddering away from draining any one. Aunt Tanith, thought Langdon. The quiet sort of exultation. A man drank his cup to the bottom, and there were many cups, or, if only one, it was never the same and could never be emptied. For a man on Tanith did not grow old. Suddenly he stiffened, and a psyche-feeder swooped low to absorb his furiously radiated nervous energy.
The reaction of it eddied in his mind as a chilling fear. Angrily, Without having to think about it, he drove the creature off with a jaggedly pulsed mental vibration and remained standing and listening. Someone had screamed. It came again, distorted by the wavering air, hardly recognizable to one who had not had time to adjust to Tanith. It was Eileen's voice. Joe! Joe! Joe! Help! He ran, scrambling down the unstable hillside with his mist-wet cloak. Flapping behind him, the sword plant slashed at him with the steely leaves. He swirled and went on down into the valley, running, leaping, a bounding black shadow against the burning sky. Static electricity discharged in crackling blue sheets as he tore through the grove, hissing against his insulating clothes and stinging his face and hands.
Something floated through the dark air, long and supple and dripping slime. Grimacing at him with its horrible wet mouth. Another illusion or mirage, he thought, somewhere in the back of his mind. They no longer bothered him. In fact, he'd have missed them if they never shut up again. But Eileen. The cottage nestled under the tall whispering trees, a peak-roofed stone building in the ancient style that Langdon had thought most appropriate to the enchanted planet. There was little of terror about it. After its century and a half of existence, it was covered with fire vines over which danced the seeming of little flames, luminous flying creatures nestled against the doorway, and he had never found the cause of the dim, sweet singing he had always heard around it.
The door stood ajar, and Eileen was sobbing inside. Langdon came in and found her huddled on the couch before the fireplace, trembling, so that it seemed her body must be shaken apart. And crying, crying. He sat down and put his arms about her and left her cry herself out. Then he remained for a while, stroking her hair and saying nothing. He bit her lip to keep it steady. Her voice was like a small child's, high and toneless and frightened. It bit, she said. It was an illusion, he murmured. No, it bit at me, and its eyes were dead. It came out of the floor there, and it was all in rags. You had an illusion, frightened you, he said. The psyche-feeder flying nearby caught your increased nervous output, drawn it, and that, of course, frightened you still more.
They're easy to drive away, Eileen. They don't like certain pulse patterns. You just think of them the way I showed you. It was real, she insisted quietly with something of a child's puzzlement that anything should have wanted to hurt her. It was black, but there were greys and browns, and red, too, and it was ragged. He went over to the cupboard, and got out a darkly glowing bottle, and poured two full glasses. This'll help, he said, trying hard to smile at her. Pros it. I shouldn't, said Eileen, still shakily, but with some return of saneness. Junior. Junior won't take harm from a glass of wine, said Langdon. He sat down beside her again, and they clinked goblets and drank. The fire wavered ruddily before them, filling the room with warm, restless light, and with dancing shadows from which Eileen looked away.
I'll get an electronic range installed soon, said Langdon, trying to fill the silence with trivia. It can be convenient for you cooking on an ancient-style stove. I thought they didn't work on Tanneth. Electronics, I mean. She answered with the same effort of ordinariness. Not at first, with the different laws prevailing here. In the first few decades, we were forced back to the old chemical techniques like fires. That's one reason so few colonists ever came or stayed long if they did come. But bit by bit, little by little, we're learning the scientific laws and applying them. I've had all the standard household equipment available here for a century, I guess, but by that time I'd already built this place and liked my own things, fires and stoves and all the rest, too well to change.
But now that I've got a wife to do my housekeeping, I ought to provide her with conveniences. In fact, I should have done so right away. It isn't that, Joe, she said. Would have squawked long ago if those little things made any difference. I like handling things myself rather than turning them over to some robot. It's fun to cook and get wood, but Joe, it's no fun when a thing rises out of the steam and screams at you. It's no fun when electric sparks jump over the house, and all of a sudden there's only fear. The whole place is choked with fear." She shuddered closer against him. This planet is haunted, she whispered. The laws of nature are a little different, he answered as calmly as he could.
But they are still laws. Tanneth seems like a chaos, governed by living spirits, and most of them malignant, only because you don't see the regularity. Its pattern is too different from what you're used to. Terra herself must have seemed that way to primitive man before he discovered order in nature. A scientist here is slowly finding out the answers. Talk to old Jang sometime. He can tell you more about it than I. But I can see the order now, a little of it, and it's a richer and deeper thing than the rest of the universe. And you live forever. He gripped her shoulders and looked into her wide eyes. He had to expel the demons of terror from her. A woman five months pregnant couldn't go on this way.
He was suddenly shocked by how thin she had grown, and she had never stopped shivering under his hands. You won't grow old. He said slowly. We'll be together forever, Eileen, and our children won't die either. She looked away from him and sudden bitterness twisted her mouth. I wonder, he said thinly, where the mortality is worth having on this planet. Suddenly she stiffened and her lips opened to scream again. Langdon forgot the hurt of her words and looked wildly about the room. But there was only the furniture, and the firelight, and the weaving shadows. Inside the blood-red windows the room was sane and real and human. Eileen shrank against him. "'It's over there,' she gasped. "'Over there in that corner, creeping closer.' Langdon's face grew bleak, and there was a desolation rising in him.
Illusions of one sort or another were part of daily life on Tanith. But they had reality in that they were produced by physical processes, and more than one person could perceive them. But hallucinations were another story. He thought back over two hundred years to the first attempts to colonize. Of an initial three hundred or so, over two-thirds had left within the first three years, and many of them had been insane when the ships took them home. Men came to Tanith and stayed if they could endure it. But if they couldn't, and tried to stay anyway, they soon fled from the unendurable madness of its reality to a safer and more orderly madness of their own. From what he had heard, few of them were cured again, even back on terror.
I've got to see Chang, he said. The colonists on Tanith tended to live well apart from each other, and unless they aren't the new televisors designed especially for the planet, Their only contact was physical. Once a month or so he would go to the planet's one town for supplies and a mild spree, and somewhat oftener he would spend a while at home at another house or have guests himself, but most of the time he had been alone. And as a man grew older, without loss of physical and mental faculties, he found more and more within himself. An unfolding inward richness which none of the short-lived would ever appreciate or even comprehend. He had less need of other men to prop him up. Or perhaps it was simply that the wisdom, the fullness which came with immortality, made little of the other colonists' company go a long ways.
There was no denying it. Eileen's twenty-three years of life could not compare with Langdon's two hundred or more. It was like a child. Thoughtless, mentally and physically timid, ignorant, essentially shallow. But I love her, and I can afford to wait. In fifty or a hundred years, she'll begin to grow up. In two hundred or so, we'll begin to understand each other. As our ages increase, the absolute difference between them will become proportionately insignificant. An immortal learns patience. I can wait. And meanwhile, I love her. Very dearly. What do you have to see him about? Asked Eileen. Us, he answered bluntly. A situation. It isn't good. No, she whispered. Can't you learn that there's nothing to fear on Tanneth?
He asked. Death itself. The greatest dread of all is gone. We've eliminated all actually dangerous life in the neighborhood of our settlements. There are things that can be annoying. Sword plants. The psyche feeders, the static discharges, but it's no trick to learn how to avoid them. Nothing here can hurt you, Eileen. I know, she said hopelessly. But I'm still afraid. Day and night I'm afraid. There are worse things than death, Joe. But afraid of what? I don't know. Fear itself, maybe. How do I know something won't suddenly be deadly? But I'm not afraid of death. Even with a baby, I wouldn't be afraid of wild beasts or plague or anything that I could understand. She shook her shining head slowly.
That's just it, Joe. I don't understand this planet. Nobody does. You don't. You admit it yourself. Someday you'll know it. When? A thousand years from now? A thousand years of horror? Joe, some of those things are so hideous I think I'll go mad when they appear. The deep-sea fish on terror is hideous. Not this way. These things aren't right. They can't exist, but still there they are, and I can't forget them, and I never know when they'll appear next, or what they'll be this time. She checked herself, gulping. This is a very beautiful world, he said stubbornly. The colors, the form, the sound. None of them are right. Grass may look just as well when it's red or blue or yellow, but it shouldn't be all of them at different times.
The sky is wrong. The trees are wrong. Those hideous lakes of life and the things in them. Obscene. Those voices singing out in the mists. Nobody knows what they are. Those images of things a hundred million years dead. And the faces and the whisperings. And there's always something watching and waiting and moving, just a little outside the corner of your eye. Oh, Joe, this planet is haunted. She sobbed in his arms with a rising note of hysteria that she couldn't quite suppress. He looked grimly over her shoulder. A swirling, chiming mist of color formed on one corner of the room, amorphous stirrings within it, a sudden shining birth that laughed and jeered and slipped out to the wall. He remembered that he had been frightened and repelled when he first came here, but not to this degree.
He soon got over it. Now, even while Eileen wept, he admired the shifting pulse of colors, and his heart quickened to the elfin bells. Terran music sounded wrong to him after two hundred years of the sounds of Tanith. He thought that all those voices and whisperings and singings, sliding up and down an inhuman scale, and the dreams and the visions, had a pattern, an overall immensity. Which some day he would grasp, and that would be a moment of revelation. He would see and know the wholeness of Tanith, and there would be meaning in it. Not the chaotic jumble of random events which made up the rest of the universe. Death-doomed universe tumbling blindly toward a wreck of level entropy and ashen suns, but a glimpse of that ultimate purposefulness that some men called God.
Briefly, a temporal mirage showed beyond the window, a fragmentary glimpse of a tower reaching for the sky, and it was no work of man, nor could it ever be, but it was of a heartbreaking loveliness. He wondered about the ancient natives. Had they simply become extinct, reached a point of declining evolutionary efficiency, such as seemed fated for all species? And gone into limbo some millions of years previously. Or had they, perhaps, finally seen the allness of the world and gone elsewhere? Pirately Langdon rather thought it was the latter, world without end. But Eileen was crying in his arms. He kissed her, and tasted salt in her lips that trembled under his. Poor kid. Poor kid, and with a baby on the way.
Something of the magic of their first days together came back to him. It was a disappointment in love which had sent him to Tanith in the first place, and for all his time here he had lived without that sort of affection. The women of the town served the casual needs of sex, which seemed to become less and less frequently manifest, as his own undying personality grew in fullness and self-sufficiency, and that was all. Still, a single man was incomplete. And a year ago, one of the few colony ships landed, and Eileen had been aboard, and a forgotten springtime stirred within him. Now, well. She released herself, smiling with unsteady lips. I'll be all right now, dear, she said. Let's go.
I have to talk this matter over privately with Jiang. His wife can take care of Eileen. Certainly I can't leave her here alone. But sooner or later he would have to. It wasn't only that he had to go out and oversee some of the fields, on which grew the native plants whose secretions, needed by Terran chemistry, gave them their livelihood. Solitude and long walks through the misty forests and over the whispering hills had become virtual necessities to him. He had to get away and think the mighty thoughts of an immortal which no Terran could ever comprehend in his pathetic lifetime. The world was being gestated in his brain. Slowly, piece by piece, the coherent philosophy, which is necessary for sanity, was coalescing within him, and he was gathering into himself the essence of Tanit.
Someday, perhaps a thousand years hence, he would know what it was that haunted him now. He could not suppress a feeling of annoyance, however. Eileen had had over a year to adjust now, and she was getting worse instead of better. A brief sojourn and utter alienness might be merely pleasing and interesting, but over a longer time one either got used to it or... You'd have to learn, have to accept the sanity of Taz, and know it for a deeper and more real one than the sanity of terror. Others had done it. Why couldn't she?
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22 22 - World of the Mad, Part Two 26:08
Waldo the Mad, Part 2. Jiang Simon and his wife lived several hundred kilometers away, an hour's flight by air jet. The spacious house lay amid lawns and trees sloping down to a broad river. It held serenity and graciousness, which terror had forgot. Langdon was always glad to be there, and even Eileen seemed to be soothed. She had screamed once on the flight over, when the sky had suddenly seethed with hell-blue flame, and she was still trembling when they arrived. Her hostess took her off for one of those mysterious private conferences between women, which no merely male creature will ever understand, and Langdon and Zhang sat on the veranda and talked. The Chinese had been in his fifties when he came.
One of the first load of colonists, and Tanith could not restore lost youth. But a healthy middle age had its own advantages. It conferred a peace and depth of mind more rapidly than an endlessly young body would permit. In the solar system, Zhang had been a synthesis, taking all knowledge and its correlation as his field of work, and he had come to Tanith in some of Langdon's mood of abandonment, futile to attempt the knowing and understanding of all things, when life He'd flick it out in a hundred years, but there was an immortal synthesis. The two men sat in the long twilight, saying little at first. It was good just to sit, thought Langdon, to let a glass of wine and a cigar relax tensed muscles, while the dusk deepened toward night.
At such times he felt more than ever drawn into the secret hole which was Tanith. Almost, it seemed, he was on the verge of that revelation. Of seeing the manifold aspects of reality gather themselves into one overwhelming entity, of which he would be an integral part. The philosophers and mystics of terror had sought such identification, and the scientists were still striving to build a unified picture of the cosmic whole. Here, in this environment, and with all the ages before him, a man had a chance to reach that ancient goal, intellectual understanding, and Emotional integration. Some day. Some day. Twilight was deep and blue, and full of flitting ghostly lights. The feathery trees murmured to each other in a language of their own, and down under the long slope of dew-shining grass, the river gleamed with shifting phosphorescence.
Something was singing in the night. An eerie, wavering scale that woke faint longings and dreads in men and set them straining after something they had once known and forgotten. Overhead, the million thronging stars of galactic center winked and blazed through the flickering aurora. One of the moons rose, trailing golden light through the sky. A wind blew through drifting clouds, and it seemed as if the wind had language, too, and spoke to the men, if they could but understand it. Jang said at last, slowly and heavily. I don't know how she got past the psychologists on terror. Eileen, asked Landon unnecessarily. Of course. The older man was a shadow in the dusk, but the red tip of his cigar waxed and waned as he drew on it for comfort.
Somebody blundered. Oh, wait, perhaps it was only that while she was fundamentally stable, the otherness of Tanith touched some deep-seated psychological flaw in her. Something that would never appear under any other environment. I don't quite know the system, said Langdon. What do they do back on Sol? The first attempts at colonization showed that only the most stable personalities could adapt to, or even survive, the apparent instability of this planet. There aren't many who want to come here at all, of course, but our planetary government maintains a psychological staff in the more important world of the galaxy to check those who do apply. They're supposed to weed out all who couldn't take the strangeness, and so far it's been very successful.
Eileen is the first failure I know of. Something cold seemed to close around Langdon, and then he realized wryly he was skirting the main issue, afraid to face it. I wonder if you really have the right to keep secret the fact that there is no death here, he said. It was a hard decision to make, answered Zhang, but leaving the morals of it aside. It was the only practicable way. Suppose it were generally known that this one place, in all the known universe, has no age. Imagine all who would want to come here. The planet couldn't hold a fraction of them. Even as it is, we have to space berths very carefully, lest in a few centuries we crowd ourselves off the world. Furthermore, the unstable social environment produced by such an influx of colonists, most of whom couldn't stand the place anyway, would delay.
Perhaps ruin the research by which we hope to find out why life does not grow old here. When we have that answer, and can apply it outside this region of space, all of the galaxy will have immortality, but until then, we must wait. He shrugged a dim movement in the shining night. And immortals know how to wait. So instead we simply accept colonists who agree to stay here for life, and then once we get here, they're told how long that life will be. Yes. Actually, the miracle is that the first colonists stayed at all, after most had fled or gone insane. After all, it was ten or twenty years before we even suspected the truth. A world as alien as this was settled only because planets habitable to man without Aborigines are hard to find.
Since then, many more such worlds, normal ones, have been discovered, and few people care to risk madness by coming here. Tanith is an obscure dominion of the Galactic Union, having a certain scientific interest because of its unique natural laws, but not too great even there, when science has so many other things to investigate just now, and we're quite content to remain in the shadows. Of course, Langdon looked up to the swarming stars. A sheet of blue auroral flame covered them for a moment. He asked presently, how much further have our scientists gotten in explaining the phenomenon? We've come quite a ways, but progress has been mostly in highly technical fields of mathematical physics. We'll have to take a decade or two off soon, Joseph, and learn that subject.
Briefly, we do know that this is a region of warped space, similar to those in the neighborhood of massive bodies, but of a different character. As you know, natural constants are different in such regions from free space. Phenomena such as gravitation and the bending of light appear. This is another sort of geometric distortion, but basically the same. It produces differences in, well, in optics, in thermodynamics, in psi functions, in almost everything. The very laws of probabilities are different here. As a result, the curious phenomena we know appear. Many of them, of course, are simply illusions produced by complex refractions of light and sound waves. Others are very real. The time axis to self is subject to certain transformations.
Which produced the temporal mirages. And so it goes. Yes, yes, I know all that. But what causes the warp itself? We're not sure yet, but we think it's an effect of our being near the galactic center of Mars. Together we're— No, it would take a week to write out the equations, let alone explain them. There was a comfort in impersonal discourse, but it was a retreat from more immediate problems. Langdon fairly rapped out the question. How close are you to understanding why we are immortal? Not at all close in detail, said Zhang. We think that it's due to the difference in thermodynamic properties of matter I mentioned just now, producing a balance of colloidal entropy. While elsewhere life is metastable, and can only endure so long, here it is the natural tendency of things so much so indeed that life is generated spontaneously from the proper chemical mixtures such as occur in many of the lakes and pools thereabouts.
In our own bodies there is none of that I have a tendency toward chemical and colloidal degradation, which I think lies at the root of aging and death. But that's just my guess, you know, and biological phenomena are so extraordinarily complex that it would probably take us centuries to work it out. After all, we haven't even settled on the laws of Tannish physics yet. Several centuries, and there is no other planet where this might also happen. None have been found. And on the basis of our theory, I'm inclined to believe that Tanith is unique in the galaxy, perhaps in the universe. Langdon was aware of Zhang's speculative gaze on him. And if there were others, they'd be just as foreign to Terra.
I see. Langdon looked away, down to the streaming silver gleam of the river. There was a ring of little lights dancing on the lawn. He could hear the tinkle of Elfland bells, and he thought he could see glowing wings and light. Light forms that were not human, but very lovely. You were thinking of moving away. Yes, the synthesis at last. Yes, I hated the thought, but Eileen—well, you saw her, and you remember those first colonists. I do. She is exhibiting all their symptoms. She can't stand the unpredictability of her environment, and she can't adjust her scale of values enough to see the beauty in what to her is wrong and horrible. And the vague golden light. Langan thought he glimpsed a grim smile on the other man's face.
Perhaps she is right, Joseph. Perhaps it takes someone not quite sane by the rest of the galaxy's standards to adjust to turn it. Can she see? I've told her. Intellectual understanding of a problem never solves it, though it may help. Eileen takes your word for these being purely natural phenomena. She's not superstitious. It might help if she were, because explaining the horror doesn't lessen it to her. Man is not a rational animal, Joseph, though he likes to pretend he is. Can't she be helped, psychologically? No. The old voice held pity, but it did not waver. I've studied such cases. If you keep her here much longer, she'll have a miscarriage and go insane. Insanity might be curable. Back at Saul.
Or it might not, but as soon as she returned, it will come again. Not that she would ever stand to come back. She is inherently unable to adapt herself to an utterly foreign environment that I have to send her home to us soon. But she's my wife," Jiang said nothing. A shining golden head swooped past in the darkness, laughing at them, and the laughter was visible as red pulses in the night. There came a step on the veranda. Langdon turned and saw Jiang's wife coming out with Eileen. The girl walked more steadily now. In the dim radiance from the window, her face was calmer than it had been for some time, and for an instant there was a flood of love and joy and relief within Langdon. Yang was wrong.
Eileen would learn. He was already starting to learn. Tonight was the turning point. Tanith would take her to itself, and they would be together forever. Eileen, he said very softly, and got up and walked to water. Eileen. Darling. The atmosphere trembled between them. She saw the flesh run from his bones. It was a skull that grinned at her, shining evilly green against the dark, and the sounds that rasped from it were the mouthings of nightmare. Somewhere far back in the depths of her mind, a little cruel voice told her that there was nothing to be afraid of. That it was a brief variation in optical and sonic constants which would pass away, and then Joe would be there, but the voice was drowned in her own screaming.
She was screaming for her mother to come and get her. It was a nightmare. She couldn't wake up. Langdon ran toward her with the rags of flesh hanging from his phosphorescent bones, until Jang grabbed him back with the violence he had never known to be possible in the old man. There was a storm outside. The cottage shook to a fury of wind, and was filled with its noise and power. It had a fire going, and its restless glow played over the room and beat against the calm white light of flora tubes, but it could not drive out the luminousness beyond the window. Pull the shades, asked Eileen. Please, Joe. She looked away from the window where he stood staring out at the storm. Fire sleeted across the landscape.
Whirling heatless flames that hissed and crackled around the wind-tossed trees, red and blue and yellow and icy white. The wind roared and boomed with a hollow voice that seemed to shout words in some unknown tongue, and from behind the curtain of flaming rain there was the crimson glow of an open furnace. As if, thought Langdon, as if the gates of hell stood open just beyond the hill. It won't hurt us, he said. It's only a matter of phosphorescence and static discharges. Please, Joe. Her voice was very small and the racket of wind. He shrugged and covered the wild scene. He used to like to go out in firestorms, he remembered. Their blinding, berserk fury woke something elemental in him, and he would go striding through them like a god, shouting back at the wind.
Well, it wouldn't be long now. The Beetlejuice Queen was due in a couple of days. And the intergalactic orbit that would take her back to Sol, Eileen didn't have long to wait. He took a moody turn about the room. His wife had been very quiet since her collapse of a week ago. Too quiet. He didn't like it. She looked wistfully up at his tall form. He thought that she looked pathetically small and alone, curled up, almost crouched in the big armchair, like a very beautiful child. Too thin and hollow-eyed now, but beautiful. Child. She has to go. She can't live here. Aye, well, if she go, it'll be like a death within me. I love her.
I remember winter storms on terror, said Eileen softly. It'll be cold and dark, with a big wind driving snow against the house. We'd come inside. Cold but warm underneath of being out in it, and would sit in front of a fire and have hot cocoa and cheese sandwiches. If it was around Christmas time, be singing the old song. The wind yammered, banging on the door. A stealthy shape of light and shadow wavered halfway between existence and non-existence over in a corner of the room. Eileen's voice trailed off, and her eyes widened, and there was a small, dry rattle in her throat. She gripped the arms of her chair with an unnatural tension. Langdon saw it and came over to sit beside her on one arm of the chair.
Her hand closed tightly around his, and she looked away from the weaving shape in the corner. You're always good to me, Joe, she murmured. How could I be anything else? He asked tonelessly. There was a new voice in the storm now. A great belling organ was crying to him to come out. Tan it. I was dancing in a sleet of fire just beyond the door. I'll miss you, she said. I'll miss you very much. Why should you? I'll be alone. Will you, Joe? I wonder. I can't ask it of you. I can't ask you to trade a thousand years of life, or ten thousand, or a million, for the little sixty or seventy you'll have left out there. I can't ask you to leave your world for mine. You'll never be at home on terror. He smiled without much mirth.
It's a trite phrase, he said, but you know I'd die for you. I don't doubt that, Joe, but would you live for me? He kissed her to avoid answering. I don't know. I honestly don't know. It isn't so much a question of losing immortality, though God knows that means a lot. It means more than any mortal will ever know. That I'd be losing Tannic. He thought of Sol, Sirius, and Teres, the great suns and planets of the galaxy, and could not keep from shuddering. Drabness, deadness, colorlessness, meaninglessness. Life was a brief, blind spasm of accident and catastrophe, walled in by its own shortness in the barren environment of a death-doomed cosmos, too small to achieve any purpose. Too limited even to imagine the goal, it flickered and went out into utter dark.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty place from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted full, the way to dusty death. Storm sang outside, and he heard music, and lure, and enchantment. It was not a discord. After two centuries, he could hear some of the tremendous harmony. After another while, he might begin to understand the song. If he stayed, if he stayed. Eileen. His face twisted, she saw it, and pain bit at her, but there was nothing she could say. He began pacing, and his mind took up the weary track of the past week. Logic. Think it out like a rational bee. Eileen. Had to go, but he could stay, and she would understand insofar as any mortal could.
Somewhere else, back in the solar system, or on some other of man's many planets, she would find another husband who could give her all his heart. Which I could never do, because I love Tanith. He would come to think of me as dead. He would hold him dear for the brief span of their life. She'd be happy, and maybe someday she'd send the child back to me. As for himself, Well, the initial pain of separation would be hard to take, but he had an immortal's endurance. Sooner or later, the longing would die, and there would be another woman some day on one of the colony ships whom he could love and take to wife forever. He could wait. He had all time before him. And he would be on Tanith. And there would be his friends.
He thought of the utter loneliness that waited for him in the galaxy. Two hundred years was a sizable draft of eternity. He had acquired enough of the immortal's viewpoint and personality to find the short-lived completely alien. He could never know more than the most superficial comradeship with even the oldest of those who were younger than he. He could never be close to his wife. He would occupy only the smallest part of the emptiness within him, because, before she had grown enough to match him, they would both He dead. We'll die, go down in the futility of the universe, and Tannis will go on. I might have been a god, but I'll go down in dust and nothingness. No one will have gotten any good for me, unless I stay.
The wind called and called. Aileen was right. I'm not afraid to die, but I am afraid to live in the way she must. Horribly afraid. But I love her. Fifty years hence, I'll be another woman. But I love Eileen now. Round and round, a crazy, roaring whirlpool swinging and crashing toward madness. His thoughts were running in a meaningless circle. The familiar landmarks flickered by, with ghastly speed in that devil's race. The room wavered before him. He snarled. With sudden inarticulate rage and grabbed his insulating cloak and rushed out of the door.
Eileen shrank back in her chair. He was gone. She was alone now, and all the powers of Tanith were rising up against her. The wind hooted and whistled, piping down the chimney and scurling under the eaves. The blind lifted to an invisible force, and she saw the red flames of hell blazing outside. The floroglobes flickered towards extinction. Darkness closed down, and it was full of dancing light and glimmering shapes that jibed and jeered and spun closer to her. The room began to whirl, faster and faster, a tipping, tilting saraband on the edge of madness. All the old forgotten powers of night and dark and hell were abroad. Whirling on the wind and slamming against the door, and banging their heels on the roof.
They rose out of the floor and seeped from the walls in the air. Fire danced around them and they neared her, crying something that she knew would drive her mad when she understood it. Joe! Joe! Joe! Mother! God! Joe was gone out into the storm. Mother was dead these many years. God had forgotten, and the powers closed in, laughing at her and mocking and whispering what she could not stand to hear, and there and around and around and around and around and around, down, down, down, down, down, into darkness. Langdon did not hear her scream the first time. He stood in the living torrent of light. Fire streamed about him and dripped from his hands. His hair crackled with static electricity, and the wind sang to him.
It filled him, the song of the wind, the song of Tanith. He was lost in it, whirled up in a great, singing, joyous laughter. He knew. In another moment, he would know. He would be part of the allness and have peace within him. Fire, wind, slender, graceful trees, laughing as the flames leaped around them. A great, exultant chant from the living forests and the dancing hills. A glimpse of an ancient Tenithian across many million years. Flying the storm with red and gold and blue and bronze, rushing off his wings. Tanith, Tanith, Tanith. Tanith, I love you. I'm part of you. I can never go. This is a thing other men do not know. More than immortality, more than all the mighty dreams you give us, there is yourself.
A day on Tanith is more than a lifetime on terror. But they will never know that, because they have never felt it, the strong love of a man for his home. But this is passion. It is the whole of life, and Tanith gives it back. Here, and here alone, is meaning, beauty, and an unending splendid horizon. Here alone a man can belong. See, see that bird with wings like molten silver." The second scream was wordless and crazy and horrible. But the dying fragment of his own name went through him like a knife. The barest instant he stood there with a storm roared about him, and the fire rushed over the world. Then, quite simply, he ran back into the house. The blood and pain and screeching horror of the abortion left him physically ill, but he managed to get her to bed, and even after a long while, to sleep.
Then he walked over to the window and drew the blind. His shoulders sagged with a defeat. The death and ruin that was here.
The captain of the Beetlejuice Queen did not like tennis, and said as much to his mate as they relaxed on the promenade deck. The place gives you the blue willies, he declared. Everything's wrong there. Praise the powers that's so backward and obscure, we only have to stop there once a year or so. Colonists seem to like it, said the mate. They would, snorted the captain. Worst bunch of clannish provincials I ever saw, where they hardly ever leave the planet. Except maybe for a year or so at a time on essential business, and they wouldn't be friendly with anybody. Takes a crazy man to stand that world in the first place. He pointed to a tall man who was half leading, half supporting a young woman along the deck.
He would have been beautiful, had she not been badly underweight. He smiled at the man, but her eyes were haunted, and his answering smile was far away. It went no deeper than his lips. That fellow Langdon is the only long-time colonist I ever heard of. "'We left Tanith for good," said the captain. "'He must have been there for years. Maybe he was born there, but he's coming back to Seoul now. His wife couldn't take the place. "'I think I remember her from a year or so ago,' nodded the mate. "'Till we carry out with a few other colonists? Pretty as a picture then, full of life and fun. Now look at her. Tanith did that to her.' "'Uh-huh,' agreed the captain. "'I heard a little of the story down by the space park.
She nearly went crazy, finally had a miscarriage. That was all they could do to save her life and Sally. Only then would that Landon take her back. He let her go on that way for months. Captain's mouth twisted with contempt. Holy sunspots! What a cold-blooded devil!
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23 23 - Innocent at Large, Part One 30:01
The visaphone chimed when Perry had just gotten into her dinner gown. She peeled it off again and slipped on a casual bathrobe, a wisp of translucence, Which had set the President of Antarctic Enterprise, or had it been the Chairman of the Board, back several thousand dollars. Then she pulled a lock of lion-colored hair down over one eye, checked with a mirror, rumpled it a tiny bit more, and wrapped the robe loosely on top and tight around the hips. After all, some of the men who knew her private number were important. She undulated to the phone and pressed its accept. Hello there, she said automatically. So sorry to keep you waiting. I was just taking a bath, and—oh, it's you. Gus Duran's prawn-like eyes popped at her.
Holy success, he whispered in awe. You sure the wires can carry that much voltage? Well, hurry up with whatever it is, snapped Perry. I got a date tonight. I'll see you do. We're the Martian. Perry. Narrowed her silver-blue gaze and looked icily at him. You must have heard wrong, Gas. He's the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc., that's who, and if you called up to ask for a piece of him, you can just blank right out again. I saw him first. Duran's thin, sharp face grinned. You break that date, Parry! Put it off or something! I got this Martian for you, see? So? Since when has all Mars had as much spending money as one big-time marijuana rancher? Not to mention the Arab— Oh, sure, sure. But how much are those boys gonna spend on any girl?
Even a high-level type like you. Listen, I need you just for tonight, see? This Martian is strictly from gone. He is here on official business, but he is a yokel and I do mean hasty. Like he asked me what the Christmas decorations in all the stores were, and here is the solar nexus of it, Perry, kid. Duran leaned forward as if to climb out of the screen. He's got a hundred million dollars expense money, and they're not going to audit his account at home. One hundred million good green certificates. Legal tender anywhere in the United Protectorates, and he has about as much backbone as a piece of steak alga. Kid, if I did not happen to have experience otherwise with a small nephew, I would say this would be like taking candy from a baby."
Perry's peaches and cream consonants began to resemble. Peaches and cream left overnight on Pluzo. Badger? she asked. Sure. You and Sam went to handle the routine. I'll take the go-between angle, so he'll think of me as still his friend. "'Because I have other plans for him, too. But if we can't shake a million out of him for this one night's work, there is something a-kilter, and your share of a million is three hundred thirty-three, is five hundred thousand flat,' said Perry. "'Too bad I just got an awful headache and can't see Mr. Sastrow tonight. Where are you at, Gus?' The gravity was not as hard to take as Peter Matheny had expected. Three generations on Mars might lengthen the legs and expand the chest a trifle.
But the genes had come from Earth, and the organism readjusts. What set him gasping was the air. It weighed like a ton of wool that had apparently sopped up half the Atlantic Ocean. Ears trained to listen through the Martian atmosphere shuddered from the racket conducted by Earth. The passport official seemed to bellow at him. But since you came on an official courier about the hot planet, Mr. Matheny, regulations forced me to ask your business. While recruiting, the official patted his comfortable stomach, iridescent and kneeled on, and chuckled patronizingly. I'm afraid, sir, you won't find many people who wish to leave. They wouldn't be able to see the Teamsters are on Mars, would they? We don't expect immigration, said Matheny shyly.
He was a fairly young man, but small with a dark-thatched, snub-nosed, grey-eyed head. That seemed too large for his slender body. We learned long ago that no one is interested anymore in giving up even second-class citizenship to Earth to live in the Republic, but we only wanted to hire—I mean, a gauge—an—an advisor. We're not businessmen. We know our export trade hasn't a chance among all your corporations unless we get some—a five-year contract." He heard his words trailing off idiotically and swore at himself. Well, good luck. The official's tone was skeptical. He stamped the passport and handed it back. Then, now you're free to travel anywhere in the protectorates, but I would advise you to leave the capital and get into the sticks, I mean the provinces.
I'm sure there must be tolerably competent sales executives in Russia, or Congolese-Bowdram or such regions. Frankly, sir, I do not believe you can attract anyone out of New York. Thanks, said Matheny, but you see, we need those. Oh well, thanks. Goodbye. He backed out of the office. A drop-shaft deposited him on a walkway. The crowd, a rainbow of men in pyjamas and robes, women in neo-sino dresses and gold-leaf hats, swept him against the rail. For a moment, squashed to the wire, he stared a hundred feet down at the river of automobiles. Phobos, he thought wildly, if the barrier gives, I'll be sliced in two by dorsal fin before I hit the pavement. The August twilight wrapped him in heat. and stickiness.
He could see neither stars nor even moon through the city's blaze. The forest of multi-colored towers, cataracting half a mile skyward across more acreage than his eyes reached, was He was so aggressive and all that, but he used to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke a pipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when the temperature wasn't too far below zero. Why did they tab me for this job? He asked himself in a surge of homesickness, what the hell is the Martian Embassy here for? He, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor of sociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advised his government before now. In fact, the Red Ink Society had been his idea, and still he was at ease only with his books and his chess and his mineral collection, a faculty poker player on Tenth Day Night and an occasional trip to Swingletown.
My God, thought Metheny, here I am, one solitary outlander in the greatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'm supposed to find my planet a con man. He began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizard-skinned shirt and black culottes drew glances, but derisive ones. Their cut was forty years out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily, but he wasn't tired. The spaceport would pneumo his baggage to him. Whenever he did check in, the few Martians who had been to Earth had gone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you could name on a twenty-four hour basis. But it would be a long time before Mars had such machines, if ever. The city roared at him.
He fumbled after his pipe. Of course, he told himself, that's why the embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law. Please, sir, where can I contact the Underworld? He wished gambling were legal on earth. The Constitution of the Martian Republic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation, quite apart from the rambunctious individualism which that document formulated. The article was a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts, without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friend who was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found a few spins of roulette soothing. It was always an intellectual challenge to work out the system by which the management operated a wheel, but more he would have been among people he understood.
The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed to exist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake-oil peddler, plodding his cytosol wagon across Martian sands, just didn't have a prayer against, say, the Grant, Harding and Adams Public Relations Agency. Matheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weight on them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out any individual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eyes fell on one that was distinguished by relative austerity. The Church of Choice. Enter. Play. Pray. That would do. He took an upward slide-ramp through several hundred feet of altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, And found himself in a marble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand.
Ah, brother, welcome, said a redhead usherette in demure black leotards. The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. The restaurant is right up those stairs. I'm not hungry, stammered Matheny. I just wanted to sit and- He'll laugh, sir. The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze, from an animated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The series of rooms beyond was dim, gothic, and terminable. "'Get your chips right here, sir,' said the girl in the booth. "'Hmm,' said Matheny. She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped a fifty-buck coin down on a slop marked Contributions, and sipped the martini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.
He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learning something new." He decided that the roulette wheels were either honest or too deep for him. He'd have to relax with the crap game instead. He'd been standing at the table for some time before the rest of the congregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first few passes he had made were unsuccessful. Earth gravity threw him off, but when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. It was a customary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushed chips toward him. He missed a throw, as anyone would at home, simple courtesy. The next time around he threw for a seven just to get the feel. He got a seven.
The dice had not been substituted on him. I say, he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes all around the green table. I'm sorry. I guess I don't know your rules. You did all right, brother, said a middle-aged lady with an obviously surgical bodice. Well, I mean, when do we actually start playing? What happened to the cocked dice? The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. "'So, this is the church.' "'Oh, I see. Excuse me. Ha! Ha! Ha!' Matheny backed out of the crowd, shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears. "'You forgot your chips, pal,' said a voice. "'Oh, thanks. Thanks ever so much. Ah, ah, that is, Matheny cursed his nodding tongue. Damn it, just because there's so much more sophisticated than I.' Who had to talk like a leaky boiler?
The helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced, and sleekly pomaded, dapper and blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleigh-bell cloak, and curly-toed slippers. You're from Mars, aren't you? he asked in the friendliest tone Matheny had yet heard. Yes, yes, I am. My name's Peter Matheny. He stuck out his hand to shake, and chips rolled over the floor. Damn. Oh, excuse me. I forgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please, I just wanted to g-g-get the hell out of here. Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar, damn shaft. Matheny sighed. A drink is what I need the very most. My name's Duran. Gus Duran. Call me Gus. They walked back to the Deaconette's booth, and Matheny cashed what remained of his winnings.
I don't want to, I mean, if you're busy tonight, Mr. Duran. "'Nah, I'm not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I've never met a Martian. I'm very interested.' "'There aren't many of us on Earth,' agreed Metheny. "'Just a small embassy staff and an occasional like me.' "'I should think you would do a lot of travelling here. The old mother planet and so on.' "'We can't afford it,' said Metheny. "'But with gravitation and distance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them for pleasure, not to mention our dolly shortage.' As they entered the shaft, he added wistfully, "'You Earth people love that kind of money.' At least in your more prosperous brackets. Wouldn't you send a few tourists to us?"
I always wanted to, said Duran. I would like to see the what they call City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I've given my girl one of those old Martian rings last Ike's birthday, and she was just kazoo about it. A jewel dugout of the City of Time, like made a million years ago, or a extinct race. I tell you, she appreciated me for it. He winked and nudged. Oh, said Matheny. He felt a certain guilt. Duran was too pleasant a little man to deserve. Of course, Metheny said ritually. I agree with all the archaeologists. It's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but what can we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost non-existent. Trouble with it is, I hear, Mars is not so comfortable, said Duran.
I mean— Do not get me wrong, I don't want to insult you or anything, but people come back saying you have given the planet just barely enough air to keep a man alive. And there are no cities, just little towns and villages and ranches out in the bush. I mean, you're being pioneers and making a new nation and all that, but people paying half a magabuck for their tickets expect some comfort and, you know. I do know, said Matheny, that we're poor. A handful of people trying to make a world of dust and sands and scrub-a-thon into fields and woods and seas. We can't do it without substantial help from Earth, equipment and supplies, which can only be paid for in Earth dollars, and we can't export enough to Earth to earn those dollars.
By that time, though, entering the Paul Bunyan Nutty Pine Bar and Grill on the 73rd level, Athene's jaw clanked down. What's the matter? asked Duran. Ain't you ever seen an ectisiastic technician before? Years, but, well, not in a 3D image under ten magnifications. Matheny followed Duran past a sign, announcing that the show was for purely artistic purposes into a booth. There, a soundproof curtain reduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices. Well, you have, asked Duran. It's on me. Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean, nonsense. Welcome to Earth. Care for a thaw and vermouth? Matheny shouted. Good lord, no. Uh-huh. But they make thaw right on Mars, don't they? Yes. And it all goes to Earth and sells at two thousand dollars a fifth.
But you don't think we'd drink it, do you? I mean, well, I imagine it doesn't absolutely ruin Vermouth, but we don't see those Earthside commercials about how sophisticated people like it so much." "'Well, I'll be a socialist creeper," Duran's face split into a grin. "'You know, my life I've hated the stuff and never dared admit it,' he raised a hand. "'Don't worry, I want Blabo. But I'm wondering if you control the Thalian industry and sell all those relics at fancy prices, why'd you call yourselves poor?' "'Cause we are," said Matheny. "'By the time the shipping costs have been paid on a bottle, and the Earth wholesaler and jobber and sales engineer and so on down to the retail have taken their percentage, and the advertising agency has been paid, and about fifty separate Earth taxes, there's very little profit going back to the distillery on Mars.
The same principle is what's strangling us on everything. Old Martian artifacts aren't really rare, for instance, but freight chargers and the middleman have put them out of the mass market. "'Have you not got some other business?' Well, we do saw a lot of colour slides, postcards, baggage labels and so on to people who like to act cosmopolitan, and I understand our travel posters are quite popular as wall decoration, but all that has been printed on Earth, and the printer and distributor keep most of the money. I've sold some books and showtapes, of course, but only one has been really successful. I was a slave girl on Mars. Our most prominent novelist was co-opted to ghostwrite that one. Again, though, Local income taxes took most of the money.
Authors never have been protected the way a businessman is. We do make a high percentage of profit on those little certificates you see around. You know, the title leads to one square inch of Mars, but expressed absolutely in dollars, it doesn't amount to much when we start shopping for bulldozers and thermonuclear power plants. How about postage stamps? inquired Durant. But lately it's a big business, and I have heard. It was our mainstay, admitted Matheny. But it's been overworked. Martian stamps are a drug in the market. What we'd like to operate is a sweepstake for the anti-gambling laws on Earth. Forbid that," Duran whistled. I gotta give your people credit for enterprise anyway, he fingered his mustache.
Oh, pardon me, but have you tried to, well, attract capital to Earth? Of course, said Metheny bitterly. We offer the most liberal concessions in the solar system. Any little mining company or transport firm or— Or anybody who wanted to come and actually invest a few dollars in Mars, why are you probably giving the President's daughter a security? No, the Ministry of Ecology is a better-looking one. But who's interested? We haven't a thing that Earth hasn't got more of. We're only the descendants of a few scientists, a few political malcontents, oddballs who happen to prefer elbow room and a bill of liberties to the incorporated state. What could general nucleolics hope to get from Mars? I see.
Well, what are you having to drink? Beer, said Matheny, without hesitation. Look, pal, this is on me. The only beer on Mars comes 40 million miles, with interplanetary freight charges tacked on, said Matheny. Heineken's. Duran shrugged, dialed the dispenser, and fed it coins. This is a real interesting talk, Pete, he said. You are being very frank with me. I like a man that is frank. Matheny shrugged. I haven't told you anything that isn't known to every economist. Of course I haven't. I have not so much as mentioned the Red Ankh, for instance, but in principle I have told him the truth, told him if I need, for even the secret operations do not yield us enough. The beer arrived. Matheny engulfed himself in it.
Duran sipped at a whisky sour, and unobtrusively sat another full bottle in front of the Martian. "'Ah,' said Matheny, "'bless you, my friend.' "'A pleasure. But now you must let me buy you one. That is not necessary. After all—' Said Duran, with great tact. But the situation you've been describing— Oh, we're not that poor. My expense allowance assumes I will entertain quite a bit. Duran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. You're here on business, then? Yes, I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a business manager for the Martian export trade. What's wrong with your own people? I mean, Pete, it's not your fault there's so many rackets. Taxes and middlemen and agencies and etc.
That is just the way it is set up these days. Matheny's finger stabbed in the general direction of Duran's pajama top. Exactly. And who set it up that way? Earthmen. We Martians are babes in the desert. What chance do we have to earn dollars in the scale we need them, in competition with corporations which could buy and sell our whole planet before breakfast? Why, we couldn't afford three seconds of commercial time on a lullaby pillow cast? What we need, what we have to hire as an executive who knows Earth, who is an Earthman himself. Let him tell us what will appeal to your people, and how to dodge the tax bite, and, well, you see how it goes, a sort of a thing. I think he felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the second bottle of beer.
But where do I start? he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smote him anew. I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even get to see— It might be a rain, said Duran in a thoughtful tone. It just might. How much could you pay this fellow? A hundred megabucks a year. If you'll sign a five-year contract, it's Earth years, mind you. I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete," said Duran. But while that is not bad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in New York. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quit where he is now at. And I'm sure he would not want to settle on Mars permanently. I could offer a certain amount of, uh, Lanyap, said Matheny. That is, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expenses, and, well, let me buy you a drink.
Duran's black eyes fogged at him. You minded that, said the Earthman very softly. Yes, you minded that. I think he found himself warming. Gus Duran was an authentic barber, a hell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a freelance business consultant, and that it was barely possible that he could arrange some contacts. No, no, no commission. All done in the interest of interplanetary friendship. Well, anyway, let's not talk business now. If you've got to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chase of aquavit. What is aquavit? Well, I will just take and show you. A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, and he laughed at Metheny's, though they were probably too rustic for a big city taste like his.
What I really want, said Metheny, what I really want. I mean, what Mars really needs, get me. As a confidence man. A what? The best and slickest one on Earth. To operate a world-sized con-game house and make us some real money. Con-man? Oh, a slip-string. A con by any other name, said Matheny, pouring down an aquavate. Duran squinted through cigarette smoke. You are interesting me strangely, my friend. Say on. No. Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the booth seemed odd somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had an odd quality. No, sorry, Gus, he said. I spoke too much. Okay, forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bum out of here. How about it?
Go have a little fun. By all means, Matheny disposed of his last beer. I could use some gaiety. We've come to the right town, then. But let us get you a hotel room first. And some more up-to-date clothes. And lay, said Matheny, if I don't mean alone, or maybe alone. The drop-down to cab-ramp level, and the short ride afterwards sobered him. The room-rate of the Jupiter Astoria sobered him still more. Oh well, he thought, if I succeed in this job, no one at home will quibble. And the chamber to which he and Duran were shown was spectacular enough, and the pneumo direct to the bar And a full wall transbound seat to show the vertical incandescence of the towers. Woo! Matheny sat down. The chair slithered sensuously about his contour.
He jumped. What the dusty hell? Oh, he tried to grin, but his face burned. I see. This is a sexy type of furniture, all right, agreed Duran. He lowered himself into another chair, cocked his feet on a 3D and waved a cigarette. Which, speaking of... Let's say we get some girls. It's not too late to catch them at home. A date here will usually start around twenty-one hundred hours earliest. What? You know, dames, like a certain blonde warhead with twin radar and swivel mounting, and she just loves exotics, such as you. Me? Metheny heard his voice climb to a schoolboy's squeak. Me? Exotic? Why, I'm just a little cottage professor. I g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g His tongue got stuck on his palate.
He pulled it loose and moistened uncertain lips. You are from Mars? Okay. So you fought bushcats barehanded and abandoned canal? What's a bushcat? We don't have canals. The evaporation way— Let pay, said Durant patiently. You don't have to know that, does she? Well, well, no, I guess not, no. Let's order you some clothes on the Numo, said Durant. I recommend you buy from Schwarzatz. Everybody knows he is expensive. While Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling with his new raiment, Duran kept him supplied with aquavit and beer. I said one thing, Pete, Duran remarked, about needing a slip string. A conman, you would call it. Forget that, please. I spoke here to town. You see, maybe a man like that is just what Miles Daz needs.
Maybe I have got a few cunting. What? Matheny gaped out of the bathroom. Duran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him. "'I am—I am not that man,' he said frankly. "'But in my line I get a lot of contacts. Not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if, say, you wanted somebody terminated and you could pay for it. I couldn't do it. I would not want to know anything about it, but I could tell you a phone number.' He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. "'Sure, you may not be interested—' But if you are, well, Peter was not born yesterday, I got tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you have got to think positively. Nathini hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot.
It made him want to say yes, immediately, without reservations, and therefore maybe he became over-cautious. They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must. I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea, he said slowly, but it would have to be under security. Okay, by me, room service can send us up a note box right now. What? But, but, but, Matheny hung on to himself and tried to believe that he had landed on Earth less than six hours ago. In the end he did call room service, and the machine was trundled in. Duran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet. Without an instant's hesitation. I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whatever you may tell me under security now or at any other time, he recited, then cheerfully.
And that formula, Pete, happens to be the honest to zebra truth. I know. Athene stared, embarrassed at the carpet. I'm sorry, sir, sir, I mean I trust you, but, forget it. I take a hundred security else a year, my line of work. Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete. Damn it, if I don't. I'm sure I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange. Go ahead, boy, go ahead. Duran crossed his legs and leaned back. Oh, it's simple enough, said Metheny. It's only that we already are operating congans. On Mars, you mean? Yes, there never were any old Martians. We erected the ruins fifty years ago for the Billingsworth Expedition to find. We've been manufacturing relics ever since. Why? But in this case it helps to be the far end of an interplanetary hall," said Matheny.
How many terrestrial archaeologists get to Mars, and they depend on our people to—well, anyhow. I will be clapped. Good for you. Duran blew up and laughed. There's one thing I would never spell, even without security. I told you about my girlfriend, didn't I? Yes, and that calls to mind the little girl," said Matheny apologetically. She was another official project. Oh? Remember Junie O'Brien, the little golden-haired girl on Mars, a mathematical prodigy, but dying of an incurable disease? She collected Earth coins. Oh, that, sure, I remember. Hey, you didn't. Yeah, we made about a billion dollars on that one. I will be double damned. You know, Pete, I sent her a hundred-buck piece myself. So how is Junie O'Brien?
Oh, fine, under a different name. She's now our finance minister. Matheny stared out the wall, his hands twisting nervously behind his back. There were no lies involved. She really does have a fatal disease. So do you and I. Every day we grow older. Ah! exclaimed Duran. And then the Red Anx Society. You must have seen or heard their ads. What mysterious knowledge did the Arab Martians possess? What was the secret wisdom of the ancient aliens? Now the incredibly powerful semantics of the Red Ankh, murder religious organization, is available to a select few. That's our largest dollar-earning enterprise. He would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but it would have been too presumptuous.
He was talking to an Earthman who had heard everything already. Duran whistled. That's about all so far, confessed Matheny. Perhaps a cone is our only hope. I've been wondering maybe we could organize a Martian bucket shop, handling Martian securities, but, well, I don't know. I think. Duran removed the helmet and stood up. Yes? Matheny faced around, shivering with his own tension. I may be able to find out the man you want, said Duran. I just may. It'll take a few days and might get a little expensive. You mean, Mr. Duran, Gus, you could actually— I cannot promise anything yet, except that I will try. Now you finish dressing, I will be down in the bar, and I will call up this girl I know. We deserve a celebration.
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24 24 - Innocent at Large, Part Two 12:26
Innocent at Large by Paul Anderson and Karen Anderson. Part 2. Perry was tall. Perry was slim. Perry smouldered when she walked and exploded when she stretched. Her apartment was ivory and ebony. Her sea-green dress was poured on. The Neo-Sino mode had obviously been engineered to her personal specifications. She waved twelve inches of Jade's cigarette holder, lifted her glass, and murmured throatily, To you, Pete. To Mars. I... I... stammered Metheny. He raised his own glass. It slapped over. Oh, damn, I'm in. Gosh, I'm so sorry. No harm done. You aren't used to our gravity yet. Perry extended a flawless leg out of her slit skirt and turned it about on the couch, presumably in search of a more comfortable position.
And it must seem terribly cramped here on earth, Pete, she continued, after roaming the desert, hunting, sleeping under the twin moons. Two moons. Why, what girl could resist that? "'Well, as a matter of fact, the moons are barely visible,' floundered Matheny. "'Must you spar my dreams,' she said. "'When I think of Mars, the frontier, where men are still men, why, my breast swells with emotion.' "'Ah, yeah,' Matheny gulped. "'Swell, yeah.' She leaned closer to his chair. "'Now that I've got you, don't think you'll get away,' she smiled. Alive, Martian. Trapped. Duran looked at his watch. Well, he said, I've got to get up tomorrow, so I'd better run along now. Tata, said Perry. Matheny rose. She pulled him down beside her.
Oh, no you don't, Mars lad. I'm not through with you yet. But, but, but, said Matheny. Duran chuckled. I'll meet you on the terrace at fourteen hundred hours tomorrow. He said. How fun, Pete. The door closed on him. Perry slithered toward her guest. He felt a nudge and looked down. She had not actually touched him with her hands. Gus is a good squiff, she said, but I wondered if he'd ever go. Why, why, what do you mean, croaked Matheny. Haven't you guessed? She kissed him. It was rather like being caught. In a nuclear turbine with soft blades. Matheny, said Matheny. You represent your planet. Matheny, said Matheny. Shut up. Time passed. Have another drink, said Perry, while I slip into something more comfortable.
Her idea of comfort was modest in one sense of the word. A nightdress, or something like a breath of smoke, and a seat. On Matheny's lap. If you kiss me like that just once more, she breathed, I'll forget I'm a nice girl. Matheny kissed her like that. The door crashed open. A large man stood there, breathing heavily. What are you doing with my wife? He bawled. Sam, screamed Perry. I thought you were in Australia.
And he said he might settle out of court. Finished Matheny. He stared in a numb fashion at his beer. He'll come to my hotel room this afternoon. What am I going to do? It is a great shame, said Duran. I never thought, you know, he told everybody he'll be gone on business for weeks yet. Pete, I am more sorry than I can express. If he thinks I'll pay his miserable blackmail, bristled Matheny, he can take his hand and stick. Duran shook his own. I am sorry, Pete. But I would pay if I was you. He does have a case. It is too bad he just happened to be carrying that loaded camera, but he is a photographer, and our laws on Earth are pretty strict about unlicensed correspondence. You should be heavily fined as well as deported, plus all the civil damage claims and the publicity.
It would ruin your mission, and even make trouble for the next man Mars sent. But, started Matheny, but it's a badger game. Look. He leaned over the table and gripped the Martian's shoulder. I am your friend, see? I feel real bad this happened. In a way, it is my fault, and I want to help you. So let me go talk to Sam Wendt. I will call him off if I can. I will talk down his figure. It will still cost you, Pete, but you can pad your expense account, can't you? So we will both come see you today. That way there will be two people on your side. You and me. And Sam will not throw his weight around that much. He pay up in cash, and it'll be the end of the affair. I will see to that, pal." Matheny stared at the small, dapper man.
His aloneness came to him like a blow in the stomach. At two, Brute, he thought. He bit his lip. Thanks, Gus, he said. You're a real friend. Sam blocked the doorway with his shoulders as he entered the room. Duran followed like a diminutive tug, pushing a very large liner. They closed the door. Matheny stood up, avoiding Sam's glare. Okay, louse, said Sam. You got a better power here than you deserve, but he ain't managed to talk me into selling for nothing. Let me get this. I mean, well, said Matheny. Look, sir, you claim that I, I mean that your wife and I, well, we weren't. I was only visiting. Stow it, stow it, Sam towered over the motion. "'Showed it to the moon. You had your fun. It'll cost you one million dollars.' "'One mil?
But Gus,' wailed Matheny. "'This is out of all reason. I thought you said—' Duran shrugged. "'I'm sorry, Pete. I could not get him any farther down. He started asking fifty. You better pay him.' "'No!' Matheny scuttled behind a chair. "'No, look here. I, Peter Matheny of the Martian Republic, declare you a blackmailing me.' "'I'm asking compensation for damages,' growled Sam. Hand it over, or I'll go talk to a liar. That ain't blackmail. You got your choice, don't you?" Matheny wilted. Yes. A mega-buck isn't so bad, Pete, soothed Duran. I personally will see that you earn it back and— Oh, never mind, tears stirred in Matheny's eyes. You win. He took out his checkbook. None of that, rapped Sam.
Cash. Now. But you claim this was a legitimate— You heard me. Well, could I have a receipt? Begged Matheny. Sam grinned. I just thought I'd ask, said Matheny. He opened a drawer and counted out one hundred ten-kilo-buck bills. There, and, and, and I hope you'd choke on it. Sam stuffed the money in a pocket and lumbered out. Duran lingered. Look here, Pete, he said. I will make this up to you, honest. All you gotta do is trust me. Sure, Matheny slumped on the bed. Not your front. Let me alone for a while, will you? Listen, I will come back in a few hours, and buy you the best dinner and all the protectors, and sure," said Metheny, sure. Duran left, closing the door with great gentleness. He returned at 1730, entered, and stopped dead.
The floor space was half taken up by a screen and a film projector. What happened, Pete? he asked uncertainly. Metheny smiled. I took some Taurus movies, he said. Self-developing soundtrack film. Sit down, and I'll show you. Well, thanks, but I'm not so much for home movies. It won't take long. Please. Duran shrugged, found a chair, and took out a cigarette. You seem pretty well chired up now, he remarked. That is a spirit I like to see. You've got to have faith. I'm thinking of a sideline business in live photography, said the Martian. Get back my losses of today, you know. Well, now, Pete. I like your spirit, like I say. But if you're really interested in making some of that old bar room, and I think you are, then listen.
I'll sell prints to people for home viewing," went on Matheny. I'd like your opinion of this first effort. He dimmed the transparency and started the projector. The screen sprang into coloured motion. Sam Wendt blocked the doorway with his shoulders. Who knows, I might even sell you one of the several prints I made today," said Matheny. Okay, louse," said Sam. Life is hard on Mars, continued Metheny in an idle tone, and we're an individualistic culture. The result is pretty fierce competition, though on a person-to-person rather than organizational basis. All friendly enough, but—oh, by the way, how do you like our Martian camera technology? I wore this one inside my buttonhole. Duran in the screen shrugged and said, I am sorry, Pete.
Duran in the chair stubbed out his cigarette very carefully and asked, How much do you want for that film? Would a mega buck be a fair price? inquired Matheny. Uh-huh. Of course, I am hoping Sam will want a copy, too. Duran swallowed. Yeah. Yes, I think I can talk him into it. Good. Matheny stopped the projector. He sat down on the edge of the table. Swinging one leg and left his pipe. Its bowl glowed in the dimness like the eye of a small demon. By the way, he said, irrelevantly, if you check the newcast tapes you'll find I was runner-up in last year's All-Martian Pistol Contest. It's a tough contest to win. There were no bad shots on Mars. Survival of the fittest, you know. Duran wet his lips.
No heart failings. No, none at all. But say, in case you are, well, you know— Looking for a slip string? What I came here for was to tell you I have located the very guy you want. Only he is in jail right now, saying it will cost—oh no, groan Matheny, not the certest prospector. Kids are taught that swindle in kindergarten. Duran bowed his head. We call it the Spanish Prisoner, huh? he said. He got up. I will send the price of those films around in the morning. You'll call your bank and have the cash new mold here tonight, said Matheny. I'll sell Sam's share. I dare say he can pay you back." How harm in trying was there? asked Dorian humbly. Anatol, Uthini chuckled. In fact, I'm grateful to you.
You helped me solve my major problem. Oh? I did what? How? I'll have to investigate further, but I'm sure my hunch will be confirmed. You see, we Martians have stood in awe of Earthmen. And since for a long time there's been very little contact between the two planets, except the purely official, impersonal sort, there's been nothing to disabuse us. It's certainly true that our organizations can't compete with yours, because your whole society is based on organizations. But now, by the same token, I wonder if your individuals can match ours. Ever hear of the third moon? No? The whipsaw play? The aqueduct screes? Good lord, can't you even load a Daryl set? Matheny licked his chops. So there's a Martian expert to Earth.
Martian come, man. I tell you this under security, of course, not that anyone would believe you till our boys walk home with a shirt off the terrestrial back. He waved an imperious pipe-stem. Hurry up and pay me, please. I have a date tonight with Perry. I just called her up and explained the situation, and she really does seem to like Martians.
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25 25 - Witch of the Demon Seas, Chapter One 12:36
Witch of the Demon Sees. Chapter One. Crowman the Conqueror, the Lassacrat of Achaver, stood watching his guards bring up the captured pirates. He was a huge man, his hair and square-cut beard jet black. Despite middle age, the strength of his warlike youth still in his powerful limbs. He wore a plain white tunic and purple-trimmed cloak. The only sign of kingship was the golden chaplet on his head and the signet ring on one finger. In the gaudy crowd of slender, chattering courtiers, he stood out with a brutal contrast. So they finally captured him, he rumbled. So we're finally rid of Curran and his seagoing bandits. Maybe now the land will have some peace. What will you do with them, sire? asked Shorzon the saucer.
Crowman shrugged heavy shoulders. I don't know. Pirates are usually fed to the Arrignes at the games, I suppose, but Curran deserves something special. Public torture, perhaps, sire? It could be stretched over many days. No, you fool. Koron was the bravest enemy a carer ever had. He deserves an honorable death and a decent tomb. Not that it matters much, but... Shorzon exchanged a glance with Chryseus, then looked back toward the approaching procession. The city Taurus was built around a semicircular bay. A huge expanse of clear green water on whose surface floated ships from halfway round the world. The greatest harbor for none knew how many empty sea leagues, capital of Achaera, which, with its trade and its empire of entire archipelagos, was the mightiest of the Thalasocracy.
Beyond the fortified sea walls at the end of the bay, the ocean swelled mightily to the clouded horizon, gray and green and amber. Within, The hulls and sails of ships were a bright confusion up to the stone docks. The land ran upward from the bay, and Taurus was built on the hills, a tangle of streets between houses that ranged from the clay huts of the poor to the marble villas of the Great. Beyond the city walls on the landward side, the island of Achaera lifted still more steeply, a gaunt, rocky country with a few scattered farms and herds. Her power came all from the sea. A broad straight road lined with sphinxes ran straight from the harbour up to the palace, which stood on the highest hill in the city.
At its end, wide marble stairs lifted toward the fragrant imperial gardens in which the court stood. Folk swarmed about the street, mobs straining to see the soldiers as they led their captives toward the palace. The word that Koran of Konohar The most dangerous of the pirates had finally been taken, had driven merchants to ecstasy, and brought insurance rates tumbling down. There was laughter in the throng, jeers for the prisoners, shouts for the king. Not entirely so, however. Most of the crowd were, of course, Akairans, a slim, dog-haired folk clad generally in a light tunic and sandals, proud of their ancient might and culture. They were loudest in shouting at the robbers, but there were others who stood silent and glum-faced, not daring to voice their thoughts, but making them plain enough.
Tall, fair men from Connoher itself, galled by a care and rule. Fur-clad barbarians from Nariki. Blue-skinned savages from Olotu, with a high professional regard for their fellow pirate. Slaves from a hundred islands who had not ceased dreaming of home. And remembered that Koran had been in the habit of freeing slaves when he captured a ship or a town. Others might be neutral, coming from too far away to care, for Koran had only attacked the Kairan galleys, the black men from Misty Ozaban, the copper-colored Chilatsees, the yellow wizards from mysterious Hyeongnu. The soldiers marched their prisoners rapidly up the street. There were mercenaries, blue Omlotoans in the shining costlets. Reaves and helmets of the Achaaran forces, armed with the short sword and square shield of Achaera, as well as the long halberds, which were their special weapon.
When the mob came too close, they swung the butts out with bone-snapping force. The captive pirates were mostly from Kanohar, though there were a number of other lands represented. They stumbled wearily along, clad in a few rags, weighted down hand and foot by their chains. Only one of them, the man in the lead, walked erect, but he strode along with the arrogance of a conqueror. It must be Corrin himself, there in the front of them, said Chryseus. It is, nodded Shorzan. They moved forward for a better look. Imperceptibly the court shrank from them. Crowman's advisor and daughter were feared in Tauros. Shorzan was tall and lean and dry. As if the heaven-fire beyond the eternal clouds had fallen on him and seared all moisture out of the gaunt body.
He had the noble features of the old Achaewan aristocracy, but his eyes were dark and sunken and smouldering with strange fires. Even in the warmth of midday, he wore a black robe falling to his feet, and his white beard streamed over it. Folk knew that he had learned sorcery in Hyang Nu. And it was whispered that for all Cro-Man's brawling strength, it was Shorzon who really dominated the realm. Cro-Man had married Shorzon's daughter. None knew who her mother had been, though it was thought she was a witch from Hiannu. She had not lived long after giving birth to Chryseus, whose grandfather thus came to have much of her upbringing in his hands. Rumour had it that she was as much a witch as he a warlock.
Certainly, she could be cruel and ungovernable. But she had a strange dark beauty over her that haunted men. There were more who would die for her than one could readily count, and it was said had died after a night or two. She was tall and lithe, with night-black hair that streamed to her waist when unbound. Her eyes were huge and dark in a face of coldly chiseled loveliness, and the full red mouth denied the austere. Goddess-like fineness of her countenance. Today she had not affected the heavy gold and jewels of the court, a white robe hung in dazzling folds about her, and there might as well not have been another woman present. The prisoners came through the palace gates, which clashed shut behind them.
Up the stairs they went, and into the fragrance of green trees and bushes, blooming plants and leaping fountains that was the garden. There they halted. The court buzzed about them like flies around a dead animal. Crowman stepped up to Corrin. "'Greeting,' he said, and there was no mockery in his voice. "'Greeting,' replied the pirate in the same even tones. They measured each other, the look of two strong men who understood what they were about. Corrin was as big as Crowman, a fair-skinned giant of a man in chains and rags. Weather-bleached yellow hair hung to his shoulders. From a haughtily lifted head, and his fire-blue eyes were unwavering on the king's. His face was lean, long-jawed, curved-nosed, hardened by bitterness and suffering, and desperate, unending battle.
The chained Irinye could not have looked more fiercely on his captors.
It's taken a long time to catch you, Quoren, said Crowman. You've led us on a merry chase. Once I almost had the pleasure of meeting you myself. It was when you raided Serapolis, remember? I happened to be there and gave chase in one of the war galleys. But we never did catch you." One of the ships did. Corrin's voice was strangely soft for so big a man. It didn't come back, as you may recall. How did they finally catch you? asked Cromann. Corrin shrugged and the chains about his wrists rattled. You already know as much as I care to talk about, he said wearily. We sailed into Iliantus Bay and found a whole fleet waiting for us. Someone must finally have spied out our stronghold. Cormann nodded and Corrin shrugged a shoulder.
They blocked off our retreat, so we just fought till everyone was dead or captured. These half-hundred men are all who live. Unfortunately, I was knocked out during the battle and woke up to find myself a prisoner. Otherwise, his blue gaze raked the court with a lashing contempt. I could be peacefully feeding fish now, instead of your witless fish eyes. I won't drag out the business for you, Corrin, said Cromion. Your men will have to be given to the games, of course, but you can be decently and privately beheaded. Thanks, said the pirate. But I'll stay with my men. Cromann stared at him in puzzlement. But why did you ever do it? he said finally. With your strength and skill and cunning you could have gone far in Achaewa.
We take mercenaries from conquered provinces, you know. You could have gotten Achaewan citizenship in time. I was a prince of Kanahur, said Corrin slowly. I saw my land invaded, and my folk taken off as slaves. I saw my brothers hacked down at the Battle of Lear, my sister taken as concubine by your admiral, my father hanged, my mother burned alive when they fired the old castle. They offered me amnesty because I was young, and they wanted a figurehead, so I swore an oath of fealty to Achaera, and broke it the first chance I got. It was the only oath I ever broke, and still I am proud of it. I sailed with pirates until I was big enough to master my own ships. That is enough of an answer. It may be, said Crowman slowly.
You realize, of course, that the conquest of Conohor took place before I came to the throne, and that I certainly could negate it, and view the Thalassacrat's duty to his country and have to punish its incessant rebelliousness. I don't hold anything against you yourself, Crowman. said Corrin with a tired smile. But I give my soul to the netherfires for the chance to purl your damned palace down around your ears. I'm sorry it has to end this way, said the king. You're a brave man. I'd like to drain many beakers of wine with you on the other side of death. He signed to the guards. Take him away. One moment, sire, said Shorzan. Is it your intention to lock all these pirates in the same dungeon cell?
Why, I suppose so. Why not? I do not trust their captain. Chained and imprisoned, he is still a menace. I think he has certain magical techniques. That's a lie, spat Corrin. I never needed your stinking woman's tricks to flatten the likes of a carer. I would not leave him with his men, advised Shurzon imperturbably. Best he be given his own cell, alone. I know a place. Well, let it be so. Crowman waved a hand in dismissal. As Shorzan turned to lead the guards off, he traded a long glance with Chrysius. Her eyes remained hooded as she looked after the departing captives.
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26 26 - Witch of the Demon Seas, Chapter Two 18:25
Witch of the Demon Sees. Chapter Two. The cell was no longer than a man's height, a dripping cave hewed after the rock under the palace foundations. Corrin crouched on the streaming floor in utter darkness. The chains which they had locked to ring bolts on the wall clashed when he stirred. And this was how it ended, he thought bitterly. The wild career of the exiled conqueror, the heave and surge of ships under the running waves, the laughter of comrades and the clamour of swords and the thrum of wind in the rigging, had come to this. One man hunched in a loneliness and darkness like a colder womb, waiting in timeless murk for the day when they would drag him out to be torn by beasts with amusement of fools.
They fed him at intervals, a slave bringing a bowl of prison swill, while a spear-armed guard stood well out of reach and watched. Otherwise he was alone. He could not even hear the voices of other captives. There was only the slow dripping of water, and the harsh tones of iron links. The cell must lie below even the regular dungeons, far down in the very bowels of the island. Vague images floated across his mind. The high cliffs about Elantis Bay, the great flowers blooming with sullen fires in the jungle beyond the beach, the slim black corsair galleys at anchor. He remembered the open sky, the eternally clouded sky under which blew the long wet wind, out of which spilled rain and lightning, and grew the eerie blue of dusk.
He had often wondered what lay beyond those upper clouds. Now and then he remembered. One could see the vague disk of the heaven fire, and he had heard of times when incredibly violent storms opened a brief rift in the high cloud layers to let through a shaft of searing brilliance, at whose touch water boiled and the earth burst into flame. It made him think of the speculations of Conagher's philosophers, that the world was really a globe around which the heaven fire swung, bringing day and night. Some had gone so far as to imagine that it was the world which did them moving, that the heaven-fire was a ball of flame in the middle of creation, about which all other things revolved. But Conohur was in chains now.
He remembered its folk bowed to the will of Achaera's greedy proconsul, its art and philosophy, the idle playthings of the conquerors. The younger generation was growing up with an idea that it might be best to yield. To become absorbed into the Thalassocracy, and so eventually gain equal status with the Achaeron. But Koran could not forget the great flames flapping against a wind-torn night sky, the struggling forms at rope's ends swaying from trees, the long lines of chained people stumbling hopelessly to the slave-galleys under Achaeron lashes. Perhaps he had carried the grudge too long. No, by Brennich Banor. There had been a family which was no longer. That was grudge enough for a lifetime.
A lifetime, he thought sardonically, which wouldn't be very much protracted now. He sighed warily in the stinking gloom of the cell. There were too many memories crowding in. The outlaw years had been hard and desperate, but they'd been good ones, too. There had been song and laughter and comradeship and gigantic deeds over an endless waste of waters. The long blue hush of twilight, the soft, black nights, the gray days with the sea running gray and green and gold under squalls of rain, the storms roaring and raging, the eager leap of a ship, frenzy of battle at the taking of town or galley, death so close one could almost hear the beat of black wings, orgy of loot and vengeance, the pirate town, grass huts under jungle trees.
Stuffed with treasure, full of brawling bawdy life, the scar-faced swaggering men, and the lusty, insolent women. Ruddy firelight, hammering back the night while the surf thundered endlessly along the beach. Well, all things came to a close. And while he would have wished a different sort of death for himself, he didn't have long to wait in this misery. Stirred. Far down the narrow corridor, and he caught the flickering glow of a torch. Scowling, he stood up, stooped under the low ceiling. Who in all the hells was this? It was too soon for feeding, unless his time sense had gone completely awry, and he didn't think the games could have been prepared in the few days since his arrival. They came up to the entrance of the cell and stood looking in by the guttering red torchlight.
A snarl twisted Corrin's lips. Shorzon and Chryseus. Of all the scum of Achaera, he growled, I had to be inflicted with you. There is no time for insolence, said the sorcerer coldly. He lifted the torch higher. The red light threw his face into blood-splashed shadow. His eyes were pits of darkness in which smoldered two embers. His black robe blended with the surrounding shadow. His face and hands. Seemed to float disembodied in the dank air. Horan's eyes traveled to Chryseus, and in spite of the hate that burned in him, he had to admit she was perhaps the loveliest woman he had ever seen. Tall and slim and lithe, moving with the soundless grace of a Sanduvian pharax, the dark hair sheening down past the chill-sculptured beauty of her marble-white face.
She returned his blue stare with eyes of dark flame. She was dressed as if for action, a brief tunic that left arms and legs bare, a short black cloak and high buskins, but jewels still blazed at throat and wrists. Behind her padded a lean shadow at sight of which Corrin stiffened. He had heard of Chrysius' tame Erinye. Folk said the devil beast had found a harder heart in the witch's breast and yielded to her. Some said less mentionable things. The slitted green eyes flared at Corrin, and the cruel muzzle opened in a fanged yarn. "'Back, Parias,' said Chryseus evenly. Her voice was low and sweet, almost a caress. It seemed strange that such a voice had spoken the rituals of black sorcery, and ordered the flaying alive of a thousand helpless Issyrian prisoners, and counselled some of the darkest intrigues in Achaea's bloody history.
She said to Corrin, This is a fine end for all your noble thoughts, man of Conohor. At least, he answered, you credit me with having had them, which is more than I'd say for you. The red lips curved in a cynical smile. Human purposes have a habit of ending this way. The mighty warrior, the scourge of the seas, hands in a foul prison cell, waiting for an unimaginative death. The old epics lied, didn't they? Life isn't quite the glorious adventure that fools think it is. It could be, if it weren't for your sort, wearily. Go away, won't you? If you won't even let me talk with my old comrades, you can at least spare me your own company. We are here with a definite purpose, said Shorzon. We offer you life, freedom, and the liberation of Conohur.
He shook his tiny head. It isn't even funny. No, no. I mean it," said Chryseus earnestly. Shawzan had you put in here alone, not out of malice, but simply to make this private talk possible. You can help us with a project so immeasurably greater than your petty quarrels that anything you ask in return will be as nothing, and you are the one man who can do so. I tell you this so that, realizing you have some kind of bargaining position, you will meet us as equal to equal. Not as prisoner to captor. If you agree to aid us, you will be released this instant. With a sudden flame within him, Corrin tartened his huge body. Oh gods, oh almighty gods beyond the clouds. If it were true, his voice shook.
What do you want? Your help in a desperate venture, said Chrysius. I tell you frankly that we may well all die in it, but at least you will die as a free man. And if we succeed, how the world may be ours. What is it? he asked hoarsely. I cannot tell you everything now, said Shorzon, but the story has long been current that you once sailed to the lairs of the Xanthi, the sea demons, and returned alive. Is it true? Aye, Corrin stiffened, with sudden alarm trembling in his nerves. Ah, by great good luck I came back. But they were not a race of humans to traffic with. I think the powers they can summon will match theirs, said Shorzon. We want you to guide us to their dwellings and teach us the language on the way, as well as whatever else you know about them.
When we return you may go where you choose, and if we get their help we will be able to set Konohur free soon afterward. Koran shook his head. It's nothing good that you plan, he said slowly. No one would approach the Xanthi. For any good purpose. You did, didn't you? chuckled the wizard dryly. If you want the truth, we are after their help in seizing the government of Achaera, as well as certain knowledge they have. If you succeeded, argued Corrin stubbornly, why should you then let Connor Hur go? Because power over Achaera is only a step to something too far beyond the petty goals of Empire for you to imagine, said Shazan bleakly. You must decide now, man. If you refuse, you die. Chryseus moved one slim hand, and the Irignia padded forward on razor-clawed feet.
The leathery wings were folded back against the long, black body. The barbed tail lashed hungrily, and a snarl vibrated in the lean throat. If you say no, came the woman's sweet voice, Perius will rip your guts out. That will at least afford us an amusing spectacle for our trouble. Then she smiled, the dazzling smile which had driven men to their doom ere this. But if you say yes, he whispered, a destiny waits for you that kings would envy. You are a strong man, Corrin. I like strong men. The corsair looked into the warm dark light of our eyes, and back to the icy glare of the devil beast. No unarmed man had ever survived the onslaught of an Arrheniae, and he was chained. At thought of returning to the dark home of the Xanthi, he shuddered.
But life was still wondrous sweet, and once free to move about, he might still have some chance of escape, or even of overpowering them. For, who knew? He wondered with a brief giddiness if the dark witch before him could be as evil as her enemies said. Strong and ruthless, yes. But so was he. When he learned the full truth about her soaring plans, he might even decide they were right. In any case, to live, to die if he must, under the sky. I'll go, he said hoarsely. I'll go with you. The low, exultant laughter of Chrysius sang in the flare-lit gloom. Shorzan came up and took a key from his belt. For a bare moment the thought of snapping that skinny neck. Raged through Corrin's mind. The magician smiled grimly.
Don't try it, he said, as a small proof of what we can do. Suddenly he was not there. It was a monster from the jungles of Mloto, standing in the cell with Corrin, a scaled beast that hissed at him with grinning jaws and spewed poison on the floor. Sorcery! Corrin shrank back, a chill of fear striking even his steely heart. Chazon resumed human shape and wordlessly unlocked the chains. They fell away, and Korn stumbled out into the corridor. The urinier snarled and slipped closer. Chryseus laid a hand on the beast's head, checking that gliding rush as if with a leash, her smile and the faint sweet scent of her hair dizzying. Come, she said. One hand slipped between his own fingers, and the cool touch seemed to burn him.
Shorzan led the way down a long sloping tunnel where only the streaming torch flames had life. Their footsteps echoed hollily in the wet black length of it. We go at once, he said. When Cro-Man learns of your escape, all Taurus will be after us. But it will be too late then. We sail swiftly tonight. Sail. Whither? What of my men? asked Corrin. At last, I'm afraid. Unless Cro-Man spares them until we get back. Said Chrysius. But we saved you. I'm glad of that. A faint smell of fresh, salty air blew up the tunnel. It must open on the sea, thought Corrin. He wondered how many passages riddled the depth under Taurus. They came out finally on a narrow beach under the looming western cliffs. The precipices climbed into the utter dark of night, reaching into the unseen sky.
Before them lay open sea, swirling with phosphorescence. Corrin drew deep lungfuls of air, salt and seaweed and wet wild wind, sand under his feet, sky overhead, a woman beside him. By the gods, it was good to be alive. A galley was moored against a tiny pier. By the light of bobbing torches, Corrin's mariner's eyes surveyed her. She was built along the same lines as his own ship, a lean black vessel with one square sail. Open deck to save its stem and stern. Rower's benches lining the sides with a catwalk running between. There would be quarters for the men under the poop and forecastle decks. Supplies in the hole beneath. The cabin was erected near the waste, apparently for officers, and there was a ballista mounted in the bowels.
Otherwise, no superstructure. A carved sea monster reared up for figurehead, and the stern post curved back to make its tail. He read the name on the bowels. Brisea. Strange that that dark vessel should bear a girl's name. About a fifty-man capacity, he judged, and she would be fast. The crew were getting aboard. They must have come down the cliffs along some narrow trail. They were all Umlotoan blues, he noticed, a cut-croat gang if ever he saw one, but silent and well-disciplined. It was shrewd to take only the mercenary warriors along. They had no patriotic interest in what happened to Akema. And their reckless courage was legendary. A burly, one-eyed officer came up and saluted. All set, sir, he reported.
Good, nodded Shorzon. Captain Imazu, this is our guide, Captain Corrin. The waiter, eh? Imazu chuckled and shook hands in the manner of the barbarians. Well, we could hardly have a better one, I'm sure. Glad to know you, Corrin. The pirate murmured polite phrases, but he decided that Imazu was a likable chap. And wondered what had led him to take service under anyone with Shorzan's reputation. He went aboard. The Sea of Demons lies do not, said Shorzan. Is that the way to sail? For the time being, nodded Corrin. When we get closer, I'll be able to tell you more exactly. And you may as well wash and rest, said Chrysius. You need both. A smile was soft in the flickering red light. Corrin entered the cabin.
It was divided into three compartments. Apparently, Imazu slept with his men, or perhaps on deck, as many men preferred. His own tiny room was clean, spartily furnished with a bunk and a washbowl. He cleaned himself eagerly, and put on the fresh tunic laid out for him. When he came back on deck, the ship was already under way. A strong south wind was blowing, filling the dark sail, and the brassiere surged forward under its thrust. The phosphorescence shone around her hull, and out on the rolling waters. Behind, the land faded into the night. He'd certainly been given no chance to escape, he thought. Borrowing miracles, he had to go through with it now, at least until he reached the Sea of Demons, after which anything might happen.
He shivered a little, wondering darkly whether he had done right, wondering what their mission was and what the world's fate was to be as a result of it. Chrysius slipped quietly up to stand beside him. The Oriniae crouched down nearby. His baleful eyes never leaving the man. Outward bound, she said, and laughter was gay in her voice. He said nothing but stared ahead into the night. You'd better sleep, Corrin, she said. You're tired now, and you'll need all your strength later. She laid a hand on his arm and laughed aloud. It will be an interesting voyage, to say the least. Rather, he thought with wry humor. It occurred to him that the ship might even have its pleasant aspects. "'Good-night, Corin,' she said, and left him.
Presently he went back to his room. Sleep was long in coming, and uneasy when it did awry."
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27 27 - Witch of the Demon Seas, Chapter Three 16:27
When he came out on deck in the early morning, there was only a grey emptiness of waters out to the grey horizon. They must have left the whole Achaeron archipelago well behind them, and be somewhere in the Zyrian Sea now. There was a smell of rain in the air. And the ship ran swiftly before a keening wind over long white-maned rollers. Corrin let the tang of salt and moisture and kelp, the huge, restless vista of bounding waves, the creak and thrum of the ship and the thundering surge of the ocean, swell luxuriously up within him, the simple animal joy of being at home. The sea was his home now, he realised vaguely. He had been on it so long that it was his natural environment, his as much as that of the Laeridee, wheeling on white wings in the cloud-flying heavens.
He looked over the watch. It seemed to be well handled. The sailors knew their business. There were armored guards at bow and stern, and the rest, clad in the plain loincloth of ordinary seamen the world over, were standing by the sail, swabbing the decks, making minor repairs. And otherwise occupying themselves. Those off duty were lounging or sleeping well out of the watch's way. The helmsman kept his eye on the compass and held the tiller with a practiced hand. Good. Good. Captain Imazu padded up to him on bare feet. The Umlotoan wore helmet and corslet and had a sword at his side and carried the whip of authority in one gnarled blue hand. His scarred, one-eyed face cracked in a smile. Good morning to you, Captain Corrin, he said politely.
The Conohurion nodded with an amiability he had not felt for a long time. The ship is well handled, he said. Thanks. I'm about the only Omlothun who has ever skipped anything bigger than a war canoe, I suppose, but I was in the Achaewan fleet for a long time. Again, a hideous but disarming smile. I nearly met you professionally once or twice before. But you always showed us a clean pair of heels, judging from what happened to ships that did have the misfortune to overhaul you. I'm just as glad of it," he gestured to the tiny galley below the poop deck. How about some breakfast? Over food, which was better than most to be had aboard ship, they fell into professional talk. Like all captains, Imazu was profoundly interested in the old and seemingly insoluble problem of finding an accurate position.
Dead reckoning just won't do, he complained. Men's estimates always differ, no matter how good they may be. There isn't even a decent map to be had anywhere. Corrin mentioned the efforts of theorists in Akeira, Konohor, and other civilized states to use the Heavenfire's altitude to determine position north and south of a given line. Imazu was aware of their work, but regarded it as of little practical value. You just don't see it often enough, he objected. And most of the crew would consider it the worst sort of impiety to go aiming an instrument at it. That's one reason, I suppose, why Shorzan shipped only Umlothuans. We don't worship the heaven fire. Our gods all live below the clouds. He cut himself a huge quid of Lianzi and stuffed it into his capacious mouth.
Anywhere doesn't give you east and west position. The philosophers who think the world is round say we could solve that problem by making an accurate timepiece, said Corrin. I know, but it's a lot of gas, if you ask me. A sand glass or a water clock can only tell time so close, and no closer, and those mechanical gadgets they've built are worse yet. I knew an old skipper from Noriki once who kept a joss in his cabin and got his position and dreams from it. I only had one wreck in his life, Imazu greened. Of course, he drowned then. Look," said Corrin suddenly, do you know where the hell we're going and why? To the Sea of Demons is all they told me. No reason given. Imazu studied Corrin with his sharp black eye.
You don't know either, eh? I have a notion that most of us won't live to find out. I'm surprised that any crew could be made to go there without a mutiny. The gang of bully boys is only frightened of Shorzan and his witch granddaughter. They—Imazu shut up. Looking around, Corrin saw the two approaching. In the morning light, Chryseus did not seem the luring devil-woman of the night. She moved with easy grace across the rolling deck, the wind blowing her tunic and her long black hair in careless billows, and there was a girlish joy and eagerness in her. The pirate's heart stumbled and began to race. She chatted gaily of nothing while she and the old man ate. Shazan remained silent until he was through, then said curtly to the two men, Come into the cabin with us.
They filled Corrin's tiny room, sitting on bunk and floor. Shazan said slowly. We may as well begin now to learn what you know, Corrin. What is the truth about your voyage to the Xanthi? It was several seasons ago, replied the corset. I got the thought you seem to have had that possibly I could enlist their help against my enemies. He smiled mirthlessly. I learned better. What do we know of them exactly? said Shazan methodically. He ticked the pints off on his lean fingers. They are an amphibious, non-human race dwelling in the Sea of Demons, which is said to grow grass so that ships become tangled there and never escape. Not so, said Corrin. There's kelp on the surface, but you can sail right through it.
I think the sea is just a dead region of water around which the great ocean currents move. I know, said Shazan impatiently, and resumed his summary. Generations ago, the Xanthi, of whose presence men had only been vaguely aware before, fell upon all the islands in their sea and slew the people living there. They had great numbers, as well as tamed sea-monsters and unknown powers of sorcery, so that no one could stand against them. Since then, they have not gone beyond their borders, but they ruthlessly destroy all human vessels venturing inside. King Fideon III of Achaera sent a great fleet to drive the Xanthi from their stolen territory. Not one ship returned. Men now shun the whole region as one accursed.
Imazu nodded. There's a sailor's legend that the souls of the damned go to the Xanthi, he offered. Shazan gave him an exasperated look. I'm only interested in facts, he said coldly. What do you know, Corrin? I know what you just said. As who doesn't, answered the Conohurian, but I think they must have limits to their powers, and be reasonable creatures, but the limits are far beyond man's, and their reason is not as ours. I didn't try an invasion, of course. I took one small fast boat, manned with picked volunteers, and waited outside the sea for a storm that would blow me into it. When that came, we ran before it, fast. In the rain and wind and waves, I figured we could get undetected far into their borders.
So it seemed we could, and in fact we made it almost to the largest island inside. Then they came at us. They were riding Ceteria and driving sea serpents before them. They had spears and bows and swords, and there were hundreds of them. Any one of the snakes could have smashed our boat. We ran for land and barely made it. We hadn't come to fight, so we held up our hands as the Xanthi leaped to shore and wondered if they'd just hack us down. But as I'd hoped, they wanted to know what we were there for, so they took us to the Black Castle on the island. Momentarily, Corrin was cold as the memory of that wet, dark place of evil shuddered through his mind. I can't tell you much about it. They have great powers of sorcery, and the place seemed somehow unreal, never the same.
Always wrong, always with something horrible just beyond vision in the shadows. I remember the whole time as if it were a dream. There were treasures beyond counting. I saw gold and jewels from the sea bottom mixed in with human skulls and the figureheads of drowned ships. The light was dim and blue, and there was always fog and noises for which we had no name hooting out in the gloom. It stank. With the vile, fishy smell they have. And the walls seemed to have a watery unreality, as I said, shifting and feeding like smoke. You could smell sorcery in the very air of that place. They kept us there for many ten days. We had brought rich gifts, of course, which they accepted ungraciously, and they housed us in a dungeon under guard.
They didn't feed us so badly, if you like a steady fish diet, and they taught us their language. How does it sound? asked Chrysius. I can make it come out right. No human throat can. Something like this.
They stiffened at the chill hissing that slithered from Corrin's lips. It has words for things I never did understand, and it lacks many of the commonest human words. Fear, joy, hope, adventure. His glance slid to Chrysius. Love. "'Do they have a word for hate?' asked Shorzon. "'Oh, yes,' Corrin grinned without humour. After a moment he went on. They wanted to know more of the outside world. That was why they spared our lives. When we knew the language well enough they began to question us. How they questioned us. It got to be torture, those unending days of answering the things that hissed and gabbled at us in those shadowy rooms. It was like a nightmare, where mad happenings go on without ever ending.
Politics, science, philosophy, art, geography. They wanted to know it all. They pumped us dry of knowledge. When we came to something they didn't understand, such as love, say, they went back and forth over the same ground, over and over again, until we thought we'd go crazy, and at last they'd give up in bafflement. I think they believe humans to be mad. I made my offer, of course, the loot of Akeira in exchange for the freedom of Kanoha. They. I might also say they laughed. Finally they answered in scorn that they could take whatever they wanted, the whole world if need be, without my help. Shozan's eyes glittered. Did you find out anything of their powers? he asked eagerly. A little. They had put any human magician to shame, of course.
I saw them charm sea-monsters to death just to eat em. I saw em working on a new building on the island. They planted a little package somewhere and set fire to it, and great stones leaped into the air with a bang like thunder. I saw their Satorreia cavalry, their tamed war-snakes. Oh, yes, they have more powers than I can name. And their numbers must be immense. They live on the sea-bottom, you know. That is, their commoners do. The leaders have strongholds on land as well. They farm both sea and land and have great smithies on the islands. Well, in the end they let us go. They were going to put us to death for our trespass, I think, but I did some fast talking. I told them we could carry a word of their strength back to humans and overawe our race with it so that if they ever wanted to collect a tribute or something of the sort, they'd never have to fight for it.
Probably that carried less weight than the fact But we had, after all, done no harm, and been of some use. They had no logical reason to kill us. So they didn't, Corrin smiled grimly. We're a pretty tough crew, prepared to take a few xanthi to death with us, even if we were disarmed. Their killing charms seemed to work only on animals. That was another reason to spare us. One of their wizards was, for having me at least, slain. He said he'd had a prevision of my return with ruin in my wake, but the others laughed at him at the very thought of a human's being dangerous to them. Moreover, they pointed out, if that was to be the case, then there was nothing they could do about it. They seemed to believe in a fixed destiny.
But the idea amused them so much that it was still another reason for letting us go. Corrin shrugged. So we sailed away. That's all. Never till now did I have any smallest thought of returning. He added bleakly after a moment, when silence had been heavy. They have all they want to know from my visit. There will be no reason for them to spare us this time. I think there will be, said Chryseus. There'd better be, muttered Imerzu. You can start teaching us their language, said Shorzon. It might not be a bad idea for you to learn too, Imerzu. The more who can talk to them, the better. The Wumlothuan made a wry face. Another tongue to learn! By the topknot of Mwanzi, why can't the world settle on one and end this babble?
The poor interpreters would starve to death, smiled Chryseus. She took Corrin's arm. Come, my buccaneer. Let's go up on deck for a while. There's always time to learn words. They found a quiet spot on the forecastle deck and sat down against the rail. The uriniae settled. His long body beside Chryseus, and watched Corrin with sleepy malevolence, but he was hardly aware of the devil-beast. It was Chryseus. Chryseus. Dark sweet hair and dark lambent eyes. Utter loveliness of face and form. Singing golden voice and light warm touch and- You're a strange man, Corrin, she said softly. What are you thinking now? Oh, nothing. He smiled crookedly. Nothing. I don't believe that. You have too many memories.
Almost without knowing it, he found himself telling her of his life, the long, terrible struggle against overwhelming power, the bitterness and loneliness, the death of comrades one by one, and the laughter and triumphs and wild exultants of it, the faring into unknown seas and the dicing with fate. And the strong, close bonds of men against the world. He mused wistfully about a girl who was gone, but her bright image was strangely fading in his heart now, for it was Chrysius who was beside him. It has been a hard life, she said at the end. It took a giant of men to endure it, she smiled, a small, closed smile that made her look strangely young. I wonder what you must think of this, sailing with your sworn foes to the end of the world on an unknown mission.
You're not my foe, he blurted. No, never your enemy, Corrin, she exclaimed. We have been on opposite sides before. Let it not be thus from this moment. I tell you that the purpose of this voyage, which you shall soon know, is good, great and good, as the savagery of man has never known before. You know the old legend. That some day the heaven-fire will shine through, opening clouds, not as a destroying flame, but as the giver of life. That men will see light in the sky even at night. That there will be peace and justice for all mankind. I think that day may be dawning, Corrin." He sat dumbly, bewildered. She was not evil. She was not evil. It was all he knew, but it sang within him. Suddenly she laughed and sprang to her feet.
"'Come on,' she cried.
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28 28 - Witch of the Demon Seas, Chapter Four 8:28
Witch of the Demon Seas. Chapter Four. Rain and wind came, a lightning-shot squall in which the brassiere wallowed and bucked and men strained at awes and pumps. Toward evening it was over. The sea stilled and the lower clouds faded. So that they saw the great dull-red disk of the Heaven Fire through the upper clouds, sinking into the western sea. There was almost a flat calm. The glassy water was ruffled only by a faint breeze, which half-filled the sail and sent the galley sliding slowly and noiselessly northward. Man the Oz, directed Shozan. Give the men a chance to rest tonight, sir, begged Imazil. They all worked hard today. We can roll all the faster tomorrow if we must. No time to spare, snapped the wizard.
Yes, there is, said Corrin flatly. Let the men rest, Imerzu. Shazon gave him a baleful glance. You forget your position aboard. Corrin bristled. I think I'm just beginning to remember it, he answered with metal in his voice. Chrysius laid a hand on her grandfather's arm. He's right, he said. So is Imerzu. It would be needless cruelty to make the sailors work tonight, and they'll be better fitted by a night's rest. Very well," said Shorzon sullenly. He went into his room and slammed the door. Presently Chrysius bade the men goodnight and went to her quarters with the Irinye trotting after. Corrin's eyes followed her through the deepening blue dusk. In that mystic light, the ship was a shadowy, half-real background.
A dimness beyond which the sea swirled in streamers of cold white radiance. She's a strange woman, said Imaozu. I don't understand her. Nor I, admitted Corrin. But I know now her enemies have foully lied about her. I'm not so sure about that. As the Conohurion turned with a dark frown, Imaozu added quickly, Oh, well, I'm probably wrong. I never had much sight of her, you know. He wandered up on the poop deck in search of a place to sit. It was deserted save for the helmsman by the dimly glowing binnacle, a deeper shadow in a thick blue twilight. Sitting back against the taffrail, they looked forward to the lean waste of the ship and the vague outline of the listlessly bellying sail. Beyond the hull, the sea was an arabesque of luminescence, delicate traceries of shifting white light out to the glowing horizon.
The cold fire streamed from the ship's bowels. The world in her wake, the hull dripped liquid flame. The night was very quiet. The faint hiss and smack of cloven water, beak of planks and tackle, distant splashing of waves and invisible sea beasts. Otherwise, there was only the enormous silence under the high clouds. The breeze was cool on their cheeks. How long do we get to the Sea of Demons? asked Imazu. His voice was utterly hushed in the huge stillness. With ordinary sailing weather, I'd say about three ten days, maybe four, answered Corrin indifferently. It's a strange mission we're on, aye, that it is, Imazil's head wagged, barely visible in the dark. I like it not, Corrin. I have evil feelings about it, and the omens I took before leaving weren't good.
Why, then, did you sail? You're a free man, aren't you? So they say. Certain bitterness rose in the Umlothuan's voice. Free as any of Shorzan's followers, which is to say less free than a slave who can at least run away. Why, doesn't he pay well? Oh, aye, he is lavish in that regard, but he has his ways of binding servants to him, so that they must do his bidding above that of the very gods. He put his gesh on most of these sailors, for instance. They were simple folk, and thought he was only magicing them a good luck charm. You mean they are bound, he has their souls? Aye, he put them to sleep in some sorcerous way, and impressed his command on them. No matter what happens now, they must obey him.
The Gears is stronger than their own wills. Corrin shivered. Are you—? Pardon, it's no concern of mine. No, no, that's all right. He put no such binding on me. I knew better than to accept his offer of a luck-bringing spell, but he has other ways. He lent me a slave girl from Unloto for my pleasure. But she is lovely, wonderful, kind, all that a woman should be. She has borne me sons and made homecoming ever a joy. But you see, she is still Shorzon's, and he will not sell her to me or free her. Moreover, he did put his guess on her. If ever I rebelled, she would suffer for it," Amazu spat over the rail. So I am Shorzon's creature, too. It must be a strange service. It is. Mostly all I have to do is captain his bodyguard, but I've seen and helped in some dark things.
He's a fiend from the lowest hell, Shozan is, and his granddaughter, Imazu, stopped. Yes? asked Corrin roughly, his hand closed bruisingly on the other's arm. Go on, what of her? Nothing. Nothing. I really have had little to do with her. Imazu's face was lost in the gloom. But Corrin felt the one eye hard on him. Only, be careful, pirate. Don't let her lay her own sort of gash on you. You've been a free man till now. Don't become anyone's blind slave. I've no such intention, said Corrin frostily. Then no more need to be said, Imazu sighed heavily and got up. I think I'll go to bed then. What of you? Not yet. I'm not sleepy. Good night. Good night. Corrin sat back alone. He could barely discern the helmsman.
Beyond lay only glowing darkness and the whispering of the night. He felt loneliness like a cold hollow within his breast. Father and mother, his tall brothers and his laughing lovely sister, the comrades of youth, the hard, wild, stout-hearted pirates with whom he had sailed for such a long and bloody time, where were they now? Where in all the blowing night were they? Where was he, and on what mission, sailing alone through a pit of darkness on a ship of strangers, of meaning and hope in all the cruel insanity of the world? Suddenly he wanted his mother. He wanted to lay his head on her lap, and cry in desolation, and hear her gentle voice. No, by the gods, it wasn't her image he saw. It was a lithe and dark-haired witch, who was crooning to him and stroking his hair.
He cursed tonelessly and got up. Best to go to bed and try to sleep his fancies away. It was becoming childish. He went down the catwalk toward the cabin. As he neared it, he saw a figure by the rail, darkly etched against a shimmering patch of phosphorescence. His heart sprang into his throat. She turned as he came near. "'Corin,' she said. "'I couldn't sleep. Come over here and talk to me. Isn't the night beautiful?' He leaned on the rail. Not daring to look at the haunting face, pale-lit by the swirling sea fire. It's nice, he said clumsily. But it's lonely, she whispered. I never felt so sad and alone before. Why, why that's how I felt, he blurted. Corrin. She came to him, and he took her with a sudden madness of yearning.
Perias the Arrheniae snarled as they thrust him out of her cabin. He padded up and down the deck for a while. A sailor who stood watch near the forecastle followed him with frightened eyes and muttered prayers to the amulet about his neck. Presently the devil-beast curled up before the cabin. The lids drooped over his green eyes, but they remained unwinkingly fixed on the door.
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29 29 - Witch of the Demon Seas, Chapter Five 19:19
Which of the Demon Sees? Chapter Five.
Under a hot, sullen sky, the windless sea swelled in long, slow waves that rocked the tangled kelp and ocean-grass up and down, heavenward and hellward, to starboard the dark cliffs of a small, jungled island. It rose from an angry, muttering surf, but there were no birds flying above it. Corrin pointed to the shore. That's the first of the archipelago, he said. From here on we can look for the Xanthe to come at any time. We should get as far into their territory as possible, even to the Black Palace, said Charzon. I will put a spell of invisibility on the ship. The sorcerers can break that, said Chryseus. Aye, so, but when they come to know our powers— I think they will treat with us. They'd better, smiled Amazu grimly.
Stay on toward the island of the castle, said Shorzon to the pirate. I go to lay the spell. He went into his cabin. Corrin had a glimpse of its dark interior before the door was closed, draped in black and filled with the apparatus of magic. You will have to be in a trance, physically, to maintain the enchantment, said Chrysius. She smiled at Corrin and his pulses' waist. Come, my dearest. It is cooler on the afterdeck. The sailors rowed steadily, sweat glistening in their bare blue hides. Imazu paced up and down the catwalk, flicking idlers with his whip. Corrin stood where he could keep an eye on the steersmen and see that the right course was followed. It had been utter wonder till now, he thought.
An ending days when they ploughed through seas of magic, nights of joy such as he had never known. There had never been another woman such as Chrysius, he thought. Never in all the world, and he was the luckiest of men. Though he died today, he had been more fortunate than any man ever dared dream. Chrysius. Chrysius. Loveliest and wisest and most valiant of women. She was his. Before all the jealous gods, she loved him. There has only been one thing wrong, he said. You are going into danger now. The world would go dark if aught befell you. And I should sit at home, while you're away, and never know what had happened, never know if you lived or died. No, no, Corrin. He laid a hand on the sword at his waist.
It had given him arms and armor again after she'd come to him. Logical enough, he thought without resentment. He could be trusted now, as much as if he were one of Shorzon's ensorcelled warriors. But if there were a spell, too, the gods deliver him from ever being freed of it. He blinked. There was a sudden breath of chill on him, and his eyes were blurring. No, no, it was the ship that wavered, ship and man fading. He clutched at Chrysius. She laughed softly and slipped an arm around his waist. It is only Shorazon's spell, he said. It affects us two to some extent, and it makes the ship invisible to anyone within seeing range. Ghost ship. Ghost crew, slipping over the slowly heaving waters. There was only the foggiest outline to be seen.
Shadow of mast and rigging against the sky. Glimpses of water through the gray smoke of the hull. Blobs of darkness that were the crewmen. Sound was still clear. He heard the mutter of superstitious awe. Crack of the whip, and Imazu's oaths that sent the oars creaking and splashing again. Corrin's hand was a misty blur before his eyes. Chryseus was a shadow beside him. She laughed once more, her low exultant throb, and pulled his lips down to hers. He ruffled the streaming, fragrant hair and felt a return of courage. It was only a spell. But what were the spells he wondered for the thousandth time? He did not hold the simple theory that wizards were in league with gods or demons. They had powers, yes.
But he was sure that somehow these powers came only from within themselves. Chryseus had always evaded his questions about it. There must be some simple answer to the problem. Some real process. As real as that of making a fire behind the performances of the sorcerers, but it baffled him to think what it might be. Blast at all, it just wasn't reasonable that Shorzan, for instance, should have been able actually to change himself into a jungle monster many times his size. Yet he, Corrin, had seen the thing, had felt its wet scales and smelled its reptile stink. Ow! The ship ploughed slowly on. Now and then Corrin looked at the compass, straining his eyes to discern the blurred needle. Otherwise, they could only wait.
But waiting with Chryseus was remarkably pleasant. It was at the end of a timeless time, perhaps half a day, that he saw the Xanthian patrol lurk. He pointed. There they come. Gratius stared boldly over the sea. The hand beneath his was steady as her voice. So I see. They're beautiful, aren't they? The set of air came leaping across the waves. Big, graceful beasts with the shapes of fish, their smooth black hides shining, and the water white behind their threshing tails. Astride each was a great golden form bearing a lance. They quartered across the horizon. The crew mumbled in fear, shaken to their hardy souls by the terrible, unhuman grace of the Xanthi. Imazu cursed them back to work. The ship went on.
Islands slipped by, empty of man-sign. They had glimpses of Xanthian works, spires and walls rearing above the jungle. These were not the white, colonnaded buildings of Taurus or the timbered halls of Conohur. Of black stone they were, with pointed towers climbing crazily skyward. Once a great sea serpent reared its head, spouted water, and writhed away. All creatures save man could sense the presence of wizardry, and refused to go near it. Night fell, an abyss of night broken only by faint glimmers of sea fire under the carpeting weed. Men stood uneasy watch in full armor. Peering blindly into the sombre immensity, it was hot, hot, and silent. Near midnight, the lookout shouted from the masthead.
"'Sent thee to l'arboard!' "'Silence, you fool!' called the masu. "'Want to hear us!' The patrol was a faint swirl and streaking of phosphorescence, black as shadows against the night. It was coming nearer. "'Have they spotted us?' wondered Curran. "'No,' breathed Crisis. "'But they're close enough for their mounts.' There was a great snorting and splashing out in the murk. The set of Rhea were refusing to go into the circle of Shorzon's spell. Voices lifted, an unhuman croaking. The orignet, the only animal who did not seem to mind witchcraft, snarled in sore-edged tones, eyes a green blaze against the night. Presently the squad turned and slipped away. I know something is wrong and I've gone for help, said Corrin.
We'll have a fight in our hands before long. He stretched his big body, suddenly eager for action. His waiting was more than he could stand. The ship drove on. Corrin and Chrysius napped in the deck. It was too stiflingly hot below. The long night wore away. In the misty gray of morning, they saw a dark mass advancing from the west. Corrin's sword rasped out of the sheath. It was a long, double-edged blade, such as they used in Conahur, and it was thirsty. Get inside, Croces, he said tightly. Get inside yourself, she answered. There was a lilt in her voice like a little girl's. He felt a quiver with joyous expectation. The ghostly outlines of the ship wavered, thickened, faded again, flickered back toward solidity.
Suddenly they had sight. The vessel lay real around them. They saw each other in helm and corslet, face looking into tautened face. They have a wizard along. He broke Shorzon's spell, said the Conohurian. We looked for that, answered Chrysius evenly. But as long as Shorzon keeps fighting him, there will be a roiling of magic around us, such that none of their beasts will approach. She stood beside him, slim and boyish in polished cuirass and plumed helmet, a short sword belted to her waist and a bow in one hand. Her nostrils quivered, her eyes shone, and she laughed aloud. Who'll drive them off? she said. We'll send them home like beaten the agonets. Imazu blew the war horn, wild brazen echoes screaming over the sea.
His men drew in the oars, pulled on their armor, and stood on the rails, waiting. But did we come here to fight them? asked Corrin. No, said Chrysius, but we've known all along that we'd have to give them a taste of our might before they'd talk to us. The Xanthian lancers were milling about half a league away, as if in conference. Suddenly, someone blew a harsh-toned horn. And Corrin saw half the troops slide from the saddle into the water. So they'll swim in us, he muttered. The attack came from all sides, converging on the ship in a rush of foam. As the Xanthi neared, Corrin saw their remembered lineaments and felt the odd clutch of panic. They weren't human. With a fluked tail, one of them had twice the length of a man.
The webbed hind feet, on which they walked ashore, were held close to the body. The strangely human hands carried weapons. They swam half underwater, their dorsal fins rising over. Their necks were long with gills near the blunt-snouted heads. Their grinning mouths showed gleaming fangs. The eyes were big, dark, alive with cold intelligence. They bore no armor, but scales the color of beaten gold covered back in sides and tail. They came in at furious speed, churning the sea behind them. Chrysus' voice rose to a wild shriek. Perius! Perius! Kill! The Rigny howled and unfolded his leather-webbed wings. Like a hurled spear, he streaked into the air, rushed down on the nearest Xanthion like a thunderbolt, claws, teeth, barbed tail, a blinding fury of blood and death, ripping flesh as if it were parchment.
The ship's ballista chunked and balls of the ever-burning Achaewan fire were hurled out to fall, blazing among the enemy. Chryseus's bow hummed beside Coran. A Xanthian went under with an arrow in his throat. The air was thick with shafts as the crew fired. Still the Xanthi rushed on, ducking up and down, near impossible to hit. The first of them came up to the hull and sank to their clawed fingers into the wood. The sailors thrust downward with pikes, howling in fear-maddened rage. The man near Coran went down with a hurled javelin through him. At once a huge golden form was slithering over the rail, onto the deck. The sword in his hand fleshed. Another of Mlotuan's weapon was knocked spinning from his hand, and the reptile hewed him down.
Corrin sprang to do battle. The swords clashed together with a shock that jarred the man backward. Corrin spread his feet and smote out. His blade whirled down to strike the shoulder, gash the chest, and drive the hissing monster back. With a rising cold fury, Coran followed it up. That for the long Inquisition. That for being a horror out of the sea bottom. That for threatening Chryseus. The Xanthian writhed with the belly ripped open. Still, he wouldn't die. He flopped and struck from the deck. Coran evaded the sweeping tail and cut off the creature's head. They were pouring onto the ship through gaps in the line. Chryseus stood on the foredeck in a line of defending men, her bow singing death.
Battle snarled above the mast, men against monsters, sword and halberd and axe belling in cloven bone. A giant's blow bowled corn off his feet, the tail of a xanthian. He rolled over and thrust upward as the sea demon sprang on him. The sword went through the heart, hissing and snapping as foe toppled on him. He heaved the struggling body away and sprang back to his stance. "'To me,' bellowed Imanzo. "'To me, men!' He stood wielding a huge battle axe by the mast, striking at the beasts that raged around him, lopping heads and arms and tails like a woodman. Scattered humans rallied and began to fight their way toward him, step by bloody step. Perius the Iriniae was everywhere, a flying fury ripping and biting and smashing with wing blows.
Corrin looked huge over the men who fought beside him, the sword shrieking and thundering in his hands. Emazu stood stolidly against the mast. Smashing at all comers. A rush of Xanthi broke past him and surged against the foredeck. The defenders beat them off. Chrysius thrusting as savagely with her sword as any man, and they railed back against the masthead warriors to be cut down. A Xanthian sprang at Corrin, wielding a long-shafted axe that shivered the sword in his hand. The Conohurian struck back, his blade darting past the monster's guard to stab through the throat. The Xanthian staggered. Corrin wrenched the blade loose and brought it down again to sing in the reptile skull. Before he could pull it loose, another was on him.
Corrin ducked under the spear he carried and closed his hands around the slippery sides. The clawed feet raked his legs. He lifted the thing and hurled it into another with bone-shattering force. One of them threshed wildly, neck broken, the other bounded Corrin. The man yanked his sword free and it whistled against the golden head. Back and forth the struggle swayed, crashing of metal and howling of warriors, and the Xanthi were driven to the rails. They could not stand against the rallying human line in the narrow confines of the ship. "'Kill them,' roared Imerzu. "'Kill the misbegotten snakes!' Suddenly the Xanthi was slipping overboard, swimming for their mounts beyond the zone of magic. Perius followed, harrying them, pulling them half out of the water to rip their throats out.
The ship was wet. Streaming with human red and reptile yellow blood. Dead and wounded littered the decks. Coran saw the Xanthi cavalry retreating out of sight. We've won, he gasped. We've won. Now wait. Chryseus inclined ahead sharply, seeming to listen, then darted past him to open a hatch. Light streamed down into the hold. It was filling. The bilge was rising. I thought so, she said grimly. They're below us. "'Jumping into the hull.' "'We'll see about that,' said Corrin, and unbuckled his cuirass. "'All who can swim after me.' "'No! No, they'll kill you!' "'Come on!' rapped Imazu, letting his own breastplate clang to the deck. Corrin sprang overboard, he was wearing nothing but a kilt now, and had a spear in one hand and a dirk in his teeth.
Freer was gone, washed out by the red tides of battle. There was only a bleak, terrible triumph in him." Men had beaten the sea demons. Underwater it was green and dim. He swam down, down, brushing the hull, pulling himself along the length of the keel. There were half a dozen shapes clustered near the waist, working with axes. He pushed against the keel and darted at them, holding the spear like a lance. The keen point stabbed into the belly of one monster. The others turned, their eyes terrible in the gloom. Corrin took the dirk in his hand. Got a grip on the next nearest and stabbed. Claws ripped his flanks and back. His lungs were bursting. There was a roaring in his head and a darkness before his eyes.
He stabbed blindly, furiously. Suddenly the struggling form let go. Corrin broke the surface and gasped in a lungful of air. A sea demon leaped up beside him. At once the Irinye was on him. The Xanthian screamed as he was torn apart. Corrin dove back underwater. The other seamen were down there. Fighting for their lives. They outnumbered the Xanthi, but the monsters were in their native element. Blood streaked the water, blinding them all. It was a strange, horrible battle for survival. In the end, Corrin and Imazu and the others, except for four, were hauled back aboard. We drove them off, said the pirate wearily. Oh, my dear! I dearest, dear! Chryseus, who had laughed in battle, was sobbing on his breast.
Shazan was on deck, looking over the scene. We did well, he said. We stood them off, killed about thirty, and only lost fifteen men. At that rate, said Corrin, it will take them long to clear our decks. I don't think they will try again, said Shorzan. He went over to a captured Xanthian. The Sea Demon had had a foot chopped off in the battle, and had been pinned to the deck by a pike, but he still lived, and rasped defiance at them. If allowed to live, he would grow new members. The monsters were tougher than they had a right to be. Hark you, said Shorzan in a Xanthian tongue, which he learned with astonishing ease. Become on a mission of peace, with an offer that your king will be pleased to hear.
You have seen only a small part of our powers. It is not beyond us to sail to your palace and bring it crumbling to earth. Howen wondered how much was bluff. The old sorcerer might really be able to do it. In any case, he had nerve. What can you sing as athorise? asked the Xanthian. That is only for the king to hear, said Shazen coldly. He will not thank you for molesting us. Now we will let you go to bear word back to your rulers. Tell them we are coming whether they will or no, and that we come in friendship, if they will but show it. After all, if they wish to kill us, it can be just as easily done, if at all, after they have heard us out. Now go. Imazu pulled the pipe loose, and the yellow-bleeding Xanthion writhed overboard.
I do not think we will be bothered again, said Shorzon calmly, not before we get to the Black Palace. Maybe right, admitted Corrin. You gave me good argument by their standards. Friends, muttered Imazu, friends with those things. I soon expect the Urinei to lie down by the boven, I think. Come, said Chrysius impatiently. We have to repair the lake and clean the decks. Then get on the way again. It is a long trip yet to the Black Palace. She turned to Corrin in her eyes with dark flames. How you fought? she whispered. How you fought, beloved.
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30 30 - Witch of the Demon Seas, Chapter Six 9:49
Witch of the Demon Sees. Chapter Six. The castle stood atop one of the high grey cliffs which walled in a little bay. Beyond the shore, the island climbed steeply toward a gaunt mountain bare of jungle. The sea rolled sullenly against the rocks, under a low gloomy sky. Thickening with the approach of night, the Bazaar rode slowly into the bay, twenty men at the oars and the rest standing nervous guard by the rails. On either side the Xanthi cavalry hemmed them in, lancers astride the swimming Cetirere with eyes watchful on the humans, and behind them three great sea snakes under direction of their sorcerers followed ominously. Imazu shivered. If they came at us now, he muttered, we wouldn't last long.
But give them a fight, said Corrin. They will receive us, declared Chorzon. The ship grounded on the shallows near the beach. The sailors hesitated. To pull her ashore would be to expose themselves almost helplessly to attack. Go on, jump to it, snapped Imazu. And the men shipped their oars and sheathed their weapons, waded into the bay, and dragged the vessel up on the strand. The chiefs of the Xanthi stood waiting for them. There were perhaps fifty of the reptiles, huge golden forms wrapped in dark flowing robes on which glittered ropes of jewels. A few were tall miters and carried hooked staffs of office. Like statues, they stood, waiting, and the sailors shivered. Shorzan, Chryseus, Koran, and Amazu walked up toward them with all the slow dignity they could summon.
The Conahurion's eyes sought the huge wrinkled form of Tsathu, king of the Xanthi. The monster's gaze brightened on him, and the fanged mouth opened in a bass croak. "'So you have returned to us. You may not leave this time.' "'Your Majesty's hospitality overwhelms me,' said Koran ironically. A stupid old Xanthian beside the king plucked his sleeve and hissed rapidly. I told you, sir. I told you he would come back with the ruin of worlds in his train. Cut them all down now before the feasts strike. Kill them while there is time. There will be time," said Sathu. His unblinking eyes locked with Shorzans, and suddenly the twilight shimmered and trembled. The nose of men shook, and out in the water the sea beasts snorted with panic.
For a long moment that silent duel of wizardry quivered in the air, and then it faded. And the unreality receded into the background of dusk. Slowly the Xanthian monarch nodded, as if satisfied to find an opponent he could not overcome. "'I am Shorzon of Achaera,' said the man, "'and I would speak with the chiefs of the Xanthi.' "'You may do so,' replied the reptile. "'Come up to the castle, and we will quarter your folk.' At Imasu's order the sailors began unloading the gifts that had been brought—weapons, vessels. And ornaments of precious metals set with jewels, rare tapestries and incenses. Tzathu hardly glanced at them. Follow me, he said curtly. All your people. I'd hoped at least to leave a guard on the ship, murmured Amasu to Koran.
Would have done little good as they really wanted to see, sir, whispered the Konoherian. It did not seem as if Tzathu could have heard them, but he turned and his bass boom rolled over the mumbling surf. That is right. You may as well relax. No petty precaution. They will avail nothing. In a long file, they went up a narrow trail toward the Black Palace. The Xanthian rulers went first, with deliberately paced dignity. They were after the human captains, their men, and a silent troop of armed reptile soldiery. Hemmed in, thought Corrin grimly, if they want to start shooting. Chrysius's hand clasped his, a warm grip in the misty gloom. He responded gratefully. She came right behind him. Her other hand on the nervous and growling Irinye.
The castle loomed ahead, blacker than the night that was gathering. The gigantic walls climbing sheer toward the sky. The spear-like towers half lost in the swirling fog. There was always fog here, Corrin remembered. Mist and rain and shadow. There was never full day on the island. He sniffed the dank sea smell that blew from the gaping portals and bristle in recollection. They entered the cavernous doorway and went down a high, narrow corridor which seemed to stretch on forever. Its bare stone walls were wet and green-slimed. Tendrils of mist drifted under the invisibly high ceiling, and he heard the hooting and muttering of unknown voices somewhere in the murk. The only light was a dim, bluish radiance from fungi balls growing on the walls.
A cold, unhealthy, shadowless illumination. In which the white humans looked like drowned corpses. Looking behind, Oran could barely make out the frightened faces of the Umlotoans. Huddled close together and gripping their weapons with futile strength, the Xanthi glided noiselessly through the mumbling gloom, tall spectral forms with faint golden light streaming from their damp scales. It seemed as if there were other presences in the castle, too. Things flitting just beyond sight, hiding in lightless corners and fluttering between the streamers of fog. Always, it seemed, they were watching eyes, watching and waiting in the dark. They came into a cavernous antechamber, whose walls were lost in the dripping twilight.
Sathu's voice boomed hollowly between the chill immensities of it. Follow those who wish you to your quarters. Silent Xanthi slipped between the human ranks. Herding them with spears, the sailors one way, their chiefs another. Where are you taking the men? asked Imazzu with an anger sharpened by fear. Where are you keeping them? The echoes flew from wall to wall, jeering him. Keeping them? Keeping them? Them? Them? They go below the castle, said Izanthi. You will have more suitable rooms. Our men down in the old dungeons, Corrin's hand whitened on the hilt of his sword, but it was useless to protest. Unless they wanted to start a battle now. The four human leaders were taken down another whispering, echoing tunnel of a corridor, up a long ramp that seemed to wind inside one of the towers, and into a circular room in whose walls were six doors.
There the guards left them, fading back down the impenetrable night of the ramp. The rooms were furnished with grotesque ornateness, huge, hideously carved beds and tables, scaled tapestries and rugs. Shells and jewels set in the mould-covered walls. Narrow slits of windows opened on the wet night. Darkness and mist hid Corrin's view of the ground, but the faintness of the turf told them that they must be dizzyingly high up. "'Ill this is,' he said. "'A few guards on that ramp can bottle us up here forever, and they need only lock the dungeon gates to have our men imprisoned below.' "'We will treat with them. Before long they will be our allies,' said Shorzon." His hooded eyes were uncriesious.
It was with a sudden shock the coron remembered. Days and nights of bliss. And then the violence of battle and the tension of approach had driven from his mind the fact that he had never been told what the witch pair was really here for. It was their voyage, not his, and what real good could have brought them to this place of evil? He shoved his big body forward, a tawny giant in the foggy chill of a central room. It is near time I was told something of what you intend, he said. I have guided you and taught you and battled at your side, and I'll not be kept blindfolded any longer. You will be told what I tell you. No more, said Shorzon haughtily. You have me to thank for your miserable life. Let that be enough.
You can thank me when you're not being eaten by fish at the bottom of the sea right now, snapped Corrin. By Branach Branach, I've had enough of this. He stood with his back against the wall. Sweeping them with ice-blue eyes. Shorzon stirred black and ominous, rough and the smoldering sunken eyes. Chryseus shrank back a little from both of them, but Perius the Irine growled and flattened his belly to the floor and stared greenly at Koron. Imazu shifted from foot to foot, his wide blue face twisted with indecision. I can strike you dead where you stand, warned Shorzon. I can become a monster that will rip you to rags. Try it. snarred Corrin. Just try it. Crassus slipped between them, and the huge dark eyes were bright with tears.
We're not in enough danger now. Four humans against a land of walking beasts, without falling at each other's throats. I think it is the witchcraft of Tsathu working on us, dividing us. Bite him! She swayed against the Connohirion. Corrin, she breathed. Corrin, my dearest of all. You shall know. You shall be told everything as soon as we dare. But don't you see, you haven't the skill to protect yourself and your knowledge against the Xanthian magic. Or against your magic, beloved. She laughed softly and drew him after her into one of the rooms. Come, Coron. We are all weary now. It is time to rest. Come, my dear. Tomorrow.
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31 31 - Witch of the Demon Seas, Chapter Seven 18:51
Witch of the Demon Seas, Chapter 7. Day crept past in a blindness of rain. Twice Xanthians brought them food, and once Koran and Imazu ventured down the ramp to find their way barred by spear-bearing reptiles. For the rest they were alone. It ate at the nerves like an acid. Shorzon sat stiff. Unmoving on a couch, eyes clouded with thought. His gaunt body could have been that of Kemrian mummy. Imazu squatted unhappily, carving one of the intricate trinkets with whose making sailors pass dreamy hours. Corrin paced like a caged beast, throttled rage mounting in him. Even Perius grew restless, and took to padding up and down the antechamber, passing Corrin on the way. The man could not help a half-smile.
He was growing almost fond of the Irinye and his honest malevolence after the intriguing of humans and Xanthi. Only Chryseus remained calm. She lay curled on her bed, like a big beautiful animal, the long silken hair tumbling darkly past her shoulders, the veiled smile on her red lips. And so the day wore on. It was toward evening that they heard slow footfalls and looked out to see a party of Xanthi coming up the ramp. It was an awesome sight, the huge golden forms moving with deliberation and pride under the shimmering robes that flowed about them. Some were warriors, with saw-edged pikes flashing in their hands, but the one who spoke was plainly a palace official. "'Greeting from Xathu, king of the demon sea, to Shazan Avakadah,' the voice boomed.
"'You are to feast with the lords of the Xanthi to-night.' "'I am honoured,' bowed the sorcerer. "'The woman Chryseus will come with me, for she is equal with me.' "'That is permitted,' said Dexanthian gravely. "'And we, I suppose, wait here,' muttered Corrin rebelliously. "'It won't be for long,' smiled Chryseus softly. "'After tonight, I think it will be safe to tell you what you wish to know.' She had done the banqueting dress carried up with her from the ship. A clinging robe of the light rippling silk of Yang Nu. A scarlet cloak that was like a rush of flame from her slim bare shoulders. Barbarically massive bracelets and necklaces. A single fire ruby burning at her white throat. Pearls and silver glittered like dewdrops in her night-black hair.
The loveliness of her caught at Corrin's throat. He could only stare with dumb longing as she went after Shorzon and Azanthi. She turned to wave at him. A whisper twined around his heart. Good night, beloved. When there were gum, the urinye, patting after them, Imazu gave Koran a rueful look and said, So, now we're out of the story. Not yet, answered the connohirion, still a little dazed. Oh yes, oh yes. Surely you do not think that we plain sailor men will be asked for our opinions. No, Koran, we are only pieces on Shozan's board. We have done our part, and now he will put us back in the box. Crassius said, and Matthew shook his scarred bald head sadly. Surely you don't believe a word that Black Witch utters.
Corrin half drew her sword. I told you before that I'd hear no word against Crassius, he said thinly. As you will. It doesn't matter anyway. But be honest, Corrin. Strike me down if you will. It doesn't matter now. But try to think. I've known Chrysius longer than you, and I've never known anyone to change their habits overnight. For anyone," she said. Oh, I think she likes you, in her own way. You make as handsome and useful a pet as that Irinye of hers, but whatever else she is after, it is something for which she would give more than the world, and not have a second thought about it. Corrin paced unhappily. I don't trust Shorzon, he admitted. I trust him as I would a mad Ferax. And anything Tzathu plans is evil.
He cleared down the cavernous mouth of the ramp. If I could only hear what they say. What chance of that? We're under guard, you know. Ah, so, but... Struck with a sudden thought, Corrin went over to the window. The rain had ceased outside, but a solid wall of fog and night barred vision. It was breathlessly hot, and he heard the low muttering of thunder in the hidden sky. There were vines growing on the wall, tendrils as thick as a man's leg. The broad leaves hung down over the sill, wet with rain and fog. I remember the layout of the castle, he said slowly. It's a warren of tunnels and corridors, but I could find my way to the feasting hall. If they caught you it would be death, said Imerzu uneasily.
Corrin's grin was bleak. It will most likely be death anyway, he said. I think I'll try. I'm not as spry as I once was, but no, no, Imazu, you would best wait here. Then if anyone comes prying and sees you, they'll think we're both here, maybe. Corrin slipped off tunic and sandals. Leaving only his kilt, he hung his sword across his back, put a knife in his belt, and turned toward the window. It may be all wrong, he said. I should trust Crassius and I do, Imerzu, but they might easily overpower her, and anything is better than just wailing like beasts in a trap. The guards be with you, then," said Imerzu huskily. He shook a horny fist. To hell, Rishazan! I've been his thrall too long. I'm with you, friend.
Thanks, Corwin swung out the window. Good luck to both, to all of us, Imerzu. The fog wrapped around his eyes like a hood. He could barely see the shadowy wall, and he groped with fingers and toes for the vines. One slip, one break, and he would be spattered to red ruin in the courtyard below. Down and down and down, twigs clawed at him. The branches were slick in his hands, buried under a smother of leaves. His muscles began to ache with the strain. Several times he slipped and saved himself with a desperate clawing grip. Something moaned in the night, under the deepening growl of thunder. He clung to the wall and strained his eyes down. A breath of wind parted the fog briefly into ragged streamers through which winked the savage light of a bolt of lightning, high in the murky sky.
Down below was the courtyard. He saw the metallic gleam of scales, guards pacing between the walls. Slowly, he edged his way across the out-jutting tower to the main wall of the castle. Slantwise, he crept over its surface until a slit of blackness loomed before him, another window. He had to squeeze to get through, the stone scraping his skin. For a moment he stood inside, breathing heavily. The drawn sword in his hand. There was a corridor stretching beyond this room, on into a darkness lit by the ghostly blue fungus glow. He saw and heard nothing of the xanthi, but something scuttled across the floor. He crouched in a shadowed corner, watching him. On noiseless bare feet, he ran down the hall, fog eddied and curled in the tenebrous length of it.
He heard the dripping of water, and once a shuddering scream ripped the dank air. He thought he remembered where he was in that labyrinth, left here, and there would be another ramp going down. A huge golden form loomed around the corner, before the jaws could open to shout, Corrin's sword hissed in a vicious arc, and the Xanthian's head leaped from his shoulders. He kicked the flopping body behind a door and sped on his way, panting. Halfway down the ramp, a narrow entrance gaped, one of the tunnels that riddled the building through its massive walls. Corrin slithered down its lightless wet length. It should open on the great chamber and black against the dim blue light of the exit. Emotionless form was squatting.
Corrin groaned inwardly. They had a guard against intruders then. Best to go back now. No, he snarled soundlessly, unbounded forward, clutching the sword in one hand and reaching out with the other. Fingers rasping across the scaly hide, he hooked the thing's neck into the crook of his elbow, and he yanked the heavy body back into the tunnel with one enormous wrench. Blind in the darkness, he stabbed into the mouth, driving the point of his sword through flesh and bone into the brain. The dying monster's claws raked him as he crouched over the body. He reflected grimly that no matter how benevolent the Xanthi might be, he would die for murder if they ever caught him. But he had no great fear of their suddenly becoming tender toward mankind.
The bulk of the reptile race was peaceable, actually, but their rulers were relentless. The tunnel opened on a small balcony halfway up the rearing chamber wall. Corrin lay on his belly, peering down over the edge. They sat at a long table, the lords of the demon sea, and he felt a dim surprise at seeing that they were almost through eating. Had his nightmare journey taken that long, they were talking and the sound drifted up to his ears. At the head of the table, Tzathu and his counsellors sat on a long ornate couch ablaze with beaten gold. Shorzon and Chryseus were reclining nearby, sipping the bitter yellow wine of the Xanthi. It was strange to hear the hideous hissing and croaking of the reptile language coming from Chrysius' lovely throat.
Interesting, I am sure, said the king. More than that, more than that. It seemed to Corrin that he could almost see the terrible fire in Shorzon's eyes. The wizard leaned forward, shaking with intensity. You can do it. The Xanthi can conquer Achaera with ease. Your sea cavalry and serpents can smash their ships. Your devil powder can burst their walls into the air. Your legions can overrun their land. Your wizardry blind and craze them. And the terror you will inspire will force the people to do our bidding. Possibly you overrate us, said Sathu. It is true that we have great numbers and a strong army, but do not forget that the Xanthi are actually a more peaceful race than man. Your kind is hard and savage.
Murdering even each other, making war simply for loot or glory, or no real reason at all. Until the King Race arose, the Xanthi dwelt quietly on the sea bottom, and a few small islands, without wish to harm anyway. They have not even the natural capacity for magic possessed, however undeveloped, by all humans. As a result, they are much more susceptible to it than men. Thus, when the King Race was born with such powers, they were soon able to control all their people. And make themselves the absolute masters of the Xanthi. But we, kings and wizards and lords of the Demon Sea, are all one interbred clan. Without us, the Xanthi power would collapse. They would go back to what they were. Even Xanthi science is all of our making.
We, the king race, developed the devil powder, and all that we have ever made is stored in the dungeons of this very building. Enough to blow it into the sky. Xathu made a grimace which might have been a sardonic smile. Do not read weakness into this admission, he said. Even though all the lords whom Exanthean might are gathered in this one room, their power is still immeasurably greater than you can imagine. To show you how hopeless you are, your men are locked into the dungeons, and your gesher has been lifted from their minds. Impossible, gasped Shozan. A gesh can't be lifted, but it can. What is it but a compulsion implanted into the brain, so deeply as to supersede all other habits? One mind cannot erase that imposed pattern, but several minds working in concert can do so, and that I and my counsellors have done.
As of today your folk are free in Seoul, hating you for what you have made them. You are alone." The great scaled forms edged closer menacingly. Corrin's fist clenched about his sword, if they harmed Chryseus. But she said cruelly, It does not matter. Our men were simply to bring us here, nothing else. We can dispense with them. What matters is our plan to impose magic control over Achaera. I cannot see what benefit the Xanthi would get of it, said Zathu impatiently. Our powers of darkness are so much greater than yours already that— Let us not use words meant to impress the ignorant among ourselves, said Chrysius scornfully. Every sorcerer knows there is nothing of heaven or hell about magic.
It is but the imposition of a pattern on other minds. It creates, by control of the senses, illusions of lycanthropy, or whatever else is desired, or it binds the subject by the unbreakable compulsion of a gesh. But it is no more than that, one mind reaching through space to create what impressions it wills on another mind. Your devil, powder, or an ordinary sword or axe or fist is more dangerous if the fools only knew." Corrin's breath hissed between his teeth. If. If that—oh, gods, if that—was the secret of the magicians. As you will, said Zarthu indifferently. What matters is that there are more of our minds than yours, too, and thus we can beat down any attempt you may make against us. So it comes back to the question, why should we help you seize and hold Akela?
What will we gain? I should say nothing of its great wealth, said Shorzan. But it is true, as you say, that many minds working together are immeasurably more powerful than one, more powerful even than the sum of all those minds working separately. I have worked with as many as a dozen slaves, having them concentrate with me, so that I could draw their mind-force through my own brain and use it as my own, and the results have amazed me. Now if the entire population of Achaera were forced to help us, all at one time," the Xanthi's eyes glitted. And a low murmur rose among them. Shazan went on rapidly. It would be power over the world. Nothing could stand before that massed mental force, with us, skilled sorcerers, to direct, and the soldiers of Xanthi to compel obedience.
We could lay a gash on whole nations without even having to be near them. We could span immeasurable gulfs of space and contact minds on those other worlds which philosophers think exist beyond the upper clouds. We could, by thus heightening our own mental powers, Think out the very problems of existence. Find the deepest secrets of nature, forces beside which your devil powder would be a spark. Drawing life energy from other bodies, we would never grow old, as we would live forever. Zathu, lords of Xanthi, I offer you a chance to become gods." The stillness was broken only by the muttering and whispering of the Xanthi among themselves. Mist drifted through the raw, wet night of the hall. The walls seemed to waver, shift, and blur like smoke.
Why could we not do this in our own nation? asked Zathu. Because, as you yourself said, the Xanthi do not have the latent mental powers of humans, save for you few who are the masters. It must be mankind who is controlled, with the commoners of your race as overseers. And why could we not kill you and do this ourselves? Because you do not understand humans, the differences are too great. You could never control human thoughts as Chrysius or I could, another Xanthian spoke. But do you realize what this will do to the human race? Your occurrence will become mindless machines under such control. Drained of life energy, they will age and die like animals. I doubt that any will live ten seasons. What of that?
shrugged Chrysius. There are other nations nearby to draw on. Kanahar, Noriki, Khemri, ultimately, the world. We will have centuries, remember. We will never die. And you do not care of your old race at all? It will no longer be our race, said Chozen. We will be gods, thinking and living and wielding such powers as they, as we ourselves right now, could never dream. Why do what you will with our men here to start? What does it matter? Do not harm the yellow-haired man from Connoher, said Chrysius sharply. He's mine, forever. Xathu sat thinking, like the statue of a Camrian beast-god, cast in shining gold. Slowly, at last, he nodded, and an eerie sigh ran down the long table, as the lords of the Xanthi hissed agreement.
It will be done, said Xathu. Corrin stumbled back down the tunnel. Reckless of discovery, blind in death with madness that roared in his skull. Chryseus. Chryseus. Chryseus. It was not the horror of the scheme, the ruin that it would bring even if it failed, the revelation of how immeasurably powerful were the forces leagued against man. He could have stood this and braced himself to fight it, as long as there was breath in his lungs. But Chryseus. She had been a part of it. She had helped planet. Had coldly condemned her whole race to oblivion. She had lied to him, cheated him, betrayed him, used him, and now she wanted him for a toy, an immortal puppet. Witch! Witch! Witch! Less human than the Irinye at her feet, than the Xanthi themselves, mad with a cold madness such as he had never thought could be.
Chrysius, Chrysius, Chrysius, I loved you. With all my heart, I loved you. There was no hope in him, no longing for anything but the fullest revenge he could take before they hewed him to the ground. Had the old Xanthian wizard foretold, he would bring death. Aye, by the mad, cruel gods who ruled men's destinies, he would. He reached the corridor and began to run.
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32 32 - Witch of the Demon Seas, Chapter Eight 13:20
Witch of the Demon Sees, Chapter 8. Down a long curving ramp that led into a pit of blackness. The dungeons could not be far. They led this way. He hugged himself into the shadows as a troop of guards went by. They were talking in their hoarse, croaking language, and did not peer into the corners of the labyrinth. When they were past... Corrin sped on his way. The stone walls became rough, damp tunnels, queued after the living rock under the castle. He grubbed through a blackness relieved only by the occasional dull glow of fungi. The darkness hissed and rustled with movements. He caught the glimmer of three red eyes watching, and something slithered over his bare feet. A far, faint scream quivered down the hollow length of passages that had shaken him when he was here before.
But now, what mattered? What was important save to kill as many of the monsters as he could before they overwhelmed him. The tunnel opened on a great cave, whose floor was a pool of oily black water. As he skirted its rim along a narrow slippery ledge, something stirred, a misshapen giant thing, darker than the night. It roared hollily and swam toward him. A wave of foul odour came with it, catching Corrin's throat in a sick dizziness. He swayed on the edge of the pool, and the swimmer began to crawl out of it toward him. Horan saw its teeth gleam wetly in the vague blue light, but there were no eyes. It was blind. He retreated along the ledge toward the farther exit. The ground trembled under the bulk of the creature.
Its jaws clashed shut behind him as he leaped free. Racing down the tunnel, he heard the bellowing of it, like dull thunders with a reeking gloom. It wouldn't follow far. But that way of return would be barred to him. No matter, no matter. He burst out into another open space. It was lit by a dim, flickering fire, over which crouched three-armed Xanthi. Beyond, the red light glimmered on an iron-barred doorway, and behind that there were figures stirring. Men. Horan bounded across the floor, the sword shrieking in his hand. It whirled down to crash through the skull bones of one guard. Before he could free it, the other two were on him. He ducked a murderous pike-thrust and slipped close to the wilder, stabbing upward with his dagger.
The Xanthian screamed and hugged Corrin close to himself, fastening his jaws in the man's shoulder. Corrin slashed wildly, ripping open the throat. They tumbled to the ground, locked in each other's arms, raging like beasts. Corrin's knife glanced off the Xanthian's ribs and he felt the steel snap over. He got both hands into the clamping jaws, heedless of the fangs and wrenched. The jawbone cracked as he forced the reptile's mouth open. He rolled from beneath the still feebly struggling creature and glared around for the third. That one lay in a hacked ruin against the cell. He had backed up too close to the bars, and the men inside still had their weapons. Gasping, Corrin climbed to his feet.
An eager baying of fierce voices rolled out from the cell. Men gripped the bars and howled in maddened glee. Corrin, Corrin, Corrin, get us out of here! Let us out to rip Shurzon's guts loose! Ah-ah! The Konohurian lurched over to a dead Xanthian at whose waist hung a bundle of keys. His hands shook as he tried them in the lock. When he got the door open, the men were out in a single tide. He leaned heavily on an Umlotoan's arm. What—what happened to you? he asked. The devil's let us down here and then closed the door on us. Snarled the blue man. Later a group of them in rich dress came down, and suddenly we saw what a slavery we'd been in to Shorzon. Suddenly it no longer seemed that obedience to him was the only possible thing.
Mawanzi let me at his throat. You may have that chance, said the pirate. He felt strength returning. He stood erect and faced them in the flickering firelight. Their eyes gleamed back at him out of the shadows, fierce as the metal of their weapons. Listen, he said. We might be able to find our way out of here, but we never escape across the Demon Sea. But I know a way to destroy this whole cursed house and every being in it, if you'll follow me. Aye, the shout filled the cavern with savage thunder. They shook their weapons in the air, gleam of red-lit steel out of trembling darkness. Aye. Corrin picked up his sword and trotted down the nearest passageway. He was bleeding, he saw vaguely, but he felt little pain from it.
He was beyond that now. The thing was to find the devil powder. Xathu had said it was somewhere down here. They went along tunnel after winding tunnel, losing all sense of direction in the wet, hollow dark. Corrin had a sudden nightmare feeling that they might wander down here forever, blundering from cave to empty cave while eternity grayed. Where are we going? asked someone impatiently. Where is Auntie to fight? I don't know, snapped Corrin. They came suddenly into another broad cavern. Beyond which was another barred door. Four Xanthi stood guard in front of it. They never had a chance. The air was suddenly full of hurled weapons, and they were buried under a pile of edged steel. Corrin searched the bodies, but found no keys.
In the murk beyond, he could dimly see boxes and barrels reaching to fathomless distances, but the door was held fast. Of course, Xanthi would never trust his men-at-arms with entrance to the devil powder. The corsair snarled and grabbed a bar with both hands. "'Pull, men of them know to!' he shouted. "'Pull!' They swarmed close, thirty-odd big blue men with the strength of hate in them, clutching the cell bars, grabbing each other's waists, heaving with a force that shrieked through the iron. "'Pull!' The lock burst, and they staggered back as the door swung wide. Instantly, Corwin was inside, ripping open a box and laughing aloud to see the black grains that filled it. For a wild moment he thought of plunging a brand into the powder.
And going up in flame and thunder with the castle. Codness returned. He checked himself and looked around for fuses. His followers would not have permitted him to commit suicide that involved them, and after all, the longer he lived, the more enemies he'd have a chance to cut down personally. I've heard talk of this stuff, said one of the men nervously. Is it true that setting fire to it releases a demon? Aye. Corrin found the long rope-like fuses coiled in a box. He knotted several together and put one end into the powder. The ignition of one container would quickly set off the rest, and the cavern was huge and filled with many shiploads of sleeping hell. If we can find our way to the ship and get clear before the fire reaches the powder, began the Umlotun.
We can try that, I suppose, said Corrin. He estimated the burning time of his fuse for memories of the use he'd seen the xanthi make of the devil powder. Yes, there would be fair allowance for escape. Though he doubted that they would ever reach the Strand alive. He touched a stick from the fire to the end of the fuse. It began to sputter, a red spark creeping along it toward the open box. Let's go, shouted Corn. They pounded along the tunnel, heedless of direction. There should be an upward leading ramp somewhere. Ah, there it was. Up its length they raced, past levels of the dungeons toward the main floor of the castle. At the end there was a brighter blue light than they had seen below. Up, up.
Up and out. The chamber was enormous, a pillared immensity reaching to a ceiling hidden in sheer height. Rugs and tapestries of the scaled Xanthian weave were strewn about, and a heavy, intricately carved furniture filled it. At the far end stood a towering canopied throne, on which sat a huge golden form. Other shapes stood around it, and there were pikemen lining the walls at rigid attention. Through the haze of mist and twilight, Corrin saw the black robe of Shorzan and the flame-colored cloak of Chryseus. He shrieked an oath and plunged for them. A horn screamed and the guards sprang from the walls to form a line before the throne. The humans shucked against the Xanthi with a fury that clambered through the building.
Swords and axes began to fly. Corrin hewed at the nearest grinning reptile face, felt the sword sink in and roared the war cry of Conohor. He spitted the monster on his blade, lifted it. and pitchforked it into the ranks of the guards. Zathu bellowed and rose to meet him. Suddenly the Xanthian king was not there. It was a tentacle thing from the sea bottom that filled the room, a thing whose bloated dark body reared to the ceiling. Someone screamed. Fear locked the battlers into motionlessness. Magic! It was a snaring rattle in Corrin's throat. He sprang into the very body of the sea creature. He felt the shock of striking its solid form. The rasp of its hide against him, the overwhelming poisonous stench of it, one tentacle closed around him.
He felt his ribs snapping and the air popping from his burst lungs. It wasn't real. His mind gasped through the whirling agony. It wasn't real. He ploughed grimly ahead, blind in the illusion that swirled around him, striking, striking. Dimly through the roaring in his nerves, he felt his blade hit something solid. He bellowed in savage glee and smote again, again, and again. The smashing pressure lifted. He sobbed air into himself and looked with streaming eyes as the giant form dissolved into smoke, into mist, into empty air. It was Zathu writhing in pain at his feet. Zathu with his head nearly chopped off. It was only another dying Xanthian. Corrin leaped up onto the throne and looked over the room.
The guards and the sailors were still standing in shaken silence. "'Kill them!' roared the pirate. "'Strike them down!' Battle closed again with a snarl and a clang of steel. Corrin glared around after other Xanthi of the sorcerer breed. There were none in sight. They must prudently have fled into another part of the castle. Well, let them, but other Xanthi were swarming into the chamber. Battle horns were hooting, and the guttural reptile voices crying a summons. If the humans were not to be broken by sheer numbers, they'd have to fight their way out soon, and down in the dungeons a single red spark was eating its way toward a box of black powder. Corrin jumped down again to the floor. His sword leaped sideways, cut a xanthian spine across, bit the tail from another.
To me, he bawled. Over here, man of Amloto. The blues heard him and rallied. Gathering into compact nuts that slashed their way toward where his dripping sword whined and thundered. He never stopped striking. He drove the reptiles before him until they edged away from his advance. The men formed into one group, and Corrin led it across the floor in a dash to the looming doorway. A red thought flashed across his brain. Where were Shazan and Chryseus? The Xanthi scattered before the desperate human rush. The men came out into a remembered hallway. It led to the outside, Corrin recalled. By Brenach-Branach they might escape yet. Corrin, Corrin, you sea-devil! I knew it was your doing! The Karnahurian turned to see Imazu bounding toward him with a bloody axe in one hand.
Imazu, thank all the gods, Imazu was free. I heard a noise of fighting and the tower guards went off toward it, gasped the Umloto and Captain. So I came to, on the way I met Shorzan and Chrysius. What of them? breathed Corrin. The blue warrior smiled savagely and flung a red thing down at Corrin's feet. There's Shazan's scheming head. My woman is free. Crassius! Imazu leaned on his axe, panting. She launched her ringe at me. I ducked into a room and slammed the door in its face, then came here through another entrance. Crassius was loose. I've got to get clear, said Corrin. The devil powder is going to go off any time now. The Xanthi were rallying. They came at the humans in another rush. Koran and Imazu and their best men filled the corridor with a haze of steel, backing down toward the outer portal.
It was a crazy blur of struggle, hewing at faces that wavered out of night, slapping down thrusts and reaching for the life of the enemy. Men fell, and others took their places in the line. Down the corridor they retreated, fighting to get free, and they left a trail of dead. The end of the passage loomed ahead. And the monstrous iron door was swinging shut. Chrysia stood in the entrance. A wild stormwind outside sent her cloak flapping about her, red wings beating in the lightning-shot darkness about the devil's rage of the goddess' face. Stay here, she screamed. Stay here and be cut down, you trebled traitor. The nearest Umlotoan sprang at her. The door clashed shut in his face. They heard the great bolts slam down outside.
They were boxed in the end of the hall, and the Xanthi need only shoot them down with arrows. Down in the dungeons, the fuse burned to its end. A sheet of flame sprang up in the opened box of powder, reaching for the stacks around it.
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33 33 - Witch of the Demon Seas, Chapter Nine 9:25
The first explosion came as a muffled roar. Corrin felt the floor tremble under his feet. Men and Xanthi stood motionless, looking at each other with widening eyes in which a common doom arose. So it ended. Shazan and Satho and their wizard cohorts would be gone. But Chryseus, mad, lovely Chryseus, was loose, and the guards knew what hell she could brew among the leaderless Xanthi. The walls groaned as another boom echoed down their length. Well, death came to every man, and he had not done so badly. Corrin began to realize how weary he was. He was bleeding from wounds, and breath was raw in his lungs. The Umlotoans hammered on the door in panic, but the twenty or fewer survivors could never break it down.
The devil-powder roared. The floor heaved sickeningly under Corrin's feet. He heard the crash of collapsing masonry. Wait! Wait! One chance! One chance by the gods! Be ready to run out when the walls topple, he shouted. We'll have a little time. The Xanthi were fleeing in terror. The humans stood alone, waiting while the explosions rolled and banged around them. Cracks zigzagged across the walls. Dust choked the dank air. Crash! Corrin saw the narrow wall swaying, toppling. The floor lifted and buckled, and he fell to the lurching ground. All the world was an insanity of racket and ruin. The lintel caved in. The portal sagged. Corrin leaped through the opening like a pouncing erinye. The men swarmed with it, out through the widening hole while the roof came down behind them.
Someone screamed, a faint lust sound in the grinding fury of sundering stone. Rocks were flying. Corrin saw one of them crack a man's head like a melon. Wildly, he ran as the outer façade came down. There was a madness of storm outside, wind screaming to fill the sky, driving solid sheets of rain and hail before it. The incessant, blinding lightning glared in a cold, shadowless brilliance. The bawling thunder drowned the roar of exploding devil powder. They fought out through the courtyard, past the deserted outer gate. There came a blast which seemed to crack the sky. Corrin was knocked down as by a giant's fist. He lay in the mud and saw a pillar of flame lift toward the heavens, with the castle fattening up on its wings.
Thunder roared over the earth, shouting to the storm that raged in the heavens. Corrin picked himself up and leaned dizzily against a tree stripped clean by the blast, rain slanted across the ground, churning the mud beneath his feet. The livid lightning glare blazing above. Vaguely, through ringing deafened ears, he heard the wild clamour of the sea. Looking down the cataract which the upward trail had become, he saw the Brisea, rocking in the wind where she lay on the beach. He gestured to Omazu, who staggered up to join him. His voice was barely audible over the shouting wind. Take the men down there! We can't sail in the storm! We make the ship fast! Stand guard over her. If I'm not back when the storm is done, start for home.
Where are you going? cried the Umlotoan. I'll be back, maybe. Stay with the ship. Corrin turned and slugged across the ground toward the jungle. Weariness was gone. It was like a machine running without thought or pain until it burned out. Chrysius would have fled toward high ground, he thought dully. Behind him, Imazu started forward, then checked himself. Something of the ultimate loneliness that was in Corrin must have come to the Umlotoan. It was not a mission on which any other man might go, and they had to save the ship. He gestured to his few remaining men, and they began the slow climb down to the beach. The castle was a heap of shattered rock, still moving convulsively as the last few boxes of devil powder exploded.
The rain barred down over it, churning through the fragments. Lightning flamed in the berserk heavens. Corrin pushed through underbrush that clutched at his feet and clawed at his skin. The sword was still hanging loosely in one hand, nicked and blunted with battle. He went on mechanically, scarcely noticing the wind-whipped trees that barred his way. It came to him that he was fighting for Cromann, the Thalassacrat of Achaea, ruler by right of conquest over Connoher. But there were worse things than foreign rule, if it was human, and one of the greater evils had fled toward the mountain. Presently he came out on the bare rocks above the fringe of jungle growth. The rain hammered at him, driven by a wind that screamed like a maddened beast.
Thunder boomed and rolled overhead, a roar of doom answering the thud of his heart. The water rushed over his ankles, foaming down toward the sea. She stood waiting for him atop a high bare hill. Her cloak was drawn tightly about her slender body, but the wind caught it whipped. She called under the gale. He struggled up to where she stood limbed against the sheeted fire in heaven. They faced each other while the storm raged around them. She read death in his eyes as he lifted the sword. Her form blurred. The outlines of a monster grew to his eyes. He laughed bitterly. I know what your magic is. He said. You saw me killed, Xathu. She was human again. Human and lovely, and light-footed spirit of the hurricane.
Her face was etched white in the lightning glare. Perius! She screamed. The Origni crept forth, belly to the ground, tail lashing. Hell glared out of the ice-green eyes. Corrin braced himself, sword in hand. Perius sprang, not straight at the man, but into the air. His wings caught the wind. Whirling him aloft, twisting in mid-flight, he arrowed down. Corrin struck at him. The Irigny dodged the blow, and one boffeting wingtip caught the man's wrist. The sword fell from Corrin's hand. At once the Irigny was on him. Corrin fell under that smashing attack. The Irigny's fangs gleamed above his throat. The claws sank into his muscles. He flung up an arm and the teeth crunched on it, grinding at the bone.
Corrin wrapped his legs in a scissor lock around the gaunt body, pressing himself too close for the clawed hind feet to disembowel him. His free hand reached out, gouging. He felt an eyeball tear loose, and the Iriniae opened his mouth in a thin scream. Corrin pulled his torn arm free. He struck with a bald fist of the devil beast and felt his knuckles break under the impact, but bones snapped. Perius's jaw hung suddenly loose. The Iriniae sprang back. And Corrin lurched to hands and feet. Perius edged closer, stiff-legged. Corrin stumbled direct, and Perius charged. One great wing smashed out, brought the man toppling back to earth. Perius leaped for his exposed belly. Corrin lashed out with both feet.
The thud was dull and hollow under the racketing thunder. Perius tumbled back, and Corrin sprang on him. The barbed tail slashed, laying Corrin's thigh open. He fell atop the struggling beast and got his free hand on the throat. The mighty wings threshed, half-lifting man and Irinye. Corrin pulled himself over on the writhing back. He locked legs around the body, arms around the neck, and heaved. Irinye yowled, his wings clashed together with skull-cracking force, barely missing the head of the man who hugged his back. His tail raked against Corrin's back, seeking the vitals. Corrin gave another yank. He felt the supple spine bending. Eve! Perius lifted a brassy scream. The strange, dry sound of snapping vertebrae crackled out.
Corrin rolled away from the threshing form. Perius gasped, lifted his broken head, and looked with filming green eyes at Chrysius where she stood unmoving against the white fire of the sky. Slowly, painfully, he dragged himself toward her. Breath rattled in and out of his blood-filled lungs. Perius! Chrysus bent over to touch the great head. Thirinye sighed. His rough tongue licked her feet. Then he shuddered and lay still. Perius! Corrin climbed to his feet and stood shaking. There was no strength left in him. It was running out through a dozen yawning wounds. Ground whirled and tilted crazily about him. He saw her standing against the sky, and slowly, slowly he came toward her. Crassius picked up a stone and threw it.
It seemed to take an immense time arcing toward him. Some dim corner of his buckling consciousness realized that it would knock him out, that she could then kill him with the sword and escape into the hills. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. The stone crashed against his skull, and the world exploded into darkness.
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34 34 - Witch of the Demon Seas, Chapter Ten 3:18
Witch of the Demon Seas. Chapter 10. He woke up, slowly and painfully, and lay for a long time in a state of half-awareness, remembering only confused fragments of battle and despair. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the storm was dying. Lightning was won in the sky. The thunder mumbled farewell. The wind had fallen. The rain fell slow and heavy down on him. He saw her bending over him. The long wet hair tumbled past her face to fall on his breast. He was wrapped in her cloak, and she had ripped bandages from her robe for his hurts. He tried to move and could only stir feebly. She laid a hand on his cheek. Don't, she whispered. Just lie there, Corrin. His head was on her lap. He realized dimly.
His eyes questioned her. She laughed softly under the falling rain. Don't you see? She said. Didn't you think of it? Shazan's Geshe was put on me as a child. I was always under his will, even when he was dead, too strong enough to drive me along his road. But I love you, Corrin. I will always love you. I love Ward with Shazan's will, even as I tried to kill you. When I saw you lying there helpless, after such a fight as no man has ever waged since the gods walked the earth, I tried to stab you, and I couldn't. Chauzan's guess was broken. Her hands stroked his hair. You aren't too badly hurt, Corrin. I'll get you down to the ship. With my witch's powers we can win through any Xanthi who tried to stop us.
Not that I think they will, with their leaders destroyed. We can get safely to Achaera. She sighed. I will see that you escape my father's power, Corrin. If you will return to the pirate life, I will follow you." He shook his head. No, he whispered. No, I will take service under Crowman, if he will have me. He will, she vowed softly. He needs strong men, and someday you can be Thalassic out of the Empire. It wasn't so bad, thought Corrin drowsily. Crowman was a good sort. A highly-placed Conochurian could gradually ease the burdens of his people until they had full equality with Ikaera in a united and peaceful domain. The menace of the Xanthi was ended. To be on the safe side Ikaera had better make them tributary, an expedition which he, Koron, could lead.
After that there would be enough to keep a man busy, as well as the loveliest and best of women for wife. He slept. He did not waken when Imazu led a squad up in search of him. Crisius laid a finger on her lips, and a flash of understanding passed between her and the captain. He nodded, smiling, and clasped her hand with sudden warmth. They bore the sleeping warrior back through the rain, down to the waiting ship.
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35 35 - Sargasso of Lost Starships, Chapter One 14:14
Sagasso of Lost Starships, Chapter One. Basil Donovan was drunk again. He sat near the open door of the Golden Planet, boots on the table, chair tilted back, one arm resting on the broad shoulder of Watcher, who sprawled on the floor beside him, the other hand clutching a tankard of ale. The tunic was open above his stained grey shirt, the batted cap was askew on his close-cropped blonde hair, and his insignia, the stars of a captain and the silver leaves of an earl on answer, tarnished. There was a deepening flush over his pale gaunt cheeks, and his eyes smouldered with an old rage. Looking out across the cobbled street, he could see one of the tall half-timbered houses of Landstead. It had somehow survived the space bombardment.
Though its neighbours were rubble, but the tile roof was clumsily patched, and there was an oiled paper across the broken plastic of the windows. An anachronism, looming over the great bulldozer which was clearing the wreckage next door. The workmen there were mostly ensigns, big men in ragged clothes, but a well-dressed Terran was bossing the job. Donovan cursed wearily and lifted his tankard again. The long, smoky, rafted taproom was full. Stalled burghers and peasants of Lansted, discharged spacemen still in their worn uniforms, a couple of tailed greenies from the neighbour planet Shaomu. Talk was low and spiritless, and the smoke which drifted from pipes and cigarettes was bitter, cheap tobacco and dried bark.
The smell of defeat was thick in the tavern. May I sit here, sir? The other places are full. Donovan glanced up. It was a young fellow. A peasant, written over his sunburned face in spite of the grey uniform and the empty sleeve. Oman, yes, Sam Oman, whose family had been under Donovan's fief these two hundred years. Sure, make yourself at home. Thank you, sir. I came in to get some supplies, though I'd have a beer, too. But you can't get anything these days. Not to be had. Sam's face looked vaguely hopeful as he eyed the noble. We do need a gas engine bad, sir, for the tractor. Now that the sentry power caster is gone, you've got to have our own engines. I don't want to presume, sir, but... Donovan lifted one corner of his mouth in a tired smile.
I'm sorry, he said. If I could get one machine for the whole community, I'd be satisfied. Can't be done. We're trying to start a small factory of our own up at the manor. But it's slow work. I'm sure if anyone can do anything, it's you, sir. Donovan looked quizzically at the open countenance across the table. Sam. He asked. Why do people keep turning to the family? We led you, and it was to defeat. Why do you want anything more to do with nobles? We're not even that any longer. We've been stripped of our titles. We're just plain citizens of the Empire now, like you, and the new rulers at Terram. Why do you still think of us as your leaders? But you are, sir. You've always been. It wasn't the King's fault, or his men's, that Terram had so much more than we did.
We gave them a fight they won't forget in a hurry. You were in my squadron, weren't you? Yes, sir, CPO and the Ansel Ansel. I was with you at the Battle of Luger. The deep-set eyes glowed. We hit them there, didn't we, sir? So we did. Donovan couldn't suppress the sudden, fierce memory. Outnumbered, outgunned, half its ships shot to pieces, and half the crews down with serious fever. The Royal Landsteaders had still made naval history. And sent the Imperial fleet, Cuiuteling, back to Sol. Naval historians would be scratching their heads over that battle for the next five centuries, before God had fought. He began to sing the old war song softly at first, louder as Sam joined in. Comrades, hear the battle tiding.
Hear the ships that rise and yell. Faring outwards, starward riding. Kick the Terrans back to hell. The others were listening. Men raised weary heads. An old light burned in her eyes, and tankards clashed together. They stood up to roar out the chorus till the walls shook. Lift your glasses high, kiss the girls goodbye, for we're riding, for we're riding, for we're riding out to Terran sky, Terran sky, Terran sky. We have shaken loose our thunder where the planets have their way, and the starry deeps of wonder saw the impies in dismay. Lift your glasses high, kiss the girls goodbye. The workmen in the street heard it and stopped where they were. Some began to sing. The Imperial Superintendent yelled, and an Anson turned to flash him with a wolfish grin.
A squad of blue-uniformed Salarian Marines coming toward the inn went on the double. Oh, the Empress and his battleships against us in a mass, but we shook them like a rattle, and we crowned them— Hey there, stop that! Song died slowly and suddenly. The men stood where they were and hands clenched into hard-knuckled fists. Someone shouted an obscenity. The Terrence Sergeant was very young, and he felt unsure before those steady, hating eyes. He lifted his voice all the louder. That will be enough of that. "'Anymore, and I'll run you all in for Laissez-maillesse. Haven't you drunken bums anything better to do than sit around swilling beer?' A big Anson Smith laughed with calculated raucousness.
The sergeant looked around, trying to ignore him. "'I'm here for Captain Donovan, Earl Basil, if you prefer. They said he'd be here. I've got an Imperial summons for him,' the noble stretched out a hand. "'This is he. Let's have that paper.' "'It's just the formal order,' said the sergeant." You are to come at once. Commoners, said Donovan mildly. Address me as sir. You're commoner with the rest of them now, the sergeant's voice wavered just a little. I really must demand a little respect to Donovan with drunken precision. There was an unholy gleam in his eyes. It's a mere formality, I know, but after all my family can trace itself farther back than the Empire, whereas you can name your father, Sam Olman snickered.
Well, sir— The sergeant tried elaborate sarcasm. If you, sir, will please be so good as to pick your hybrid tail off that chair, sir, I'm sure the Imperium will be mostly, deeply grateful to you, sir. I'll have to do without its gratitude, I'm afraid. Donovan folded the summons without looking at it, and put it in his tunic pocket. But thanks for the paper. I'll keep it in my bathroom. You're under arrest! Donovan stood slowly up, unfolding his sheer two meters of slender, wiry height. All right, Watcher, he said. Let's show them that answer hasn't surrendered yet. He threw the tankard into the sergeant's face, followed it with the table against the two marines beside him, and vaulted over the sudden ruckus to drive a fist into the jaw of the man beyond.
Watcher rose, and his booming cry trembled in the walls. He'd been a slave of Donovan since he was a cub, and a man a child, and if someone had liberated him, he wouldn't have known what to do. As Batman, an irregular ground trooper, He'd followed his master to the walls, and the prospect of a new skull-breaking lit his eyes with glee. For an instant there was Tableau, Terrans and Ansons rigid, staring at the monster which suddenly stood behind the earl. Natives of Donor have the not uncommon centaroid form, but their bodies are more like that of a rhinoceros than of a horse, hairless and slaty blue, and enormously massive. The gorilla-armed torso ended in a round, muzzled, ape-like face, long-eared, heavy-jawed, with canine tusks hanging over the great gash of a mouth.
A chair splintered under his feet, and he grinned. Power guns, cried the sergeant. All hell let out for noon. Some of the customers huddled back into the corners, but the rest smashed the ends off bottles and threw themselves against the Terrans. Sam Ullman's remaining arm yanked a Marine to him and bashed his face against the wall. Donovan's fist travelled the jolting arc to the nearest belly, and he snatched a rifle loose and crunched it against the man's jaw. A Marine seized him from behind. He twisted in the grip and kicked savagely, whirled around and drove the rifle butt into the larynx. Kill the bluebellies! Kill the impies! Hail Ansar! Watcher charged into the squad. Grabbed a hopless Terran in his four-fingered hands and swung the man like a club.
Someone drew his bayonet to stab the slave. It glanced off the thick skin, and Watcher roared and sent him reeling. The riot blazed around the room, trampling men underfoot, shouting and cursing and swinging. Donovan! Donovan! shouted Sam Ullman. He charged the nearest impie and got a bayonet in the stomach. He fell down, holding his hand to his wound, screaming. The door was suddenly full of Terrans, marines arriving to help their comrades. Paraguns began to sizzle. Men fell stunned before the supersonic beams in the fight broke up. Watcher charged the rescuers, and a barrage sent his giant form crashing to the floor. They herded the Ansons toward the city jail. Donovan, stirring on the ground as consciousness returned, felt handcuffs snap on his wrists.
Imperial summons being what they were, he was bundled into a ground-car and taken under heavy guard toward the ordered place. He leaned wearily back, watching the streets blur past. Once a group of children threw stones at the vehicle. "'How about a cigarette?' he said. "'Shut up!' To his mild surprise, they did not halt that the military government headquarters, the old Hall of Justice where the Donovans had presided before the war, but went on toward the suburbs. The spaceport being still radioactive. He must be going to the emergency field outside the city. Hmm. He tried to relax, his head ached from the stun beam. A light cruiser had come in a couple of days before, H.M. Ganymede. It loomed enormous over the green rolling fields, and the distance-blued hills and forests.
A lance of bright metal and energy pointed into the clear sky of answer, blinding in the sun. A couple of spacemen on sentry at the gangway halted as the car stopped before them. This man is going to command a Yansky. Aye, aye, proceed. Through the massive airlock down the mere polished companionway, into an elevator, and up toward the bridge, Donovan looked about him with a professional eye. The impies kept a clean, tight ship, he had to admit. He wondered if he would be shot or merely imprisoned, doubted if it committed an enslaving offence. Well, it had been fun, and there hadn't been a hell of a lot to live for anyway. Maybe his friends could spring him, if and when they got some kind of underground organized.
He was ushered into the captain's cabin. Jensen with him saluted. Donovan as per orders, ma'am. Very good. But why is he in irons? Resisted orders, ma'am. Started a riot. Bloody business. I... see... She nodded, her dark head. Losses? I don't know, ma'am, but we had several wounded at least. A couple of Ensons were killed, I think. Well, leave him here. You may go. But ma'am, he's dangerous. I have a gun, and there's a man just outside the door. You may go, Ensign. Donovan swayed a little on his feet, trying to pull himself erect, wishing he wasn't so dirty and bloody and generally messed up. He looked like a tramp man, he thought. Keep up appearances. Don't let them outdo us, even in spit and polish.
"'Sit down, Captain Donovan,' said the woman. He lowered himself to a chair, raking her with deliberately insolent eyes. She was young to be wearing a commander's twin planets, young and trim and nice-looking, tall body, sturdy but graceful, well filled out in the blue uniform and red cloak, raven black hair falling to her shoulders, strong, blunt-fingered hands, one of them resting close to her sidearm. Her face was interesting, broad and cleanly moulded, high cheekbones, wide full mouth, stubborn chin, snub nose, storm-grey eyes set far apart under heavy, dark brows. A superior peasant type, he decided, and felt more at ease in the armour of his inbred haughtiness. He leaned back and crossed his legs.
"'I am Helena Jensky, in command of this vessel,' she said. Her voice was low and resonant, the note of strength in it. "'I need you for a certain purpose. Why did you resist the Imperial summons?' Donovan shrugged. "'Let's say I'm used to giving orders not receiving them.' "'Ah, yes,' she ruffled the papers on her desk. "'You were the Earl of Lanstead, weren't you?' "'After my father and older brother were killed in the war, yes,' he lifted his head. "'I am still the Earl.' She studied him with a dispassionate gaze, that he found strangely uncomfortable. "'I must say that you are a curious sort of leader.' She murmured. One who spends his time in a tavern getting drunk, and who on a whim provokes a disorder in which many of his innocent followers are hurt or killed, in which property difficult to replace is smashed.
Yet I think it was about time that Anser had a change of leadership. Donovan's face was hot. Hell, take it. What right had she to tell him what to do? What right had the whole damned empire to come barging in where it wasn't wanted? The families under the king. "'Have governed Ansa since it was colonized,' he said stiffly.
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36 36 - Sargasso of Lost Starships, Chapter Two 18:03
Sargasso of Lost Starships, Chapter Two.
Again that thoughtful stare. She saw a tall young man, badly disarrayed, blood and dirt streaking his long, thin-carved, curve-nosed features, an old scar jagging across his high, narrow forehead. The hair was yellow, the eyes were blue, the whole look that of an old and settled aristocracy. His bitter voice lashed at her. We ruled answer well because we were part of it. We grew up with the planet, and we understood our folk and men were free under us. That's something which no upstart solar empire can have, not for centuries, not ever to judge by the stock they use for nobility. When peasants command spaceships, Her face grew a little pale, but she smiled and replied evenly. I am the Lady Yansky of Torgendale on Valor, Sirius A, IV, and you are now a commoner.
Please remember that. All the papers in the galaxy won't change the fact that your grandfather was a dirt farmer on Valor. He was an atom jack, and I am proud of it. I suggest further that an aristocrat who has nothing to trade on but his pedigree is very ragged indeed. Now, enough of that," her crisp tones snapped forth. You committed a serious offence, especially since this is still occupied territory. If you wish to cooperate with me, I can arrange for a pardon, also for your brawling friends. If not, the whole bunch of you can go to the mines. Donovan shook his head, trying to clear it of alcohol and worriness. And the ringing left by the parabene. Go on, he said a little thickly. I'll listen anyway.
What do you know of the Black Nebula? She must have seen his muscles jerk. For an instant he sat fighting himself, grasping at rigidity with all the strength that was in him, and the memory was a blaze and a shout and a stab of pure fear. Valduma, Valduma! The sudden thudding of his heart was loud in his ears. And he could feel the fine beads of sweat starting forth on his skin. He made a wrenching effort, and pulled his mouth into a lopsided grin. But his voice wavered. Which, Black Nebula? There are a lot of them. Don't try to bait me. Her eyes were narrowed on him, and the fingers of one hand drummed the desktop. You know I mean THE Black Nebula. Nobody in this galactic sector speaks of any other.
Why, well, Donovan lowered his face. To hide it till he could stiffen the mask, robbing his temples with manacled hands. It's just a nebula, a roughly spherical dust cloud, maybe a light year in diameter, about ten parsecs from Ansar towards Sagittarii. A few colonized stars on its fringes, nothing inside it as far as anyone knows. It has a bad name for some reason, the superstitious say it's haunted, and you hear stories of ships disappearing. Well, it gets a pretty wide berth. Not much out there, anyway. His mind was racing. He thought he could almost hear it click and whir as it spewed forth idea after idea, memory after memory. Alduma are in the blackness in they who laughed. The nebula is pure poison, and now the Empire is getting interested.
By God, it might poison them. Only would it stop there. This time they might decide to go on, to come out with the blackness. Jansky's voice seemed to come from very far away. You know more than that, Donovan. Intelligence has been sifting Anson records. You were the farthest ranging space raider your planet had, and you had a base on Haim, at the very edge of the Nebula. Among your reports there is an account of your men's unease, of the disappearance of small ships which cut through the Nebula on their missions, of ghostly things seen aboard other vessels and men who went mad. Your last report on the subject says that you investigated personally. That most of your crew went more or less crazy while in the nebula, and that you barely got free.
You recommend the abandonment of Haim and the suspension of operations in that territory. This was done, the region being of no great strategic importance anyway." Very well," the voice held a whip-crack undertone. What do you know about the Black Nebula? Donovan had fought his way back to impassivity. You have about the whole story already, he said. There were all sorts of illusions as we penetrated, whisperings and glimpses of impossible things, and so on. It didn't affect me much, but it drove many toward insanity, and some died. There was also very real and unexplainable trouble, engines, lights, and so on. My guess is that there's some sort of radiation in the nebula which makes atoms and electrons misbehave.
That'd affect the human nervous system, too, of course. If you're thinking of entering it yourself, my only advice is, don't. Hmm. She cupped her chin in one hand and looked down with the pages. Frankly, we know very little about this galactic sector. Very few Terrans were ever here before the war, and previous intercourse on your part with Sol was even slighter. However, intelligence has learned that the natives of almost every inhabited planet from the fringes of the Nebula worship it, or at least regard it as the home of the gods. Well, it is a conspicuous object in the skies, said Donovan. He added truthfully enough. I only know about Haim, where the native religion in the area of our base was a sort of devil worship centered around the nebula.
They made big sacrifices, foodstuffs, furs, tools, every conceivable item of use or luxury, which they claimed the devil gods came and took. Some of the colonists thought there was something behind the legends, but I have my doubts. He shrugged. Will that do? For the time being, Yansky smiled with a certain bleak humor. You can write a detailed report later on. And I strongly advise you not to mislead me, because you're going there with us. Donovan accepted the news coldly, but he thought the knocking of his heart must shake his whole body. His hands felt chilly and wet, as you wish. So what I can do? You've been there before and know what to expect. Furthermore, you know the astrogation of that region.
Our charts are worse than sketchy, and even the Anson tables have too many blank spots. Well, Donovan got the words out slowly. If I don't have to enlist, I will not take an oath to your Emperor. You needn't. Your status will be that of a civilian under an Imperial command, directly responsible to me. You will have a cabin of your own, but no compensation except the abandonment of criminal proceedings against you." Jansky relaxed, and her voice grew gentler. However, if you serve well, I'll see what I can do about pay. I dare say you could use some extra money. Thank you, said Donovan formally. He entered the first phase of the Inchoate Plan. Which was taking cloudy shape in his hammering brain.
May I have my personal slave with me? He's non-human, but he can eat Terran food. Jansky smiled. There was a sudden warmth in that smile. It made him human and beautiful. As you wish, if he doesn't have fleas, I'll write you an order for his imparkation. It hit the ceiling when she found what kind of passenger she'd agreed to, thought Donovan. But by then it would be too late, and with Watcher to help me, and the ship blundering blind into the nebula. Vel Duma, Vel Duma, I'm coming back. This time will you kiss me or kill me? The Ganymede lifted Graves and put the answer sun behind her. Much further behind was Sol, an insignificant moat fifty light-years away, lost in the thronging glory of stars.
Ahead lay Sagittarii, galactic center and the Black Nebula. Space burned and blazed with a million bitter bright suns. Keen cold, unwinking flames strewn across the utter dark of space, flashing and flashing over the hollow gulf of the leagues and the years. The Milky Way foamed in curdled silver around that enormous night, a shining girdle jeweled with the constellations. Far and far away wailed the mysterious green and blue-white of the other galaxies, sparks of a guttering fire with a reeling immensity between. Looking toward the boughs, One saw the great star clusters of Sagittarii, the thonging host of suns burning and thundering at the heart of the galaxy. And what have we done? thought Basil Donovan.
What is man and all his proud achievements? Our home star is a dwarf in the lonely fringe of the galaxy, out where the stars thin away toward the great emptiness. We've ranged maybe two hundred light-years from it in all directions, and it's thirty thousand to the center. Night and mystery and nameless immensities around us, our day of glory the briefest flicker on the edge of nowhere, then oblivion forever, and we won't be forgotten, because we'll never have been noticed. The Black Nebula is only the least, and outermost are the great clouds, which thicken toward the center and hide its ultimate heart from us. It is nothing even as we, and yet it holds a power older than the human race, and a terror that may whelm it.
He felt again the old, quailing funk. Fear crawled along his spine, and will drained out of his soul. He wanted to run, escape, huddle under the sky of answer to hide from the naked blaze of the universe, live out his day and forget that he had seen the scornful face of God. But there was no turning back, not now. The ship was already outpacing light on her secondary drive, and he was half a prisoner aboard. He squared his shoulders and walked away from the viewplate. Back toward his cabin. Watcher was sprawled on a heap of blankets, covering the floor with his bulk. He was turning the brightly colored pages of a child's picture book. "'Buss,' he asked. "'When do we kill him?' "'The impies? Not yet, Watcher.
Maybe not at all.' Donovan stepped over the monster and lay down on his bunk, hands behind his head. He could feel the thrum of the driving engines quivering in the ship and his bones. The Nebula may do that for us." "'You go back there,' Watcher stirred uneasily. "'Don't I, boss? It's tomba bad.' "'Yeah, so it is.' "'Better we stay home. Manor needs repair. Peasants need our help. I need beer.' "'So do I. I'll see if we can't promote some from the quartermaster. Old John can look after the estate while we're away, and the peasants will just have to look after themselves. Maybe it's time they learned how. Let a knock on the door. Come in. Tetsuo Takahashi, the ship's exec.' Brought his small, sturdy form around Watcher and sat down on the edge of the bunk.
Your slave is the old lady hubbing mad, he grinned. He'll eat six times a man's ration. And drink it, Donovan smiled back. He couldn't help liking the cocky little Terran. Then with a sudden renewed bitterness, and he's worth it. I couldn't be without him. He may not be so terribly bright, but he's my only proof that loyalty and decency aren't extinct. Takahashi gave him a puzzled look. Why do you hate us so much? He asked. You came in when you weren't asked. Answer was free, and now it's just another province of your damned empire. Maybe so, but you were a backwater, an underpopulated agricultural plant which nobody had ever heard of, exposed to barbarian raids and perhaps to non-human conquest.
You're safe now, and you're part of a great social-economic system which can do more than all those scrubbing little kingdoms and republics. Theocracies and God knows what else put together could ever dream of. We said we wanted to be safe. Our ancestors came to answer to be free. We fought Shaomu when the Greenies wanted to take what we'd built, and then we made friends with them. We had Elborum and a way of life that was our own. Now you'll bring in your surplus population to fill our green lands with yelling cities and squalling people. You'll tear down the culture we evolved so painfully and make us just another bunch of kowtowing imperial citizens. Frankly, Donovan, I don't think it was much of a culture.
It sat in its comfortable rut and admired the achievements of its ancestors. What did your precious families do but hunt and loaf and throw big parties? Maybe they did fulfill a magisterial function. So what? Any elected yacht could do the same in that simpler society. Takahashi fixed his eyes on Donovan's. But rights and wrongs aside, the Empire had to annex Ansa, and when you wouldn't come in peaceably, you had to be dragged in. Yeah, a dumping ground for people who were too stupid not to control their own breeding. Your Anson peasants, my friend, have about twice the Terran birthrate. It's merely that there were more Terrans to start with, and Syrians and Centaurians, and all the old settled planets.
No, it was more than that. It was a question of military necessity. Uh-huh, sure. Read your history sometime. When the Commonwealth broke up in civil wars two hundred years ago, it was hell between the stars. Half-savage peoples, who never should have left their planets, had learned how to build spaceships, and were going out to raid and conquer. A dozen would-be overlords scotched whole worlds with their battles. You can't have anarchy on an interstellar scale. Too many people suffer. Old Manuel I had the guts to proclaim himself Emperor of Sol. No pretty euphemisms for him. An empire was needed, and an empire was what he built. He kicked the barbarians out of the solar system and went on to conquer their home territories and civilize them.
That meant he had to subjugate stars closer to home to protect his lines of communication. This led to further trouble elsewhere. Oh, yes, a lot of it was greed, but the planets which were conquered for their wealth would have been sucked in anyway by sheer economics. The second our goal had carried on, and now his son Manuel II is finishing the job. We've very nearly attained what we must have, an empire large enough to be socio-economically self-sufficient and defend itself against all comers, of which there were many, without being too large for control. You should visit the inner empire sometime, Donovan, and see how many social evils it's been possible to wipe out because of security and central power.
But we need this sector to protect our Sagittarian flank. So we're taking it. Fifty years from now, you'll be glad we did. Donovan looked sourly up at him. Why are you feeding me that, he asked. I've heard it before. We're going to survey a dangerous region, and you're our guide. The Captain and I think there's more than a new radiation in the Black Nebula. I'd like to think we could trust you. Think so, if you wish. We could use a hypnoprobe on you, you know. We'd squeeze your skull dry of everything it contained, but we'd rather spare you that indignity. And you might need me when you get there, and I'll still be only half conscious. Quit playing the great altruist, Takahashi. The exec shook his head.
There's something wrong inside you, Donovan, he murmured. You aren't the man who licked us at Luga. Luga, Donovan's eyes flashed. Were you there? Sure. Destroy North Africa. Just come back from the Zirun front. Cigarette? They felt a yarning, and passed a pleasant hour. Donovan could not suppress a vague regret when Takahashi left. He hadn't such bad fellows, those impies. They were brave and honorable enemies, and they've been lenient conquerors as such things go. But when we hid the Black Nebula... He shuddered. Watcher get that whiskey out of my trunk. You're not gonna get drunk again, boss, the denarian's voice rumbled disappointment. I am. I'm going to try to stay drunk the whole damn voyage.
You just don't know what we're heading for, Watcher.
Stranger, go back. Spaceman.
It is death. Return, human.
The darkness whispered. Voices ran down the length of the ship, blending with the unending murmur of the drive, urging, commanding, whispering so low that it seemed to be within men's skulls. Basil Donovan lay in darkness. His mouth tasted foul, and there was a throb in his temples and a wretchedness in his throat. He lay and listened to the voice which had wakened him. Go home, wanderer. You will die. Your ship will plunge through the hollow dock till the stars grow cold. Turn home, Newman. Boss, I hear them, boss. I'm scared. How long have we been underway? When did we leave Ansar? A week ago, boss. Maybe more. You've been drunk. Wake up, boss. Turn on the light. They're whispering in the dark, and I'm scared.
We must be getting close. Return. Go home. First comes madness, and then comes death. And then comes the spinning outward forever. Turn back, spaceman.
Bodiless whisperette of the thick, thrumming duck, sourceless, all-pervading susurration, and it mocked. There was a cruel, cynical scorn of the outer vastness running up and down the laughing voice. It murmured, it jeered, it ran along nerves with little icy feet and flowed through the brain. It called and jived and hungered. It warned them to go back, and it knew they wouldn't, and railed its mockery at them for it. Demon whispered there in the huge cold loneliness, sneering and grinning and waiting. Donovan sat up and groped for the light switch. We're close enough, he said tonelessly. We're in the range now. footsteps racketed in the corridor outside, a sharp rap on his door. Come in. Come in and enjoy yourself.
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37 37 - Sargasso of Lost Starships, Chapter Three 19:33
Sargasso of Lost Starships. Chapter Three. Donovan hadn't found the switch before the door was open, and light spilled in from the hallway floor tubes. Cold white light, a shaft of it picking out Watch's monstrous form and throwing grotesque shadows on the walls. Commander Yenski was there, in full uniform. And then St. Jean Scorsby, her aide. The younger girl's face was white, her eyes enormous, but Jansky wore grimness like an armour. "'All right, Donovan,' she said. "'I've had your binge, and now the trouble is starting. You didn't say they were voices.' "'It could be anything,' he answered, climbing out of the bunk and steadying himself with one hand. His head swam a little. The corners of the room were thick with shadow.
Tell me, human. Delusions. The man laughed unpleasantly. His face was pale and gaunt, unshaven in the bleak radiance. And you start going crazy. I imagine you always hear voices. There was contempt in the grey eyes that raked him. Donovan, I put a technician to work on it when the noises began a few hours ago. He recorded them. They're very faint, and they seem to originate just outside the ear of anyone who hears them. But they're ill enough. Radiations don't speak in human Anglic with an accent such as I never heard before, not unless they carry a wave for a message. Donovan, who or what is inside the Black Nebula? The Ansons' laugh jarred out again. Who or what is inside this ship? he challenged.
Our great human science. There's no way of making the air vibrate by itself. Maybe there are ghosts standing invisible just beside us. And whispering in our ears. We could detect nothing. No radiations. No energy fields. Nothing but the sounds themselves. I refuse to believe that matter can be set in motion without some kind of physical force being applied. Jansky clapped a hand to her sidearm. You know what is waiting for us. You know how they do it. Go ahead. Hypnoprobe me. Lay me out helpless for a week. Or shoot me if you like. You'll be just as dead whatever you do. Her tones were cold and sharp. Get on your clothes and come up to the bridge. He shrugged, picked up his uniform and began to shuck his pajamas.
The women looked away.
Baldoomer, he thought, with a wrenching deep inside him. Baldoomer, I've returned. He stepped over to the mirror. The ensign uniform was a gesture of defiance. And it occurred to him that he should shave if he wore it in front of these Terrans. He ran the electric razor of his cheeks and chin, pulled his tunic straight and turned back. All right. They went out into the hallway. A spaceman went by on some errand. His eyes were strained wide, staring at blankness, and his lips moved. The voices were speaking to him. It's demoralizing the crew, said Jansky. It has to stop. "'Go ahead and stop it,' jeered Donovan. "'Aren't you the representative of the almighty Empire of Sol? Command them in the name of His Majesty's to stop.' "'The crew, I mean,' she said impatiently.
"'I've got no business being frightened by a local phenomenon.' "'Any human would be,' answered Donovan. "'You are, though you ought to admit it. I am. We can't help ourselves. It's instinct.' "'Instinct!' Her eyes were a little surprised. Sure. Donovan halted before a viewscreen, space blazed and roiled against the reaching darkness. Just look out there. It's the primeval night. It's the blind unknown where unimaginable, inhuman powers are abroad. We're still the old half-ape, crouched over his fire and trembling while the night roars around us. A lighted, heated, metal-armied ship is still the lonely cave fire. The hearth with steel and stone laid at the door to keep out the gods. When the wild hunt breaks through and shouts at us, we must be frightened.
It's the primitive fear of the dark. It's part of us. She swept on, her cloak, a scarlet wing flapping behind her. They took the elevator to the bridge. Donovan had not watched the black nebula grow over the days, swell to a monstrous thing that blotted out half the sky. Listlessness. Fringed with the cold glory of the stars. Now that the ship was entering its tenuous outer fringes, the heavens on either side were blurring and dimming, and the blackness yawned before. Even the densest nebula is a hard vacuum, but tons upon incredible tons of cosmic dust and gas, reaching planetary and interstellar distances on every hand, or blot out the sky. It was like rushing into an endless, bottomless hole.
The ship was falling. And falling into the pit of hell. I noticed you never looked backwards on the trip, said Iansky, though steel in her voice. Why did you lock yourself in your cabin and drink like a sponge? I was bored, he replied suddenly. You were afraid, she snapped contemptuously. You didn't dare watch the nebula growing. Something happened the last time you were here, which sucked the guts out of you. Didn't your intelligence talk to the men who were with me? If of course none of them would say more than you said. They all wanted us to come here, but blind and unprepared. Well, Mr. Donovan, we're going in. The floor plates shook under Watcher's tread. You not took the bus that way, he rumbled.
Let be, Watcher, said Donovan. It doesn't matter how she talks. He looked ahead, and the old yearning came alive in him, the fear and the memory, but he had not thought that it would shiver with such a strange gladness. And, who knew, a bargain. Val Duma come back to me. Yansky's gaze on him narrowed, but her voice was suddenly low and puzzled. I was smiling, she whispered. He turned from the viewscreen, and his laugh was ragged. Maybe I'm looking forward to this visit, Helena. My name, she said stiffly, is Commander Yansky. Out there, maybe. But in here there is no rank, no empire, no mission. We're all humans, frightened little humans huddling together against the dark, Donovan's smile softened.
You know, Helena, you have very beautiful eyes. The slow flush crept up her high, smooth cheeks. I want a full report of what happened to you last time, she said. Now, or you go under the probe. Wonder, it is a long way home. Spaceless, spaceless, your son is very far away. Why, certainly. Donovan leaned against the wall and grinned at her. Glad to. Only you won't believe me. She made no reply, but folded her arms and waited. The ship trembled with its forward thrust. Sweat beaded the forehead of the watch officer, and he glared around him. We're entering the home of all lawlessness, said Donovan. The realm of magic. The outlaw world of werebeasts and night gangers. Can't you hear the wings outside?
These ghosts are only the first sign. I'll have a plague of witches soon. Get out, she said. He shrugged. All right, Hannah. I told you you wouldn't believe me. He turned and walked slowly from the bridge.
Outside was starless, lightless, infant, black. The ship crept forward, straining her detectors, groping into the blind dark while her crew went mad. Spaceman. It is too late. You will never find your way home again. You are dead men on the ghost ship, and you will fall forever to deny it. I saw him wrong. I saw him down in Section Three, tall and thin and black. He laughed at me, and then there wasn't anything there. Sound of great wings beating somewhere outside the hull. Mother, can I have him? Can I have a scar to play with? Not yet, child. Soon. Soon. Wicked rain of laughter and the sound of clawed feet running. No one went alone. Spaceman First Class Gottfried and Martinus went down a starboard companionway and saw the herded black form waiting for them.
Gottfried pulled out his blaster and fired. The ravening beam sprang backward and consumed him. Martinus lay mumbling in Psycho Bay. The lights went out. After an hour they flickered back on again. But men had rioted and killed each other in the dark. Commander Jansky recalled all personal weapons on the grounds that the crew could no longer be trusted with them. The men drew up a petition to get them back. When it was refused, there was muttering of revolt. Spaceman, you are one of two. You are one of the only on the edge of creation, and now there is only death. The hours dragged into days, and the ship's timepieces started disagreeing. Time ceased to have meaning. Basil Donovan sat in his cabin.
There was a bottle in his hand, but he tried to go slow. He was waiting. When the knock came, he leaped from his seat, and every nerve tightened up and screamed. He swore at himself they wouldn't knock when they came for him. Go on, enter, his voice wavered. Helen Iansky stepped inside, closing the door after her. She had thinned. And there was darkness in her eyes, but she still bore herself erect. Donovan had to salute the stubborn courage that was in her. The unimaginative peasant blood. No, it was more than that. She was as intelligent as he, but there was a deep strength in that tall form, a quiet vitality which had perhaps been bred after the families of Ansar. Sit down, he invited. He sighed and ran a hand through her dark hair.
Thanks. Drink? No, not on duty. And the captain is always on duty. Well, let it go. Donovan lowered himself to the bunk beside her, resting his feet on Watcher's columnar leg. The Denarian muttered and whimpered in his sleep. What can I do for you? Her gaze was steady and grave. You can tell me the truth. About the Nebula, why should I? Give me one good reason why an Anson should care what happens to a Salarian ship. Perhaps only that we're all human beings here, that those boys have earth and rain and sunlight and wives waiting for them. And Valduma, no, she isn't human. Fire and ice and storming madness, but not human. Too beautiful to be flesh. This trip was your idea, he said defensively.
Donovan, you wouldn't have played such a foul trick and made such a weak, self-righteous excuse in the old days. He looked away, feeling his cheeks hot. Well, he mumbled. Why not turn around, get out of the nebula if you can, and maybe come back later with a task force? And lead them all into this trap. Our subtronics are out, you know. We can't send information back. So we'll just go on and learn a little more, and then try to fight our way home. His smile was crooked. They may have been baiting you, Hannah. But if I told you everything I know, it wouldn't help. There isn't enough. Her hand fell strong and urgent on his. Tell me, then. Tell me anyway. But there is so little. There's a planet somewhere in the nebula, and its inhabitants with powers I don't begin to understand.
But among other things, they can project themselves hyperwise, just like a spaceship, without needing engines to do it. And they have a certain control over matter and energy. The Fringed Stars. These beings in the Nebula really have been their gods, yes. They protected themselves, terrorized the natives for centuries, and carried home the sacrificial materials for their own use. The doubt was responsible for all the ships around here that never came home. They don't like visitors. Donovan saw her smile and his own lips twitched. But they did, I suppose. Take some prisoners to learn our language and anything else they got about us. She nodded. I'd conjectured as much. If you don't accept theories involving the supernatural, and I don't, it follows almost necessarily.
If a few of them projected themselves aboard and hid somewhere, they could manipulate air molecules from a distance so as to produce the whisperings. She smiled afresh, but the hollowness was still in here. When you call it a new sort of ventriloquism, it doesn't sound nearly so bad, does it? Fiercely, the woman turned on him. What have you to do with them? How are you so sure? Aye. Talked with one of them, he replied slowly. You might say we struck up a friendship of sorts, but I learned nothing, and the only benefit I got was escaping. I have no useful information. His voice sharpened. And that's all I have to say. Where are we going on? Her head lifted pridefully. Donovan's smile was a crooked grimace.
He took a hand and lay unresisting between his fingers. Helena, he said. He'd been trying to psychoanalyze me this whole trip. Maybe it's my turn now. You're not so hard as you tell yourself. I'm an officer of the Imperial Navy. The haughtiness didn't quite come off. Sure, sure. A hard-showed career girl. Only you're also a healthy human being. Down underneath you want a home and kids and quiet green hills. Don't lie to yourself. That wouldn't be fitting to the Lady Jansky of Torgendale, would it? You went into service because it was the thing to do, and you're just a scared kid, my dear. Donovan shook his head. But a very nice-looking kid. Tears glimmered on her lashes. Stop it, she whispered desperately.
Don't say it. He kissed her, a long, slow kiss with her mouth trembling under his, and her body shivering ever so frankly. The second time she responded, shy as a child, hardly aware of the sudden hunger. She pulled free then, sat with eyes wide and wild, one hand lifted to her mouth. No, she said, so quietly he could scarce hear. No, not now. Suddenly she got up and almost fled. Donovan sighed. Why did I do that? To stop her inquiring too closely? Or just because she's honest and human? Annabel Doomer isn't. Oh. Darkness swirled before his eyes. Watcher came awake and shrank against the farther wall, terror rattling in his throat. But she's here again. Donovan sat on staring, elbows on knees, hands hanging empty and looking at the two who had come.
Hello, Valdumar, he said. Basil, a voice sang against him, rippling, lilting, the unending sharp laughter beneath its surprise. Basil, you have come back. Uh-huh, he nodded at the other. You're Marzak, aren't you? Sit down. Have a drink. Old home week. The creature from Arzon remained erect. He looked human on the outside, tall and gaunt in a black cape which glistened with tiny points of starlight, the hood thrown back so that his red hair fell free to his shoulders. The face was long and thin, chiseled to an ultimate refinement of classical beauty, white and cold. Cold as space-tempered steel, in spite of the smile on the pale lips. In spite of the dark mirth and the slant green eyes, one hand rested in the jeweled hilt of a sword.
Valduma stood beside Morzak for an instant, and Donovan watched her with the old sick wildness rising and clamoring in him. You are the fairest thing which ever was between the stars. You are ice and flame and living fury, stronger and weaker than man, cool and sweet as a child a thousand years old. I love you. But you are not human, Valduma. She was tall, and her grace was a lithe, rippling flow, wind and fire and music made flesh, a burning glory of hair rushing past her black-caped shoulders, hands slim and beautiful, the strange, clean-moulded face white as polished ivory, the mouth red and laughing, the eyes long and oblique in gold-flecked green. When she spoke, it was like singing in heaven and laughter in hell.
Donovan looked at her, not moving. Basil, you came back to me. He came because he had to. Mazzak, her vows, unfolded his arms, eyes smoldering in anger. Best we kill him now. Later, perhaps later, but not now. The Valduma laughed aloud. Suddenly she was in Donovan's arms. Her kisses were a rain of fire. There was thunder and darkness and dancing stars. He was aware of nothing else, not for a long, long time. She leaned back in his grasp, smiling up at him, stroking his hair with one slender hand. His cheek was bloody where she had scratched him. He looked back into her eyes, though a cat's eye, spit-pupiled or gold and emerald without the human white. He laughed very softly. "'Shall I kill you now?' she whispered.
"'Or drive you mad first, or let you go again?' What would be the most amusing battle? There is no time for your pranks, said Morzak sharply. We have to deal with the ship. It's getting dangerously close to Arzon, and we've been unable yet to break the morale and discipline of the crew. I think the only way is to wreck the ship. Wreck it on Arzon, yes, Valuma's laughter paused and thropped. Bring them to their goal. Help them along even. Oh yes, Morzak, it is a good thought. We'll need your help, said the creature man to Donovan. I take it that you're guiding them. You must encourage them to offer new resistance when we took over the controls. Our powers won't stand too long against atomic energy.
Why should I help you? Donovan's tones were hoarse. What can you give me? If you live, said Valdum, and can make your way to Dragobich, I might give you much. She laughed again, maniac laughter which did not lose its music. That would be diverting. I don't know, he groaned. I don't know, I thought a bargain could be made, but now I wonder. I leave him to you, said Morzach sardonically, and vanished. Basil, whispered Valdum. Basil, I have sometimes missed you. Get out, Watcher, said Brownovan. Puss, she's Tumba, get out. Watcher lumbered slowly from the cabin. There were tears in his eyes.
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38 38 - Sargasso of Lost Starships, Chapter Four 12:34
Sir Gasso of Lost Starships. Chapter Four. The Ganymede's engines rose to full power, and the pilot control spun over without a hand on them. Engine room! Engine room! Stop that nonsense down there! We can't! They're frozen! The converter has gone into full without us! Sir, I can't budge this stick. It's locked somehow. The lights went on. Men screamed. "'Get me a flashlight!' snapped Takahashi in the dark. "'I'll take this damn panel apart myself!' The beam etched his features against night. "'Who goes?' he cried. "'It's I!' Yenski appeared in the dim, reflected glow. "'Never mind, Takahashi. Let the ship have her way.' "'But, man, we could crush!' "'I've finally gotten Donovan to talk. He says we're in the grip of some kind of power beam.
They'll pull us to one of their space stations.' And then maybe we can negotiate, or fight. Come on, we've got to quiet the men. The flashlight went out. Takahashi's laugh was shrill. Better quiet me first, Captain. Her hand was on his arm, steadying, strengthening. Don't fail me, Tetsuo. You're the last one I've got. I just had to paralyze Scoresby. Thanks. Thanks, Chief. I'm all right now. Let's go. They fumbled through blindness. The engines roared full speed ahead with the ghost on the bridge. Men were stumbling and cursing and screaming in the dark. Someone switched on the battle station's siren and its howl was the last voice of insanity. Struggle in the dark, wrestling, paralyzing at the berserk, calling on all the iron will which had lifted humankind to the stars, slow restoration of order men creeping to general quarters breathing heavily in the guttering light of paper torches.
The engines cut off, and the ship snapped into normal matter state. Helen Iansky saw blood-red sunlight through the viewport. There was no time to sound the alarm before the ship crashed. A hundred men! No more than a hundred alive! She wrapped her cloak tight about her against the wind, and stood looking across the camp. The streaming firelight touched her face with red, limbing it against the utter dark of the night heavens, sheening faintly in the hair that blew wildly around her strong, bitter countenance. Beyond. Other fires danced and flickered in the gloom. Men huddled around them while the cold seeped slowly to their bones. Here and there an injured human moaned. Across the ragged spine of bare black hills they could still see the molten glow of the wreck.
When it hit, the atomic converters had run wild and begun devouring the hull. There had barely been time for the survivors to drag themselves and some of the cripples free, and to put the rocky barrier between them and the mounting radioactivity. During the slow red sunset, they had gathered wood, hewing with knives at the distorted scrub trees reaching above the shale and snow off the valley. Now they sat waiting out the night. Takahashi shuddered. God, it's cold. It'll get colder, said Donovan tonously. This is an old planet of an old red dwarf's sun. Its rotation has slowed. The nights are long. How do you know? Lieutenant Elijah Cohen glared at him out of a crudely bandaged face. The firelight made his eyes gleam red.
How do you know, unless you're in with him? Unless you arrange this yourself? Watcher reached forth a massive fist. You shut up, he rumbled. Never mind, said Donovan. I just thought some things would be obvious. You saw the star, so you should know it's the type of a burned-out dwarf. Since planets are formed at an early stage of a star's evolution, this world must be old, too. Look at these rocks, citrified. Back when the stellar energy output got really high, just before the final collapse, and nevertheless eroded down to bare snags. That takes millions of years. He reflected that his reasoning, while sound enough, was based on foreknown conclusions. Cohen's right. I half betrayed them. It was Valduma, watching over me, who brought Watcher and myself unhurt through the crash.
I saw, Valduma. I saw you with your hair flying in the chaos. Riding witch-like through sundering ruin, and you were laughing, laughing. He felt ill. Nevertheless, the planet has a thin but breathable atmosphere, frozen water and vegetable life, said Takahashi. Such things don't survive the final hot stage of a sun without artificial help. This planet has natives. Since we were deliberately crashed here, I dare say the natives are our earlier friends. He turned dark, accusing eyes on the Anson. How about it, Donovan? I suppose you're right, he answered. I knew there was a planet in the Nebula. The natives had told me that in my previous trip. This star lies near the center, in a hollow region where there isn't enough dust to force the planet into its primary, and shares a common velocity with the Nebula.
It stays here, in other words. You told me, Helena Jansky bit her lip, and slowly forced the words out. You told me, and I believed you. That there was nothing immediately to fear when the nebulites took over our controls. So we didn't fight them. We didn't try to overcome their forces with our own engines. And it cost us the ship, and over half her crew. I told you what happened to me last time, he lied steadfastly. I can't help it if things were different this trip. She turned her back. The wind blew a thin, hissing veil of dry snow across her ankles. The wounded man suddenly screamed out there in the dark. How does it feel, Donovan? You made her trust you, and then betrayed her for a thing that isn't even human.
How does it feel to be a Judas?" Never mind recriminations," said Takahashi. This isn't the time to hold trials. We've got to decide what to do. They have a city on this planet," said Donovan. Dragabek, they call it, and the planet's name is Ozon. It lies somewhere near the equator, they told me once. If they meant us to make our own way to it, and it would be like them. Then it may well lie due south. We can march that way, assuming that the sun set in the west. Nothing to lose, shrugged the Terran. But we have many weapons. A few assorted sidearms is all, and there aren't much of us against these creatures anyway. Something howled out in the dark. The ground quivered ever so faintly to the pounding of heavy feet.
Wild animals yet? Cohen grinned humorously. Better sound battle stations, Captain. Yes, yes, I suppose so. She blew her whistle, a thin shrilling in the windy dark. As she turned around, Donovan saw a gleam running along her cheek. Tears. The noise came closer. They heard the rattle of claws on stone. The Terrans moved together, guns in front, clubs and rocks and bare hands behind. They have guts, thought Donovan. God, but they have guts. Food would be scarce on a barren planet like this, said Ensign Chundra Das. We seem to be elected. The hollow roar sounded. Echoing between the hills and caught up by the thin, harrying wind. Hold fire, said Helena. Her voice was clear and steady. Don't waste charges.
Wait. The thing leaped out of the darkness, a ten-meter length of gaunt, scaled body and steel-hard claws and whipping tail soaring through the snow-streaked air and caught in the vague, uneasy firelight. Helena's blaster crashed. A lightning bolt sizzled against the armoured head. The monster screamed. Its body tumbled shatteringly among the humans. It seized a man in its jaws and shook him and trampled another underfoot. Tekahashi stepped forward and shot again at its dripping wound. The blaster bolt zigzagged wildly off the muzzle of his gun. Even the animals can do it. Oh, get him, Bus! Watcher reared on his hind legs, came down again with a thud and charged. Stones flew from beneath his feet.
The monster's tail swept out. A man tumbled before it with his ribs caved in. And Watcher staggered as he caught the blow. Still he rushed in, clutching the barbed end of the tail to his breast. The monster writhed, bellowing. Another blaster bolt hit it from the rear. It turned and a shatter its eyes veered away. Watcher hit it with all the furious momentum he had. He rammed its spear-like tail down the open jaws and blood spurted. Oh, Donovan! he shouted, as the thing screamed and snapped at him. He caught its jaws in his hands. Watcher! yelled Donovan. Watcher! He ran wildly toward the fight. The denarion's great back arched with strain. It was as if they could hear his muscles crack. Slowly, slowly he forced the jaws wider.
The monster lashed its body, pulling him to his knees, dragging him over the ground, and still he fought. Damn you, he roared in the whirling dust and snow. Hold still! The jaws broke, and the monster screamed once more, and then it wasn't there. Watcher tumbled over. Donovan fell across him sobbing, laughing, cursing. Watcher picked him up. You're right, boss, he asked. You will? Yes, yes. Oh, you blind, bloody fool, you stupid, blundering ass, Donovan hugged him. Gone, said Helena. It vanished. They picked up their dead and wounded and returned to the fires. A cold bit deep. Something else hooted out in the night. It was a long time before Takahashi spoke. You might expect it, he said. These parapsychical powers don't come from nowhere.
The intelligent race, our enemies of Dragabek, simply have them highly developed. The animals do a lesser extent. I think it's a matter of life being linked to the primary atomic probabilities. The psi functions which give the continuous field distribution of matter, energy, and space-time. In a word, control of external matter and energy by conscious will acting through the unified field which is space-time. Telekinesis. Aha. Said Dath wearily. Even some humans have a slight pad of power. Control dice or electron beams or what have you. But why aren't there—why did you call them—Alzounians overrunning the galaxy? They can only operate over a certain range, which happens to be about the distance to the fringe stars, said Donovan.
Beyond that distance, dispersion limits them, plus the fact that differences of potential energy must be made up from their own metabolism. The animals, of course, have very limited range, a few kilometers, perhaps. The Arzunians used helikinesis to control matter and energy, and the same subspatial principles as those ships to go faster than light. Only since they aren't lugging around a lot of hull and passengers and assorted machinery, just themselves and a little air and maybe an armful of sacrificial goods from a fringe planet, they don't need atomic engines. They aren't interested in conquering the galaxy. Why should they be? They can get all their needs and luxuries from the peoples to whom they are gods.
An old race. Very old. Decadent, if you will. But they don't like interference. Takahashi looked at him sharply. I glimpsed one of them on the ship, he said. Carried a spear. Yeah, another reason why they aren't conquerors. They have no sense of mechanics at all, never had any reason to evolve one when they could manipulate matter directly without more than the simplest tools. They're probably more intelligent than humans in an all-around way, but they don't have the type of brain and the concentration needed to learn physics and chemistry. Aren't interested, either. So swords against guns. We may have a chance. They can turn your missiles, remember. Guns are little use. You have to distract them so they don't notice your shot till too late.
But they can't control you. They aren't telepaths, and their type of matter control is heterodyned by living nerve currents. You could kill one of them with a sword, where a gun would most likely kill you. I see, Eleanor looked strangely at him. You're becoming very vocal all of a sudden. Donovan rubbed his eyes and shivered in the cold. What of it? He wanted the truth. You're getting it. Why am I telling them? Why am I not just leading them to the slaughter as Valduma wanted? Is it that I can't stand the thought of Helena being hunted like a beast? Who's side of my arm, he thought, wildly. Takahashi gestured, and his voice came eager. That's it! That's it! The ship scattered assorted metal and plastic over twenty hectares as she fell.
Safe for us to gather up tomorrow. We can use our blaster flames to shape weapons, swords, axes, spears. But the galaxy will arm ourselves, and then we'll march on Dragabich.
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39 39 - Sargasso of Lost Starships, Chapter Five 13:21
V. It was a strange little army, thought Donovan, as strange as any the galaxy had ever seen. He looked back. The old ruined highway went down a narrow valley between sheer cliffs of eroded black stone, reaching up toward the deep purplish heaven. The sun was wheeling westerly, a dull red ember throwing light like clattered blood on the dreariness of rock and ice and gaunt grey trees. A few snowflakes, borne on a thin chill wind, drifted across the path of March, a lonely bird, cruel-beaked and watchful, hovered on great black wings far overhead, waiting for them to die. The men of the Imperial Solar Navy walked close together. They were haggard and dirty and bearded. Clad in such ragged articles as they had been able to salvage, armed with the cruelly forged weapons of a vanished age, carrying their sick and wounded on rude litters.
Ghost world, ghost army, marching through an echoing windy solitude to its unknown weird. Men's faces were still brave, and one of them was singing. The sunburst banner of the Empire flapped above them, the one splash of colour in the great murky landscape. Luck had been with them, of a sort. Game animals had appeared in more abundance than one would have thought the region could support. Deer-like things which they shot for meat to supplement their iron rations. They'd stumbled on the old highway, and followed its arrow-straight course southward. Many days, and many tumbled hollow ruins of great cities lay behind them, and still they trudged on. Luck wondered Donovan. I think it was intentional.
I think the Azunians want us to reach Dragobech. He heard the scrape of boots on the slanting hillside behind them, and turned around to face Helena. He stopped and smiled. There had been a slow, unspoken intimacy growing between them as they worked and struggled together. Not many words, but the eyes of each would often stray to the other, and a hand would brush over a hand, as if by accident. Tired and hungry and road-stained, caps at askew on tangled hair, skin reddened by wind and blue with cold. She was still good to look on. Why are you walking so far from the road? She asked. Oh, serving as outrider, maybe, he said, resuming his stride. She failed to step beside him. Up here you get a wider view.
You think we have much further to go, Basil? He shrugged. We'd never have come this far without you, she said, looking down at her scuffed boots. You and Watcher and Takahashi? Maybe the Empire will send a rescue mission when we don't come back, he suggested. No doubt they will, but they can't find one little star in this immensity. Even thermocouples wouldn't help. The nebula diffuses radiation too much. Then they'd be blundering into the same trap as we. Kalaner looked up. No, Basil, we've got to fight our way clear alone. There was a long stretch of thicket growing on the hillside. Donovan went along the right of it, cutting off view of the army. You know, he said, you and those boys down there make me feel a lot kinder toward the Empire.
Thank you. Thank you, we—she took his arm. It's a question of unifying the human race. Ultimately, this whole region of stars and—oh—the beasts were suddenly there in front of them, lean black things which snarled with mouths of hunger. One of them circled toward the human's flank. The other crouched. Donovan yanked his sword clear. Get behind me, he snapped, turning to face the approaching hunter. No! Back to back! Helena's own blade rasped from its sheath. She lifted a shout for help. The nearest animal sprang for her throat. She hacked wildly. The blade twisted in her hand and scraped the muzzled face. Jaws clamped on the edged steel and let go with a bloody howl. Donovan swung at the other beast.
The blow shuddered home, and it screamed and writhed and snapped at his ankles. Whirling, he turned on a thing which had launched itself at Helena. He hewed, and the animal wasn't there. His blade rang on naked stone. A weight crashed against his back. He went down and the teeth clamped on his shoulder. Helena swung. The carnivore raised its head to snarl at her, and she gripped the sword in both hands and stabbed. It threshed wildly, dying, spewing blood over the hillside. The other wounded creature disappeared. Helena bent over Donovan, held him close, her eyes wild. Are you hurt? Basil! Oh, Basil, are you hurt? No, he muttered. The teeth didn't have time to work through this heavy jacket. He pulled her head down against his.
"'Basil! Basil!' He rolled, still holding it to him, her arms locked about his neck, and there were tears and laughter in her voice. "'Oh, Basil, my darling!' "'Helena,' he murmured. "'I love you, Helena.' "'When we get home, I'm due for furlough. I'll retire instead, your house on Ansar. Oh, Basil, I never thought I could be so glad.' The massive thunder of feet brought them apart. Watcher burst around the thicket, swinging his giant axe in both hands. "'Are you all right, boss?' he roared. "'Yes, yes, we're all right. A couple of those damned wolf-like things which have been plaguing us the whole march. Go on back, Watcher. We'll join you soon.' The denariant's ape-face split in a vast grin.
"'So you take a female, boss?' he cried. "'Good, good. We need lots of little Donovans at home. Get on back, you old busybody, and keep that gossiping mouth shut.' Hours later, Helen returned to the army where it was making camp. Donovan stayed where he was. Looking down at the men where they moved about, gathering wood and digging fire pits. The blazes were a note of cheer in a thickening murk. Helena, he thought. Helena. She's a fine girl. Wonderful girl. She's what the thinning family blood and I, myself, need. But why did I do it? Why did I talk that way to her, just then, in the strain and fear and loneliness? It seemed as if I cared. But I don't. She's just another woman. She's not Valdumer.
The twilight murmured, and he saw the dim sheen of metal beside him. The men of Dragobeck were gathering. They stood tall and godlike in a helmet and ring-mail and night-black cloaks, leaning on swords and spears, death-white faces cold with an ancient scorn as they looked down on the human camp. Their eyes were phosphorescent green in the dark. Donovan nodded, without fear or surprise or anything but a sudden great weariness. He remembered some of them from the days when he had been alone in the bowels of the ship with the invaders, while his men cowered and rioted and went crazy in the stern sectors. Hello, Morzak, Uboda, Zeguyen, Kustuzan, Davleka, he said. Welcome back again. Bilduma walked out of the blood-hued twilight, and he took her in his arms and held her for a long, fierce time.
Her kiss was as cruel as a swooping hawk. She bit his lips, and he tasted blood, warm and salt, where she had been. Afterward she turned in the circle of his arm, and he faced the silent men of Dragabek. "'You are getting near the city,' said Moazach. His tones were deep, with a chill ringing of struck steel in them. "'It is time for the next stage. I thought you saved some of us deliberately,' said Donovan. "'Us!' Valduma's lip caressed his cheek. "'Them, Basil, them. You don't belong there. You are with Arzon and me.' He must have projected that game where we could spot it, went on Donovan shakily. You've kept us them alive, and enabled us to march on your city, and the last inhabited city left to your race.
You could have hunted them down as you did all the others, made sport of them with wild animals and falling rocks and missiles, shooting out of nowhere, but instead you want them for something. What is it? You should have guessed, said Morse. We want to leave Ozen. Leave it. You can do so any time, by yourselves. You've done it for millennia. We can only go to the barbarian Fringe Stars. Beyond them, it is a greater distance to the next suns than we can cross unaided. Yet though we have captured many spaceships and have them intact at Dragabich, we cannot operate them. The principles learned from the humans don't make sense. When we have tried to pilot them, it has only brought disaster. But why do you want to leave?
It is a recent decision, precipitated by your arrival. But it has been considered for a long while. The sun is old, this planet exhausted, and the lives of we few remnants of a great race flicker in a hideous circumscribed drabness. Sooner or later the humans will find our way here in strength too great for us. Before then we must be gone." So Donovan spoke softly, and the wind whimpered under his voice. So your plan is to capture this group of spacemen and make them your slaves. To carry you. Where? Out, away, Galdum's clear lovely laughter rang in the night. To seize another planet and build our strength afresh. She gripped his waist, and he saw the white gleam of her teeth out of shadow. To build a great army of obedient space-going warriors, and then to hunt between the stars.
Hunt. Look here, was a head closer, his eyes a green glow, the vague sheen of naked steel in his hand. I've been polite long enough. You have your chance to rise above the human scum that spawned you and be one of us. Help us now, and you can be with us till you die. Otherwise, we'll take that crew anyway, and you'll be hounded across the face of this planet. Aye, aye. Welcome back, Basil Donovan. Welcome back to the old king race. Come with us. Come with us. Lead the humans into our ambush. Be the Lord of Stars. They circled about him, tall and male and beautiful in the shadow light, luring, whispering voices, rippled of dark laughter, the hunters playing with their quarry and taming it. Donovan remembered them, remembered the days when he had talked and smiled and drunk and sung with them, the Lucifer-like intoxication of their dancing, darting minds, a wildness of magic and mystery and reckless wizard sport, a glory which had taken something from his soul.
and left an emptiness within him. Morzech, Marevech, Uboda, Zegoyen, for a time he had been the consort of the gods. Bezel! Balduma laid sharp nailed fingers in his hair and pulled his lips to hers. Bezel, I want you back! He held her close, feeling the lithe, savage strength of her, recalling the flame-like beauty in the nights of love such as no human could ever give. His whisper was thick. You got bored last time and sent me back. How long will I last now? As long as you wish, Basil. Forever and forever. He knew she lied, and he didn't care. This is what you must do, Donovan, said Morse. He listened with half his mind. It was a question of guiding the army into a narrow cul-de-sac where the Arzunians could perform the delicate, short-range work of causing chains to bind around them.
For the rest, he was thinking. They hunt. They intrigue. And they whittle down their last few remnants with fighting among themselves. And they prey on the Fringed Stars, and they capture living humans to hunt down for sport. They haven't done anything new for ten thousand years. Creativeness has withered from them. And all they will do if they escape the nebula is carry ruin between the stars. They're mad. Yes, a whole society of psychopaths have gone crazy with the long racial dying. That's the reason they can't handle machines. That's why they don't think of friendship, but only of war. That's why they carry doom within them. But I love you. I love you. I love you, O Valduma the Fair. O Valduma the Fair.
He drew her to him, kissed her with a terrible intensity, and she laughed in the dark. Looking up, he faced the blade that was Morzech. All right, he said. I understand. Tomorrow. "'Aye, good, good. Well done.' "'Oh, Basil, Basil,' whispered Valduma. "'Come, come away with me now.' "'No, that's a speck. I have to go down to them, or they'll come looking for me.' "'Good night, Basil, my darling, my vore. Until tomorrow.' He went slowly down the hillside, drawing his shoulders together against the cold, not looking back. Helena rose when he approached her campfire, and the flimmering light made her seem pale and unreal. Where have you been, Basil? You look so tired. Just walking around. I'm all right.
He spread his couch of stiff and stinking animal height. I'd better turn in, eh? But he slept little.
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40 40 - Sargasso of Lost Starships, Chapter Six 16:36
Sargasso of Lost Starships. Chapter Six. The highway curved between great looming walls of cragged old rock, a shadow tunnel with the wind yowling far overhead, and the sun a disk of blood. Men's footfalls echoed from the cracked paving blocks. To boom hollily off time-gnawed cliffs, and wing faintly in the ice. It was cold, their breath smoked from them, and they shivered and cursed and stamped their feet. Donovan walked beside Helena, who was riding watcher. His eyes narrowed against the searching wind, looking ahead and around, looking for the side-track where the ambush waited. Dragoby was very near. Something moved up on the ridge. A flapping black thing which was instantly lost to sight.
The Arzunians were watching. There, up ahead, the solitary tree they had spoken of, growing out between age-crumbled fragments of the road. The highway swung west around a pinnacle of rock, but here there was a branch road running straight south into a narrow ravine. All I have to do is suggest we take it. They won't know till too late that it leads up a blind canyon. Eleanor leaned over toward him. So that the long, wind-whipped hair blew against his cheek. Which way should we go? she asked, one hand rested on his shoulder. He didn't slacken his stride, but his voice was low under the whine of bitter air. To the White, Helena. I'm on the double. The Azunians are waiting up the other road, but Dragabek is just beyond that crag.
Basil, how do you know? Watcher's long, hairy ears cocked attentively. And the little eyes under the heavy bone ridges were suddenly sharp on his master. They wanted me to mislead you. I didn't say anything before for fear they'd be listening somehow. As I hadn't decided, he thought greatly, because Valduma is mad, and I love her. Helena turned and lifted her arm, voice ringing out to rattle in jeering echoes. Call him right! Forward! Charge! Watcher broke into a trot. The ground booming and shivering under his huge feet. Donovan paced beside, drawing his sword and swinging it naked in one hand. His eyes turned to the canyon and the rocks above it. The humans fell into a jogging run. They swept past the ambush road, and suddenly Valdumo was on the ridge above them, tall and slim and beautiful, the hair like a blowing flame under her helmet.
Basil, she screamed. Basil, you triple traitor! The others were there with her, men of Dragabish standing in the heights and howling their fury. They had chains in their hands, and suddenly the air was thick with flying links. One of them smashed against Donovan and curled itself snake-like around his waist. He dropped his sword and tugged at the cold iron, feeling the breath strained out of him, cursing with the pain of it. Watcher reached down a hand and peeled the chain off, snapping it in two and hurling it back at the Arzunians. It whipped in the air. Lashing itself across his face, he bellowed. The men of Sarl were weltering in a fight with the flying chains, beating them off, stamping the writhing lengths underfoot, yelling as the things cracked against their heads.
"'Forward!' cried Helena. "'Charge! Get out of here! Forward! Empire!' A chain whistled viciously for her face. She struck at it with her sword, tangling it on the blade, metal clashing on metal. Takahashi had his blaster out, its few remaining charges thundering to fuse the missiles. Other flames roared at the Ozunians, driving them back, forcing them to drop control of the chains to defend their lives. Run! Forward! The columns shouted and plunged down the highway, while Duma was suddenly before them, her face distorted in fury, stabbing a spear at Donovan's breast. The man parried the thrust and hewed at her. She was gone, and the Terrans rushed ahead. The rocks groaned. Donovan saw them shuddering above him, saw the first hail of gravel, and heard the huge grinding of strata.
They're trying to bury us, he yelled. We've got to get there. Watchers stooped, snatched him under one arm and galloped, a boulder whizzed by his head, smashing against the farther wall and spraying him with hot chips of stone. Now the boom of the landslide filled their world, rolling and roaring between the high cliffs. Cracks zigzagged across the worn black heights. The crags shivered and toppled, dust boiled across the road. Bizzle! Donovan saw Valduma again, dancing and leaping between the boulders, raising a scream of wrath and laughter. Morzach was there, sitting on a jut of rock, watching the hillside fall. Watcher burst around the sentinel peak. A line of Arzunians stood barring the way to Dragabek, the sunlight flaming off their metal.
Watcher dropped Donovan, hefted his axe in both hands, and charged them. Donovan picked himself up and scrambled in the wake of his slave. Behind him, the Terrans were streaming from the collapsing dale, out over open ground to strike the enemy. The rocks bounded and howled. A man screamed as he was pinned. There were a dozen buried under the landslide. Watcher hit the Arzunian line. His axe blazed, shearing off an arm, whirling up again to crumble a helmet and cleave the skull beneath. Rearing, he knocked down two of them and trampled them underfoot. A warrior smote at his flank. Helena, gripping one mighty shoulder, engaged him with her free hand, her blade whistling around his ears. They fell away from that pair, and the Terrans attacked them.
Donovan crossed swords with one he knew, Maravech, the laughing half-devil whose words he had so much enjoyed in earlier days. The Azunian grinned at him across a web of flying steel. His blade stabbed in, past the Anson's awkward guard, reaching for his guts. Donovan retreated. Abandoning the science he didn't know, for wild whirling and hacking, his iron battering at the bright weapon before him. Clash and clang of edged metal, leaping and dancing, Maravec's red hair walled in the rising wind, and his eyes alight with laughter. Donovan felt his backward step halted. He was against the high stone pillar and could not run. He braced his feet and hewed out. A scream of cloven air and outraged steel, Maravec's sword went spinning from his hand.
It hit the ground and bounced up toward the Arzunian's clutch. Donovan smote again, and the shock of iron in flesh jarred him where he stood. Maravech felt a rush of blood. For an instant Donovan stood swaying over the Arzunian, looking stupidly at the blood on his own hands, hearing the clamor of his heartbeat and sucking a dry gasp into his lungs. Then he picked up the fallen being's glaive. It was a better weapon. Turning, he saw that the fight had become a riot. Nots of men and unmen, snarling and hacking in a craziness of death. No room or time here for wizard stunts. It was blood and bone and nerve against its kind. The Terrans fought without much skill in the use of their archaic equipment, but they had the cold courage blended of training and desperation.
They knew better how to cooperate. They battled away to each other and stood back to back against all comers. Watcher raged and trampled, smashing with axe and fist and feet and hurled stones. His war-cry bellowing and shuddering in the hills. An Arzunian vanished from in front of him and appeared behind with spear poised. The denarius suddenly backed up, catching the assailant and smashing him under his hind feet while he dueled another from the front. Helena's arm never rested. She swung to right and left, guarding his flanks, yelling as her blade drove home. Donovan shook himself and trotted warily over to where a tide of Arzunian's raged about a closely drawn ring of impies. The humans were standing firm, driving each charge back in a rush of blood, keeping the dead before them.
But now spears were beginning to fall out of the sky, driven by no hand but stabbing for the throats and eyes and bellies of men. Donovan loped for the sharp edge of the hills, where they toppled to the open country in which the fight went on. He scrambled up a rubbled slope and gripped a thin pinnacle to swing himself higher. She was there. She stood on a ledge, the heap of spears at her feet. Looking down over the battle and chanting, she sent forth the flying death. He noticed even then how her hair was a red glory about the fine white loveliness of her head.
He whispered as he struck at her. She was not there. She sat on a higher ledge and jeered at him. Come and get me, Basil. Darling, darling, come up here and talk to me. He looked at her as Lucifer must have looked back to heaven. Let us go, he said. Give us a ship and send us home. "'Enough you bring our overlords back in,' she laughed aloud. "'And so bad, Valdumar. The Empire means peace and justice for all races.' "'Who speaks?' the scorn flamed at him. "'You don't believe that!' He stood there for a moment. "'No,' he whispered. "'No, I don't.' Strooping, he picked up a sheaf of spears and began to crawl back down the rocks. Valdumar cursed him from the heights. There was a break in the combat around the hard-pressed Terran ring.
As the Arzunians drew back to pant and glare, Donovan ran through and flung his load, clashing at the feet of Takahashi. Good work, said the officer. We need these things. Here, get into the formation. Here we go again. The Arzunians charged in a wedge to gather momentum. Donovan braced himself and lifted his sword. The Terrans in the inner ring slanted their spears between the men of the outer defence. For a very long half-minute, they stood waiting. The enemy hit. Donovan hewed at the nearest. Drove the probing sword back and hammered against the guard. Then the whirl of battle swept his antagonist away. Someone else was there. He traded blows, and the howl of men and metal lifted skyward. The Terrans had staggered a little from the massive assault, but had spitted itself on the inner pikes, and then swords and axes went to work.
Ha! Clang to the skull and give it to him. High Empire! Ansar! Ansar! Clatter and yell and deep-throated roar, the Alzunians boiling around the solar line, leaping and howling and whipping out of sight, a habit which saved their lives but blunted their attack, thought Donovan in a moment's pause. Watcher smashed the last few who had been standing before him, looking around to the major struggle and pawed the ground. Ready, lady, he rumbled. Aye, ready, Watcher. Let's go. The denarian backed up to get her long-running space. Hang on tight, he warned. Never mind fighting, lady, all right? He broke into a trot, a canter, and then a full gallop. The earth trembled under his mass. "'Who?' he screamed.
"'Here we come!' Helena threw both arms around his corded neck. When they hit, it was like a nuclear bomb going off. In a few seconds of murder, Watcher had strewn the ground with smashed corpses, whirled, and began cutting his way into the disordered main group of the Arzunians. They didn't stand before him. Suddenly they were gone, all of them, except for the dead." Donovan looked over the field. The dead were thick. Thick. He estimated that half the little Terran force was slain or out of action. They must have taken three or four times their number of Ozunians to the black planet with them. The stony ground was pooled and steaming with blood. Carrion birds stooped low, screaming. Helena fell from watch's back into Donovan's arms.
He comforted her wild sobbing, holding her to him and murmuring in her ear and kissing the wet cheeks and lips. It's over, dear. It's over for now. We drove them away. She recovered herself in a while, and stood up, straightening her torn disarray, the mask of command clamping back over her face. To Takahashi. How are our casualties? he reported. It was much as Donovan had guessed. But we gave him hell for it, didn't we? How is that? wondered Cohen. He leaned against Watcher, not showing the pain that jagged through him as they bandaged his wounded foot, except for- He was shocked by an occasional sharp breath. They're more at home with this cutlery than William and they have those damned parasite talents, too.
They're not quite sane, replied Donovan tonelessly. Whether you call it a cultural trait or a madness which has spread to the whole population, a wild, bloodthirsty crew, two-legged weasels, and with a superiority complex which wouldn't have let them be very careful in dealing with us. No discipline, no real plan of action. He looked south of the rolling moorland. Those things count. They may know better next time. Next time? Fifty or sixty men can't defeat a planet, Donovan," said Takahashi. No, this is an old, dying race. The whole population in the city ahead, and most of it will flee and panic and take no part in any fighting. They aren't used to victims that fight back. If we can slug our way through the spaceships they have there— Spaceships!
The eyes stared at him, wild with a sudden blaze of hope, men crowding close and leaning on their reddened weapons and raising a babble of voices. Spaceships! Spaceships! Home! Yeah, Donovan ran a hand through his yellow hair. The fingers trembled just a bit. Some ships, the first ones, they merely destroyed by causing the engines to run loose, but others they brought here, I suppose, by inducing the crew to land and parley. Only they killed the crews and can't handle the machines themselves. If they captured ships. Said Helena, slowly. Then they captured weapons, too. And even they could squeeze a trigger. Sure, but you didn't see them shooting at us just now, did you? They used all the charges to hunt or duel.
So if we can break through and escape— They could still follow us and wreck our engines, said Takahashi. Not if we take a small ship, as we'd have to, anyway, and mount guard over the vital spots. An Ozunian would have to be close at hand in using all his energies to misdirect atomic flows. He could be killed before any mischief was done. I doubt if they'd even try. Besides, went on Donovan, his voice dry and toneless as the lecturing professors, they can only do so much at a time. I don't know where they get the power for some of their feats, such as leaving this planet's gravitational well. It can't be from their own metabolisms. It must be some unknown cosmic energy source. They don't know how it works themselves.
It's an instinctive ability. But it takes a lot of nervous energy to direct that flow, and I found last time I was here that they have to rest quite a while after some strenuous deed, so if we can get them tied enough, and the fight is likely to wear both sides down, they won't be able to chase us till we're out of their range. Takahashi looked oddly at him. You know a lot, he murmured. Yeah, maybe I do. Well, if the city is close as you say, we'd better march right away before our wounds stiffen. Before the natives get a chance to organize. We've got carrying devices for those too badly hurt to move, said Helen. The walking wounded can tote them, and the rest of us form a protective square. Won't that slow us and handicap us?
asked Donovan. Her head lifted, the dark hair blowing about her proud fetus in a thin whimpering wind. As long as it's humanly possible, we're going to look after our men. What's the Imperium for if it can't protect its own? Yeah, yeah, I suppose so. Donovan slouched off to join the salvaging party that was stripping the falling Ozunians of arms and armour for Terran use. He rolled over a corpse to unbuckle the helmet, and looked at the blood-masked face of Kostuzan, who had been his friend once, very long ago. He closed the staring eyes, and his own were blind with tears. Watcher came to join him. The denarian didn't seem to notice the gashes in his hide, but he was equipped with a shield now.
And had a couple of extra swords slung from his shoulders. You got a good lady, boss, he said. She fights hard. She will bear you strong sons. Uh-huh. Valduma could never bear my children. Different species can't breed. She's the outlaw of darkness, the last despairing return to primeval chaos. She is the enemy of all which is honest and good. But she is very fair. Slowly the humans reformed their army, a tight ring about the wounded, and set off down the road. The dim sun wheeled horizonward.
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41 41 - Sargasso of Lost Starships, Chapter Seven 14:46
Sargasso of Lost Starships. Chapter Seven. Dragobich lay before them. The city stood on the open grey moor, and it had once been large, but its outer structures were long crumbled to ruin, heaps and shards of stone riven by ages of frost, fallen and coveted by the creeping dust. Here and there, A squared monolith remained like the last snag in a rotted jaw, dark against the windy sky. It was quiet. Nothing stirred in all the sweeping immensity of hill and moor and ruin and loneliness. Helena pointed from her seat on Watcher, and a lilt of hope was eager in the tired voice. See? A ship! Ahead! There! They stared, and someone raised a ragged chair. Over the black square-built houses of the inner city they could make out the metal knolls of a freighter.
Takahashi squinted. It's Denebian, I think, he said. Looks as if man isn't the only race which has suffered from these scum. All right, boys, said Helena. Let's go in and get it. They went down a long, empty avenue, which ran spear-straight for the center. The porticoid houses gaped with wells of blackness at their passage. Looming in cracked and crazily leaning massiveness on either side, throwing back the hollow slam of their boots, Donovan heard the uneasy mutter of voices to his rear. Don't like this place. Haunted. Be waiting anywhere for us. The wind blew a whirl of snow across their path. Basil, Basil, my dear. Donovan's head jerked around and he felt his throat tighten. Nothing. No movement.
No sound. Emptiness. Basil, I'm calling you. No one else can hear. Why are you with these creatures, Basil? Why are you marching with the oppressors of your planet? We could free answer, Basil, given time to raise our armies. We could sweep the Terrans before us and hound them down the ways of night. And yet you march against us. I do, Mac, he whispered. Basil, you are very dear to me. You are something new and strong and of the future. Come to our weary old world. I think I loved you. I could still love you, Basil. I could hold you forever, if you would let me. What doom I have done! A mocking ripple of laughter, sweet as rain in springtime, the gallantry of a race which was old and sick and doomed and could still know mirth.
Donovan shook his head and stared rigidly before him. It was as if he had laid hands on that piece of his soul which had been lost. And she was trying to rent it from him again. Only he wanted her to win. Go home, Basil. Go home with this female of yours. Breed your cubs. Fill the house with brats, and try to think your little round of days means something. Strut about under the blue skies, growing fat and gray, bragging of what a great fellow you used to be, and disapproving of the younger generation. "'As you like, Basil, but don't go out to space again. Don't look at the naked stars. You won't dare.' "'No,' he whispered. She laughed, a harsh bell of mockery ringing in his brain. "'You could have been a god or a devil, but you would rather be a pot-bellied imperial magistrate.
Go home, Basil Donovan. Take your female home, and when you're awakened at night by her, shall we say her breathing? Do not remember me.' The Terrans slogged down down the street, filthy with dust and grease and blood, uncouth shamblers, apes in the sombre ruin of the gods. Donovan thought he had a glimpse of Valduma standing on a rooftop, the clean, lithe fire of her, the silken flame of her hair, and the green, unhuman eyes which had lighted in the dark at his side. She had been a living blaze, an unending trumpet and challenge, and when she broke with him it had been quick and clean. No suddenness of age and custom, and damn it, all the little things which made human this. All right, Valduma, we're monkeys.
We're noisy and self-important, compromises and tremors and petty cheats. We huddle away from the greatness we could have. Our edifices are laid brick by brick with endless futile squabbling over each one, and yet, Valduma, there is something in man which you don't have. There's something by which these men have fought their way through everything you could loose on them, helping each other, going forward on a ridiculous rag of colored cloth and singing as they went. Fine words, added his mind. Too bad you don't really believe them. He grew aware of Helena's anxious eyes on him. What's the matter, darling? she asked gently. You look ill. Tired, he said. But we can't have so far to go now. Look out!
Whirling, he saw the pillars of the house to the right buckle, saw the huge stone slabs of the roof come thundering over the top and streetward. For a blinding instant, he saw Valduma riding the slab down, yelling and laughing, and then she was gone and the stone struck. They were already running, dropping their burden of the hurt and fleeing for safety. Another house groaned and rumbled. The ground shook. Flying shards stung Donovan's back. Echoes rolled down the ways of Dragobich. Someone was screaming, far and faint under the grinding racket. "'Forward! Forward!' Helen's voice whipped back to him. She led the rush while the city thundered about her. The navale of rising dust blotted her out.
He groped ahead, stumbling over fallen pillars and cornices, hearing the boom around him, running and running. Balduma laughed, a red flame through the whirling dust. A spear gleamed for his breast. He grabbed it with one hand and hacked at her with his sword. She was gone. And he raced ahead, not stopping to think, not daring. They came out on a great open plaza, and carved fountains, but nothing remained save a few leafless trees and broken pieces. And the spaceships. The spaceships, a loom of metal against the dark stone beyond, half a dozen standing there and waiting. Spaceships. Spaceships, the most beautiful sight in the cosmos. Helen and Watcher were halted near a small, fast, comic-class scout boat.
The surviving Terrans ran toward them. Few thought Donovan sickly, few perhaps a score left, bleeding from the cuts of flying stone. Ray with dust and fear, the city had been a trap. Come on, yelled the woman, over here and off this planet. The men of Dragabek were suddenly there, a ring about the ship and another about the whole plaza crouched with their weapons and their cat's eyes aflame. A score of hurt starvelings and half a thousand un-men. A trumpet blew its high note into the dusking heavens. The Azunians rested arms, expressionless. Donovan and the other humans continued their pace, forming a battle square. Morzach stood forth in front of the scout ship. You have no further chance to escape, he called.
But we want your services, not your lives, and the service will be well rewarded. Lay down your weapons. Watcher's arms straightened, his axe flew like a thunderbolt, and Morzach's head burst open. The denarii roared and went against the enemy line. They edged away, fearfully, and the Terrans followed him in a trotting wedge. Donovan moved up on Watcher's right side, sword hammering at the thrusts for his ribs. An Arzunin yelled an order which must have meant to stop them. Donovan saw the outer line break into a run, converging in the knot of struggle. No flying spears this time, he reflected in a moment's bleak satisfaction. Tearing down those walls must have exhausted most of the directing energies.
A native rushed at him, sword whistling from behind a black shield. Donovan caught the blow on his own plundered scoot, feeling it ring in the bones of his arm and hewed back. His blade screamed close to the white, teeth-bared face, and he called a panting salutation. Try again, Davlika. I will. The blows rained on his shield, sang viciously low to cut at his legs, clattering and clanging. Whistle of air and howl of iron under the westering sun. He backed up against Watcher's side where the denarian and the woman smote against the earlock's defenders, embraced himself, and struck out. Davlika snarled and hacked at Donovan's spread leg. The anson's glaive snaked forth against his unshouldered neck.
Davlika's sword clashed to earth, and he sprawled against the human. Raising his bloody face, he drew a knife, lifted it, and tried to thrust upward. Donovan, already crossing blades with Uboda, stamped on his hand. Davlika grinned a rueful crooked grin through the streaming blood and died. Uboda pressed close, working up against Donovan's shield. He had none himself, but there was a dirk in his left hand. His sword locked with Donovan's, strained it aside and his knife clattered swiftly for an opening. Helena turned about and struck from his seat. Uboda's head rolled against Donovan's shield and left a red splash down it. The man retched. Watcher swinging one of his swords pushed ahead into the Arzunians.
Crowding them aside by his sheer mass, beating down a guard in the helmet or army beyond it. "'Clear!' he bellowed. "'I got the way clear, lady!' Hena sprang to the ground and into the lock. "'Takuhashi, Koen, Basil, Wang Chi, come in and help me start the engines. The rest of you hold them off. Don't give them time to exert what collective power they have left and ruin something. Make them think. Think about their lives, huh?' Watcher squared off in front of the airlock and raised his sword. "'All right, boys. Here they come.' Donovan halted in the airlock while Duma was there, a fiery-haired whirling in the rush of black-clad warriors. He leaned over and grabbed the spaceman's arm. Ben Ali, go in and help start this crate.
I have to stay here. But— Donovan shoved him in, stood beside Takahashi, and braced himself to meet the Arzunian charge. They rushed in, knowing that they had to kill the humans before there was an escape, swinging their weapons and howling. The shock of the assault threw men back. Pressed them to the ship and jammed weapons close to breasts. The Terrans cursed and began to use fists and feet, clearing a space to fight in. Donovan's sword clasped against a shield, drove off another blade, stabbed for a face, and then it was all lost in the crazed maelstrom. Hack and thrust and take the blows they give. Hew, sword, hew! They raged against Watcher, careless now of their lives, thundering blows against his shield.
Slashing and stabbing and using their last wizard strength to fill the air with blades, he roared and stood his ground. The sword leaped in his hand, metal clove in thunder. The shield was crumpled, falling apart. He tossed it with rib-cracking force against the nearest Ozunian. His nicked and blunted sword burst against a helmet, and he drew the other. The ship trembled, thutter of engines warming up, the eager promise of star and stars and green terror again. He stood by Watcher as the last crewman entered, stood barring the airlock with a wall of blood and iron. Through a blurring vision he saw Valduma approaching. She smiled at him, one slim hand running through the copper hair, the other held out in sign of peace.
Tall and gracious and lovely beyond his knowing, she moved up toward Donovan, and her clear voice rang in his darkening mind. Basil, you at least could stay. You could guide us out to the stars. You go away, groaned Watcher. The devil's rage flamed in her face. She yelled, and a lance whistled from the sky and buried itself in the great breast. Watcher! yelled Donovan. The denarian snarled and snapped off the shaft that stood between his ribs. He whirled it over his head, and Valduma's green eyes widened in fear. Donovan! roared Watcher and let it fly. It smashed home, and the Anson dropped his sword and swayed on his feet. He couldn't look on the broken thing which had been Valduma. Boss! You go home now.
Wacha laid him in the airlock and slammed the outer valve shut. Turning, he faced the Arzunians. He couldn't see very well. One eye was gone, and there was a ragged darkness before the other. The sword felt heavy in his hand, but—'Who?' he roared and charged them. He spitted one and trampled another and tossed a third into the air. Whirling, he clove a head and smashed a rib-case with his fist and chopped another across. His sword broke, and he grabbed two Arzunians and cracked their skulls together. They ran then, turned and fled from him, and he stood watching them go and laughed. His laughter filled the city, rolling from its walls, drowning the whistle of the ship's takeoff and bringing blood to his lips.
He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. Spat. And lay down.
We're clear, Basil. Helena clung to him, shivering in his arms, and he didn't know if it was a laugh or a sob in her throat. We're away. Safe. We'll carry word back to Sol, and they'll clear the Black Nebula for good. Yeah, he rubbed his eyes. Though I doubt the Navy will find anything. If those Arzunians have any sense, they'll project to various fringe planets, scatter, and try to pass as harmless humanoids. But it doesn't matter, I suppose. The power is broken. And we'll go back to your home, Basil, and bring Answer and Terror together, and have a dozen children, and he nodded. Sure. Sure. But he wouldn't forget. In the winter nights, when the stars were sharp and cold and a sky of ringing crystal black, he would go out and watch them, or pull his roof over him, and wait for dawn.
He didn't know yet. Still, even if this was a long ways from being the best of all possible universes, it had enough in it to make a man glad of his day. He whistled softly, feeling the words run through his head. Lift your glasses high. Kiss the girls goodbye. Live well, my friend. Live well. Live you well. For we're riding. For we're riding. For we're riding out to Terran Sky. Terran sky. Terran sky. The thought came all at once that it could be a song of comradeship, too. End of nine sci-fi stories by Paul Anderson. Read by Edmund Bloxham in Glasgow and London, UK. Find him on Spotify and Audible.