Chapters 10
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1 Beyond Pandora 5:22
Beyond Pandora by Robert J. Martin. The ideal way to deal with the pest, any menace, is of course to make it useful to you.
The doctor's pen paused over the chart on his desk. This is your third set of teeth, I believe? His patient nodded. That's right, doctor, but they were pretty slow coming in this time. The doctor looked up quizzically. Is that the only reason you think you might need a booster shot? Oh, no, of course not. The man leaned forward and placed one hand, palm up, on the desk. Last year I had an accident. Stupid. Lost a thumb. He shrugged apologetically. "'It took him all six months to grow back.' Thoughtfully, the doctor leaned back in his chair. "'Hm. I see.' As the man before him made an involuntary movement toward his pocket, the doctor smiled. "'Go on. Smoke if you want to.' Picking up the chart, he murmured, "'Six months.
Much too long. Strange we didn't catch that at the time.' He read silently for a few moments, Then began to fill out a form clipped to the folder. Well, I think you probably are due for another booster about now. There'll have to be the usual tests. Not that there's much doubt. We like to be certain. The middle-aged man seemed relieved. Then on second thought, he hesitated uneasily. Why? Is there any danger? Amusement flickered across the doctor's face, then turned smoothly into a reassuring half-smile. Oh no, there's absolutely no danger involved. None at all. We have tissue regeneration pretty well under control now. Still, I'm sure you understand that accurate records and data are very necessary for further research and progress.
Reassured, the patient thought and became confidential. I see. Well, I suppose it's kind of silly, but I don't much like shots. It's not that they hurt. It's just that I guess I'm old-fashioned. I still feel kind of creepy about the whole business. Slightly embarrassed, he paused and asked defensively, "'Is that unusual?' The doctor smiled openly now. "'Not at all, not at all. Things have moved pretty fast in the past few years. I suppose it takes people's emotional reactions a while to catch up with developments that, logically, we accept as a matter of fact.' He pushed his chair back from the desk. "'Maybe it's not too hard to understand. Take fire, for example.' Man lived in fear of fire for a good many hundred thousand years, and rightly so, because he hadn't learned to control it.
The principle's the same. First you learn to protect yourself from a thing, then control it, and eventually we learn to harness it for a useful purpose. He gestured toward the man's cigarette. Even so, man still instinctively fears fire, even while he uses it. In the case of tissue regeneration, where the change took place so rapidly, in just a generation or so, That instinctive fear is even more understandable, although quite as unjustified, I assure you. The doctor stood up, indicating that the session was ending. While his patient scrambled to his feet, hastily putting out his cigarette, the physician came around the desk. He put his hand on the man's shoulder. Relax. Take it easy. Nothing to worry about.
This is a wonderful age we live in. Barring a really major accident, there is no reason you shouldn't live at least another seventy-five years. After all, that's a very remarkable viral complex we have doing your repair work. As they walked to the door, the man shook his head. Guess you're right, Doc. It's certainly done a good job so far, and I guess your specialists know what you're doing, even if folks don't understand it. At the door, he paused and half turned to the doctor. But say, something I meant to ask you. This stuff, or this vaccine, where did it come from? Seems to me I heard somewhere that... Way back before you fellows got it tamed, it was something else. Dangerous. There was another name for it.
Do you know what I mean? The doctor's hand tightened on the door-knob. Yes, I know, he said grimly. But not many laymen remember. Just keep in mind what I told you. With any of these things, the pattern is protection, then control, then useful application. He turned to face his patient. Back in the days before we put it to work for us, rebuilding tissue, almost ending aging and disease, the active basis for our vaccine caused a whole group of diseases in itself. Returning the man's searching gaze, the doctor opened the door. "'We've come a long way since then. You see,' he said quietly. In those days they called it—cancer.'" End of Beyond Pandora by Robert J. Martin. Recording by Jerome Lawson.
February, 2008.
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2 The Infra-Medians 41:34
The Inframedians by Sewell Peasley Wright. Into a land of shadows and lost souls goes Pete Graham in search of his hapless friends.
There was no sense to the note—there was no sense to anything that Vic Butler did, for that matter—where he hid away his vast scientific knowledge in that rattle-brained, red-haired head of his has always been a mystery to me. The note read, Dear Pete, If you get this, I am in a jam that promises some action. Drive out, if plane-pedaling is pawing on you, and bust into the lab. I'm leaving another note there for you, old son, and after you read it, you can let your conscience be your guide. Bring a gat along, and plenty of ammo. Hope's away at Aunt Cleo's, so don't get in touch with her and spoil her visit. Vic.
I had a hot prospect lined up for a demonstration that morning, but I didn't even stop to give him a ring. Vic and I had been buddies ever since we were kids, and besides, he was Hope's brother. Vick's place was out on the river, about ten miles from town, and that little tan roadster of mine made it in just about ten minutes. The traffic in the business district slowed me up a bit. There was nothing at all pretentious about the place. It was a rambling, lazy-looking house, built largely of native stone, stretching its length comfortably in the shade of the big maples. Perrin, Vic's man-of-all-work came hurrying out of the house to greet me as I locked my wheels on the drive before the door. "'I'm glad you're here, sir,' he exclaimed breathlessly.
"'I was just about to phone for the police. I was for certain, sir. Such goings-on, I don't know what to think.' "'What's the matter, Perrin? Where's Mr. Butler?' "'That's it, sir. That's exactly it. Where's Mr. Butler, and—' "'Just a moment, please. Cut it short, Perrin. What's happened?' "'I don't know.' Yesterday afternoon Mr. Butler leaves a letter for me, which I'm to mail early this morning, special delivery. It's to you. I reckon you got it, sir. That's why I'm here. Go on. Well, after that he locks himself up in his workroom, so Mrs. Perrin says, she being the housekeeper, as you know, sir, leaving word not to disturb him for dinner. We don't think so much of that. Mr. Butler being took with streaks of working at all hours, as you know.
But when Miss Hope came home, unexpected this morning—what? She cut her visit a few days short, her aunt having other houseguests turn up unexpected-like. And Miss Hope arrives first thing this morning, being here when I return from town after mailing the letter to you, sir. Mrs. Perrin had just told her about the master. And Miss Hope looks into his room. He isn't there. "'And the bed hasn't been slept in. "'The poor dear,' she says, "'he's worked himself half to death "'and dropped off on that horrible cot "'he keeps in his laboratory,' says Miss Hope. "'I'll let him sleep.' "'But just a few minutes ago, "'just before you arrived, sir, "'she became nervous-like "'and rapped on the door. "'There wasn't a sound, "'so she went up to the master's room "'and found a key and went in.
"'And now she don't answer. And we were just about ready to call the police. Let's go inside. I hurried by Perrin and through the cool, quiet hall to the broad door that opened into the big room at the back of the house, which was Vic's laboratory. Vic! Hope! I pounded as hard as I could, shouting their names, and there was no response. Is there another key, Perrin? I snapped. No, sir. None that I know of. The master was mighty fussy about his workroom. "'Can we get in through the windows?' "'No. They're barred, if you remember rightly, and fitted with this frosted glass, so you can't see in even.' "'Then get me an axe,' I commanded. "'Quick!' "'An axe?' hesitated Perrin. "'An axe! And be quick about it!' Perrin mumbled a protest and hurried away.
I turned to Mrs. Perrin, who had come up to determine the result of my shouting. "'How long is it since Miss Hope went in there?' "'How long, sir? I'd say about twenty minutes before you came. Maybe twenty-five. I wasn't paying any particular attention, sir.' She just got the key and went in. After a few minutes I heard something buzzing in there, and I thought maybe Mr. Butler was showing her some new gadget of his, like he was always doing. Then there was a telephone call for him, and I couldn't make neither of them answer. That's when Mr. Perron and I began to get worried. I see. Perrin came hurrying up with the axe, and I motioned them aside. I swung the axe, and the head of the weapon crashed against the lock.
The knob dropped to the floor with a clatter, but the door gave not at all. I brought the axe down again, and something cracked sharply, and the third blow sent the door swinging wide. Cautiously, fearing I know not what, I entered the familiar room. Nothing, apparently, had been disturbed. There was no sign of disorder anywhere. The blankets on the narrow cot in the corner of the room had not been unfolded. But neither Vic nor Hope were anywhere in sight. "'You and Mrs. Perrin stay there by the door,' I suggested. "'I don't know what's wrong here, but something's happened. There's no need for all of us entering.' My second glance around the room was more deliberate. To my right, There were big generators in the switchboards, gleaming with copper bus-bar and intricate with their tortuous wiring.
Directly before me was the long workbench that ran the full length of the room, littered with a dozen setups for as many experiments. At my left was a sizable piece of apparatus that was strange to me. On a small enameled table beside it was a rather large sheet of paper weighted down with a cracked Florence flask. In a sort of panic, I snatched up the paper. Vic had said in his note that he would leave another note for me here. And this was it, for in a bold scrawl at the top was my name, and in hardly decipherable script below was this message. Dear Pete, First of all, let me say that you've no particular call to do anything about this. If I'm in a jam, it's my own doing, and due to my bull-headedness, of which you have so often reminded me.
Knowing your dislike for science other than that related to aeronautics, I'll cut this pretty short. It'll probably sound crazy to you anyway. You know that there's sound above the frequencies to which the human ear will respond. You know there are light rays that the human eyes can't perceive. Some work I've been doing the last five or six months indicates that there's a form of life about us, all around us, which isn't perceptible to our senses. Which doesn't mean that it doesn't exist. Well, I'm going to do a little exploring. I'm going to take a whirl at what I'll call the Inframedian existence. What I'll find there, I don't know. Life of some kind, however, for my experiments prove that.
Possibly not friendly. All this being so, there's an off chance that I'll find myself tangled with something I can't anticipate. And if you are called upon to read this, Then something has gone wrong with my plans. Should you wish to take a flyer after me, stand in the center of the square outlined by the four uprights of the device beside which this little table stands. Be sure your weapon—I told you to bring a gat—is on your person. There's a small instrument board set on one of the posts. Turn the upper of the two dials until the hand of the meter beside it moves up to twenty-seven hundred exactly. Wait a moment until you're sure you have the exact reading. Then turn the second dial until the two red lines coincide, and as you do so, mark the time.
The thing is set to operate the reverse cycle at three-hour intervals exactly. When you come down, you'll start a new cycle, and it might be important for us to know at just what minute we can get back to our own plane. If you decide to try it, Tell Perron to do nothing for at least a week. If the law started experimenting on this equipment, we could never climb back. And leave word with them for Hope. Tell her I'll scramble out somehow. That we will, if you decide to try your luck.
Underneath, in Hope's clear, purposeful hand, was this. Dear Peter, Not knowing when you'll arrive, I'm going on ahead. We must give Vic a hand, mustn't we? H.
Naturally, I didn't understand Vic's jargon about frequencies and light rays, for I thought more about football than physics in college. But two things were clear to me. One was that Vic had plunged into some sort of wild experiment, and the other was that hope had followed him. The rest didn't matter very much. Perrin! Mr. Butler and Miss Hope are safe. Everything's explained in this note. You and Mrs. Perrin are to leave me here and not disturb anything. Do nothing at all for at least a week. If we aren't all back here before that time—take any action you see fit. Understand? No, sir. Where—you understand the orders, anyway. That's all that's necessary. Close the door. And keep it closed at least a week.
I glared at him, and Perrin closed the door. The apparatus Vic had mentioned was my first thought. It consisted primarily of four tall, slim posts, set in the form of a square about a yard apart, and supported by heavy copper brackets mounted on a thick base of insulating material. And each post bore at its top, like a stalk with a single drooping flower, A deep, highly polished reflector, pointing inward and downward. The whole effect was not unlike the skeleton of a miniature skyscraper. I strode between two of the high, slim black pillars, and glanced upward. All four of the reflectors seemed pointed directly at my face, and I could see that each held, not the bulb I had expected, but a crudely shaped blob of fused quartz.
There is nothing to be gained by examining the peculiar machine, and therefore the one quick glance sufficed. If Vic and Hope had gone this route, I was anxious to follow. I glanced down at the papers in my hand, and slowly turned the first dial on the little instrument board, narrowly watching the hand of the meter beside it, as Vic had instructed. The hand moved slowly, like the hand of an oil gauge in which the pressure is gradually built up. Twenty-one. Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. I waited a moment, conscious only of the faint hum of a generator at the other end of the room, and the quivering hand of the meter. I turned the dial back in imperceptible degree, and the hand steadied down exactly upon the numerals 2700.
Then I touched the next dial. This second dial was no more than a thin disk of hard rubber or Bakelite. with a red scratch mark on one side. On the panel itself, far to the right of the dial's zero point, was the red scratch mark that matched it. When the two coincided, well, something happened. I was conscious of a faint glow from above as I moved the dial slowly, so that its red mark approached the stationary one upon the panel. I glanced up swiftly. Each of the little blobs of quartz was glowing, each with a light of a different color. One was a rich amber, one a pale green, one a vivid electric blue, and one was fiery red. The intensity of the light increased steadily as I moved the dial.
I could not only see the light, but I could feel it. It beat upon my body and throbbed all around me. I had a feeling that the mingling rays of light conflicted with each other. It seemed to me for a moment that I was growing as light as air. That my feet were drifting off the floor, and then, as the red line of the dial came closer to the indicated point, the feeling left, and I suddenly seemed very heavy. I could hardly support my own weight. My legs were trembling with the burden. Sweat broke out over my whole body. The rays of light beat down upon me fiercely and overpoweringly. Desperately, I quickly turned the dial until the two red marks coincided. A great weight. Soft and enveloping seemed to drop upon me.
The senses of sight and hearing and feeling all left me. I could only think, and my thoughts were horrible. Then suddenly there was a terrific crash of sound, and my senses returned. I looked around. It seemed that an instant before I had been standing there in Vick's laboratory, slowly turning the second of the two dials while the four lights beat down upon my body. And now, now I was standing in the open, on another world, a nightmare world that words seem inadequate to describe. The sky was an angry, sulphurous green, pressing low upon a country utterly flat and nearly barren. The only sign of vegetation I could perceive were strange growths that remotely resembled trees, inverted trees with wide-spreading branches, Hungryly nursing the black and barren soil, and gnarled, brief roots reaching out tortured arms towards the forbidding sky.
To my left, and some distance away, a vast number of blunt and ugly towers rose against the sinister skyline, but no form of animal life seemed in evidence. Wonderingly, my head whirling, whether from my strange experience or from the shock of finding myself in what was obviously another world, I do not know. I turned toward the city, and as I took my first step, there materialized suddenly out of the thin and ill-smelling air figures of perhaps a dozen monstrous creatures. They were, in effect, men. That is, they had a head, a torso, two arms, and two legs apiece. But they were not human. Those huge, round eyes, unblinking and browless, were not human, nor were there slitted, sunken mouths. They were not human beings.
They were images of despair. Their thin legs seemed to buckle at the knees, their arms drooped from their shoulders, their mouths sagged at the corners, and even their huge ears hung down like a hound's. Their round, dark eyes, deeply recessed, were caverns of despair. They were clothed in some coarse black stuff that bristled as though loosely woven of stiff hair. and yet which was not a true fabric, for it seemed to move within itself and scintillate, as though composed of billions of restless motes. And as the strange creatures closed in quickly, I saw that theirs was not solid flesh, but, like the clothing that partially covered them, an attenuated substance that was not quite real. Have you ever sat so close to the screen in a motion-picture theatre, so that the graininess of the moving film was visible?
These creatures were like such shadows, seen in three dimensions. I retreated two or three swift steps, jerking the revolver from my pocket. "'Back,' I warned, hoping they would understand the tone of voice, if not the words. "'Back, or I'll pot a couple of you!' They glanced at each other swiftly, almost as though they understood. It seemed to me that their mouths lifted, that they almost smiled. Then they rushed at me. I had only one box of cartridges besides those in the cylinder of my gun. I didn't know what might be in store for me, and I took no chances. My first shot sent one of the creatures spinning to the ground. Two more were almost upon me before I could level the weapon and pull the trigger again.
I got them both. The rest of that unholy crew were grinning, and their eyes were shining with anticipation. They closed in upon me eagerly, each apparently doing everything in his power to invite my attention. It was bewildering, and I watched them warily, suspecting a trick. There were only three more cartridges left in my gun, and I did not dare replace the fired shells for fear they would rush me when the action was open and the gun momentarily useless. I was just about to risk one more cartridge when another figure materialized in the ranks of the enemy. A taller, commanding figure, with a shining jewel, perhaps a mark of authority, dangling from his corded brown throat. The others fell back instantly, and the newcomer approached me swiftly, holding out his hands as though in supplication.
So I was to receive a cordial welcome after all. I breathed a sigh of relief and pocketed the weapon, and instantly the dark eyes flashed angrily. I held out both hands, to show that they were empty, trying to express my willingness to be friends. He hesitated, and then uttered a high-pitched sound that I presumed to be a word of command. Before I could free the gun again, the creatures had me, and while their flesh looked more unnatural and unreal than ever, at close range their long fingers gripped me like talons of steel. The being which had uttered the command disappeared, and my captors led me Struggling and protesting toward the black, ugly towers of the city. Over the barren, rocky ground we hurried, past the wretched hovels on the outskirts of the city, and through crooked, dismal streets toward the center of the city.
A great crowd of creatures, similar to my captors, hemmed us in. Before us they thinned into nothingness as we approached, only to swarm into being in some other spot. It was terrifying, an unbelievable experience that made me question my sanity. The only vestige of comfort left me was the hope that they were taking me to Hope and Vick. At the entrance of one of the huge, misshapen black buildings, the creature with the brilliant stone at his throat appeared as suddenly as a light flashes up in the darkness. With him were two others, each wearing a similar jewel of authority. They stood aside for us to enter, and then followed us down a long corridor which was not lighted by any device I could discern, and yet which was not dark.
A broad door swung open, and I was thrust through the doorway. Pete shouted a familiar voice, and I scrambled to my feet. There was Vic, his red hair tousled and his face gray with worry. Behind him, her big blue eyes brimming, her lips quivering, was Hope. Vic! Well, here I am. And Hope, dear. My voice trailed off. These were not Vic and Hope before me. They were unreal creatures, like the beings which had captured me. I could recognize the face and figure of the woman I loved, and of her brother. But they seemed to have no substance. Hope suddenly put her arms about me. She was sobbing. Don't, Peter, she whispered. Don't look at me like that. I know how you feel. You—you and Vic—you aren't real to me, either.
We're just shadows—lost souls. Buck up, Hope, Vic's voice was kindly, yet firm and gravely commanding. We're all right. Only, temporarily, we're inframedians. Sit down, Pete, and let's talk. It may be that there's no time to lose in making some plans. First of all, I insisted, tell me where we are. What's happened to us? Do you know? Where are we? Surely. Looking at it in one way, we're less than a mile from my laboratory. But, Vic, I protested, do you really mean that we're less than a mile from your laboratory, from our own world? If we were, we could see it. We'd bump into our own trees and houses and people. Be knocked down by automobiles, and two bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time.
Old law of simple physics. Is that what you mean? interrupted Vic. Why, yes. And a body, what's that? A body? Why, matter, I suppose. And matter is what? Anything that occupies space, I replied triumphantly. I had remembered that much from my physics classes. True," smiled Vic. But let's see. It is possible to have sound and light in the same place, isn't it? We can even add other things—heat and electricity, for example. Speaking of electricity, a tremendous current of it adds nothing to the weight of the wire carrying it, and nothing to its bulk unless we have a heating overload. Current enough to kill a thousand men or to do the work of a million horses weighs nothing. is invisible, and actually does nothing until released in some form or other, either by accident or design.
True, but electricity isn't matter. Our old world is matter. I'm matter, and you're matter. Why don't we bump into things? Our old world is matter, true enough, but for the rest, you're wrong, Pete, old son. You're not matter any more. You're something else. In terms of our own being, you do not exist in your present form. This world does not exist, and the reverse is just as true. I stared at him, bewildered. What am I, then, a ghost? Nothing of the sort. You're old Pete Graham, a darn good half-back and the world's rottenest scientist. Only you've been passed into another form of being. Through the action of four little quartz bulbs whose periods of vibrations form a beat. But that's over your head, Pete, old son.
And we'll have time to talk over details when we get back. Right now, we're in somewhat of a jam. Instinctively, he glanced at Hope. It was her danger, and not his own, that had brought that haggard pallor to his face in so short a time. That's what I don't understand. What of these people? If you can call them that. Want of us? Vic looked down, frowning. I'm not sure I'm right, he replied after a moment. But if I am, they wish us to kill them. As many as possible. When I found myself here, I wandered nearly to the city before I was molested. When they did appear and tried to lay hands on me, I warned them back and finally shot one of them. The effect was magical. They seemed unable to believe the evidence of their eyes.
They rushed me eagerly, each seeming to beg for a bullet. I gave them what they wanted, still hoping I could frighten them away. A great crowd formed around me, and the rabble was sent flying by a number of men who seemed to hold some office, distinguished by a jewel-like emblem around their throats. If I read their actions correctly, they claimed the privilege of death by virtue of their greater authority. Well, I finally decided that my gun did anything but frighten them. They were angry when I refused to do any more slaughtering and led me here. Every once in a while, one of the captains would come in and command me to kill him. I refused, for that's the only trump card I held. When Hope here acted like the foolish little kid she is, she was not even armed, and they rushed her here without delay.
My theory is that these people live in a dreary world in which there is no pleasure. Their faces seem to show that. Apparently they live a very long time, and have no means of shortening that life. They are not intelligent. Things that would kill a man of our own world have no effect on them, for remember they are not physical beings. You have seen them appear out of thin air and dissolve in the same fashion? Yes. That is simply their mode of transportation. They pass invisibly through the air, just as electricity passes through a wire, quickly, invisibly, silently. Then they assume their original form where they will, just, again, as electricity passes from the end of the wire exactly the same as it entered it, allowing only for voltage drops and some other factors that aren't pertinent here.
What we must do... and right now, is to settle upon some means of getting to the proper spot at the proper time. You marked a moment of your departure, I suppose? Exactly. I glanced down at my wrist-watch, and noted with relief that it was still running. I observed then, for the first time, that the watch, my clothing, and even my hand were not real. They were like the rest of the things in this monstrous state that Vic called Inframedia. I left at three after ten. It's now fourteen minutes of eleven. Good Lord! Less than an hour since I stood there in your laboratory. Then our next chance to get back will be at three minutes after one, nodded Vic. I wonder if there is any chance of— Before he could complete the sentence, the door was flung open, and five of the older men, led by a sixth with a larger jewel at his throat, filed solemnly into the room, in motion that we were to leave.
At the doorway, A double file of creatures closed in about us, and we were led, by long corridors and mighty winding ramps, toward the top of the building. Now what? I whispered to Vick. I don't know. That chap with the big stone at his throat seems to be the head man of the city. I think his name is E. Pei. The others seem to call him that. Maybe it's just a title. But what they're up to now, I can't even guess. Keep your eyes open for a chance to get away, though. How are you feeling, Hope? All excited. She tried to smile, and almost succeeded. Hope was game all the way through. What an adventure this will be to talk about when we're old and rheumatic. Good kid, said Vic, and I pressed her hand as comfortably as I could.
We turned a bend in the long ramp we had been climbing, and came out upon the vast, level top of the building. Thousands of the unreal creatures of this world were crowded around a vast, hideous image that rose from the center of this space. A monster so terrible that Hope cried out at the sight, and Vic exclaimed under his breath. For myself, I seemed stricken dumb. I could only stare at this black and ghastly god of these people. The carven image was perhaps thirty feet in height, and represented a figure crouched upon its knees, Its head bent very low, and at the same time tilted at a grotesque angle so that the face smiled heavenward. The hands, palms upward, extended invitingly just below the chin.
As our party appeared, an aisle opened, and we were marched through the assembled crowd, directly toward the idol. A high-pitched, sibilant chant arose from the multitude, And a procession of very ancient beings, whom I took to be the priests of this god, came in single file from behind the black god, directing the chanting with movements of their arms. They were lighter in color than the others, and much more intelligent to judge by their faces. Their eyes held none of the sadness which was the most marked characteristic of the others. Each wore upon his forehead a gleaming scarlet stone, Bound in place by a circlet of black metal, or what looked like metal. We paused, and the chanting went on and on, until I began to wonder if anything would ever happen.
And then, at last, the chanting ceased, and three of the priests moved toward us, followed by an elderly being who wore the same symbol of power or authority that I had already noted upon the creature of it called Ipe. One of the priests spoke sharply. Commandingly to Ipe, and the latter nodded. Not agreeably, it seemed to me. The old boy doesn't like those other chaps. Priests, I take it, whispered Vic. I think they've been messing up his plans. See, he's motioning us to watch. The priests led the old man back to the idol. Eagerly, he clambered upon the outstretched hands and stood there, facing the grinning face, stroking the polished cheeks with beseeching fingers. The priests sank to the floor, bending themselves in mockery of the image.
Four times they touched their foreheads to the ground, and as the fourth gesture was completed, something moved swiftly behind the lips of the image, as though a plate had lifted for a moment, and dropped again. There was a sharp, murmuring sound, as of a harp-string softly plucked. A scarlet haze of light shot forth from the mouth of the black god, and the old man stepped back sharply as though struck by some invisible agent. He would have fallen, but as he crumpled, his body seemed to soften and shatter into a scintillating cloud. An instant later, there was no trace of him anywhere. Hmm, the great reward for some notable service rendered, I imagine, whispered Vic. Those priests are wiser than the rest of this crew.
They deal death sparingly, and that makes them great. They love life like a man of our Earth, perhaps because they've found out how to enjoy it. But what does the work? What killed him? I asked breathlessly. Can't say, Pete. You can't name things here in terms of our own world. Some natural force they've corralled, I imagine. They control it with that shudder behind the lips of the image. Did you notice it? Yes. I suppose one of the priests operates it from some hidden room. Whatever it is, it certainly does the work. And what do you suppose they want us to do now?" The priests were coming toward us, smiling. I didn't like their smiles. They were meant to be benign, but there was a cruel and vindictive twist to their lips which chilled me through and through.
"'Keep your hand on your gun,' said Vic swiftly. "'I don't like the looks of these chaps.' The priests stopped before us, and their leader began a long harangue in a screechy voice, which set my nerves on edge. When he had finished, he held out his hands toward me, and motioned toward the waiting idol. Ipe spoke up in sharp protest, and thrust himself between me and the priest. For a moment, due to this obviously unexpected interruption, everything was in confusion. Pete, Vic was whispering excitedly in my ear. Listen, Pete. I think I see through this. These priests have heard about us and our death-dealing ability. They're jealous. They want a corner on that. Old Ipe figures maybe we could do him a favor in that line, and that's why he's arguing.
The priests want to honor us for the good we've done, by giving us the reward we've just seen. So, before he could finish, Ipe was thrust aside by a group of angry guards, and I was jerked away. Hope screamed, and out of the tail of my eye I saw both Vic and Hope struggling frantically to free themselves from an overwhelming number of guards. Vic tried to shout something, but a claw-like brown hand was immediately thrust over his mouth. The guards who held me, followed by the priests, made their way toward the extended palms which formed the altar of this strange black god whose favor was death. At a command from the priests, the guards lifted me to the altar, and then stood watchfully below, gazing up at me with puzzled, mournful, envious eyes.
I saw the priests crouch low, and make their first beseeching bow, in imitation of the Black God. Frantically, I looked about me, seeking some avenue of escape. Below me, hemming me in, were the guards, a triple ring of them through which I knew I could not escape. Behind me, For I was facing the multitude, was the hideous, grinning face of the idol. The priests bowed a second time. Both Hope and Vic were fighting desperately, but there were at least ten guards to each of them. I lifted my hand and waved a farewell, hoping that one of them, at least, would see the gesture and know that my last thought was of them. Then, as the priests completed their third bow, I turned and faced the statue. As my eyes fell upon the shutter behind the thick, grinning lips, the shutter which released the lethal force, a wild and desperate idea came to me.
With a shout, I jerked a gun from my pocket and leaped aside. As I did so, I fired twice into the gaping mouth, and saw the bullets shatter the heavy shutter. Then, with the humming sound ringing in my ears like a note of death, I leaped clear into the midst of the waiting guards. For an instant there was no movement, no sound, from all that vast crowd. Even the guards seemed stunned, and I tore my way through them with hardly a pause in my stride. Then a shrill cry went up, a cry that drowned utterly the humming sound that issued from the shattered mouth of the idol. Blindly, the multitude surged toward the scarlet ray that dealt death, fighting their way toward the oblivion they so highly prized.
Those who had been holding Hope and Vic were surging forward with the rest, their erstwhile prisoners forgotten in their mad greed for death. The crowd jostling about me seemed blind to my presence. Every eye was fixed on the altar-like hands of the idol and the death that blew across them. Pete, yelled Vic. Coming, boy? He was waiting for me, staving off as best he could the rush of bodies around him, shielding Hope from the savage jostling. Coming! I leaned forward, butting with my head, both doubled fists working like pistons to clear my way to my companions. Nice work, Pete! shouted Vic, as I joined them, breathless but triumphant. Now for a break. Gun loaded? I snapped open the action and dropped in six cartridges.
It is now. I'll go ahead. You bring up to rear with Hope in the middle. Ready? Let's go. I plunged on, Hope's fingers gripping my belt. Fresh multitudes were pouring up the ramp, brushing aside the five or six priests that had hurried there in an effort to stem the tide. One of the priests saw us, and cried out shrilly to his companions. With one accord they came toward us, obviously intent upon blocking our way. I have never seen in any other eyes such anger and hatred as blazed in the eyes of those strange beings. "'Watch them, Pete,' roared Vic. "'We can't take chances.' His gun roared twice from behind me, and two of the priests fell writhing to be instantly trampled into pulp. Another reached out long arms toward Hope, and I let him have it.
There is nothing else to do. He went the way of the two others. Twice again, before we reached the ramp they guarded, the angry attendants of the idle fell before our guns. Then, hurrying down ramp after ramp, corridor after corridor, fighting the rushing mob all the way, we came at last, shaking with weariness and gasping for breath, to the deserted streets of the black and terrible city. "'Are we free?' whispered Hope, holding tightly to my arm. "'Are we really free?' I hope so, dear. We seem to be. If we can only reach the spot where we entered this insane world before something happens—how much time have we? interrupted Vick. I glanced down at my watch, fearful for a moment that it had been broken or lost in the melee.
It was still running, apparently undamaged. Let's see. It's four minutes of one. That gives us—seven minutes. Can we make it? I think so. It's not so far, and we're nearly out of the city. We have to make it. Vic led the way, Hope and I following. Anxiously, I watched the minute hand of the watch slide toward the seven of the dial. Touch it. Move on. It was not far, as Vic had said, but we were weary from our battle with the crazed mob, and the best we could force from our legs was a sort of dog-trot. One minute after. Two. Here's the spot. I marked it with these three pieces of stone. Quick! Vic swept both arms about Hope and me, holding us in a close embrace, so that we all stood within the triangle formed by the three bits of black rock.
I glanced down at my watch. It lacked but a few seconds of the moment when the machine back in Vic's laboratory would function, provided my watch was correct and the equipment worked according to schedule. Suddenly, Hope screamed, and I followed her eyes. A score or more of the strange beings had suddenly materialized but a few yards away, and they were closing in on us swiftly. I tried to draw my gun. Hands reached out to grasp me, to grasp all three of us. Then darkness closed in swiftly. I was whisked upward, on and on, breathlessly. I was suddenly very heavy. I was dropping in the blackness. There was something solid beneath my feet, a glare of light in my eyes. Nicely timed, I'll say that, chuckled Vic.
How does our own material world look? Great. I stepped quickly away from the machine, drawing Hope with me. Doesn't it, Hope? She sighed a long, shuddering sigh and snuggled into my arms. Vic glanced toward us and grinned. Come to think of it, he remarked. I believe I'll run along and see if I can find Mrs. Perrin. I haven't had a thing to eat since noon yesterday, and I've just realized I'm hungry. Will you join me?" In a moment, I nodded, and Vic, being the good scout that he was, hurried away. "'And the machine?' I asked a few nights later. "'Still experimenting with it?' I had really come out to see Hope, of course, but she was still upstairs putting on the finishing touches. Vic shook his head quite gravely.
No, old son, I've had enough. Off on another tangent now. Why, would you like to go back? Not me. It doesn't seem real now, more like a nightmare, but it was terrible enough at the time. I can't prove it wasn't a nightmare, chuckled Vic. Come along, and I'll show you something you missed. He led the way to the laboratory and unlocked a drawer, one of several, beneath the work-table. I found this on the floor of the machine, he said. Didn't notice it until later. The rays of the machine caught it, and brought it back with us. Made it solid matter as we know it here. Do you recognize it? I nodded, shuddering. There is no possibility of mistake. In a squat, clear bottle of alcohol that Vic had taken from the drawer was a sinister, claw-like, brown hand, severed cleanly at the wrist.
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3 The Misplaced Battleship 58:53
The Mistplaced Battleship.
When it comes to picking locks and cracking safes, I admit to no master. The door to Inskip's private quarters had an old-fashioned tumbler drum that was even easier to pick than my teeth. I must have gone through that door without breaking a step. Quiet as I was, though, Inskip still heard me. The light came on, and there he was, sitting up in bed, pointing a .7-caliber rocoilus at my sternum. "'You should have more brains than that, de Grizz,' he snarled. "'Creeping into my room at night? You could have been shot!' "'No, I couldn't,' I told him, as he stowed the cannon back under his pillow. A man with a curiosity bump as big as yours will always talk first and shoot later. And besides, none of this pussy-footing around in the dark would be necessary if your screen was open and I could have got a call through.
Inskip yawned, and poured himself a glass of water from the dispenser unit above the bed. Just because I had the special call doesn't mean I am the special call, he said, moistly, while he drained the glass. I have to sleep sometime. My screen is only open for emergency calls, not for every agent who needs his hand-held. Meaning I am in the hand-holding category? I asked, with as much sweetness as I could. Put yourself in any category you please, he grumbled as he slumped down into the bed. And also put yourself out in the hall, and see me tomorrow during working hours. He was at my mercy, really. He wanted to sleep so much, and he was going to be wide awake so very soon. Do you know what this is?
I asked him, poking a large glossy pick under his long, broken nose. One eye opened slowly. Big warship of some kind. Looks like Empire Lions. Now for the last time, go away, he said. A very good guess for this late at night, I told him cheerily. It is a late Empire battleship of the Warlord class, undoubtedly one of the most truly efficient engines of destruction ever manufactured. Over half a mile of defensive screens and armament that could probably turn any fleet existent today into fine radioactive ash. Except for the fact that the last one was broken up for scrap over a thousand years ago, he mumbled. I leaned over and put my lips close to his ear. So there'd be no chance of misunderstanding.
Speaking softly but clearly. True, true, I said. But wouldn't you just be a little bit interested if I was to tell you that one is being built today? Oh, it was beautiful to watch. Covers went one way, and in-skip went the other. In a single unfolding, in concerted motion, he left the horizontal and recumbent and stood tensely vertical against the wall, examining the pick of the battleship under the light. He apparently did not believe in pyjama bottoms, and it hurt me to see the goosebumps writhing on those thin shanks. But if the legs were thin, the voice was more than full enough to make up the difference. Talk, blast your diggers, talk! He roared. What is this nonsense about a battleship?
Who's building it? I had my nail-file out, and was touching up a cuticle, holding it out for inspection before I said anything. From the corner of my eye, I could see him getting purple about the face, but he kept quiet. I savoured my small moment of power. Put de Greer's in charge of the record room for a while, you said. That way he can learn the ropes. Burying around in century-old dusty files would be just the thing for a free spirit like slippery Jim de Greer's. Teach him discipline. Show him what the course stands for. At the same time, it will get the records in shape. They have been needing reorganization for quite a while. Inskipt opened his mouth, made a choking noise, and then closed it.
He undoubtedly realized that any interruption would only lengthen my explanation, not shorten it. I smiled and nodded at his decision, and then continued. So you thought you had me safely out of the way, breaking my spirit under the guise of giving me a little background into the corps' activities. Well, in this sense, your plan failed. Something else happened instead. I nosed through those files and found them most interesting. Particularly the C and M set-up, the Categoriser and Memory. That building full of machinery that takes in and digests news and reports from all the planets in the galaxy, indexes it to every category it can possibly relate, and then files it. Great machine to work with.
I had it digging out spaceship info for me, something I have always been interested in. You should be, Inskip interrupted rudely. You've stolen enough of them in your time. I gave him a hurt look and went on slowly. I won't bore you with all the details, since you seem impatient. But eventually I turned up this plan. He had it out of my fingers before it cleared my wallet. "'What are you getting at?' he mumbled as he ran his eyes over the blueprints. "'This is an ordinary heavy cargo and passenger job. It's no more a warlord battleship than I am.' It is hard to curl your lips with contempt and talk at the same time, but I succeeded. Of course, you don't expect them to file warship plans with the League Registry, do you?
But, as I said, I know more than a little bit about ships. It seemed to me this thing was just a bit too big for the use intended. Enough old ships are fuel wasters, you don't have to build new ones to do that. This started me thinking, and I punched for a complete list of ships that size that had been constructed in the past. You can imagine my surprise when, after about three minutes of groaning, the C&M only produced six. One was built for self-sustaining colony attempt at the second galaxy. For all we know, she's still on the way. The other five were all D-class colonizers, built during the expansion when large populations were moved. Too big to be practical now. I was still teased as I had no idea what a ship this large could be used for, so I removed the time interlocked on the C&M and let it pick around the entire history of space to see if it could find a comparison.
It sure did. Right at the golden age of empire expansion, the giant warlord battleships. The machine even found a blueprint for me. Inskip grabbed again, and began to compare the prints. I leaned over his shoulder and pointed out the interesting parts. Notice, If the engine room specs are changed slightly to include this cargo hold, there is plenty of room for the brutes needed. This superstructure, obviously just tacked onto the plans, gets thrown away, and turrets take its place. The hulls are identical. A change here, a shift there, and the stodgy freighter becomes the fast battle wagon. These changes could be made during construction, then plans filed. By the time anyone in the League found out what was being built, the ship would be finished and launched.
Of course, this could all be coincidence. The plans of a newly-built ship agree into six places, with those of a ship built a thousand years ago. But if you think so, I'll give you a hundred to one odds you are wrong. Any size bet you name. I wasn't winning any sucker bets that night. Inskip had led just a cricketer youth as I had, and needed no help in smelling a fishy deal. While he'd pulled on his clothes, he shot questions at me. And the name of the peace-loving planet that is building this bad memory from the past? Citanuvo. Second planet of a B-star in Corona Borealis. No other colonised planets in the system. Never heard of it," Inskip said as we took the private drop-shoot to his office, which may be a good or bad sign.
When we were the first time trouble came from some out-of-the-way spot I never knew existed. With the automatic disregard for others of the truly dedicated, he pressed the scramble button on his desk. Very quickly Sleepy Eye clerks and assistants were bringing files and records. We went through them together. Modesty prevented me from speaking first, but I had a very short wait before Inskip reached the same conclusion I had. He hurled a folder the length of the room, and scowled out at the harsh dawn light. "'The more I look at this thing,' he said, "'the fishery gets. This planet seems to have no possible motive or use for a battleship, but they're building one. That, I will swear on a stack of one thousand credit notes as high as this building.
Yet what will they do with it when they have it built?' "'They have an expanding culture.' No unemployment, a surplus of heavy metals, and ready-markers for all they produce. No heavy-raditary enemies, feuds, all the like. If it wasn't for this battleship thing, I would call them an ideal-league planet. I have to know more about them." "'I've already called the spaceport. In your name, of course,' I told him. Ordered a fast-career ship. I'll leave within the hour." "'Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself, Degrees?' he said, voiced chill as the ice cap. "'I still give the orders, and I'll tell you when you're ready for an independent command.'" I was sweetness and light, because a lot depended on his decision.
Just trying to help, Chief. Get things ready in case you wanted more info. And this really isn't an operation, just a reconnaissance. I can do that as well as any of the experienced operators, and it may give me the experience I need so that someday I, too, will be qualified to join the ranks. All right," he said. Stop shoveling on while I can still breathe. Get out there. Find out what is going on. Then get back. Nothing else, and that's an order. By the way he said it, I knew that he thought there was little chance of it happening that way. Since my forced induction into the core six months earlier, I had been stuck on this super-secret planetoid that was its headquarters and main base. I had very little sitting-down patience anyway, and it had been long since exhausted.
It had been interesting at first, particularly since up to the time I was drafted into the Special Corps, I wasn't even certain it really existed. It was too much like a conman's nightmare to be real. A secret worry. After a few happy years of successful crime, you begin to wonder how long it will last. Planetary police are all pushovers, and you start to feel you can go on forever if they're your only competition. What about the League, though? Don't they take any interest in crime? Just about that time you hear your first rumour of the Special Corps, and it fits the Bad Dreams. A shadowy, powerful group that slips silently between the stars, ready to bring the interstellar blowbreaker low. Sounds like TV drama stuff.
I had been quite surprised to find they really existed. I was even more surprised when I joined them. Of course there was a little pressure at the time. I had the alternative choice of instant death. But I still think it was a wise move. Under the motto, Set a Thief, to catch one, the Corps supposedly made good use of men like myself to get rid of the more anti-social types that infest the universe. This was all still hearsay to me. I had been pulled into headquarters and given routine administration work for training. Six months of this had left me slightly garga, and I wanted out. Since no one seemed to be in a hurry to give me an assignment, I had found one for myself. I had no idea of what would become of it.
But I also had no intention of returning until the job was done. A quick stop at supply and record sections gave me everything I needed. The sun was barely clear of the horizon, with the silver needle of my ship lifted in the grey field, then blasted into space. The trip only took a few days, more than enough time to memorise everything I needed to know about Cetanuvo. The more I knew, the less I could understand their need for a battleship. It didn't fit. Soutanovo was a secondary settlement out of the Cellini system, and I had run into these settlements before. They were all united in a loose alliance, and bickered a lot among themselves, but never came to blows. If anything, they shared a universal abhorrence of war.
Yet they were secretly building a battleship. Since I was only chasing my tail with this line of thought, I put it out of my mind and worked on some Tri-D chess problems. This filled the time until Sertanovo blinked into the bow screen. One of my most effective mottos has always been, secrecy can be an obviocity. What the magicians call misdirection. Let people very obviously see what you want them to see, and they'll never notice what is hidden. This is why I landed at midday on the largest field on the planet after a very showy approach. I was already dressed for my role, and out of the ship before the landing braces stopped vibrating. Buckling the fur cape around my shoulders with the platinum clasp, I stamped down the ramp.
The sturdy little M3 robot rumbled after me with my bags. Heading directly towards the main gate, I ignored the scurry of activity around the customs building. Only when a uniformed under-official of some kind ran over to me did I give the field any attention. Before he could talk, I did. Foot in the door and stay on top. Beautiful planet you have here. Delightful climate. Ideal spot for a country home. Friendly people, always willing to help strangers and all that, I imagine. That's what I like. Makes me feel grateful. "'Very pleased to meet you. I am the Grand Duke Sant'Engileo.' I shook his hand enthusiastically at this point, and let one hundred credit notes slip into his palm. "'Now,' I added, "'I wonder if you'd ask the customs agents to look at my bags here.
Don't want to waste time, do we? The ship is open. They can check that whenever they please.' "'My manner, close.' Jewelry. The easy way I passed money around, and the luxurious sheen of my bags could only mean one thing. There was little that was worth smuggling in and out of Cetanovoe. Certainly nothing a rich man would be interested in. The official murmured something with a smile. Mr. spoke a few words into his phone, and the job was done. A small wave of custom men hung stickers on my luggage, peeked into one or two for conformity's sake and waved me through. I shook hands all round, a rustling handclasp, of course, then was on my way. A cab was summoned, a hotel suggested. I nodded agreement and settled back while the robot loaded the bags about me.
The ship was completely clean. Everything I might need for the job was in my luggage. Some of it quite lethal and explosive, and very embarrassing if it was discovered in my bags. In the safety of my hotel suite, I made a change of clothes and personality, after the robot had checked the room for bugs. And very nice gadgets too, these core robots. It looked and acted like a moral M3 all the time. It was anything but. The brain was as good as any other robot brain I have known, plus the fact that the chunky body was crammed with devices and machines of varying use. It chugged slowly round the room, moving my bags and laying out my kit, and all the time following a careful route that covered every inch of the suite.
When it had finished, it stopped and called the all-clear. All rooms checked. Results negative, except for one optic bug in that wall. Should you be pointing like that? I asked the robot. Might make people suspicious, you know. Impossible, said the robot with mechanical surety. I brushed against it, and it is now unserviceable. With this assurance, I pulled off my flashy clothes and slipped into the midnight black dress uniform. Of an Admiral in the Ligue Grande Fleet. It came complete with decorations, gold bullion, and all the necessary documents. I thought it a little showy myself, but it was just the thing to make the right impression on Tsitanovo. Like many other planets, this one was uniform-conscious.
Delivery-boys, street-cleaners, clerks, all have to have characteristic uniforms. Much prestige attached to them, And my black dress outfit should rate as highly as any uniform in the galaxy. A long cloak would conceal the uniform while I left the hotel, but the gold-encrusted helmet and a briefcase of papers were a problem. I had never explored all the possibilities of the pseudo-M3 robot. Perhaps it could be of help. You there, short and chunky," I called. Do you have any concealed compartments or drawers built into your steel hard? If so, let's see. For a second, I thought the robot had exploded. The thing had more drawers in it than a battery of cash registers. Big, small, flat, thin, they shot out on all sides.
One held a gun, and two more were stuffed with grenades. The rest were empty. I put the hat in one, the briefcase in another, and snapped my fingers. The drawers slid shut, and its metal hide was as smooth as ever. I pulled on a fancy sports cap, buckled the cap up tight, and was ready to go. The luggage was all booby-trapped and could defend itself. Guns, gas, poison needles, the usual sort of thing. In the last resort, it would blow itself up. The M-Three went down by a freight elevator. I used a back stairs, and we met in the street. Since it was still daylight, I didn't take a heli, but rented a ground car instead. We had a leisurely drive out into the country, and reached President Ferrero's house after dark.
As befitted the top official of a rich planet, the place was a mansion, but the security precautions were ludicrous, to say the least. I took myself and a three hundred and fifty-kilo robot through the guards and alarms, without causing the slightest stir. President Ferrero, a bachelor, was eating his dinner. This gave me enough undisturbed time to search his study. There was absolutely nothing. Nothing to do with wars or battleships, that is. If I had been interested in blackmail, I had enough evidence in my hand to support me for life. I was looking for something bigger than political corruption, however. When Ferrero rolled into his study after dinner, the room was dark. I heard him murmur something about the servants and fumble for the switch.
Before he found it, the robot closed the door and turned on the lights. I sat behind his desk. All his personal papers were before me, weighted down with a pistol, and as fierce a scowl as I could raise smeared across my face. Before he got over the shock, I snapped an order at him. Come over here, and sit down quick! The robot hustled him across the room at the same time, so he had no choice except to obey. When he saw the papers on the desk, his eyes bulged, and he just gurgled a little. Before he could recover, I threw a thick folder in front of him. I am Admiral Far, League Grand Fleet. These are my credentials. You had better check them. Since they were as good as any real admiral's, I didn't worry in the slightest.
Ferrero went through them as carefully as he could in his rattled state, even checking the seals under UV. It gave him time to regain a little bit of self-control, and he used it to bluster. What do you mean by entering my private quarters and belugling? You're in very bad trouble, I said, in as gloomy a voice as I could muster. Ferrero's tanned face went a dirty gray at my words. I pressed the advantage. I am arresting you for conspiracy, extortion, theft, and whatever other charges develop. I have for a careful review of these documents. Seize him! This last order was directed at the robot, who was well briefed in its role. It rumbled forward and locked its hand around Ferrero's wrist, handcuff style.
He barely noticed. I can explain, he said desperately. Everything can be explained. There is no need to make such charges. I don't know what the papers you have there, so I wouldn't attempt to say they were all forgeries. I have many enemies, you know. If the League knew the difficulties faced on a backward planet like this... That will be entirely enough, I snapped, cutting him off with a wave in my hand. All those questions will be answered by a court at the proper time. There is only one question I want an answer to now. Why are you building that battleship?
The man was a great actor. His eyes opened wide, his jaw dropped, he sank back into the chair as if he had been tapped lightly with a hammer. When he managed to speak, the words were completely unnecessary. He had already registered every evidence of injured innocence. What battleship? He gasped. The Warlord-class battleship that has been built at the St. Erantola spaceyards. Disguised behind these blueprints. I threw them across the desk to him and pointed to one corner. Those are your initials there. Authorizing construction. Furrow still had the baffled act going as he fumbled with the papers, examining the initials and such. I gave him plenty of time. He finally put them down, shaking his head.
I know nothing about any battleship. These are the plans for a new cargo liner. Those are my initials. I recall putting them there. I phrased my question carefully, as I had him right where I wanted him now. You deny any knowledge of the warlord battleship that is being built from these modified plans. These are the plans for an ordinary passenger freighter. That is all I know." His words had the simple innocence of a young child's. Was he ever caught? I sat back with a relaxed sigh and lit a cigar. Wouldn't you be interested in knowing something about that robot who is holding you, I said. He looked down, as if aware for the first time that the robot had been holding by the wrist during the interview.
That is no ordinary robot. It has a number of interesting devices built into its fingertips. Thermocouples, galvanometers, things like that. While you talked, it registered your skin temperature, blood pressure, amount of perspiration, and such. In other words, it is an efficient and fast-working lie detector. We will now hear all about your lies. Ferrero pulled away from the robot's hand, as if it had been a poisonous snake. I blew a relaxed smoke ring. Report, I said to the robot. Has this man told any eyes? Many, the robot said. Exactly seventy-four per cent of all statements he made were fake. Very good, I nodded, throwing the last lock on my trap. That means he knows all about this battleship.
The subject has no knowledge of the battleship," the robot said coldly. All of his statements concerning the construction of this ship were true. Now it is my turn for the gaping and eye-popping act, while Ferrero pulled himself together. He had no idea I wasn't interested in his other hanky-panky, but could tell that I had a low blow. It took an effort, but I managed to get my mind back into gear and consider the evidence. If President Ferrero didn't know about the battleship, he must have been taken in by the cover-up job. But if he wasn't responsible, who was? Some militaristic clique that meant to overthrow him and take power. I didn't know enough about the planet, so I enlisted Ferrero on my side.
This was easy, even without the threat of exposure of the documents I had found in his files. Using their disclosure as a prod, I could have made him jump through hoops. It wasn't necessary. As soon as I showed him the different blueprints and explained the possibilities, he understood. If anything, he was more eager than I was to find out who was using his administration as a cat's paw. By silent agreement, the documents were forgotten. We agreed that the next logical step would be the Senenterola space yards. He had some idea of sniffing around quietly first, trying to get a line to his political opponents. I gave him to understand that the League, and the League Navy in particular, wanted to stop the construction of the battleship.
After that, he could play his politics. With this point understood, he called his car and squadron of guards, and we made a parade to the shipyards. It was a four-hour drive, and we made plans on the way down.
The space-yard manager was named Rocker, and he was happily asleep when we arrived. But not for long. The parade of uniforms and guns in the middle of the night had him frightened into a state where he could hardly walk. I imagine he was as full of petty larcenity as Ferrero. No innocent man could have looked so terror-stricken. Taking advantage of the situation, I latched my motorized lie detector onto him and began snapping the questions. Even before I had all the answers, I began to get the drift of things. They were a little frightening, too. The manager of the space yard that was building the ship had no idea of its true nature. Anyone with less self-esteem than myself, who had led a more honest early life, might have doubted his own reasoning at that moment.
I didn't. The ship on the ways still resembled a warship to six places, and knowing human nature the way I do, that was too much of a coincidence to expect. Occam's razor always points the way. If there are two choices to take, take the simpler. In this case, I chose the natural acquisitive instinct of man as opposed to blind chance and accident. Nevertheless, I put the theory to the test. Looking over the original broodplins again, the big superstructure hit my eye. In order to turn the ship into a warship, that would have to be one of the first things to go. Rocker! I barked in what I hoped was authentic old space dog manner. Look at these plans! At this space-going front porch here. Is it still being built onto the ship?
He shook his head at once and said, No, the plans were changed. We had to fit in some kind of new meteor-repelling gear for operating in the planetary debris belt. I flipped through my case and drew out a plan. Does your new gear look anything like... This? I asked, throwing it across the table to him. He rubbed his jaw while he looked at it. Well, he said hesitantly, I don't want to say for certain. All these details aren't in my department. I'm just responsible for final assembly, not unit work. But this surely looks like the thing they installed. Big thing. Lots of power leads. It was a battleship, all right. No doubt of that now. I was mentally reaching around, patting myself on the back, when the meaning of his words sank in.
Installed? I shouted. Did you say, installed? Rocker collapsed away from my roar and gnawed his yells. Yes, he said. Not too long ago, I remember there was some trouble. And what else? I interrupted him. Cold moisture was beginning to collect along my spine now. The drives, the controls, are they in too? Why, yes, he said. How did you know? The normal shredding was changed around, causing a great deal of unnecessary trouble. The cold sweat was now a running river of fear. I was beginning to have the feeling that I had been missing the boat all along the line. The original estimated date of the completion was nearly a year away, but there was no real reason why that couldn't be changed too. Cars!
Guns! I bellowed. To the space-yard! If that ship is anywhere near completion, we are in big, big trouble!
All the board guards had a great time with the sirens, lights, accelerators on the floor, and that sort of thing. We blasted a screaming hole through the night, right to the space yard, and through the gate. It didn't make any difference. We were still too late. A uniformed watchman frantically waved to us, and the whole convoy jerked to a stop. The ship was gone. Rocker couldn't believe it. Neither could the President. They wandered up and down the empty ways where it had been built. I just crunched down in the back of the car, chewing my cigar to pieces and cursing myself for being a fool. I had missed the obvious fact, being carried away by the thought of a planetary government building a warship.
The government was involved for sure, but only as a pawn. No little planet-bound political mind could have dreamed up a scheme as big as this. I smelled the rat. A stainless steel one. Someone who operated the way I had done before my conversion. Now that the rodent was well out of the bag, I knew just where to look, and had a pretty good idea of what I would find. Rocker, the space-yard manager, had staggered back and was pulling at his hair, cursing and crying at the same time. President Ferrero had his gun out and was staring at it grimly. It was hard to tell if he was thinking of murder or suicide. I didn't care which. All he had to worry about was the next election, when the voters and the political competition would carve him up for losing the ship.
My troubles were a little bigger. I had to find the battleship before it blasted its way across the galaxy. Rocker! I shouted. Get into the car. I want to see your records. All of your records. And I want to see them right now. He climbed wearily in and had directed the driver before he fully realised what was happening. Blinking at the sickly light of dawn brought him slowly back to reality. But, Admiral, the hour. Everyone will be asleep. I just growled, but it was enough. Rocker caught the idea from my expression and grabbed the car phone. The office doors were open when we got there. Normally, I curse the papal tangles of bureaucracy, but this was one time when I blessed them all. These people had it down to a fine science.
Not a rivet fell, but that its fall was noted, in quintuplicate, and later followed up with a memo, rivet, wastage, query. The facts I needed were all neatly tucked away in their paid percatacombs. All I had to do was sniff them out. I didn't try to look for first causes. This would have taken too long. Instead, I concentrated my attention on the recent modifications, like the gun turret, that would quickly give me a trail to the guilty parties. Once the clerks understood what I had in mind, they hurled themselves into their work, urged on by the fires of patriotism and the burning voices of their superiors. All I had to do was suggest a line of search, and the relevant documents would begin appearing at once.
Bit by bit, a pattern started to emerge. A delicate web-work of forgery, bribery, chicanery and falsehood. It could only have been conceived by a mind as brilliantly crooked as my own. I chewed my lip with jealousy. Like all great ideas, this one was basically simple. A party, or parties unknown, had neatly warped the ship construction programme to their own ends. Undoubtedly, they had started the programme for the giant transport. That would have to be checked later. And once the program was underway, it had been guided with a skill that bordered on genius. Orders were originated in many places, passed on, changed, and shuffled. I painfully traced each one to its source. Many times the source was a forgery.
Some changes seemed to be unexplicated, until I noticed that the officers in question had a temporary secretary, while their normal assistants were ill. All the girls had food poisoning. A regular epidemic, it seemed. Each of them, in turn, had been replaced by the same girl. She stayed just long enough in each position to see that the battleship plan moved forward one more notch. The girl was obviously the assistant to the mastermind who originated the scheme. He sat in the centre of the plot like a spider on its web, pulling the strings that set things into motion. My first thought that a gang was involved proved wrong. All my secondary suspects turned out to be simple forgeries, not individuals.
In the few cases where forgery wasn't adequate, my mysterious X had apparently hired himself to do the job. X himself had the permanent job of assistant engineering designer. One by one, the untangled threads ran to this office. He also had a secretary whose illnesses coincided with her employment in the other offices. When I straightened up from my desk, the ache in my back stabbed like a hot wire. I swallowed a pain-killer and looked around at my drooping, saccared assistants, who had shared the sleepless seventy-two-hour task. They sat or slumped against the furniture, waiting for my conclusions. Even President Ferrero was there, his hair looking scraggly where he had pulled out handfuls. "'You found them?
The criminal ring?' he asked, his fingers groping over his scalp for a fresh hold. "'I have found them, yes.' I added hoarsely, but not a criminal ring. An inspired master criminal who apparently has more executive ability in one ear lube than all your bribe-bloated bureaucrats, and his female assistant. They pulled the entire job by themselves. His name, or undoubtedly pseudoname, is Pepe Nero. The girl is called Angelina. Arrest them at once! Guards! Guards! Ferrero's voice died away as he ran out of the room. I talked to his vanishing back. That is just what we intend to do, but it's a little difficult at the moment, since they are the ones who not only built the battleship, but undoubtedly stole it as well.
It was fully automated, so no crew is necessary. What do you plan to do? One of the clerks asked. I shall do nothing, I told him, with the snap precision of an old space dog. The League fleet is already closing in on the Renegades, and you will be informed of the capture. Thank you for your assistance.
I threw them as snappy a salute as I could muster, and they filed out. Staring gloomily at their backs, I envied for one moment their simple faith in the League Navy, when in reality the vengeful fleet was just as imaginary as my Im Admiral's rating. This was still the job for the Corps. Inskip would have to be given the latest information at once. I had sent him a psygram about the theft, but there was no answer as yet. Maybe the identity of the thieves would stir some response out of him. My message was in code, but it could be quickly broken if someone wanted to try hard enough. I took it to the message center myself. The sign man was in his transparent cubicle, and I locked myself in with him.
His eyes were unfocused as he spoke softly into a mic, pulling in a message from somewhere across the galaxy. Outside, the Russian transcribers copied, coded, and filed messages, but no sound penetrated the insulated wall. I waited until his attention clicked back into the room, and handed him the sheets of paper. League Central Fourteen. Rush, I told him. He raised his eyebrows, but didn't ask any questions. Establishing contact only took a few seconds, as they had an entire battery of Simon for their communications. He read the code words carefully, shaping them with his mouth, but not speaking aloud. The power of his thoughts carrying across the light years of distance. As soon as he was finished, I took back the sheet, tore it up, and pocketed the pieces.
I had my answer back quickly enough. Inskip must have been hovering around waiting for my message. The mic was turned off to the transcribers outside, and I took the code groups down in shorthand myself. "'If you don't, don't come back!' The message broke into clear at the end, and the sign-man smiled as he spoke the words. I broke the point off my stylus and growled at him not to repeat any of this message as it was classified, and I would personally see him shot if he did. That got rid of the smile, but didn't make me feel any better. The decoded message turned out to not be as bad as I imagined. Until further notice, I was in charge of tracking and capturing the stolen battleship. I could call on the League for any aid I needed.
I would keep my identity as an Admiral for the rest of the job. I was to keep him informed of progress. Only those ominous last words, in clear, kept my happiness from being complete. I had been handed my long-awaited assignment, but translated into simple terms, my orders were to get the battleship, or it would be my neck. Never a word about my efforts in uncovering Laplotte in the first place. This is a heartless world we live in. This moment of self-pity relaxed me, and I immediately went to bed. Since my main job was now waiting, I could wait just as well asleep.
And waiting was all I could do. Of course there were secondary tasks, such as ordering a naval cruiser for my own use, and digging for more information on the thieves, but these were really secondary to my main purpose, which was waiting for bad news. There was no place I could go that would be better situated for the chase than Cetanovo. The missing ship could have gone in any direction. With each passing minute, the sphere of probable locations grew larger by the power of the squared cube. I kept the on-watch crew of the cruiser at duty stations, and confined the rest within a hundred-yard radius of the ship. There was little more information on Pepe and Angelina. They had covered their tracks well.
Their origin was unknown, though the fact that they both talked with a slight accent suggested an off-world origin. There was one dim picture of a Pepe, chubby but looking too grim to be a happy fat boy. There was no picture of the girl. I shuffled the meagre findings, controlled my impatience, and kept the ship's sciman busy pulling in all the reports of any kind of trouble in space. The navigator and I plotted their locations in his tank, comparing the positions in relation to the growing sphere that enclosed all the possible locations of the stolen ship. Some of the disasters and apparent accidents hit inside this area, but further investigation proved them all to have natural causes. I had left standing orders that all reports falling inside the danger area would be brought to me at any time.
The messenger woke me from a deep sleep, turning on the light and handing me the slip of paper. I blinked myself awake, read the first two lines, and pressed the ACTION STATION alarm over my bunk. I'll say this. The Navy boys know their business. When the sirens screamed, the crew secured ship and blasted off before I had finished reading the report. As soon as my eyeballs unsquashed back into focus, I read it through. Then once more, carefully from the beginning. It looked like the one we had been waiting for. There were no witnesses to the tragedy, but a number of monitor stations had picked up the discharge static of a large energy weapon being fired. Triangulation had led investigators to the spot where they found a freighter.
Oggett's dream, with a hole punched through it as big as a railroad tunnel. The freighter's cargo of plutonium was gone. I read, Pepe, in every line of the message. Since he was flying an undermanned battleship, he had used it in the most efficient way possible. If he attempted to negotiate or threaten another ship, the element of chance would be introduced. So he had simply roared up to the unsuspecting freighter and blasted her with the monster guns his battleship packed. All eighteen men aboard had been killed instantly. The thieves were now murderers. I was under pressure now to act, and a greater pressure not to make any mistakes. Roly-poly Pepe had shown himself to be a ruthless killer.
He knew what he wanted, then reached out and took it. Destroying anyone who stood in his way. More people would die before this was over. It was up to me to keep that number as small as possible.
Ideally, I should have rushed out the fleet with guns blazing and dragged him to justice. Very nice. And I wish that it could have been done that way. Except, where was he? A battleship may be gigantic on some terms of reference, but in the immensity of the galaxy it is microscopically infinitesimal. As long as it stayed out of the regular lanes of commerce and clear of detector stations and planets, it would never be found. Then how could I find it? And having found it, Catch it, when the infernal thing was more than a match for any ship it might meet. That was my problem. It had kept me awake nights, and talking to myself days, since there was no easy answer. I had to construct a solution, slowly and carefully.
Since I couldn't be sure where Pepe was going to be next, I had to make him go where I wanted him to. There were some things in my favour. The most important was the fact I had forced him to make his play before he was absolutely ready. It wasn't a chance that he had left the same day I arised on Sertanovo. Any plans elaborate as his certainly included warning of approaching danger. The drive on the battleship, as well as controls and primary armament, had been stored weeks before I showed up. Much of the subsidiary work remained to be done when the ship had left. One witness of the theft had graphically described the power lines and cables dangling from the ship's locks when she lifted. My arrival had forced Pepe off balance.
Now I had to keep pushing until he fell. This meant I had to think as he did, fall into his plan, think ahead, then trap him, set a thief to catch a thief. A great theory, only I felt uncomfortably on the spot when I tried to put it into practice. A drink helped, as did the cigar. Puffing on it, staring at the smooth bulkhead relaxed me a bit. After all, there aren't that many things you can do with a battleship. You can't run a big con, blow safes, or make Burma decks with it. It's hell's on jet for space piracy, but that's about a... Great! Great! But why a battleship? I was talking to myself. Not only a bad sign, but right now I didn't care. The mood of space piracy had seized me, and I had been going along fine.
Until this glaring inconsistency jumped out and hit me square in the eye. Why, a battleship? Why all the trouble in years of work to get a ship that two people could just barely manage? With a tenth of the effort, Pepe could have had a cruiser that would have suited his purposes just as well. Just as good for space piracy, that is, but not for his purposes. He had wanted a battleship, and he had got himself A battleship. Which meant he had more in mind than just simple piracy. What? It was obvious that Pepe was a monomaniac, an egomaniac, and as psychotic as a shorted computer. Some day, the mystery of how he had slipped through the screen of official testing would have to be investigated. That wasn't my concern, now.
He still had to be caught.
A plan was beginning to take shape in my head, but I didn't rush it. First I had to be sure that I knew him well. Any man that can con an entire world into building a battleship for him, then steal it from them, is not going to stop there. The ship would need a crew, a base for refuelling, and a mission. Fuel had been taken care of first. The gutted hull of Occhett's dream was silent witness to that. There were countless planets that could be used as a base. Getting a crew would be more difficult in these peace times, though I could think of a few answers to that one too. Raid the mental hospitals and jails. Do that often enough, and you would have a crew that would make any pirate chief proud.
Though piracy was, of course, too mean an ambition to ascribe to this boy. Did he want to rule a whole planet, or maybe an entire system, or more? I shuddered a bit as the thought hit me. Was there really anything that could stop a plan like this once it got rolling? During the Kingly Wars, any number of types with a couple of ships and less brains than Pepe had set up just this kind of empire. They were all pulled down in the end, since their success depended on one-man rule, but the price that had to be paid first. This was the plan, and I felt in my bones that I was right. I might be wrong on some of the minor details, but they weren't important. I knew the general outline of the idea, just as when I bumped into a mark, I knew how much it could be taken for.
and just how to do it. There are natural laws in crime as in every other field of human endeavour. I knew this was it. Get the communications officer in here at once, I shouted at the intercom. Also, a couple of clerks with transcribers, and fast! This is a matter of life or death. This last had a horror ring, and I realised my enthusiasm had carried me out of character. I buttoned my collar, Straightened my ribbons and squared my shoulders. By the time they knocked on the door, I was all Admiral again. Acting on my orders, the ship dropped out of warp drive so our sign-man could get through to the other operators. Captain Steng grumbled as we floated there with the engine silent, wasting precious days while half his crew was involved in getting out what appeared to be insane instructions.
My plan was beyond his understanding. Which is, of course, why he is a Captain and I am an Admiral. Even a temporary one. Following my orders, the navigator again constructed a sphere of speculation in his tank. The surface of the sphere contacted all the star systems a day's flight ahead of the maximum flight of the stolen battleship. There weren't too many of these at first, and the Psyman could handle them all, calling each in turn and sending by news releases to the Naval Public Relations officers there. As the sphere kept growing, he started to drop behind, steadily losing ground. By this time I had a general release prepared along with directions for use and follow-up, which he sent to Central 14.
The battery of Simon there contacted the individual planets, and all we had to do was keep adding to the list of planets. The release and follow-ups all harped on one theme. I expanded on it, waxed enthusiastic, condemned it, and worked it into an interview. I wrote as many variations as I could so it could be slipped into as many different formats as possible. In one form or other, I wanted the basic information in every magazine, newspaper, and journal inside that expanding sphere. "'What in the devil does this nonsense mean?' Captain Steng asked peevishly. He had long since given up the entire operation as a futile one, and spent most of the time in his cabin worrying about the effect of it on his surface record.
Boredom or curiosity had driven him out, and he was reading one of my releases with horror. Billionaire to found home wild. Space yacht filled with luxuries to last a hundred years. The captain's face grew red as he flipped through the stack of notes. What connection does this tribe have with catching those murderers?
When we were alone, he was anything but courteous to me, having assured himself by not too subtle questioning that I was a spurious admiral. There was no doubt I was still in charge, but our relationship was anything but formal. This type of nonsense, I told him, is the bait that will snag our fish. A trap for Pepe and his partner in crime. Who is this mysterious billionaire? Me, I said. I've always wanted to be rich. But the ship, the space-yacht, where is it? Being built now in the naval shipyard at Udureida. We're almost ready to go there now, as soon as this batch of instructions goes out. Captain Steng dropped the releases onto the table, then carefully wiped his hands off to remove any possible infection.
He was trying to be fair and considerate of my views, and not succeeding in the slightest. It doesn't make sense, he growled. How can you be sure this killer will ever read one of these things? And if he does, why should he be interested? He looks to me as if you're wasting time while he slips through your fingers. The alarm should be out, and every ship notified. The Navy alerted, and patrols sent on all space lanes, which he could easily avoid by going around, or better yet, not even bother about, since he can lick any ship we have. That's not the answer, I told him. This Pepe is smart and as tricky as a fixed gambling machine. That's his strength, and his weakness as well. Characters like that never think it is possible for someone else to outthink them, which is what I'm going to do.
Modest, aren't you? Steng said. I try not to be, I told him. False modesty is the refuge of the incompetent. I'm going to catch this thug, and I'll tell you how I'm going to do it. He's going to hit again soon, and wherever he hits, there will be some kind of periodical with my plant in it. Whatever else he's after, he is going to take all the magazines and papers he can find, partly to satisfy his own ego, but mostly to keep track of things he's interested in, such as ship sailings. You're just guessing. You don't know all this. His automatic assumption of my incompetence was beginning to get me annoyed. I bridled my temper and tried one last time. Yes, I'm guessing. An informed guess. But I do know some facts as well.
Oggett's dream was cleaned out of all reading matter. That was one of the first things I checked. We can't stop the battleship from attacking again, but we can see to it that the time after that she sails into a trap. I don't know. The captain said, "'It sounds to me like—' I never heard what it sounded like, which is all right, since he was getting under my skin, and might have been tempted to pull my pseudo rank. The alarm sirens cut his sentence off, and we foot-raced to the communications room. Captain Steng won by a nose. It was his ship, and he knew all the shortcuts. The sign man was holding out a transcription, but he summed it up in one sentence. He looked at me while he talked, and his face was hard and cold.
"'They hit again.' Knocked out a Navy Supply Satellite. Thirty-four men dead. If your plan doesn't work, Admiral," the Captain whispered hoarsely in my ear, I'll personally see that you're flayed alive. If my plan doesn't work, Captain, there won't be enough of my skin left to pick up with a tweezer. Now, if you please, I'd like to get to Uruidaida and pick up my ship as soon as possible. The easy-going hatred and contempt of all my associates had annoyed me, thrown me off balance. I was thinking with anger now, not with logic. Forcing a bit of control, I ordered my thoughts, checking off a mental list. "'Belay that last command,' I shouted, getting back my old space dog mood. "'Get a call through first, and find out if any of our plants were picked up during the raid.' While the sign-man unfocused his eyes and mumbled under his breath, I riffled some papers.
Relaxed. And cool. The ratings and officers waited tensely, and made some slight attempt to conceal their hatred of me. It took about ten minutes to get an answer. Affirmative, the scyman said. A storeship docked there twenty hours before the attack. Among other things, it left newspapers containing the article. Very good. I said calmly. Send a general order to suspend all future activity with the planted releases. Send it by Siaman only. No mention on any other naval signalling equipment. There's a good chance now it might be overheard. I strolled out slowly in command of the situation, keeping my face turned away so they couldn't see the cold sweat.
It was a fast run to Oudrida, where my billionaire's yacht, the Eldorado, was waiting. The dot-yard commander showed me the ship, and made a noble effort to control his curiosity. I took a sadistic revenge on the Navy by not telling him a word about my mission. After checking out the controls and special apparatus with the technicians, I cleared the ship. There was a tape in the automatic navigator that would put me on the course mentioned in all the articles. Just a press of the button, and I would be on my way. I pressed the button. It was a beautiful ship, and the dockyard had been lavish with her attention to detail. From bow to rear tubes she was plated in pure gold. There are other metals with a higher albedo, but none that give a richer effect.
All the fittings, inside and out, were either machine-turned or plated. All this work could not have been done in the time allotted. The Navy must have adapted a luxury up to my needs. Everything was ready. Either Pepe would make his move, Or I would sail on to my billionaire's paradise planet. If that happened, it would be best if I stayed there. Now that I was in space, past the point of no return, all the doubts I had dismissed fought for attention. The plan that had seemed so clear and logical now began to look like a patched and crazy makeshift. "'Hold on there, sailor,' I said to myself, using my best admiral's voice. "'Nothing has changed. It's still the best and only plan possible under the circumstances.' Was it?
Could I be sure that Pepe, flying his mountain of a ship and eating navy rations, would be interested in some of the comforts and luxuries of life? Or, if the luxuries didn't catch his eye, would he be interested in the planetary homesteading gear? I had loaded the card with all the things he might want, and planted the information where he could get it. He had the bait now, but would he grab the hook? I couldn't tell. And I could work myself up into a neurotic state if I kept running through the worry cycle. It took an effort to concentrate on anything else, but it had to be made. The next four days passed very slowly. When the alarm blew off, all I felt was an intense sensation of relief. I might be dead and blasted to dust in the next few minutes, but that didn't seem to make much difference.
Pepe had swallowed the bait. There was only one ship in the galaxy that could knock back a blip that big at such a distance. It was closing fast, using the raw energy of the battleship engines for a headlong approach. My ship bucked a bit as the tug beams locked on at maximum distance. The radio bleeped at me for attention at the same time. I waited as long as I dared, and then flipped it on. The voice boomed out. That you are under the guns of a warship. Don't attempt to run. Signal, take evasive action, or any other way. Who are you, and what the devil you want? I spluttered into the mic. I had my scanner on so they could see me, but my own screen stayed dark. They weren't sending any picture.
In a way, it made my act easier. I just played to an unseen audience. They could see the rich cut of my clothes, the luxurious cabin behind me. Of course, they couldn't see my hands. It doesn't matter who we are, the radio boomed again. Just obey orders if you care to live. Stay away from the controls until we have tied on, then do exactly as I say. There were two distant clangs as magnetic grapples hit the hull. A little later, the ship lurched, drawn home against the battleship. I let my eyes roll in fear, looking around for a way to escape and taking a peek at the outside scanners. The yacht was flush against the space, filling the bulk of the other ship. I pressed the button that sent the torch-wielding robot on his way.
Now let me tell you something. I snapped into the mic, wiping away the worried billionaire expression. First, I'll repeat your own warning. I obey orders if you want to live. I'll show you why. When I threw the big switch, a carefully worked out sequence took place. First, of course, the hull was magnetised and the bombs fused. A light blinked as the scanner in the cabin turned off, and the one in the generator room came on. I checked the monitor screen to make sure, then started into the space suit. It had to be done fast, at the same time it was necessary to talk naturally. They must still think of me as sitting in the control room. "'That's the ship's generators you're looking at,' I said.
"'Ninety-eight per cent of their output is now feeding into curls that make an electromagnet of this ship's hull. You will find it very hard to separate us, and I would advise you not to try.' The suit was on, and I kept the running chatter up through the mic in the helmet, relaying to the ship's transmitter. The scene in the monitor receiver changed. "'You are now looking at a hydrogen bomb that is primed and aware of the magnetic field holding our ships together. It will, of course, go off if you try to pull away.' I grabbed up the monitor receiver and ran towards the airlock. "'This is a different bomb now.' I said, keeping one eye on the screen and the other on the slowly opening outer door.
This one has receptors on the hull. Attempt to destroy any part of the ship, or even gain entry to it, and this one will detonate. I was in space now, leaping across the gigantic wall of the other ship. What do you want? These were the first words Pepper had spoken since his first threats. I want to talk to you. Arrange a deal, something that would be profitable to both of us. But let me first show you the rest of the bombs, so you won't get any strange ideas about cooperating. Of course, I had to show him the rest of the bombs. There was no getting out of it. The scanners in the ship were following a planned program. I made light talk about all my massive armament that would carry us both to perdition, while I climbed through the hole in the battleship's hull.
There was no armor or warning devices at this spot. It had been chosen carefully from the blueprints. Yeah, yeah. I'll take your word for it. You're a flying bomb. So stop with this roving report a bit, and tell me what you have in mind. This time I didn't answer him, because I was running and panting like a dog, and had the mic turned off. Just ahead, if the blue-pins were right, was the door to the control room. Pepe should be there. I stepped through, gun out, and pointed at the back of his head. Angelina stood next to him, looking at the screen. "'The game's over,' I said. "'Stand up slowly, and keep your hands in sight.' "'What do you mean?' He said angrily, looking at the screen in front of him.
The girl caught wise first. She spun around and pointed. He's here! They both stared, gaped at me, caught off guard and completely unprepared. You're under arrest, Crime King, I told him, and your girlfriend. Angelina rolled her eyes up and slid slowly to the floor. Real or faked? I didn't care. I kept the gun on Pepe's pudgy form while he picked her up and carried her to an acceleration couch against the wall. What will happen now? He quavered the question. His pouchy jaws shook, and I swear there were tears in his eyes. I was not impressed by his acting, since I could clearly remember the dead men floating in space. He stumbled over to a chair, half dropping into it. Will they do anything to me?
Angelina asked. Her eyes were open now. I have no idea what will happen to you, I told her truthfully. That's up for the courts to decide. But he made me do all those things, she wailed. She was young, dark and beautiful. The tears did nothing to spoil this. Pepe dropped his face into his hands, and his shoulders shook. I flicked the gun his way and snapped at him. Sit up, Pepe. I find it hard to believe that you are crying. There are some naval ships on the way now. The automatic alarm was triggered a minute ago. I'm sure they'll be glad to see the man who... Don't let them take me, please. Angelina was on her feet now, her back pressed to the wall. They'll put me in prison. Do things to my mind.
She shrunk away as she spoke, stumbling along the wall. I looked back at Pepe, not wanting to have my eyes off him for an instant. There's nothing I can do, I told her. I glanced away, and a small door was swinging open, and she was gone. Don't try to run, I shouted after her. It can't do any good. Pepe made a strangling noise, and I looked back to him quickly. He was sitting up now, and his face was dry of tears. In fact, he was laughing, not crying. "'So she caught you, too, Mr. Wisecobb, poor little Angelina with the soft eyes!' He broke down again, shaking with laughter. "'What do you mean?' I growled. Don't you catch it yet? The story she told you was true, except she twisted it around a bit.
The whole plan, building the battleship, then stealing it, was hers. She pulled me into it, played me like an accordion. I fell in love with her, hating myself and happy all at the same time. Well, I'm glad it's over. At least I gave her a chance to get away, though I thought I would explode when she went into that innocence act. The cold feeling was now a ball of ice that threatened to paralyze me. You're lying, I said hoarsely, and even I didn't believe it. Sorry, that's the way it is. Your brains, boys, will pick my skull to pieces and find the truth out. Anyway, there's no point lying now. We'll search the ship. She can't hide for long. She won't have to, Pepe said. There's a fast scout we picked up, stowed in one of the holes.
That must be leaving now. We could feel the vibration distantly through the floor. The neighbour will get her, I told him with far more conviction than I felt. Maybe," he said, suddenly slumped and tired, no longer laughing. Maybe they will, but I gave her a chance. It's all over for me now, but she knows that I loved her to the end. He bared his teeth in sudden pain. Not that she will care in the slightest. I kept the gun on him, and neither of us moved, while the Navy ships pulled up and their boots stamped outside. I had captured my battleship, and the raids were over. And I couldn't be blamed if the girl had slipped away. If she evaded the Navy ships, that was their fault, not mine. I had my victory all right.
Then why did it taste like ashes in my mouth? It's a big galaxy, but it wasn't going to be big enough to hide Angelina now. I can be conned once, but only once. The next time we met, things were going to be very different.
Barney Shergold.
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4 Missing Link 43:02
Missing Link by Frank Herbert.
The Romantics used to say that the eyes were the windows of the soul. A good alien xenologist might not put it quite so poetically, but he can, if he's sharp. Read a lot in the look of an eye.
"'We ought to scrape this planet clean, of every living thing on it,' muttered Umbo Stetson, section chief of Investigation and Adjustment. Stetson paced the landing control bridge of his scout cruiser. His footsteps grated on a floor that was the rear wall of the bridge during flight. But now the ship rested on its tail fins, all four hundred glistening red-and-black metres of it. The open ports of the bridge looked out on the jungle roof of Jaina Three, some one hundred fifty metres below. A buttery-yellow sun hung above the horizon, perhaps an hour from setting. Clean as an egg, he barked. He paused in his round of the bridge, glared out the starboard port, spat into the fire-blackened circle that the cruiser's jets had burned from the jungle.
The I.A. section chief was dark-haired, gangling, with large head and big features. He stood in his customary slouch, a stance not improved by the sack-like patched blue fatigues. Although on this present operation he raided the flag of a division admiral, his fatigues carried no insignia. There was a general, unkempt, straggling look about him. Lewis Orne, Jr. I.A. Fieldman with a maiden diploma, stood at the opposite port, studying the jungle horizon. Now and then he glanced at the bridge control console, the chronometer above it, The big trance-like map of their position tilted from the opposite bulkhead. A heavy planet native, he felt vaguely uneasy on the Sgina III, with its gravity of only 7-8 Terran standard.
The surgical scars on his neck, where the microcommunications equipment had been inserted, itched maddeningly. He scratched.
said Stetson. Politicians! A thin black insect with shell-like wings flew in Orne's port, settled in his close-cropped red hair. Orne pulled the insect gently from his hair, released it. Again it tried to land in his hair. He ducked. It flew across the bridge, out the port beside Stetson. There's a thick-muscled, no-fat look to Orne, but something about his blocky, off-centred features suggested a clown. "'I'm getting tired of waiting,' he said. "'You're tired. Ha!' A breeze rippled the tops of the green ocean below them. Here and there, red and purple flowers jutted from the verdure, bending and nodding like an attentive audience. Just look at that blasted jungle, barked Stetson. Them and their stupid orders.
A call bell tinkled on the bridge control console. The red light above the speaker grid began blinking. Stetson shot an angry glance at it. Yeah, how? Okay, Stetson. Orders just came through. We use Plan C. Comgo says to brief the field man and jet out of here. Did you ask them about using another fieldman? Orne looked up attentively. The speaker said, Yes. They said we have to use Orne, because the record's on the Delphinus. Well, then, will they give us more time to brief him? Negative. It's crash priority. Comgo expects to blast the planet anyway. Stetson glared at the grid. Those fat-headed, lard-bottomed, pig-brained politicians! He took two deep breaths. Shhhhhh! subsided. Okay. Tell them we'll comply.
One more thing, Stetson. What now? I've got a confirmed contact. Instantly, Stetson was poised on the balls of his feet, alert. Where? About ten kilometres out. Section AAB6. How many? A mob? You want I should count them? No. What are they doing? Making a beeline for us. You better get a move on. Okay. Keep us posted. Right. Stetson looked across at his junior fieldman. If you decide you want out of this assignment, you just say the word. I owe back you to the hilt. Why should I want out of my first field assignment? Listen, and find out. Stetson crossed over to a tilt-locker behind the big Translight map, hauled out a white coverall uniform with gold insignia, tossed it to Orne. Get into these while I brief you on the map.
But this is an R and R unit," began Orne. "'Get that uniform on your ugly frame.' "'Yes, sir, Admiral Stetson, sir. Right away, sir. But I thought I was through with the old rediscovery and re-education when you drafted me off the Hamel into the I A. Sir,' he began changing from the I A Blue to the R and R White. Almost as an afterthought, he said, "'Sir,' A wolfish grin cracked Stetson's big features. "'I'm so happy you have the proper attitude of subservience. "'Tward authority." Orne zipped up the coverall uniform. "'Oh, yes, sir. Sir.' "'Okay, Orne. Pay attention,' Stetson gestured at the map with its green superimposed grid squares. "'Here we are. Here's that city we flew over on our way down.' You'll head for it as soon as we drop you.
The place is big enough that if you hold a course roughly northeast, you can't miss it. We're—again. The call bell rang. What's it this time, Hal? barked Stetson. They've changed to plan H. Stet. New orders cut. Five days? That's all they can give us. Comgo says he can't keep the information out of High Commissioner Bull One's hands any longer than that. It's five days for sure, then. Is this the usual R&R foul-up? asked Orne. Stetson nodded. Thanks to Bull One and Company, we're just one jump ahead of catastrophe. But they still pumped the bourgeois into the Ra-Ra boys back at dear old Unigalactica. "'You're making light of my revered alma mater,' said Orne. He struck a pose. "'We must reunite the lost planets with our centres of culture and industry, and take up the glorious onward march of mankind that was so br-o-tally.
Can it?' Snap, Stetson. We both know we're going to rediscover one planet too many some day. Rim wore all over again. But this is a different breed of fish. It's not—repeat—not—a rediscovery. Orange sobered. Alien? Yes. A-l-i-e-n. A never before. Contacted. Culture. That language you were force-fed on the way over? That's an alien language. It's not complete. All we have off the minis. And we excluded data on the natives, because we've been hoping to dump this project and nobody the wiser. Holy Mizzou! Twenty-six days ago, an I.A. search-ship came through here. Had a routine mini-sneaker. Look at the place. When he combed in his net of sneakers to check the tapes and films, lo and behold, he had a little stranger.
One of theirs? No, it was a mini off the Delphinus Rediscovery. The Delphinus has been unreported for 18 standard months. Did it crack up here? We don't know. If it did, we haven't been able to spot it. She was supposed to be way off in the Ballandine system by now, but we've something else on our minds. It's the one item that makes me want to blot out this place and run home with my tail between my legs. We've a— Again the call bell chimed. Now what? roared Stetson into the speaker. I've got a mini over that mob, They're talking about us. It's a definite raiding party. What armament? Too gloomy in that jungle to be sure. The infrabeam's out on this many. Looks like hard pellet rifles of some kind.
Might even be off the Delphinus. Can you get closer? Wouldn't do any good. No light down there. And they're moving up fast. Keep an eye on them, but don't ignore the other sectors, said Stetson. "'You think I was born yesterday?' barked the voice from the grid. The contact broke off with an angry sound. "'One thing I like about the I.A.' said Stetson, "'It collects such even-tempered types.' He looked at the white uniform on Orne, wiped a hand across his mouth as though he'd tasted something dirty. "'Why am I wearing this thing?' asked Orne. "'Disguise.' But there's no mustache. Stetson smiled without humor. That's one of IA's answers to those fat, keistered politicians. We're setting up our own search system to find the planets before they do.
We've managed to put spies in key places at R&R. Any touchy planets are spies' report. We divert the files. Then what? Then we look into them with bright boys like you, disguised as R&R field men. "'Goody, goody! And what happens if R&R stumbles on to me while I'm down there playing patty-cake?' "'We disown you.' "'But you said an I.A. ship found this joint. It did. And then one of our spies in R&R intercepted a routine request for an agent-instructor to be assigned here.' With full equipment. Request signed by a first contact officer named a distin...
of the Delphinus. But the Del... yeah, missing. The request was a forgery. Now you see why I'm mostly for rubbing out this place. Who dare forge such a thing unless he knew for sure that the original F.C. officer was missing. Or dead. What the jumped-up mizzou are we doing here, Stett? asked Gorn. Alien calls for full contact team with all the—it calls for one Planet Buster bomb. Buster in five days. Unless you give them a white bill in the meantime. High Commissioner Bull One will have word of this planet by then. If Gina Three still exists in five days— Can't you imagine the fun the politicians'll have? Mama Mia! We want this planet cleared for contact or dead before then. I don't like this, Stet.
You don't like it. Look, said Orne, there must be another way. Why, when we teamed up with the Alarinoids, we gained five hundred years in the physical sciences alone, not to mention the—the The Alarinoids didn't knock over one of our survey ships first. What if the Delphinus just crashed here, and the locals picked up the pieces? That's what you're going in to find out, Orne. But answer me this. If they do have the Delphinus, how long before a tool-using race could be a threat to the galaxy?
I saw that city they built, Stett. They could be dug in within six months. And there'd be no—yeah. Orne shook his head. Think of it. Two civilizations that matured along different lines. Think of all the different ways we'd approach the same problems. The lever that'd give us for—you sound like a unigalactical lecture. Are you through marching arm in arm into the misty future? Orne took a breath. Why is a freshman like me being tossed into this dish? You'd still be on the Delphinus master list as an R&R fieldman. That's important if you're masquerading. Am I the only one? I know I'm a recent convert, but—you want out? I didn't say that. I just want to know why I'm—because the big domes fed a set of requirements into their iron monsters.
Your card popped out. They were looking for somebody capable, dependable. and expendable. Hey! That's why I'm down here briefing you instead of sitting back on a flagship. I got you into the I.A. Now you listen carefully. If you push the panic button on this one without cause, I will personally flay you alive. We both know the advantages of an alien contact, but if you get into a hot spot and call for help. I'll dive this cruiser into that city to get you out." Orne swallowed. Thanks, Stet. I'm— We're going to take up a tight orbit. Out beyond us will be five transports full of I.A. Marines and a Class IX Monitor with one Planet Buster. You're calling the shots, God help you. First, we want to know if they have the Delfinus, and if so, where it is.
Next, we want to know just how warlike these goons are. Can we control them if they're bloodthirsty? What's their potential? In five days? Not a second more. What do we know about them? Not much. They look something like an ancient Terran chimpanzee, only with blue fur. Faces hairless, pink-skinned. Stetson snapped a switch. The Translite map became a screen with a figure frozen on it. Like that. This is life-size. Looks like the missing link they've always hunted for, said Orne. Yeah, but you've got a different kind of missing link. Vertical slip pupils in their eyes, said Orne. He studied the figure. It had been caught from the front by a mini-sneaker camera, about five feet tall. The stance was slightly bent forward.
Long arms, two vertical nose-slits, a flat, lipless mouth, receding chin, four-fingered hands. It wore a wide belt from which dangled neat pouches and what looked like tools, although their use was obscure. There appeared to be the tip of a tail protruding from behind one of the squat legs. Behind the creature towered the fairy spires of the city they'd observed from the air. "'Tales?' asked Dorne. "'Yeah, there are a boreal. Not a road on the whole planet we can find. But there are lots of vine lanes through the jungles,' Stetson's face hardened. "'Match that with the city as advanced as that one.' "'Slave culture?' "'Probably.' How many cities have they? We've found two. This one, and another one on the other side of the planet.
But the other one's a ruin. A ruin? Why? You tell us. Lots of mysteries here. What's the planet like? Mostly jungle. There are polar oceans, lakes and rivers. One low mountain chain follows the equatorial belt about two-thirds around the planet. But only two cities. Are you sure? Reasonably so. It'd be pretty hard to miss something the size of that thing we flew over. It must be fifty kilometers long, and at least ten wide. Swarming with these creatures, too. We've got a zone count, estimate the places the city's population at over thirty million.
Whee-ew! Those are tall buildings, too. We don't know much about this place, Orne, unless you bring them into the fold there'll be nothing but ashes for our archaeologists to pick over. Seems a dirty shame. I agree, but—the call bell jangled. Stetson's voice sounded tired. Yeah, how—that mob's only about five kilometers out, Stet. We got Orne's gear outside on the disguised air sled. We'll be right down. Why, a disguised sled? asked Dorne. If they think it's a ground buggy, they might get careless when you most needn't advantage. We could always scoop you out of the air, you know. What are my chances on this one, Stetson? Stetson shrugged. I'm afraid they're slim. These goons probably have the Delphinus, and they want you just long enough to get your equipment and everything you know.
Rough is that, eh? According to our best guess, if you're not out in five days, we blast. Orin cleared his throat. Want out? asked Stetson. No. Use the back door, rules, son. Always leave yourself a way out. Now let's check that equipment the surgeons put in your net. Stetson put a hand to his throat. His mouth remained closed, but there was a surf hissing voice in Orin's ears. You read me? Sure, I can. No," hissed the voice, touched the mic-contact. Keep your mouth closed. Just use your speaking muscles without speaking. Orn obeyed. Okay," said Stetson. You come in loud and clear. I ought to. I'm right on top of you. There'll be a relay ship over you all the time, said Stetson. Now, when you're not touching that mic-contact, this rig will feed us what you say, and everything that goes on around you, too.
We'll monitor everything. Got that? Yes. Stetson held out his right hand. Good luck. I meant that about diving in for you. Just say the word. I know the word, too, said Orne. Help! Gray mud floor and gloomy aisles between monstrous bluish tree trunks. That was the jungle. Only the barest weak glimmering of sunlight penetrated to the mud. The disguised sled? Its paragraph units turned off, lurched, and skidded around buttress roots. Its headlights swung in wild arcs across the trunks and down the mud. Aerial creepers, great looping vines of them, swung down from the towering forest ceiling. A steady drip of condensation spattered the windshield, forcing Orne to use the wipers. In the bucket seat of the slud's cab, Orne fought the controls.
He was plagued by the vague slow motion floating sensation that a heavy planet native always feels in lighter gravity. It gave him an unhappy stomach. Things skipped through the air around the lurching vehicle, flitting and darting things. Insects came in twin cones, siphoned toward the headlights. There was an endless chittering, whistling, talk, talk, talking in the gloom beyond the lights. Stetson's voice hissed suddenly through the surgically implanted speaker. How's it look? Alien. Any sign of that mob? Negative. Okay, we're taking off.
Behind Dorne there came a deep rumbling roar that receded as the scout cruiser climbed its jets. All other sounds hung suspended in the after silence, then resumed. The strongest first, and then the weakest. A heavy object suddenly arced through the headlights, swinging on a vine. It disappeared behind a tree. Another. Another. Ghostly shadows with vine pendulums on both sides. Something banged down heavily on the hood of the sled. Orne braked to a creaking stop that shifted the load behind him, found himself staring through the windshield at a native of Jaina Three. This native crouched on the hood. A Mark 20 exploding pellet rifle in his right hand directed at Orne's head. In the abrupt shock of meeting, Orne recognized the weapon, standard issue to the Marine Guards on all R&R survey ships.
The native appeared the twin of the one Orne had seen on the Translight screen. The four-fingered hand looked extremely capable around the stock of the Mark 20. Slowly Orne put a hand to his throat, pressed the contact button. He moved his speaking missiles. Just made contact with the mob? One on the hood now has one of our Mark-20 rifles aimed at my head. The surf hissing of Stetson's voice came through the hidden speaker. Want us to come back? Negative. Stand by. He looks cautious rather than hostile.
Orne held up his right hand, palm out. He had a second thought. Held up his left hand, too. Universal symbol of peaceful intentions. Empty hands. The gun-muzzle lowered slightly. Orne called into his mind the language that had been hypnophoreced into him. O Chiro? No, that meant the people. Ah, and he had the heavy fricative greeting sound. For-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r- The native shifted to the left, answered in pure, unaccented, high Galactese. "'Who are you?' Orne fought down a sudden panic. The lipless mouth had looked so odd, forming the familiar words. Stetson's voice hissed.
"'Is that the native speaking Galactese?' Orne touched his throat. "'You heard him.' He dropped his hand. said, "'I am Louis Orne of Rediscovery and Reducation. I was sent here at the request of the First Contact Officer on the Delphinus Rediscovery.' "'Where is your ship?' demanded the Jainan. "'It put me down and left.' "'Why?' It was behind schedule for another appointment. Out of the corners of his eyes, Orne saw more shadows dropping to the mud around him. The sled shifted as someone climbed onto the load behind the cab. The someone scuttled agilely for a moment. The native climbed down to the cab's side step, opened the door. The rifle was held at the ready. Again, the lipless mouth formed Galactese's words.
"'What do you carry in this vehicle?' The equipment every R&R fieldman uses to help the people of a rediscovered planet Orn nodded at the rifle. Would you mind pointing that weapon some other direction? It makes me nervous. The gun-muzzle remained unwaveringly on Orn's middle, the native's mouth open, revealing long canines. Do we not look strange to you? I take it there's been a heavy mutational variation in the humanoid norm on this planet, said Orn. What is it? Hard radiation?" No answer. It doesn't really make any difference, of course," said Orne. I'm here to help you. I am Tanube, High Path Chief of the Grazie," said the native. I decide who is to help. Orne swallowed. Where do you go? demanded Tanube.
I was hoping to go to your city. Is it permitted? A long pause while the vertical slip pupils of Tenub's eyes expanded and contracted. It is permitted. Stetson's voice came through the hidden speaker. "'All bets off. We're coming in after you. That Mark 20 is a final straw. It means they have the Delphinus for sure.' Orne touched his throat. "'No. Give me a little more time.' "'Why? I have a hunch about these creatures. What is it?' "'No time now. Trust me.' Another long pause, in which Orne and Tenoub continued to study each other. Presently, Stetson said, "'Okay, go ahead as planned, but find out where the Delphinus is. If we get that back, we pull their teeth.' "'Why do you keep touching your throat?' demanded Tenoub.
"'I'm nervous,' said Orne. "'Guns always make me nervous.' The muzzle lowered slightly. "'Shall we continue on to your city?' asked Orne. He wet his lips with his tongue. The cablight on Tenub's face was giving the gine'n an eerie, sinister look. "'We can go soon,' said Tenub. "'Will you join me inside here?' asked Orne. "'There's a passenger seat right behind me.' Tenub's eyes moved. Cat-like. Right? Left? Yes.' He turned, barked in order to the jungle gloom, then climbed in behind Orne. When do we go? asked Orne. The great sun will be down soon, said Tanube. We can continue as soon as Chirana Chirusso rises. Chirana Chirusso? Our satellite, our moon, said Tanube. It's a beautiful word, said Orne.
Chirana Chirusso. In our tongue, it means the limb of victory. said Tanoub. By its light we will continue.
Orin turned, looked back at Tanoub. Do you mean to tell me that you can see by what light gets down here through those trees? Can you not see? asked Tanoub. Not without the headlights. Our eyes differ, said Tanoub. He bent toward Orin, peered. The vertical slit pupils of his eyes expanded and contracted. You are the same as the others. Oh, on the Delphinus? Yes. Presently, a greater gloom came over the jungle, bringing a sudden stillness to the wildlife. There was a chittering commotion from the natives in the trees around the sled. Tenub shifted behind Orne. We may go now, he said. Slowly. To stay behind my scouts. Right. Orne eased a sled forward around an obstructing route. Silence while they crawled ahead.
Around them shapes flung themselves from vine to vine. "'I admired your city from the air,' said Orne. "'It is very beautiful.' "'Yes,' said Tenoub. "'Why did you land so far from it? We didn't want to come down where we might destroy anything.' "'There is nothing to destroy in the jungle,' said Tenoub. Why do you have such a big city? asked Orne. Silence. I said, why do you—you are ignorant of our ways, said Tenue. Therefore I forgive you. The city is for our race. We must breed and be born in the sunlight. Once, long ago, we used crude platforms on the tops of trees. Now only the—wild ones do this. Stetson's voice hissed in Orne's ears. Easy on the sex line, boy. That's always touchy. These creatures are oviparous.
Sex glands are apparently hidden in that long fur behind where their chins ought to be. Who controls the breeding sites controls our world, said Tenub. Once there was another city. We destroyed it. Are there many wild ones? asked Orne. Fewer each year, said Tenub. That's how they get their slaves. Hissed Stetson. "'You speak excellent Galactice,' said Orne. "'The high-path chief commanded the best teacher,' said Tenoub. "'Do you two know many things, Orne?' "'That is why I was sent here,' said Orne. "'Are there many planets to teach?' asked Tenoub. "'Very many,' said Orne. "'Your city.' "'I saw very tall buildings. Of what do you build them?' In your tongue, glass, said Tenoub. The engineers of the Delphinus said it was impossible.
As you saw, they were wrong. A glass-blowing culture, hissed Stetson. That'd explain a lot of things. Slowly, the disguised sleds crept through the jungle. Once a scout swooped down into the headlights and waved. Orne stopped on Tenub's order, and they waited almost ten minutes before proceeding. "'Wild ones?' asked Orne. "'Perhaps,' said Tenub. A glowing of many lights grew visible through the giant tree-trunks. It grew brighter as the sled crept through the last of the jungle, and emerged in cleared land at the edge of the city. Orne stared upward in awe. The city fluted and spiraled into the moonlit sky. It was a fragile-appearing lacery of bridges, winking dots of light. The bridges wove back and forth from building to building until the entire visible network appeared to be one gigantic, dew-glittering web.
"'All that with glass,' murmured Orne. "'What's happening?' said Stetson. Orne touched his throat contact. We're just into the city clearing, proceeding toward the nearest building. This is far enough, said Tanoo. Orne stopped the sleight. In the moonlight he could see armed gynons all around. The buttress pedestal of one of the buildings loomed directly ahead. It looked taller than had the Scout Cruiser in its jungle landing circle. Tenub leaned closer to Orne's shoulder. "'We have not deceived you, have we, Orne?' "'Huh? What do you mean?' "'You have recognized that we are not mutated members of your race.' Orne swallowed.
Into his ears came Stetson's voice. "'Better admit it.' "'That's true,' said Orne. "'I like you, Orne,' said Tenub. "'You shall be one of my slaves. You will teach me many things.' "'How did you capture the Delphinus?' asked Orne. "'You know that, too.' "'You have one of the rifles,' said Orne. "'Your race is no match for us, Orne. In cunning, in strength, in prowess of the mind.' "'Your ship landed to repair its tubes. Very inferior ceramics in those tubes.' Orne turned, looked at Tanoub in the dim glow of the cablight, Have you heard about the I.A., Tanube?
I.A.? What is that? There was a wary tenseness in the giant's figure, his mouth open to reveal the long canines. You took the Delphinus by treachery? asked Orne. They were simple fools, said Tanube. We are smaller, thus they thought us weaker. The Mark Twenty's muzzle came round to centre on Orne's stomach. You have not answered my question. What is the I.A.? I am of the I.A., said Orne. Where have you hidden the Delphinus? In the place that suits us best, said Tenub. In all our history there has never been a better place.
What do you plan to do with it? asked Orne. Within a year we will have a copy with our own improvements. After that— You intend to start a war, asked Orne. In the jungle, the strong slay the weak, until only the strong remain, said T'nub. And then the strong prey upon each other, asked Orne. That is a quibble for women, said T'nub. It's too bad you feel that way, said Orne. When two cultures meet like this, they tend to help each other. What have you done with the crew of the Delphinus? They are slaves, said T'nub, those who still live. Some resisted. Others objected to teaching us what we want to know. He waved his gun muzzle. "'You will not be that foolish, will you, Orne?' "'No need to be,' said Orne.
"'I've another little lesson to teach you. I already know where you've hidden the Delphinus.' "'Go, boy,' hissed Stetson. "'Where is it?' "'Impossible!' barked Tenoub. "'It's on your moon,' said Orne. "'Darkside. It's on a mountain on the dark side of your moon.' Tenub's eyes dilated, contracted. "'You read minds?' "'The I.A. has no need to read minds,' said Orne. "'We rely on superior mental prowess.' "'The Marines are on their way,' hissed Stetson. "'We're coming in to get you. I'm going to want to know how you guessed that one.' "'You are a weak fool like the others,' gritted Tenub. "'It's too bad if you formed your opinion of us by observing only the low grades of the R&R,' said Orne. Easy, boy, hissed Stetson.
Don't pick a fight with him now. Remember, this race is arboreal. He's probably as strong as an ape. I could kill you where you sit, grated Tanoub. You're right. Finish for your entire planet if you do, said Orne. I'm not alone. There are others listening to every word we say. There's a ship overhead that could split open your planet with one bomb, wash it with molten rock. It would run like the glass you used for your buildings.
"'You are lying. We'll make you an offer,' said Orne. "'We don't really want to exterminate you. We'll give you limited membership in the Galactic Federation until you prove you're no menace to us.' "'Keep talking,' hissed Stetson. "'Keep him interested.' "'You dare insult me?' growled Noob. "'You'd better believe me,' said Orne. "'We—' Stetson's voice interrupted him. "'Got it, Orne!' They caught the Delphinus on the ground right where you said it'd be. Blew the tubes off it. Marine's now mopping up. It's like this," said Orne. We already have recaptured the Delphinus. Tenub's eyes went instinctively skyward. Except for the captured armament you still hold, you obviously don't have the weapons to meet us," continued Orne.
Otherwise you wouldn't be carrying that rifle off the Delphinus. If you speak the truth, then we shall die bravely," said Tenub. No need for you to die, said Orne. Better to die than be slaves, said Tenub. We don't need that, Orne. I cannot take the chance that you are lying, said Tenub. I must kill you now. Orne's foot rested on the air-sled control pedal. He depressed it. Instantly the sledge shot skyward, heavy G's pressing them down into the seats. The gun in Tanub's hand was slammed into his lap. He struggled to raise it. To Orin the weight was still only about twice that of his home planet of Charjon. He reached over, took the rifle, found the safety belts, bound Tanub with them. Then he eased off the acceleration.
We don't need slaves, said Orne. We have machines to do our work. We'll send experts in here, teach you people how to exploit your planet, how to build good transportation facilities, how to mine your minerals, how to—and what do we do in return, whispered Tanoub. "'You could start by teaching us how you make superior glass,' said Orne. "'I certainly hope you see things our way. We really don't want to have to come down here and clean you out. It'd be a shame to have to blast that city into little pieces.' To Noob waltzed. "'Presently he said, "'Send me back. I will discuss this with our counsel.' He stared at Orne. "'You I As are too strong. We did not know.' In the wardroom of Stetson's Scout Cruiser, the lights were low, the leather chairs comfortable, the green-beige table set with a decanter of Hocar brandy and two glasses.
Orne lifted his glass, sipped the liquor, smacked his lips. For a while there, I thought I'd never be tasting anything like this again. Stetson took his own glass. Comgo heard the whole thing over the General Monitor net, he said. Do you know you've been breveted to the senior field ban?
Ah, they've already recognized my sterling worth, said Orne. The wolfish grin took over Stetson's big features. Senior field men last about half as long as juniors, he said. Mortality's terrific. I might have known, said Orne. He took another sip of the brandy. Stetson flicked on the switch of the recorder beside him. Okay. You can go ahead any time. Where do you want me to start? First, how'd you spot right away where they'd hidden the Delphinus? Easy. Tanube's word for his people was Grazi. Most races call themselves something meaning the people, but in his tongue that's O'chiro. Grazi wasn't on the translated list. I started working on it. The most likely answer was that it had been adopted from another language, and meant enemy.
And that told you where the Delphinus was? No, but it fitted my hunch about these Jinans. I'd kind of felt from the first minute of meeting them that they had a culture like the Indians of ancient Terra. Why? They came in like a primitive raiding party. The leader dropped right on to the hood of my sled. An act of bravery, no less. Counting coup, you see? I guess so. Then he said he was High Path Chief. That wasn't on the language list, either. But it was easy. Raider Chief. There's a word in almost every language in history that means raider and derives from a word for road, path, or highway. Highwayman, said Stetson. Raid itself, said Orn, an ancient Terran language corruption of road. Yeah, yeah, but where is all this translation, Griff?
Don't be impatient. Glass-blowing culture meant they were just out of the primitive stage, that we could control. Next, he said, their moon was Chirana Chiruso, translated as the limb of victory. After that it just fell into place. How? The vertical slit pupils of their eyes. Doesn't that mean anything to you? Maybe. What's it mean to you? Night-hunting predator accustomed to dropping upon its victims from above. No other type of creature ever has had the vertical slit, and Tenube said himself that the Delphinus was hidden in the best place in all their history. History? That'd be a high place. Dark likewise. Ergo, a high place on the dark side of their moon. "'I'm a pie-eyed creepus,' whispered Stetson.
Orngren said, "'You probably are, sir.' The End."
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5 The Quantum Jump 22:40
The Quantum Jump by Robert Wicks. Captain Brandon was a pioneer. He explored the far reaches of space and reported back on how things were out there, so it was pretty disquieting to find out that the far reaches of space knew more about what went on at home than he did.
Brannon was looking at the Milky Way. Through his permaglass canopy he could see it trailing across the black velvet of space like a white bridal veil. Below his SC-9B scout ship stretched the red-dust deserts of Sirius III illuminated by the thin light of two ice moons. He looked at the Milky Way. He looked at it as a man looks at a flickering fireplace and thinks of other things. He thought of the Sun, fifty-two trillion miles away, a pinpoint of light lost in the dazzle of the Milky Way, the Earth a speck of dust in orbit, just as this planet was to its master, Sirius. Nine light years away. Of course, thirteen years had passed on Earth since they had left, because the trip took four years by RT, relative time.
But even four years is a long time to be shut up in Astro One with five other men, especially when one of them was the Imperius Colonel Towers. A quantum jump. That's the way to beat the Reds, the Colonel had said a thousand times. His well-worn expression had nothing to do with quantum mechanics. The actual change in atomic configuration Due to the application of sufficient energy. Rather, it was a slang expression, referring to a major advance in interplanetary travel due to a maximum scientific and technological effort. "'Let em have Mars and Venus,' the Colonel would say. "'Let em have the whole solar system. We'll make a quantum jump. Leap-frog ahead of em. We'll be the first men to set foot on a planet of another solar system.'" Four years had gone by in the ship, thirteen years on Earth.
Four years of Colonel Towers. Military discipline grew more strict each day. Space does funny things to some men. The, We'll be the first men, had turned into, I'll be the first man. But it was Captain Brandon who drew the assignment of scouting Sirius III for a suitable landing-place for Astro, of sampling its atmosphere and observing meteorological conditions. Even as Brandon climbed into the scout ship, Towers had cautioned him, Remember, Your assignment is to locate a firm landing site with ample protection from the elements. Under no circumstances are you to land yourself. Is that clearly understood? Brandon nodded, was launched, and now is cruising one hundred thousand feet above the alien planet.
Brandon tilted the ship up on one wing and glanced down at the brick-red expanse of desert. Tiny red mists marked dust storms. Certainly this was no place to set down the full weight of Astro. Nor to protect the crew and equipment from abrasive dust. He righted the ship. Far on the horizon was a bank of atmospheric clouds. Perhaps conditions were more promising there. He shoved the power setting to ninety per cent. A fire warning indicator light blinked on. Instantly, Brandon's eyes were on the instrument panel. The tailpipe temperature seemed all right. It could be a false indication. He eased back on the power setting. Maybe the light would go out. But it didn't. Instead, he felt a surging rumble deep in the bowels of the ship.
Luminous needles danced, and a second red light flashed on. He snapped the video switch and depressed the mic button. Astro One, this is Brandon. Over. A steady, crackling sound filled his earphones. A grid of light and shadow fluttered on the screen. A thought entered his mind. Maybe he had put too much planet curvature between Astro and himself. Astro One, this is Brandon. Come in, please. A series of muffled explosions rocked the ship. He chopped the power back all the way and listened intently. Mayday! Mayday! Astro, this is Brandon! Mayday! A faint voice sputtered in his ear. The face of Reinhardt, the radio man, appeared before him. Brandon, this is Astro One. What is your position? Over.
Brandon's voice sounded strange and distant as he talked to his oxygen mask. Heading 180. Approximately six hundred miles from you. Altitude, one hundred thousand feet. What is the nature of your trouble, Brandon? Before Brandon could answer, the face of Colonel Towers appeared beside the radiomans. Brandon, what are you trying to pull? Engine trouble, sir. Losing altitude fast. Do you know the nature of the trouble? Negative. Might have thrown a compressor blade. Got a fire indication, then a compressor surge. Chopped off the power. Towers frowned. Why didn't you use straight-rocket power? Well, sir— Never mind now. You may have encountered oxygen or hydrogen-rich atmosphere. Melted your compressor blades.
Try an air start on straight rocket. I want that ship back, Brandon. Repeat, I want that ship back. I may be able to write it down. Get on the deck intact. Try an air start, Brandon. Towers leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Brandon. "'I don't want you to set foot on that planet. Get me?' But there wasn't time to try anything. The cabin was filling with fumes. Brandon looked down. A fringe of blue flame crept along between the floor and the bottom of the pilot's capsule. A cold ache filled the cavity of his stomach. "'Too late. I'm on fire. Capsuling out. Repeat, capsuling out.' "'Brandon!' The colonel's glaring face flicked off, as Brandon pushed the pre-ejection lever into the lock position, severing all connections between the ship and the pilot's capsule.
Brandon had a strange, detached feeling as he pushed the ejection button. There was an explosion, and the pilot's capsule shot up like a wet bar of soap squeezed out of a giant's hand. The ship turned into a torch and sank beneath him. Brandon closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he was staring at the Milky Way, then the desert, as he tumbled over and over. He talked to the Milky Way. Ten seconds. Should wait at least ten seconds before releasing a drogue chute so we'll clear the ship. Then he spoke to the desert. And maybe another ten to give the capsule time to slow down. He counted, then pulled the chute release. Nylon streamed out behind him and snapped open with a tremendous jar.
A moment later, bundles of metal ribbons floated out and billowed into a giant umbrella. The last thing he remembered was the taste of blood on his lips.
When Brandon opened his eyes, he was staring at the silvery disks of the twin moons. They were high in the sky, obscuring the center of the Milky Way. Funny he should be lying on his back, looking at the sky, he thought. Then he remembered. The capsule was on its back, and Brandon was still strapped securely to the seat. His whole body ached. Tendons had been pulled, muscles strained from the force of the ejection. His oxygen mask was still in place, but his helmet hung partly loose. He adjusted it automatically, then unbuckled the seat straps. He took a deep breath. Under the oxygen mask, he was aware of dried blood clotted in his nostrils, caked around the corners of his lips.
With an effort, he sat up on the back seat and looked through the permaglass. A tangle of cords stretched out to the nylon of the main chute draped over a dust dune. Beyond it he could see the gleaming metal ribbons of the drug shoot. Ahead of him, behind some low hills, he could see a dull red glow. The ship, he thought. Astro may already be hovering over it. He dragged the survival kit from behind the seat and pulled out some rations, a first aid kit, finally a teletaki. Raising the antenna, he plugged in the mic cord from his mask and held down the talk key with his thumb. Astro One, this is Brandon. Come in.
As he talked, a picture flickered on the screen. It was the radio room on Astro One. Colonel Towers was pacing back and forth in front of the radio man. "'Shall I keep trying to raise him?' he heard Reinhardt ask. "'Fool stunt,' Towers sputtered. "'Know what I think? I think he went down deliberately. Just to be the first human being to walk on the ground of a planet of another solar system.' "'Astro, this is Brannon. Come in, please.' Towers continued to pace and talk. "'He did it to spite me.' "'But we can't raise him, sir,' the radio operator said. "'Maybe he didn't get out of it alive.' "'Colonel Towers, can't you hear me?' Brandon yelled into his oxygen mask. "'He got out all right,' the colonel said.
"'We're just stalling to make it look good.' "'We aren't going to give up the search, are we, sir?' asked the radio man. "'It would serve his soul right.' The colonel stopped pacing and faced the radioman. "'Keep trying to raise him, Reinhart. I'm going to bring us down to 40,000 feet and search the area where he went down. It's a waste of rocket fuel tooling around in the atmosphere,' he muttered, disappearing through a bulkhead door. "'Wait! Colonel Towers!' Brandon called, but he knew it was of no use. Obviously he could pick up Astro, but they could neither see nor hear him. "'Captain Brandon, this is Astro calling. Over.' The radioman repeated the phrase a dozen times, and each time Brandon acknowledged, swore, and acknowledged again.
Finally, in desperation, he switched off the teletaki. He snapped open the back of the unit and studied a maze of transistors, resistors, and capacitors. If there was something wrong, it was subtle, like a burned-out resistor or a shorted condenser. Whatever it was, it was beyond emergency repair. He dropped the teletaki behind the seat and examined the gauge on his oxygen mask. There was enough to last the night, but not much more. He sat down in the capsule to think. The first thing they had located is the burning ship, he decided. Then they would probably start searching in ever-widening circles. But would they see him in the faint light of the ice moons? He looked back at the nylon chute again.
Another thought ran through his mind. Suppose they don't spot me in the dark. When the sun, serious, I mean, comes up, there's a good chance they'll spot the parachute and search for me. He slid the canopy open and looked down at the red soil of Sirius III. He hesitated for a moment, then swung his feet over the side and dropped to the ground. "'At least he'll have that satisfaction,' he said, grinning under his oxygen mask.
Very much aware of gravity after years of weightlessness, he walked to the canopy of the chute and spread it out on the flat ground in a full circle. It billowed in the wind. He searched around, found some glassy black rocks, and anchored down the chute. Then he looked at the orange glow that marked the funeral pyre of the ship. He had a decision to make. Stay here with the capsule, or head for the fire. Couldn't be more than a thousand yards away, he decided. Charging a walk-around oxygen bottle, he transferred his oxygen hose to it. He snapped the survival kit to his belt, and picked up the teletaki.
The ship was more than a thousand yards away. The first mile was across flat desert. He picked his way cautiously, His boots churning up clouds of powdery dust. He remembered the Russian reports of the weird and deadly creatures they had encountered in the Martian deserts. But aside from a few grey patches of brush, there seemed to be no signs of life. After all, he thought, the Earth held no life for the better part of its existence, and Towers had selected this planet because it bore relatively the same relationship to the brighter, hotter Sirius, as did the Earth to the Sun. While farther away, It should have approximately the same conditions as did the Earth. And it had seas. Not as large as on Earth, but seas nevertheless.
Yet there was a fallacy in this argument. Presumably all of the stars in the outer arms of the Milky Way and their planets were about the same age. With similar conditions as the Earth, life must have been born and walked out of the seas of Sirius III, just as it did on Earth. Something scurried into a wisp of brush, as if to bear out Brandon's realization. He froze. His eyes on the brush, his hand reaching for his hydrostatic shock pistol. He could hear nothing but the wind hollowing his ears. He stood for a long moment, then cautiously skirted the brush, and continued on toward the burning ship. There was an odd clicking sound, and he stopped. It sounded again. Brandon realized he was perspiring despite the chill of the desert night.
Again he moved on, the sound fading in the distance behind him. The next mile brought him to a great sheet of ancient lava, laid bare by the elements. He climbed to the top. The fire still seemed to be about a thousand yards ahead, beyond a ridge of low hills. A distant flare lit up the sky ahead of him. It glowed for a few moments, then died. They found the ship, he thought. After four years, I had completely forgotten about the store of photo flash flares. He watched for a while, but saw no more flares. Finally he scrambled down the other side of the lava sheet and continued on toward the wreck, moving slowly but steadily.
The third mile brought him to the scene of the crash. A smoking cylinder of fused metal lay in a gully. Parts were strewn along the bottom. A wing, untouched by the fire, was leaning tip-down against the edge of another lava sheet some distance away. He sat down. Another flare flashed in the sky behind him. Silhouetting a row of grotesque trees. "'I'm over here, you fools,' he thought. He watched until the flare flickered out, then turned his head back toward the remains of the ship. There wasn't much of a glow to it now. It would be hard to see unless Astro was right on top of it.' He raised the antenna on the teletalky and snapped it on. The screen glowed into life. Towers was stepping through the bulkhead door into the radio room.
Just like a television play in installments, Brandon thought. Scene Two, Coming Up.
No sign of him at the scene of the crash, Towers told Reinhart. If he got out, observed Reinhart, he could be a hundred miles away or more.
If he got out, Towers said in a tone that irritated Brandon. I got out, Brandon said, and right now I'm walking around in your precious planet like a Boy Scout. Curse this Teletucky. I'd give a year's pay if you could see me now, Towers. We may yet spot the escape capsule, Reinhardt was saying. We're still continuing the search, put in Towers. But I don't mind telling you I'm not wasting much more fuel. The radio operator started to say something, hesitated, and finally settled for—yes, sir. Brandon Sworen snapped off the set. He looked at his walk-around bottle. Can't stay here any longer, he muttered. He couldn't find the capsule. He walked three— Perhaps four miles. He stopped and blotted his moist brow with his sleeve.
He wasn't going to find it. Before him stretched an endless carpet of red dust. The light from the two moons was growing dim, as each settled towards different horizons. He sat down. A cloud of powdery dust settled over his legs. The lightness in his head told him that his oxygen was running out. The weakness in his muscles reminded him that it had been a long time since he had walked in the planet's gravity.
A distant flare lit up the horizon. He choked off a sob and beat his fist in the red dust. A wave of nausea swept over him. Bitter stomach juices welled up in his throat, but he swallowed them down again. Desperately he turned on the Teletucky. Astro, this is Brandon, he said. Brandon, this is Astro, Reinhardt said. Brandon's body tensed. "'Thank God I finally got through to you. Listen, Reinhardt, I must be about three—'Brandon, this is Astro,' said Reinhardt in a monotone. He said it again and again and again. Brandon fell back on the ground. His breathing was short, strained. His face was bathed in perspiration. The oxygen, he realized, was giving out. "'What are the odds that the air of Sirius III is breathable?' he wondered.
One in a hundred? The planet has water and both animal and plant life. Certainly it has sufficient gravity to hold its oxygen. But what other elements? Noxious gases might be present. Maybe the odds are closer to one in fifty, he decided. But there's no gamble when you have nothing to lose, he told the Milky Way.
Ripping off his oxygen mask, he took a deep breath of the alien atmosphere. The dust choked him. His ears rang. Black spots danced before his eyes, then melted into solid blackness. Brandon could hear Towers' voice in a vortex of darkness. Let's face it. Brandon is dead. Must have burned with the ship. At least that's the way the report will read. Get me, Reinhardt? Yes, sir. The disembodied voice of Reinhardt replied quietly. I'm going to set her down on a solid piece of ground near one of the oceans. There was a pause, and Brandon could almost see Colonel Towers drawing up to his full height. "'I'm going to be the first man to set foot on a planet of another solar system. Know what that means, Reinhardt?' "'A quantum jump, sir.' "'Right.
Leap-frogging ahead of the Reds. Wait till they read the name Colonel John Towers. Maybe General John Towers. General.' Brandon opened his eyes. Sirius was turning the sky to gray. trimming a few scattered clouds with gold. As he stared at the sky, Sirius rose with a brassy glare. Near it he could see its white-hot dwarf star companion. It was going to be a real scorcher, he decided, worse than any desert on earth. He sat up stiffly. On the teletalky screen, Reinhard, alone in the radio room, was calling quietly for Brandon. The bulkhead door swung open, and Towers poked his head through. Knock that off. said Tower sternly, and take your landing station.
As Reinhardt rose to his feet, Brandon reached over and turned off the set. Brandon took a deep breath. His head spun, and for the first time he realized that he was still alive. He gazed across the shimmering desert to a ridge of scrubby hills. Blue mountains rose up behind them. Great flows of black lava had rolled down onto the desert floor at some distant time. They were spotted with clumps of gray grass, Even as was the desert. The hills were studded with weird trees standing stiff, branches outstretched, like an army of scarecrows. The air of Sirius III was doing strange things to him. Two of the trees seemed to be moving. He swayed and sat heavily.
As he watched through a haze of red dust whipped up by the morning breeze, the two trees came closer, turned into men wearing desert uniforms, and leaned over him.
One of them asked. Brandon said nothing. "'We saw you from our observation station over on the hill,' said the other, pointing. They helped Brandon to his feet and gave him a swig of cool, sweet water from a canteen. "'I'm Captain Brandon, of the Astro One.' "'Astro One?' The man removed his pith helmet to wipe his brow, and Brandon noticed the gleaming U.S. insignia on the front of the helmet. "'The Astro One left Earth thirteen years ago.' the man said. Only four years by R.T., Brandon said. The man smiled and put his helmet back on his head. A lot of things have happened since you left. There was a war which we won, and I guess you guys were almost forgotten, and there was a lot of technological development.
You mean you had a quantum jump? asked Brandon, parroting Colonel Towers' favorite expression. Odd you would know that, replied the second man. It was through quantum mechanics that we learned to approximate the speed of light. While nine years pass on Earth when we make the trip, our rt is mere moments. Good Lord, Brannon said. You must have passed us up. Been on this planet for nearly a year, the first man said. Got men on dozens of planetary systems throughout the Milky Way. One ship when a thousand light years out. By the time they come back, civilization on Earth will be two thousand years older. Have you got a teletaki? Brandon asked. "'Sure,' said the first man, producing a set one-third the size of Brandon's.
"'Could you tune it to twenty-eight point six microcycles?' "'Sure,' the man said again. He turned a dial with his thumb and handed the unit to Brandon. Brandon depressed the talk button. A crystal-clear image of Colonel Towers, putting the final touches on his full-dress uniform, appeared on the screen. "'This is a historic occasion.' Colonel Towers was announcing to his crew. "'Open the hatch, and, Reinhard, be sure to stand by with the motion-picture camera.' "'Excuse me, Colonel Towers,' said Brandon quietly. Towers swung around and looked at Brandon. The Colonel's face paled. "'I have something to tell you,' said Brandon, grinning, "'about the quantum jump.'" End of The Quantum Jump by Robert Wicks Recording by Jerome Lawson.
January 2008.
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6 The Repairman 32:16
The Repairman. The Repair Man by Harry Harrison Being an interstellar troubleshooter wouldn't be so bad. If I could shoot the trouble.
The old man had that look of intense glee on his face that meant someone was in for a very rough time. Since we were alone, it took no great feat of intelligence to figure it would be me. I talked first, bold attack being the best defense, and so forth. I quit. Don't bother telling me what a dirty job you have cooked up, because I already quit, and you don't want to reveal company secrets to me. The grin was even wider now, and he actually chortled as he thumbed a button on his console. A thick legal document slid out of the delivery slot on his desk. "'This is your contract,' he said. "'It tells how and when you will work.' A steel and vanadium-bound contract that you couldn't crack with a molecular disruptor."
I leaned forward quickly, grabbed it, and threw it into the air with a single motion. Before it could fall, I had my solar out. and with a wide-angle shot burned the contract to ashes. The old man pressed the button again, and another contract slid out on his desk. If possible, the smile was still wider now. I should have said a duplicate of your contract, like this one here. He made a quick note on his secretary plate. I have deducted thirteen credits from your salary for the cost of the duplicate, as well as a one-hundred-credit fine for firing a solar inside a building. I slumped, defeated, waiting for the blow to land. The old man fondled my contract. According to this contract, you can't quit.
Ever. Therefore, I have a little job I know you'll enjoy. Repair job. The Centuri beacon has shut down. It's a Mark III beacon. What kind of beacon? I asked him. I have repaired hyperspace beacons from one arm of the galaxy to the other. And I was sure I had worked on every type or model made. But I had never heard of this kind. Mark III, the old man repeated, practically chortling. I never heard of it either until records dug up the specs. They found them buried in the back of the oldest warehouse. This was the earliest type of beacon ever built, by Earth, no less. Considering its location on one of the Proxima Centauri planets, it might as well have been the first beacon. I looked at the blue prints he handed me, and felt my eyes glaze with horror.
It's a monstrosity. It looks more like a distillery than a beacon. Must be at least a few hundred meters high. I'm a repairman, not an archeologist. This pile of junk is over two thousand years old. Just forget about it, and build a new one. The old man leaned over his desk, breathing into my face. It would take a year to install a new beacon, besides being too expensive. And this relic is on one of the main routes. We have ships making fifteen light-year detours now. He leaned back, wiped his hands on his handkerchief, and gave me Lecture 44 on Company duty and my troubles. The department is officially called Maintenance and Repair, when it really should be called Troubleshooting. Hyperspace beacons are to last forever, or damn close to it.
When one of them breaks down, It is never an accident, and repairing the thing is never a matter of just plugging in a new part. He was telling me, the guy who did the job, while he sat back on his fat paycheck in an air-conditioned office. He rambled on. How I wish that were all it took. I would have a fleet of parts ships and junior mechanics to install them. But it's not like that at all. I have a fleet of expensive ships that are equipped to do almost anything. Manned by a bunch of irresponsibles like you. I nodded moodily at his pointing finger. How I wish I could fire you all. Combination space jockeys, mechanics, engineers, soldiers, conmen, and everything else it takes to do the repairs.
I have to browbeat, bribe, blackmail, and bulldoze you thugs into doing a simple job. If you think you're fed up, just think how I feel. But the ships must go through. The beacons must operate. I recognized this deathless line as the curtain speech, and crawled to my feet. He threw the Mark III file at me, and went back to scratching in his papers. Just as I reached the door, he looked up, and impaled me on his finger again. "'And don't get any fancy ideas about jumping your contract. We can attach that bank account of yours on All Gall Two long before you can draw the money out.' I smiled a little weakly, I'm afraid. as if I had never meant to keep that account a secret. His spies were getting more efficient every day.
Walking down the hall, I tried to figure a way to transfer the money without his catching on, and knew at the same time he was figuring a way to outfigure me. It was all very depressing, so I stopped for a drink, and then went to the spaceport. By the time the ship was serviced, I had a course charted. The nearest beacon to the broken-down Proxima Centuri beacon was on one of the planets of Beta Cercenis, and I headed there first, a short trip of only about nine days in hyperspace. To understand the importance of the beacons, you have to understand hyperspace. Not that people do, but it is easy enough to understand that in this non-space the regular rules don't apply. Speed and measurements are a matter of relationship, not constant facts like the fixed universe.
The first ships to enter hyperspace had no place to go, and no way even to tell if they had moved. The beacons solved that problem, and opened the entire universe. They are built on planets, and generate tremendous amounts of power. This power is turned into radiation that is punched through into hyperspace. Every beacon has a code signal as part of its radiation, and represents a measurable point in hyperspace. Triangulation And quadrature of the beacon works for navigation, only it follows its own rules. The rules are complex and variable, but they are still rules that a navigator can follow. For a hyperspace jump, you need at least four beacons for an accurate fix. For long jumps, navigators use as many as seven or eight.
So every beacon is important, and every one has to keep operating. That is where I and the other troubleshooters come in. We travel in well-stocked ships that carry a little bit of everything. Only one man to a ship, because that is all it takes to operate the overly efficient repair machinery. Due to the very nature of our job, we spend most of our time just rocketing through normal space. After all, when a beacon breaks down, how do you find it? Not through hyperspace. All you can do is approach as close as you can by using other beacons. Then finish the trip in normal space. This can take months, and often does. This job didn't turn out quite that bad. I zeroed in on Beta Cercina's beacon, and ran a complicated eight-point problem through the navigator, using every beacon I could get an accurate fix on.
The computer gave me a course with an estimated point of arrival, as well as a built-in safety factor I never could eliminate from the machine. I would much rather take a chance of breaking through near some star than spend time just barreling through normal space. But apparently Tech knows this too. They had a safety factor built into the computer, so you can't end up inside a star, no matter how hard you tried. I'm sure there was no humanness in this decision. They just didn't want to lose the ship. It was a twenty-four-hour jump ship's time, and I came through in the middle of nowhere. The robot analyzer chuckled to itself, and scanned all the stars, comparing them to a spectra of Proxima Centauri.
It finally rang a bell and blinked a light. I peeped through the eyepiece. A fast reading with the photo cell gave me the apparent magnitude, and a comparison with its absolute magnitude showed its distance. Not as bad as I had thought. A six-week run, give or take a few days. After feeding a course into the robot pilot, I strapped into the accelerator tank and went to sleep. The time went fast. I rebuilt my camera for about the twentieth time, and just about finished a correspondence course on nucleonics. Most repairmen take these courses. Besides, they're always coming in handy. The company grades your pay by the number of specialties you can handle. All this, with some oil painting and free-fall workouts in the gym, Pass the time.
I was asleep when the alarm went off that announced planetary distance. Planet Two, where the beacon was situated according to the old charts, was a mushy-looking, wet kind of globe. I tried to make sense out of the ancient directions, and finally located the right area. Staying outside the atmosphere, I sent a flying eye down to look things over. In this business, you learn early when and where to risk your own skin. The eye would be good enough for the preliminary survey. The old boys had enough brains to choose a traceable site for the beacon, equidistant on a line between two of the most prominent mountain peaks. I located the peaks easily enough, and started the eye out from the first peak, and kept it on a course directly towards the second.
There was a nose and tail radar in the eye, and I fed their signals into a scope as an amplitude curve. When the two peaks coincided, I spun the eye controls and dived the thing down. I cut out the radar, and cut the nose orthicon, and sat back to watch the beacon appear on the screen. The image blinked, focused, and a great dam pyramid swam into view. I cursed and wheeled the eye in circles, scanning the surrounding country. It was flat, marshy bottomland without a bump. The only thing in a ten-mile circle was this pyramid. And that definitely wasn't my beacon. Or wasn't it? I dived the eye lower. The pyramid was a crude-looking thing of undressed stone, without carvings or decorations. There was a shimmer of light from the top, and I took a closer look at it.
On the peak of the pyramid was a hollow basin filled with water. When I saw that, something clicked in my mind. Locking the eye in a circular course, I dug through the Mark III plans. And there it was. The beacon had a precipitating field and a basin on top of it for water. This was used to cool the reactor that powered the monstrosity. If the water was still there, the beacon was still there, inside the pyramid. The natives, who, of course, weren't ever mentioned by the idiots who constructed the thing, had built a nice, heavy, thick stone pyramid around the beacon. I took another look at the screen and realized that I had locked the eye into a circular orbit about twenty feet above the pyramid.
The summit of the stone pile was now covered with lizards of some type, apparently the local life form. They had what looked like throwing sticks and arbalests, and were trying to shoot down the eye, a cloud of arrows and rocks flying in every direction. I pulled the eye straight up and away, and threw in the control circuit that would return it automatically to the ship. Then I went to the galley for a long, strong drink. My beacon was not only locked inside a mountain of handmade stone, but I had managed to irritate the things who had built the pyramid. A great beginning for a job, and one clearly designed to drive a stronger man than me to the bottle. Normally, a repairman stays away from native cultures.
They are poison. Anthropologists may not mind being dissected for their science, but a repairman wants to make no sacrifices of any kind for his job. For this reason, most beacons are built on uninhabitable planets. If a beacon has to go on a planet with a culture, it is usually built in some inaccessible place. Why this beacon was built within reach of the local claws, I had yet to find out. But that would come in time. The first thing to do was make contact. To make contact, you have to know the local language. And for that, I had long before worked out a system that was foolproof. I had a pry eye of my own construction. It looked like a piece of rock about a foot long. Once on the ground, it would never be noticed, though it was a little disconcerting to see it float by.
I located a lizard town about a thousand kilometers from the pyramid, and dropped the eye. It swished down and landed at night in the bank of a local mud-wallow. This was a favorite spot that drew a good crowd during the day. In the morning, when the first wallowers arrived, I flipped on the recorder. After about five of the local days, I had a sea of native conversation in the memory bank of the machine translator and tagged a few expressions. This is fairly easy to do when you have a machine memory to work with. One of the lizards gargled at another one. And the second one turned around. I tagged this expression with the phrase, Hey, George, and waited my chance to use it. Later, the same day, I caught one of them alone and shouted, Hey, George, at him.
It gurgled out through the speaker in the local tongue, and he turned around. When you get enough reference phrases like this in the memory bank, the M.T. brain takes over and starts filling in the missing pieces. As soon as the M.T. could give a running translation of any conversation I heard, I figured it was time to make contact. I found him easily enough. He was the Centurian version of a goat boy. He herded a particularly loathsome form of local life in the swamps outside the town. I had one of the working eyes dig a cave in an outcropping of rock and wait for him. When he passed next day, I whispered into the mic. Welcome, oh Goat Boy, grandson. This is your grandfather's spirit speaking from Paradise.
This fitted in with what I could make out of the local religion. Goat Boy stopped as if he'd been shot. Before he could move, I pushed a switch, and a handful of local currency, wampum-type shells, rolled out of the cave and landed at his feet. Here is some money from Paradise, because you have been a good boy. Not really from Paradise. I lifted it from the treasury the night before. Come back to-morrow, and we will talk some more. I called after the fleeing figure. I was pleased to notice that he took the cash before taking off. After that, Grandpa and Paradise had many heart-to-heart talks with grandson, who found the heavenly loot more than he could resist. Grandpa had been out of touch with things since his death, and Goat Boy happily filled him in.
I learned all I needed to know of the history. Past and recent, and it wasn't nice. In addition to the pyramid being around the beacon, there was a nice little religious war going on around the pyramid. It all began with the land bridge. Apparently, the local lizards had been living in the swamps when the beacon was built, but the builders didn't think much of them. They were a low type and confined to a distant continent. The idea that the race would develop and might reach this continent never occurred to the beacon mechanics, which is, of course, what happened. A little geology turnover, a swampy land bridge formed in the right spot, and the lizards began to wander up the beacon valley and found religion.
A shiny metal temple out of which poured a constant stream of magic water, the reactor cooling water pumped down from the atmosphere condenser on the roof. The radioactivity in the water didn't hurt the natives. It caused mutations that bred true. A city was built around the temple, and through the centuries the pyramid was put up around the beacon. A special branch of the priesthood served the temple. All went well until one of the priests violated the temple and destroyed the holy waters. There had been a revolt, strife, murder, and destruction since then. But still the holy waters would not flow. Now armed mobs fought around the temple each day, and a new band of priests guarded the sacred font.
And I had to walk into the middle of that mess and repair the thing. It would have been easy enough if we were allowed a little mayhem. I could have had a lizard fry, fixed the beacon, and taken off. Only native life forms were quite well protected. There were spy cells on my ship. All of which I hadn't found, that would cheerfully rat on me when I got back. Diplomacy was called for. I sighed and dragged out the Plasti-flesh equipment. Working from 3D snaps of grandson, I modeled a passable reptile head over my own features. It was a little short in the jaw, me not having one of their toothy mandibles, but it was all right. I didn't have to look exactly like them, just something close. To soothe the native mind.
It's logical. If I were an ignorant aborigine of earth, and I ran into a spickon who looks like a two-foot gob of dried shellick, I would immediately leave the scene. However, if the spickon was wearing a suit of plastiflesh that looked remotely humanoid, I would at least stay and talk to him. That is what I was aiming to do with the Centaurians. When the head was done, I peeled it off and attached it to an attractive suit of green plastic, complete with tail. I was really glad they had tails. Lizards don't wear clothes, and I wanted to take along a lot of electronic equipment. I built the tail over a metal frame that anchored around my waist. Then I filled the frame with all the equipment I would need and began to wire the suit.
When it was done, I tried it on in front of a full-length mirror. It was horrible, but effective. The tail dragged me down in the rear, and gave me a duck waddle, but that only helped the resemblance. That night I took the ship down into the hills nearest the pyramid, an out-of-the-way dry spot where the amphibious natives would never go. A little before dawn, the eye hooked onto my shoulders, and we sailed straight up. We hovered above the temple at about two thousand meters, until it was light, and then dropped straight down. It must have been a grand sight. The eye was camouflaged to look like a flying lizard, sort of a cardboard pterodactyl, and the slowly flapping wings obviously had nothing to do with our flight.
But it was impressive enough for the natives. The first one that spotted me screamed and dropped over on his back. The others came running. They milled and mobbed and piled on top of one another, and by that time I had landed in the plaza fronting the temple. The priesthood arrived. I folded my arms in a regal stance. Greetings, O noble servers of the great God, I said. Of course, I didn't say it out loud, just whispered loud enough for the throat mic to catch. This was radioed back to the M.T., and the translation shot back to a speaker in my jaws. The natives chomped and rattled, and the translation rolled out almost instantly. I had the volume turned up, and the whole square echoed. Some of the more credulous natives prostrated themselves, and others fled screaming.
One doubtful type raised a spear, but no one else tried that after the pterodactyl eye picked him up and dropped him in the swamp. The priests were a hard-headed lot, and weren't buying any lizards in a poke. They just stood and muttered, "'I had to take the offensive again.' "'Begone, O faithful steed,' I said to the eye, and pressed the control in my palm at the same time. It took off straight up a bit faster than I wanted. Little pieces of wind-torn plastic rained down. While the crowd was ogling this ascent, I walked through the temple doors. "'I would talk with you, O noble priests,' I said. Before they could think up a good answer, I was inside. The temple was a small one built against the base of the pyramid.
I hoped I wasn't breaking too many taboos by going in. I wasn't stopped, so it looked all right. The temple was a single room with a murky-looking pool at one end. Sloshing in the pool was an ancient reptile who clearly was one of the leaders. I waddled toward him, and he gave me a cold and fishy eye, then growled something. The M.T. whispered in my ear, "'Just what in the name of the thirteenth sin are you, and what are you doing here?' I drew up my scaly figure in a noble gesture and pointed toward the ceiling. I come from your ancestors to help you. I am here to restore the holy waters. This raised a buzz of conversation behind me, but got no rise out of the chief. He sank slowly into the water until only his eyes were showing.
I could almost hear the wheels turning behind that moss-covered forehead. Then he lunged up and pointed a dripping finger at me. You are a liar. You are no ancestor of ours. We will—Stop! I thundered before he got so far in that he couldn't back out. I said your ancestors sent me as emissary. I am not one of your ancestors. Do not try to harm me, or the wrath of those who have passed on will turn against you. When I said this, I turned to jab a claw at the other priests, using the motion to cover my flicking a coin grenade toward them. It blew a nice hole in the floor with a great show of noise and smoke. The first lizard knew I was talking since then, and immediately called a meeting of the shamans.
It, of course, took place in the public bathtub, and I had to join them there. We jawed and gurgled for about an hour, and settled all the major points. I found out that they were new priests. The previous ones had all been boiled for letting the holy waters cease. They found out I was there only to help them restore the flow of the waters. They bought this tentatively, And we all heaved out of the tub and trickled muddy paths across the floor. There was a bolted and guarded door that led into the pyramid proper. While it was being opened, the first lizard turned to me. "'Undoubtedly you know the rule,' he said. "'Because the old priest did pry and peer, it was ruled henceforth that only the blind could enter the Holy of Holies.' I'd swear he was smiling.
If thirty teeth peeking out of what looked like a crack in an old suitcase could be called smiling. He was also signaling to an underpriest who carried a brazier of charcoal complete with red-hot irons. All I could do was stand and watch as he stirred up the coals, pulled out the ruddiest iron, and turned toward me. He was just drawing a bead on my right eye when my brain got back in gear. Of course, I said, blinding is only right. But in my case you will have to blind me after I leave the Holy of Holies, not now. I need my eyes to see and mend the fount of holy waters. Once the waters flow again, I will laugh as I hurl myself on the burning iron. He took a good thirty seconds to think this over, and had to agree with me.
The local torturers sniffed a bit and threw a little more charcoal on the fire. The gate crashed open, and I stalked through. Then it banged behind me, and I was alone in the dark. But not for long. There was a shuffling nearby, and I took a chance and turned on my flash. Three priests were groping towards me, their eye-sockets red pits of burned flesh. They knew what I wanted, and led the way without a word. A crumbling and cracked stairway brought us up to the solid metal doorway labeled in archaic script, Mark III Beacon, authorized personnel only. The trusting builders counted on the sign to do the whole job, for there wasn't a trace of a lock on the door. One lizard merely turned the handle, and we were inside the beacon.
I unzipped the front of my camouflage suit, and pulled out the blue prints. With the faithful priests stumbling around me, I located the control room and turned on the lights. There was a residue of charge in the emergency batteries, just enough to give a dim light. The meters and indicators looked to be in good shape, if anything, unexpectedly bright from constant polishing. I checked the readings carefully, and found just what I suspected. One of the eager lizards had managed to open a circuit box, and had polished the switches inside. While doing this, he had thrown one of the switches, and that had caused the trouble. Rather, that had started the trouble. It wasn't going to be ended by just reversing the water-valve switch.
The valve was supposed to be used only for repairs after the pile was damped. When the water was cut off with the pile in operation, it had started to overheat, and the automatic safeties had dumped the charge down the pit. I could start the water again easily enough, but there was no fuel left in the reactor. I wasn't going to play with the fuel problem at all. It would be far easier to install a new power plant. I had one in the ship that was about a tenth the size of the ancient bucket of bolts, and produced at least four times the power. Before I sent for it, I checked over the rest of the beacon. In two thousand years, there should be some sign of wear. The old boys had built well. I'll give them credit for that.
Ninety per cent of the machinery had no moving parts, and had suffered no wear whatever. Other parts they had beefed up, figuring they would wear, but slowly. The water-fed pipe from the roof, for example. The pipe walls were at least three meters thick, and the pipe opening itself no bigger than my head. There were some things I could do, though, and I made a list of parts. The parts, the new power plant, and a few odds and ends were shooted into a neat pile on the ship. I checked all the parts by screen before they were loaded in a metal crate. In the darkest hour before dawn, the heavy-duty eye dropped the crate outside the temple and darted away without being seen. I watched the priests through the prie eye while they tried to open it.
When they had given up, I boomed orders at them through the speaker in the crate. They spent most of the day sweating the heavy box up through the narrow temple stairs, and I enjoyed a good sleep. It was resting inside the beacon door when I woke up. The repairs didn't take long. Though there was plenty of groaning from the blind lizards when they heard me ripping the wall open to get at the power leads. I even hooked a gadget to the water pipe so their holy waters would have the usual refreshing radioactivity when they started flowing again. The moment this was all finished, I did the job they were waiting for. I threw the switch that started the water flowing again. There were a few minutes while the water began to gurgle down through the dry pipe.
Then a roar came from outside the pyramid that must have shaken its stone walls. Shaking my hands over my head, I went down for the eye-burning ceremony. The blind lizards were waiting for me by the door, and looked even unhappier than usual. When I tried the door, I found out why. It was bolted and barred from the other side. It has been decided, a lizard said, that you should remain here forever and tend the holy waters. We will stay with you and serve your every need. A delightful prospect, an eternity in a locked beacon with three blind lizards. In spite of their hospitality, I couldn't accept. What? You dare interfere with the messenger of your ancestors? I had the speaker on full volume, and the vibration almost shook my head off.
The lizards cringed, and I set my solar for narrow beam, and ran it around the door-jamb. There was a great crunching and banging from the junk piled against it, and then the door swung free. I threw it open. Before they could protest, I had pushed the priests out through it. The rest of their clan showed up at the foot of the stairs, and made a great ruckus while I finished welding the door shut. Running through the crowd, I faced the first lizard in his tub. He sank slowly beneath the surface. "'What a lack of courtesy!' I shouted. He made little bubbles in the water. The ancestors are annoyed, and have decided to forbid entrance to the inner temple forever, though out of kindness they will let the waters flow.
Now I must return. On with the ceremony. The torture master was too frightened to move, so I grabbed out his hot iron. A touch on the side of my face dropped a steel plate over my eyes, under the plastiscan. I jammed the iron hard into my phony eye-sockets, and the plastic gave off an authentic odor. A cry went up from the crowd as I dropped the iron, and staggered in blind circles. I must admit it went off pretty well. Before they could get any more bright ideas, I threw the switch, and my plastic pterodactyl sailed through the door. I couldn't see it, of course, but I knew it had arrived when the grapples in the claws latched onto the steel plates on my shoulders. I had got turned around after the eye-burning, and my flying beast hooked on to me backward.
I had meant to sail out bravely, blind eyes facing into the sunstead. Instead, I faced the crowd as I soared away, so I made the most of a bad situation, and threw them a snappy military salute. Then I was out in the fresh air and away. When I lifted the plate and poked holes in the seared plastic, I could see the pyramid growing smaller behind me. Water gushing out of the base, and a happy crowd of reptiles sporting in its radioactive rush. I counted off on my talons to see if I had forgotten anything. I. The beacon was repaired. Two. The door was sealed, so there would be no more sabotage, accidental or deliberate. Three. The priest should be satisfied. The water was running again, my eyes had been duly burned out, and they were back in business.
Which added up to—four—the fact that they would probably let another repairman in, under the same conditions, if the beacon conked out again. At least I had done nothing like butchering a few of them that would make them antagonistic toward future ancestral messengers. I stripped off my tattered lizard suit back in the ship, very glad that it would be some other repairman who'd get the job.
The Repairman by Harry Harrison
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7 Sodom and Gomorrah, Texas 19:00
Sodom and Gomorrah, Texas, by R. A. Lafferty.
Manuel shouldn't have been employed as a census taker. He wasn't qualified. He couldn't read a map. He didn't know what a map was. He only grinned when they told him that North was at the top. He knew better. But he did write a nice round hand, like a boy's hand. He knew Spanish and enough English. For the sector that was assigned to him, he would not need a map. He knew it better than anyone else, certainly better than any mapmaker. Besides, he was poor and needed the money. They instructed him and sent him out, or they thought they had instructed him. They couldn't be sure. Count everyone? All right. Fill in, everyone. I need more papers. We will give you more if you need more, but there aren't so many in your sector.
Lots of them. Lobos, Teones, Zoros, even people. Only the people, Manuel. Do not take the animals. How would you write up the animals? They have no names. Oh, yes, all have names. Might as well take them all. Only people, Manuel. Moulos? No. Koneos? No, Manuel. No, only the people. No trouble. Might as well take them all. Only people. God give me strength. Only people, Manuel. How about little people? Children? Yes, that has been explained to you. Little people, not children. Little people.
If they are people, Take them. How big they have to be. It doesn't make any difference how big they are. If they are people, take them. That is where the damage was done. The official had given a snap judgment, and it led to disaster. It was not his fault. The instructions are not clear. Nowhere in all the verbiage does it say how big they have to be to be counted as people.
Manuel took Muller and went to work. His sector was the Santa Magdalena, a scrap of bald-headed and desolate mountains, steep but not high, and so torrid in the afternoons that it was said that the old lava sometimes began to writhe and flow again from the sun's heat alone. In the center valley there were five thousand acres of slag and vitrified rock from some forgotten old blast that had melted the hills and destroyed their mantle, reducing all to a terrible flatness. This was called Sodom. It was strewn with low-lying ghosts, as of people and objects, formed when the granite bubbled like water. Away from the dead centre, the ravines were body-deep in Chaparral, and the hillsides stood grey-green with old cactus.
The stunted trees were lower than the giant bushes and yucca.
Manuel went with Mulla, a round, easy man, and a sparse, gaunt mule.
Mulla was a mule, but there were other inhabitants of the Santa Magdalena of a genus less certain. Yet even about Mulla there was an oddity in her ancestry. Her paternal grandfather had been a goat. Manuel had once told Mr. Marshall about this, but Mr. Marshall had not accepted it.
She is a mule. Therefore, her father was a jack. Therefore, his father was also a jack, a donkey. It could not be any other way. Manuel often wondered about that, for he had raised the whole strain of animals, and he remembered who had been with whom. A donkey, a jack, two feet tall, and with a beard and horns. I always thought that he was a goat. Manuel and Muller stopped at noon on Lost Soul Creek. There would be no travel in the hot afternoon. But Manuel had a job to do, and he did it. He took the forms from one of the packs that he had unslung from Muller, and counted out nine of them. He wrote down all the data, of nine people. He knew all there was to know about them, their nativities and their antecedents.
He knew that there were only nine regular people in the nine hundred square miles of the Santa Magdalena. But he was systematic, so he checked the list over again and again. There seemed to be somebody missing. Oh, yes, himself. He got another form. and filled out all the data on himself. Now, in one way of looking at it, his part of the census was finished. If only he had looked at it that way, he would have saved worry and trouble for everyone. And also, ten thousand lives. But the instructions they had given him were ambiguous, and for all that they had tried to make them clear, So very early the next morning he rose and cooked beans, and said, "'Might as well take them all.' He called Mullah from the thorn-patch where she was grazing, gave her salt, and loaded her again.
Then they went to take the rest of the census, but in fear. There was a clear duty to get the job done, but there was also a dread of it that his superiors did not understand. There was reason also why Murla was loaded so she could hardly walk with packs of census forms.
Manuel prayed out loud as they climbed the purgatorial scarp above Los Soles Creek. Rega per nuestros pecadores ahora. The very gulches stood angry and stark in the early morning. Yen la hora de nuestra muerte.
Three days later, an incredible dwarf staggered into the outskirts of High Plains, Texas, followed by a dying wolf-sized animal that did not look like a wolf. A lady called the police to save the pair from rock-throwing kids who might have killed them, and the two as yet unclassified things were taken to the station house.
The dwarf was three foot high, a skeleton stretched over with brown burnt leather. The other was an uncanine-looking dog-sized beast, so full of burrs and thorns that it might have been a porcupine. It was a nightmare replica of a shrunken mule. The midget was mad. The animal had more presence of mind. She lay down quietly and died, which was the best she could do, considering the state that she was in. "'Who is Census Chief now?' asked the mad midget. "'Is Mr. Marshall's boy the Census Chief?' Mr. Marshall is, yes. Who are you? How do you know, Marshall? And what is that which you are pulling out of your pants, if they are pants? Census list. Names of everybody in the Santa Magdalena. I had to steal it.
It looks like microfilm. The writing is so small, and the roll goes on and on. There must be a million names here. Little bit more, little bit more. I get two bits of name.
They got Marshall there. He was very busy, but he came. He had been given a deadline by the mayor and the citizens group. He had to produce a population of 10,000 people for High Plains, Texas. And this was difficult, for there weren't that many people in the town. He had been working hard on it, though. But he came when the police called him. You Marshall's little boy? "'You look just like your father,' said the midget. "'That voice! I should know that voice, even if it's cracked to pieces. That has to be Manuel's voice.' "'Sure I'm Manuel, just like I left thirty-five years ago.' "'You can't be Manuel. Shrunk three feet and two hundred pounds and aged a million.' "'You look here at my census slip.
It says I'm Manuel.' And here are nine more of the regular people, and one million of the little people. I couldn't get them on the right forms, though. I had to steal their list. You can't be Manuel, said Marshall. He can't be Manuel, said the big policeman and the little policeman. Maybe not then, the dwarf conceded. I thought I was, but I wasn't sure. Who am I, then? Let's look at the other papers and see which one I am. No, you can't be any of them either, Manuel. And you surely can't be Manuel. Give him a name, anyhow, and get him counted. We've got to get to that ten thousand mark. Tell us what happened, Manuel. If you are, which you aren't, but tell us. After I counted the regular people, I went to count the little people.
I took a spade, and spaded off the top of their town to get in. But they put an encanto on me, and made me and Muller run a treadmill for thirty-five years. Where was this? At the little people town, Norverdene. But after thirty-five years, the encanto wore off. And Muller and I stole the list of names and ran away. But where did you really get this list of so many names written so small? Suffering Saddlesores! Marshal, don't ask the little bug so many questions. You've got a million names in your hand. Certify them. Send them in. There's enough of us here right now. We declare that place unannexed forthwith. This will make High Plains the biggest town in the whole state of Texas.
So Marshall certified them and sent them into Washington. This gave High Plains the largest percentage increase of any city in the nation, but it was challenged. There were some soreheads in Houston who said that it wasn't possible. They said High Plains had nowhere near that many people, and there must have been a miscount. And in the days that the argument was going on, they cleaned up and fed Manuel, if it were he, and tried to get from him a cognate story. "'How do you know it was thirty-five years you were on the treadmill, Manuel?' "'Well, it seemed like thirty-five years.' "'It could have only been about three days.' "'Then how come I'm so old?' "'We don't know that, Manuel.' "'We sure don't know that.' How big were these people?
Who knows? A finger long? Maybe two? And what is their town? It is an old prairie dog town that they fixed up. You have to dig down with a spade to get to the streets. Maybe they were really all prairie dogs, Manuel. Maybe the head got you, and you only dreamed that they were little people. Prairie dogs can't write as good as on that list. Prairie dogs can't write hardly at all. That's true. The list is hard to explain. And such odd names on it, too. Where is Muller? I don't see Muller since I came back. Muller just lay down and died, Manuel. Gave me the slip. Why didn't I think of that? Well, I'll do it, too. I'm too worn out for anything else. Before you do, Manuel, just a couple of last questions.
Make them real fast, then. I'm on my way. Did you know these little people were there before? Oh, sure. They're a long time. Did anybody else ever see them? Oh, sure. Everybody in the Santa Magdalena see them. Eight, nine people see them. And Manuel? How do we get to the place? Can you show us on a map? Manuel made a grimace, and died quietly, as Muller had done. He didn't understand those maps at all, and took the easy way out. They buried him, not knowing for sure whether he was Manuel come back, or what he was. There wasn't much of him to bury.
It was the same night. Very late, and after he had been asleep, that Marshall was awakened by the ring of an authoritative voice. He was being harangued by a four-inch tall man on his bedside table, a man of dominating presence and acid voice. "'Come out of that cot, you clown! Give me your name and station!' "'I'm Marshall, and I suspect that you are a late pig sandwich, or caused by one.' I should eat so late. Say, sir, when you reply to me, I am no pig sandwich, and I do not commonly call on fools. Get on your feet, you clod. And, wonderingly, Marshall did. I want the list that was stolen. Don't gape. Get it. What list? Don't stall. Don't stutter. Give me our tax list that was stolen. It isn't words that I want from you.
Listen, you cicada. I'll take you, and you will not. You will notice that you are paralyzed from neck down. I suspect that you were always so from there up. Where is the list? Sent it to Washington. You bug-eyed beemoth! Do you realize what a trick that will be? You grandfather of inanities! It will be a pleasure to destroy you."
I don't know what you are, or if you are, really. I don't believe that you even belong on the world. Not belong on the world? We own the world. We can show written title to the world. Can you? I doubt it. Where did you get the title? None of your business, I'd rather not say. Oh, well, we got it from the promoter of sorts. A conman, really. I'll have to admit that we were taken, but we were in a spot and needed a world. He said that the larger bifurcates were too stupid to be a nuisance. We should have known that the stupider a creature, the more of a nuisance it is. I had about decided the same thing about the smaller a creature. We may have to fumigate that old mountain mess. Oh, you can't harm us.
We're too powerful. But we can obliterate you in an instant. Ha! Say, Ha, sir, when you address me. Do you know the place in the mountain that is called Sodom? I know the place. It was caused by a large meteor. It was caused by one of these. What he held up was the size of a grain of sand. Marshall could not see it in detail. "'There was another city, of you bug-eyed beasts there,' said the small Martinet. "'You wouldn't know about it. It's been a few hundred years. We decided it was too close. Now I have decided that you are too close.' A thing that size couldn't crack a walnut. You floundering fop! It will blast this town flat. What will happen to you? Nothing. I don't even blink for things like that.
How do you trigger it off? You gaping goof! I don't have time to explain that to you. I have to get to Washington. It may be that Marshall did not believe himself quite awake. He certainly did not take the threat seriously enough. For the little man did trigger it off. When the final count was in, High Plains did not have the highest percentage gain in population in the nation. Actually, it showed the sharpest decline from 7,313 to nothing. They were going to make a forest preserve out of the place, except that it has no trees worthy of the name. Now it is proposed to make it the Sodom and Gomorrah State Park, from the two mysterious scenes of desolation there, just seven miles apart. It is an interesting place, as wild a region as you will ever find, and it is recommended for the man who has seen everything.
End of Sodom and Gomorrah, Texas by R. A.
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8 Stairway To The Stars 42:41
Stairway to the Stars by Larry Shaw. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org.
Recording by R.J. Davis. Stairway to the Stars by Larry Shaw. Yes? Earth may be a sort of fenced-off area, so far as other intelligent races of the galaxy are concerned, but not for the granderous reasons that some have imagined.
It was a stairway leading down, but it also led out into space, indirectly, and the situation had the aspects of a burlesque on Grand Hotel. But...
John Andrew Farmer scowled at the occupants that sprawled on his living-room couch, rubbed his stubby jaw with a stubby fist, and said, "'I love you.'" Farmer was uncomfortable. He was almost always uncomfortable, for various reasons. Though it rarely, if ever, occurred to him, as he considered each individual irritant, that this was his normal state of existence. Right now he was acutely conscious of how ridiculous it must look for him to be making love to an octopus, but he was even more conscious of the very real pains of unrequited love. It wasn't even a respectable, ordinary-looking octopus. To be accurate, it would have to be called a nonopus. Each of the nine tentacles had a lobsterish claw at its tip.
And there were various other unusual appendages. It would be hard enough to explain an earthly octopus in his living room if the necessity arose. Farmer reflected for the tenth-teenth time. But how, in the name of Nephune, could he ever explain this? It had all started with Judge Ray. Ray had not been a real judge, obviously. But it used a title in lieu of any other first name. That was the first of the inexplicable things. Farmer could have expected the odd little old man to call himself a professor of something or other, but Ray insisted on Judge. Ray had come to the office of the Stein Fine Bryan's Publishing Company, where Farmer was working as an assistant editor, and announced that he was about to write the greatest book of the age.
And yes, he wanted an advance against royalties. It didn't have to be large. Ray lived simply. To tide him over while doing the actual writing, which shouldn't take more than a very few weeks. Now, Farmer wasn't much of an editor, even as editors go. The one useful quality he had was a homespun, ingratiating air which put nervous young geniuses at their ease. so that they could give a reasonable coherent verbal picture of what their books were about. This often saved Stein, Fine, and Bryan's a lot of reading of unpublishable manuscripts. At least, that had been the theory when they gave Farmer the job. As it worked out, John Andrew was a person who found it virtually impossible to say no. He generally took the manuscripts in hand, And when he couldn't stick some other member of the firm with the task, read them himself until the wee hours.
Farmer was not able to say no to Ray. But even he looked dubious at this small gray fellow's voluble outpouring of pseudoscientific jargon. Ray, made sensitive by years of open skepticism on the part of many listeners, caught the look, and insisted on a demonstration of his fabulous invention. So, the oddly-assorted pair, quick, fox-like Little Ray, and big, awkward, uncomfortable farmer, spurted out into Long Island Sound in an indescribable old motor lodge, and the adventure was on.
Finally, Ray shut off the racketing engine and left the rusty anchor. He opened a large wooden case, which showed evidence of some really good cabinet work. and took out a peculiar machine, which showed evidence of unarguably excellent machining. These details were the first things that made Farmer think Ray might not be a complete crackpot, after all. If he hadn't been feeling just the slightest touch of sea-sickness, John Adrude would have breathed a sigh of relief. Ray polished off the somewhat rabbit from Hattie routine, by bringing out a portable television set, connecting it to the boat's electrical generator, and stringing an assortment of wires between it and his invention. He would not allow Farmer even close to the latter, but to the editor's untechnical eye, it looked like a fairly ordinary radio set, with more than enough dials and switches added to it to furnish the dashboards of several Rolls Royces.
Ray held up a hand. Purely for drama, since there was silence already. This is a great moment in the course of human history, he said. You are about to witness the first demonstration of Ray's Ray, the work of genius which will allow mankind his first really close contact with the last remaining frontier on his home planet, the bottom of the sea.
Farmer looked impressed, then began to realize what some of this meant. He caught himself. Straightened out his face and licked his lips. You mean you've never tried this thing before? He protested. How do you know it will work? Ray's glance took on a touch of icy fury. The launch rocked gently in the swell of a long, silent minute, and Farmer began to feel slightly afraid. Was he alone, in a spot like this with a madman? The salty breeze turned colder. Then Ray smiled. A smile that was surprisingly soft and sweet. John Andrew reached two decisions—that he was safe, and that he liked the judge. One of Farmer's weaknesses, in fact, was that though thoroughly masculine himself, he completely distrusted women, and was too trusting with men.
"'I could go into theories and scientific details,' Ray said. "'I could explain principles of operation and the construction of the machine for hours.' But you would be bored, and wouldn't understand anyway. It is sufficient to say that the ray will work, because I invented it.
Farmer caught himself nodding, and blamed the boat's motion. He shifted uneasily on the built-in seat, and got a splinter in a vital spot. He frowned. Ray was bending over his machine, making motions designed to impress as well as to make it work. In very simple terms, he was saying, this is a combination of color television and super radar. It will bring in a perfect color picture of the ocean at whatever depth I set it for, or will set itself automatically to present a view of the ocean floor. It will. His voice trailed off. The machine hissed, snapped, and crackled. The television set flickered, honed, gave out a flashing dance of... Surrealistic doodles, and abruptly presented a picture. It was a picture of Milton Burrell.
Ray looked mad, started to aim a kick at the scream, but thought better of it. A small wave almost made him sit down on the deck before he got both feet planted again. He swore and started to check the wiring. Maybe there's something wrong inside the dingus itself, John Andrews suggested tentatively. Ray turned on him with a look that would have seared the sphinx. "'There's nothing wrong with the machine,' he said, almost but not quite shouting. "'There's nothing wrong with the television. There's nothing wrong with the wiring. There must be something wrong at the other end.' "'Whether Ray is focused, and I intend to find out.' Farmer pondered the idea of a transmitter that worked underwater like a ballpoint pen.
Broadcasting weary vaudeville routines, he scratched his head and looked wistfully at the New England shoreline. Or was that Long Island? He wasn't sure anymore.
A clink and clatter brought his attention to the launch. He gawked. Ray had thrown back a deck hatch and produced a diving suit which looked as unship-shaped as the rest of the boat's equipment. Ray looked it over hastily, then turned a spectatorily glance on Farmer. He shook his head. "'Too small for you,' he murmured. "'You wouldn't know what to look for anyway. I'll have to go down myself.' Farmer changed his mind again about Ray's being cracked. "'Listen!' He said, the first thing that came to his mind. Didn't you say you rented this boat for the first time today? How do you know that thing doesn't leak? Ray smiled again as he climbed brisky into the suit. I'll be all right, he said serenely.
You just keep an eye on things here. But don't touch anything. I'll be right back. He settled the helmet on his head, motioned for Farmer to help him check the connections of the suit's self-contained oxygen supply. John Andrew was straightening up from doing this when he saw the nonopus for the first time. He was climbing over the rail at the stern and already beginning to make a puddle on the deck. Farmer froze and gulped wordlessly. Behind the barred faceplate, Ray looked puzzled, then annoyed. From the corner of his eye, Farmer could see Milton Burrell still cavorting silently on the television screen, and this seemed to add the final touch of insanity to the scene. Farmer finally succeeded in pointing, and Ray clumped slowly in a half-circle, just as Anonymous dropped to the deck with a plank-shivering thump.
The scene assumed some of the aspects of a bad movie comedy. The background was an out-of-focus blur, although Farmer was dimly conscious of motion in it somewhere. Something else breaking the surface of the water as it emerged. In the foreground, the boat and its occupants were sharply etched, but seemed to have gone into slow motion. The Nalipus crept forward ponderously, and Farmer searched dazedly for a weapon. It was Ray who first started stumbling in the direction of the boat hook, but John Andrew, in a sudden fit of bravery, shoved past him and grabbed the fragile-looking thing from its cleats. He swung to face the monster with a sick feeling in his stomach, and got another surprise. The thing had stopped moving.
Straddling a rail behind it, and similarly dripping, was a, my God. It, he, Looked almost like a man, and that only made the difference worse. The details resolved as Farmer stared at him. The oddness about the head and shoulders became Finny crest, and what looked at first like a red, skin-tight costume became a scaly hide. Farmer realized with a shock that the creature wasn't wearing anything. Farmer crouched. The point of the boat hook wavered. Aimed first at the nonopus, then at the fishpan. To the editor, both were alien, but he couldn't decide which one was more dangerous. For a long moment, neither of them advanced, and he wondered if they could really be frightened of his puny weapon.
He doubted it. He was beginning to notice, among other things, that the nonopus was more fearsome than it had seemed at first. In addition to nine tentacles, claws, fangs, and antennae became apparent. So did the big glassy-eyed disk of the ice, and Farmer aimed the point of the hook at one of them, started the thrust. It was wrenched from his hands and forced downward to stick quivering in the deck. The development took Farmer completely unawares. Neither of the aliens moved. It was Judge Ray who had disarmed him.
Judge Ray was now frantically trying to remove his diving helmet again. Excitement made his motions ineffective, and a signal for Farmer to help him, then continued to fumble with the fastenings himself. John Andrew turned, feeling completely doomed, to aid the man, and they started getting in each other's way and slowing down the operation even more. They finally succeeded, though. The helmet swung back, and Ray promptly shoved Farmer aside. Some of Farmer's fear gave way to amangement at the little inventor's audacity and what seemed to Farmer at least to be foolishly optimistic scientific detachment. Ray said, My name is Ray. It is indeed fortunate that you have met me immediately upon your arrival here.
Since I am the world's greatest genius and thoroughly equipped to tell you anything you wish to know, About my people and civilization. I take it you come from Atlantis.
Amazingly, his tongue only got tangled once in the middle of this speech, and he regained control of it quickly then. John Andrew felt a touch of jealousy at the little man's capability in assuming control of the situation. That, and a sudden idea of his own, forced him to speak for himself. It was a sad attempt. Venus? Space-ship? He managed to croak before giving it up. The launch rocked gently. The nonopus crouched motionless. The feast man stood firmly. As if untouched by anything around him, his arms folded and a faint smile upon his damp lips. Finally, he spoke, too. What he said was, Venus? Space-ship? My name is Ray. It is indeed fortunate that you have met me immediately upon your arrival here, since I am the world's greatest genius.
He broke off. Apparently, he interpreted the looks of consternation on the faces of his audience correctly, for his smile became more friendly, and he continued in a casual tone. Excuse me, he said. I didn't speak your language before I arrived here. And I had to learn it and become accustomed to its use through analyzing what you just said. I really didn't mean to puzzle you or make you feel inferior by mimicking you. Farmer's mind worked chaotically. This was puzzling, he decided, and did make him feel inferior, that is. It did if the man in the red scales had really picked up English so quickly. And if not, why lie?
The fishman came forward. His step was bouncy, as if he were used to a higher gravity or greater pressure. That farmer complimented himself on his cleverness, made sense at least. But he extended his hand and said, Put her there, like any lady's, where by her at an annual convention. Ray and farmer shook with him in turn. His hand was damp and webbed, but felt fairly human for all that. "'My name is Garf,' he said cheerfully. John Andrew tried not to stare at him too noticeably, but Ray made no bones about it. Apparently the feast man thought nothing at all of his state of nudity. Farmer shivered. It was Ray who brought the conversation back to Earth, or sea again. He asked Garf directly exactly where he did come from.
Garf looked hesitant. Then waved the two to the rail with him. See those, he asked. They looked, and saw what seemed to be a flight of steps carved from stone, old and worn, starting abruptly just below the water level, and leading downward. There was nothing on either side of the steps, or underneath them as far as could be seen, but ordinary ocean. I came up those, Garth said. Farmers stared, and Ray stared. The stairway shouldn't be there. It certainly hadn't been there before. Gar's explanations, it seemed, only compounded the confusion caused by his presence. Farmer, muddled, looked again at the nonopus, which had apparently gone to sleep. Even so, it looked deadly.
Something bit him on the arm. He discovered Ray's fingers, in the driving glove, digging into his flesh in an amazingly powerful grip. Farmer hunched his shoulders, trying to break loose, and then he saw what Ray was staring at. Garf had left him, and was strolling around the launch as if he had just bought it, looking down his nose at it at the same time, acting as if he could afford not to give a damn how badly he had been stung. But the startling thing was that he had picked up the boat-hook, and was twirling it unconcernedly. He had not only picked it up, however, he had also tied it in a knot. It should have splintered in his hands, assuming he was strong enough to bend it at all. It hadn't.
It was in perfect shape, except for the knot. Or so it seemed, at least. For even as Ray started forward with outstretched hand, obviously hoping to examine the thing, Garf gave it a final twirl and scaled it carelessly overboard. John Andrew began to feel quick frozen again. Being along at sea in a rickety craft with a possible madman had been bad enough. To have a weird creature with superhuman powers and an impossible pet monster added to the crew was a little too much. Garf turned his attention to the television set, which was Still presenting its hysterical vaudeville. Great-uncle's gills, he exclaimed, and lapsed into fascinated silence. He studied the proceedings carefully, holding the arms-crossed pose again.
Finally, he turned to Ray. Weren't you saying something about civilization a while ago, finless? He asked. His voice was sneering. Ray frowned and said something about mass appeal. Pay no attention to that, he continued. Just listen to me. I'll tell you about our civilization, and our science, and—his voice broke off as if he had been struck in the face. In a way, he had. Garf had deliberately turned his back on the old fellow. The judge's bloodshot little eyes darted about as if he wanted to pick up something heavy, and hit Garf on the crest with it. John Andrews' brain had finally resumed normal operations. He was thinking slowly, but clearly. He examined the evidence with care. He decided that Garf's superior attitude and powers boded no good.
That if the fishman once became slightly irritated, he would sic the nonopus on Ray and himself. Probably, in fact, Garf would try to conquer the world anyway. That was how it went in stories as corny as this situation. Farmer further decided that Ray was too egocentrically eccentric to be trusted to get him out of this fix. He decided he'd have to do something himself. Having decided all this, Farmer went back over the territory to see if he could find any flaws in it, or any other way out. It still made sense. He added a decision to get the boat back to shore as fast as possible. He approached the engine. As he did so, the engine melted into a solid, irregular lump of metal. John Andrew gulped and put out a tenensive hand towards the fused mess.
It was not particularly warm, but it had melted.
Farmer looked at Garf again with fear and awe, and the beastman looked back with cold amusement. But not for long. Garth turned to the judge's invention, and started to show some genuine interest for the first time since he had showed up. He stood over the thing, webbed hands on scaly hips, peering at it intently. After a long silence, he knelt. He started feeling over the machine with his webbed hands. Finally, he placed his fingers on the largest of the control switches, then changed his mind, and gestured imperatively to Judge Ray. You, the intelligent one, he said. The quotes around intelligent were clear in his intonation. Explain this to me. It's obviously what reactivated the gate. But whoever made it did a screwball job.
There are all sorts of things that don't seem to belong, and even the parts that should be there seem wrong somehow. He paused. Of course, he added smugly. I'm not a transportation expert. If I were, I'd have made my own activator long ago and done some visiting on the closed worlds before this. Not that they'd have kept me from getting bored for long. But yours looks as if it's going to be slightly amusing, at least. A struggle showed in Ray's face. Farmer saw insulted anger, hurt pride, A desire to brag about his gadgetry, a question about Garf's last words, and a caution that was not too far from fear.
John Andrew had stopped trying to hide his own fear, and though he had plenty of questions of his own, he was mainly concerned with looking for a means of escape. Garf was rising again, looking impatient. Ray reached a decision, said, Go to hell. and turned his back on the fish pan. Garf looked astonished, then angry, and raised a hand. Ray jumped, not very far because of the heavy diving suit, stumbled on oddly twisted legs, and collapsed on the deck, writhing, moaning, and turning red in the face. The diving helmet clattered on the planks. Farmer got mad. He started to charge across the deck at Garf, But his own feet went out from under him, and he landed flat on his nose. There were waves of fire chasing each other around his body, and his stomach was trying to turn itself inside out.
As instantaneously as it had come, the pain left him. It left him weak and quivering, and John Andrew Farmer lay on his back waiting for his strength to seep back. As a red haze drifted from before his eyes, he realized that the launch had acquired another occupant.
In appearance, she could easily have been Garth's sister, or his wife. Her figure was leaf and nicely curved. Her scales stopped in eye-catching points, just above her distinctly mammalian bosom. From there on up, she looked almost completely human. She wasn't wearing anything, either. The overall effect was oddly beautiful. Farmer blushed hotly, and tried to keep his eyes on her face. Not that it made any difference to her. She ignored everyone and everything but the feast man. Glaring at him angrily, she snapped out his name in an icy voice. Garf? Door. Garf was a changed feast man. He looked faintly frightened, moderately worried, and definitely embarrassed. This passed, and he started to smile in a placating manner.
Garth, Dor snapped again. She followed it up this time with a string of intricate, foreign-sounding words that even Farmer could tell were hot and stinging. The feast man backed away. He seemed to be growing angry himself, now under the whiplashing woman's tongue. Finally, he spoke in English. He called Dor a puddle-snake. That wasn't all of what he said, by any means. The name was preceded by several adjectives, and followed by an obscene command. Dor blanched slightly. Oh, yes, she said, her voice dripping danger. I can speak this language, too, you know. I learned it years ago, before the gate to this world was closed. "'And let me tell you something else.' She told him something else. John Andrew blushed furiously again and covered his ears with his hands.
Little Ray was on his feet, trying to get a word in edgewise, but not succeeding at all. He, too, started to get angry. Farmer hauled himself upright, hoping to approach Ray, calm him, and get him to figure a way out of this madhouse. Garfield had expletive and gestured with his hand. A wave of pure heat swept over the boat, blistering what paint it still boasted. The blow had been directed at Dor, and she showed that she had absorbed most of it by wilting visibly. But Farmer felt as much of it as he wanted. It was as if a blast furnace had suddenly opened beside him. He wondered how uncomfortable he could get. A deadly silence descended.
John Andrew was wishing that he could swim when Dorr smiled, and he began to be interested in living again in spite of himself. The girl, he thought, was somehow radiant, really lovely, in spite of her scales and fins. He was peculiar. He had never liked women at all, and had certainly never thought he'd like a mermaid, Anyway, he decided, he wasn't going to take sides if the two aliens were going to fight it out. His first interest was in saving his own hide, his second in getting back to shore to give warning of the invasion. As for Dor, John Adrew had lived this long without going to the aid of a damsel in distress. Without, in fact, ever seeing one that he could remember, Who wasn't obviously more capable of helping herself than he was?
He wasn't going to start rescuing fair maidens now, even if she needed rescuing. Still, there was something awfully attractive. Damn, but he was confused. Dor's smile didn't really last that long. Farmer's thoughts were going fast now somehow. He had finished those just described before Dor said, All right, Garf. Fun's fun. Now let's kiss and make up. After all, it's illegal for us to be here. Not only our own cops, but the Galactic Federation would be on our necks if they knew. Let's see if we can close up the gate ourselves, or if this needs to be reported, and then let's go home. Garf grinned. Whatever you say, my dear. He dipped an eyebrow in a wink. Behind door, The nonopus surged sluggishly, extended a tentacle, opened a claw, and nipped doors neatly on the behind.
She screeched.
There was an explosion in Farmer's brain. This was too much. Garth had gone too far. The blurly editor plunged across the desk, swinging a fist. To his surprise, Garth did nothing to stop him. Probably. John Andrew figured later. The fishman expected no further trouble from the humans after the treatment they had had. Farmer's haymaker connected. Garf staggered across the deck until he brought up against the rail, holding his jaw and shaking his head muzzily. Farmer braced himself for retaliation, hoping it would be something less than a bolt of barbed lightning. But Garf remained unpredictable. He mumbled something that wasn't Oh, the hell with it, but sounded like it, and softly and silently slid overboard.
He disappeared underwater with scarcely a ripple.
Good, Dorr said briskly. Now I'll just, uh... She strode directly to Ray's invention, and Farmer wondered why both aliens were so interested in a gadget that didn't work. Dorr wasted no time. She bent over, picked up the machine, yanking wiring loose carelessly, straightened up, turned a beaming smile on Farmer, and Ray, said goodbye, and headed for the rail. Ray yelped. He started after her, but his progress in the diving suit was waddling and slow. She reached the rail first and went over. Ray was not too far behind. And he slammed his helmet down angrily as he reached the rail. Farmer, galvanized belatedly, gave chase as well. Dor was picking her way slowly down the stone steps. The machine cradled under her arm.
Ray climbed up on the rail, posed there for a second, then attempted a swan dive. John Andrew yelled at him as he arched forward, but it was too late. The old man dropped like a stone. Flapping his arms, bounced slightly on the top step, then slid forward down several more steps on his faceplate. Dora hesitated, her head just above water. She looked at the limp, diving-suited body beside her, then back at the launch and farmer. Again she came to a decision quickly. Bending, leaving a trail of bubbles as her head went under, She set the judge's invention down on a lower step and picked up the judge instead. Cradling him in her arms, she started back up again, calling to Farmer to be ready to take her burden aboard.
They got him on board the boat with little difficulty, and John Adrew laid him on the decks as Dor sprang lethly over the rail again, showing interest in the little fellow's condition. The diving helmet came off easily, Not having been properly fashioned down at all, Farmer bent anxiously over the judge, looking for signs of life. The diving suit had shipped some water, and the judge had gotten a nasty crack on the head, but he was a tough bozo. There was no blood. His breathing seemed almost normal, and he already showed signs of returning consciousness.
John Andrew turned the door. "'Well, I should thank you for bringing him back, I guess,' he muttered. "'But now that you're with us again,' he shot out a big paw and grabbed her by the wrist. "'How about explaining some of this?' "'He was very gentle with the wrist. He didn't want to hurt her. He was wondering already, in fact, what had made him get so rough at all. But she didn't seem to mind. "'I've got to go quickly,' she told him. I think Garth will be all right now, but he may take a notion to come back, and I have to see that the gate is closed before—' What gate? Get back where? Farmer managed to put more curiosity than impatient into his tone. "'Back to my own planet, Tamdivar. Sunnogor.
Member of the Galactic Federation,' she said patiently. "'The gate is a matter transmitter between my world and yours.' It was once in constant use, but my government closed it when you people got to the point where you were running around in submarines, using depth bombs, and just noticing our aircraft too much. Somehow what popped into Farmer's head was the chorus of an old song he had sung in boys camp when very young. There's a hole in the bottom of the sea. There's a log in the hole. Your machine re-activated the gate from this side, even if that isn't what you designed it to do," Dorr went on. It's a good thing I noticed the gate was open. Of course, the area affected isn't large. It includes those steps and a lot of water around them.
The gate'll stay open now until it's closed from our side, but I'll have to take your outfit back and destroy it anyway. Our cops would be tough with you if they found you operating the thing, and Federation security men would be even tougher. Take it as a warning. Don't do it again. She turned to go, but Farmer held on. What's this about a galactic Federation? And if they banned all communication with Earth, why haven't they just blasted the planet out of existence and gotten rid of it? Of course, I know we're thoroughly uncivilized. Too unwarlike for any other race to trust, and all that. I can see how Earth might be considered the plague spot of the universe. Dor gocked, and saw that he was very serious.
Then she threw back her head and laughed a merry laugh. Listen, friends, she said at last. The only real trouble with you Earth people is that you have a tremendous inferiority complex, collectively and individually. As you've just illustrated, get over that and you'll eliminate most of your trouble. As for the Federation, they've let us in, and most member races have wars occasionally. They'll undoubtedly accept you once you develop space travel. Just at the moment, of course, you're at a crossroads. You could jump in either direction, blowing yourself up or taking the big step into space. I think you'll turn out okay, but not everybody agrees, and the Federation can't take even small chances.
So you can't be allowed to set off your atom bombs, or worse, where they might get through to another planet. We can't actually interfere with you, so we've closed the gates, that's all. John Andrew, thinking it over, said, Oh, and let go of her wrist. She turned and went back to the rail again. After flashing him the most deluxe smile so far, Farmer came out of a philosophic haze to notice she was leaving. He said, Hey! She looked over her shoulder. Farmer didn't know what to say, but he wanted to delay her. Finally, he pointed to the nonopus, and said, What about that monster? You're not going to leave it here. She laughed again. Oh, the robot! It'll follow me. It's designed to—oh, dam. The dam was for something she saw in the water as she looked back over the rail again.
John Andrew rushed to her side and looked as she got set for a dive. Garf, he saw immediately, had returned and was picking up the judge's invention. "'Put that down!' Dorjeel was high-pitched. Garf faced them, and Farmer could just make out his lazy, contemptuous smile Through the murky water, the feast man raised his arm in one of the now familiar gestures. The boat heaved, wallowed, and sank. Farmer thought desperately again that he couldn't swim, and then he thought wildly of the judge, who hadn't regained full consciousness. He went under once, and came up choking and sputtering. He decided his end had come, Annie didn't even know the identity of the enemy who had done him in. It was ironic.
He should have asked Dor to tell him more about Garth. Was he a traitor? Or a Tam D'Avarian gangster? Or what? John Andrew gasped and started sinking again. To find himself hauled out of the water unceremoniously by the scruff of his neck. As he rose, ropey tentacles twined around him, And he saw what had saved him. He was being cradled gently but firmly by the nonopus, which had Judge Ray in another set of tentacles. And a nonopus, it became apparent, was not only a water creature, it could also fly.
Garth paddled idly around Dorr's apartment, pretending interest in the shell paintings that decorated the walls. He had presented her a bouquet in which rare blossoms hid slimy, smelly weeds, and she was sore at him—again. As she finished her conversation and switched off the two-way radio, he turned to her. "'Door,' he said softly. She looked at him haughtily. "'Don't speak to me,' she said. "'I told you you'd have to stop your irresponsible practical joking and settle down.' Some hard work wouldn't hurt you even if you did inherit a fortune. I don't mind so much when you pull those stunts on me, but when I think of how you practically drowned those poor defenseless earth creatures. His mouth twisted.
Poor defenseless earth creatures. How was I to know they couldn't swim? Just imagine. Beings that live on a world with almost as much water as ours Who can't use their natural abilities any more than that. It's ridiculous. I never saw such morons. The big ugly one, especially. He had intended that to sting, and it did. Dor raised her nose another notch. I think he's cute, and I'm learning he's pretty intelligent, too. He catches on fast to everything I tell him. He and his little friend will have their spaceship finished soon now. And? That's another thing, Garf snapped, keeping her on the defensive. Maybe I violated security by going to Earth when they accidentally opened the gate. But what are you doing?
What would the feds say if they knew you were giving out information the Earth men hadn't acquired by themselves? Helping them get into space. What about that? Dorr shrugged. I'm not telling them anything, really. Just dropping a few hints of the most elementary sort. Things they'd have figured out soon anyway, and things they still have to work hard to make practicable. Even if some of the inventions they've worked out so far have enabled them to make enough money to live on nicely after all, those things are the merest toys to us. What could it possibly matter? Garf considered. This biffing was, as usual, getting them exactly nowhere. He gave up. "'All right, dear,' he said. "'You win your rights.
Of course, and I'm wrong. I only hope you don't bother so much with talking to that earth-slug on the radio after we're married.' Dor laughed a tinkly laugh and came into his waiting arms. "'Darlings,' he cooed. "'What a thing to say. I actually believe you're jealous.' And you know I only love you. Which wasn't strictly true. The big Earth Man was cute, she thought, and it was quaint of him to be in love with her, and to tell her so every day over the radio belt into the robot Nonopus. Of course, he was inferior to her in every way, and she wouldn't think of marrying him or anything like that. But even his inferiority was interesting, in a way. Yes, it was nice to know he loved her, and she loved him too, like an amusing baby brother.
This concludes the reading of Stairway to the Stars by Larry Shaw.
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9 Traders Risk 34:37
TRADOR'S RISK by Roger D.
Keeping this cargo meant death. To jettison it meant to make flotsam and jetsam of a world.
The cerimian chip was passing in hyperdrive through a classic three-body system, comprising in this case a fiercely white sun, circled by a fainter companion, and a single planet, that swung in precise balance, when the canthorian Z broke out of its cage in the specimen hold. Of the ship's social quartet, Chaffis I and II were asleep at the moment, dreaming wistful dreams of conical Cerimean cities spearing up to a soft and plum-colored sky. The Zid raged into their communal rest cell, smashed them down from their gimballed sleeping-perches, and, with a ravening blood-hunger of its kind, devoured them before they could wake enough to teleport to safety. Chaffis, three and four, on side shift in the forward control cubicle, might have fallen as easily if the mental screamings of their fellows had not warned them in time.
As it was, they had barely time to teleport themselves to the after-hold as far as possible from immediate danger, and to consider the issue while the Zid lunged about the ship in search of them, with malignant cries and a great shrieking of claws on metal. Their case was the more desperate because the Chaffists were professional freighters with little experience of emergency. Hauling a Zid from Canthorian jungles to a Cerimean zoo was a prosaic enough assignment, so long as the cage held, but with the raging brutes swiftly smelling them out, they were helpless to catch and restrain it. When the Zid found them, they had no other course but to teleport back to the control cubicle and wait until the beast should snuff them down again.
The Zid learned quickly, so quickly that it was soon clear that its physical strength would far outlast their considerable but limited telekinetic ability. Still, they possessed their share of Owlish Cerimian logic, and hit soon enough upon the one practical course—the To jettison the Z on the nearest world demonstrably free of intelligent life.
They worked hurriedly, between jumps fore and aft. Chaffee, three, while they were still in the control cubicle, threw the ship out of hyperdrive within scant miles of the neighboring Sun's single planet. Chaffee, four, on the next jump, scanned the ship's charts, and identified the system through which they traveled. Luck was with them. The system had been catalogued some four Cerimian generations before, and tagged, Planet Undeveloped, Tranquil Marine Intelligences Only.
The discovery relieved them greatly, for the reason that no Cerimian, even to save his own feathered skin, would have set down such a monster as the Zid among rational but vulnerable entities. The planet was a water-world, bare of continents, and only sparsely sprinkled with minor archipelagos. The islands suited the Chaffee's purpose admirably. The Zid does not swim, Chaffee Four radiated. Marooned, it can do no harm to marine intelligences. Also, Chaffee Three pointed out, as they dodged to the control cubicle again, just ahead of the slavering Zid, We may return later with a canthorian hunting party and recover our investment. Closing their perception against the Zid's distracting ragings, they set to work with perfect coordination.
Chaffee, three set down the ship on an island that was only one of a freckling chain of similar islands. Chaffee Four projected himself first to the opened port, then, when the Zid charged after him, to the herbivore-crop sward of tropical setting outside. The Zid lunged out. Chaffee Four teleported inside again. Chaffee Three closed the port. Together they relaxed their perception shields in relief. Unaware in their consternation that they committed the barbarous lapse of vocalizing, they twittered aloud when they realized the extent of their error. Above the far, murmurous whisper of expected marine cerebration, there rose an uncoordinated mishmash of thought from at least two strong and relatively complex intelligences.
Gas-breathing, Chaffey Forrest said unbelievingly. Warm-blooded, land-dwelling, ma-ma-mail-ion. A class-five culture, Chaffee Three agreed shakenly. His aura quivered with the shock of betrayal. The catalogue was wrong. Ironically, their problem was more pressing now than before. Unless checked, the Zid would rapidly depopulate the island. And to check it, they must break a prime rule of galactic protocol in asking the help of a new and untested species. But they had no choice. They teleported at once into the presence of the two nearby natives, and met with frustration beyond Cerimian experience.
Jeff Aubrey glimpsed the Cerimian ship's landing because the morning was a one day, And on one day's, his mission to the island demanded that he be up and about at sunrise. For two reasons. On one day's, through some unfailing miracle of Calaxian seamanship, Old Charlie Mack sailed down in his ancient island Queen from the township that represented colonial Terran civilization in Priscinian Archipelago, One, Forty Seven, bringing supplies and gossip to Last Jeff through the following Ten Day. The Queen would dock at Jeff's little pier at dawn. She was never late. Also on one days, necessarily before Charlie Mac's visit, Jeff must assemble his smuggled communicator, kept dismantled and hidden from suspicious local lies, and report to Earth Interest Consulate, his progress during the cycle just ended.
The ungodly hour of transmission, naturally, was set to coincide with the closing of the consul's field office halfway around the planet. So the nacreous glory of Procyon's rising was just tinting the windows of Jeff's cottage when he aligned and activated his little communicator on his breakfast table. Its three-inch screen lighted to signal, and a dure and disappointed consul Satterfield looked at him. Behind Satterfield, foreshortened to gnomishness by the pickup, lurked Dr. Herman, Earth Interest Resident Zoologist. "'No progress,' Jeff reported, "'except that the few islanders I've met seem to be accepting me at last. "'A little more time, and they might let me into the township, where I can learn something.
"'If Holmeside—' "'You've had seven-ten days,' Satterfield said. Holmeside won't wait longer, Aubrey. They need those calm crystals too badly. They'll use force? Jeff had considered the possibility, but its immediacy appalled him. Sir, these colonists had been autonomous for over two hundred years, ever since the Fourth War cut them off from us. Will Holmeside deny their independence? His sense of loss at Satterfield's grim nod stemmed from something deeper than sympathy for the islanders. It found roots in his daily rambles over the little island granted him by the township, for the painting he had begun as a blind to his assignment, and in the gossip of old Charlie Mack and the few others he had met.
He had learned to appreciate the easy life of the islands well enough to be dismayed now by what must happen under E.I. pressure to old Charlie and his handful of sun-brown fisherfolk. Unexpectedly, because Jeff had not considered that it might matter, he was disturbed by the realization that he wouldn't be seeing Jennifer, old Charlie Mac's red-haired niece, once occupation began. Jennifer, who sailed with her uncle and did a crewman's work as a matter of course, would despise the sight of him. The consul's pessimism jolted Jeff back to the moment at hand. Holmeside will deny their autonomy, Aubrey. I've had a Warp Bean message today ordering me to move in. The situation was desperate enough at home, Jeff had to admit.
Calaxian Calm Crystals did what no refinement of Terran Therapeutics had been able to manage. They erased the fears of the neurotic, and calmed the quiverings of the hypertensive, both an alarming majority in the shattering aftermath of the Fourth War, with no adverse effects at all. Permanent benefit was slow, but cumulative, offering for the first time a real step toward ultimate stability. The medical, psychiatric, and political fields cried out for crystals and more crystals. If the Islanders would tell us their source and let us help develop it, Satterfield said peevishly, instead of doling out a handful of crystals every tin day, there wouldn't be any need of action. Holmeside feels they're just letting us have some of the surplus.
Not likely, Jeff said. They don't use the crystals themselves. Old Dr. Herman put his chin almost on the Consul's shoulder to present his wizened face to the scanner. Of course they don't, he said. On an uncomplicated, even simple-minded world like this, who would need crystals? But maybe they fear glutting the market, or the domination of outside capital coming in to develop the source. When people backslide, there's no telling what's on their minds, and we have no time to waste negotiating or convincing them. In any case, how could they stop us from moving in? Abruptly he switched to his own interest. "'Aubrey, have you learned anything new about the scoops?' "'Nothing beyond the fact that the Islanders don't talk about them,' Jeff said.
"'I've seen perhaps a dozen offshore during the seven cycles I've been here.' "'One usually surfaces outside my harbor at about the time old Charlie Mac's supply boat comes in.' Thinking of Charlie Mac brought a forced end to his report. "'Charlie's due now.' "'I'll call back later.' He cut the circuit, hurrying to have his communicator stowed away before old Charlie's arrival. Not, he thought bitterly, that being found out now would make any great difference.
Stepping out into the brief Calaxian dawn, he caught his glimpse of the Cerimian ship's landing, before the island forest of palm firms cut it off from sight. Holmeside hadn't been bluffing, he thought, assuming as a matter of course that this was the task force Satterfield had been ordered to send. They didn't waste any time, Jeff growled. Damn them! He ignored the inevitable glory of Morning Rainbow that just preceded Procyon's Rising, and strode irritably down to his miniature dock. He was still scowling over what he should tell Charlie Mac when the Island Queen hove into view. She was a pretty sight. There was an artist's perception in Jeff, in spite of his drab years of E.I. patrol duty.
The white puff of sail on dark green sea, gliding across calm water banded with lighter and darker striae where submerged shoals lay, struck something responsive in him. The comparison it forced between Calaxia and Earth, whose yawning fourth-war scars and heritage of anxieties made calm crystals so desperately necessary, oppressed him. Calaxia was wholly unscarred, her people without need of the calm crystals they traded. Something odd in the set of the Queen's sails puzzled him until he identified the abnormality. In spite of distance and the swift approach of the old fishing-boat, he could have sworn that her sails bellied not with the wind, but against. They fell slack, however, when the Queen reached his channel, and flapped lazily, reversing to catch the wind, and nose her cautiously into the shallows.
Jeff dismissed it impatiently, a change of wind or some crafty maneuver of old Charlie Mack's to take advantage of the current. Jeff had just set foot on his dock when it happened. Solid as the planking itself, and all but blocking off his view of the nearing Island Queen, stood a six-foot owl. It was wingless, and covered smoothly with pastel blue feathers. It stood solidly on carefully manicured yellow feet, and stared at him out of square violet eyes. Involuntarily, he took a backward step, caught his heel on a sun-warped board, and sat down heavily. "'Well, what the devil?' he said inanely. The owl winced, and disappeared without a sound.
Jeff got up shakily and stumbled to the dock's edge. A chill conviction of insanity gripped him when he looked down on water lapping smooth and undisturbed below. "'I've gone mad!' He said aloud. Out on the bay, another catastrophe just as improbable was in progress.
Old Charlie Mac's Island Queen had veered sharply off course, left the darker green stripe of safe channel, and plunged into water too shallow for her draught. The boat heeled on shoalsand, listed, and hung aground, with wind-filled sails holding her fast. The scoop that had surfaced just behind her was so close that Jeff wondered if its species' legendary good-nature had been misrepresented. It floated like a glistening, plum-colored island, flat dorsal flippers undulating gently on the water, and its great filmy eyes all but closed against the slanting glare of morning sun. It was more than vast. The thing must weigh, Jeff thought dizzily, thousands or maybe millions of tons. He thought he understood the queen's grounding when he saw the swimmer stroking urgently toward his dock.
Old Charlie had abandoned his boat and was swimming in to escape the scoop. But it wasn't Charlie. It was Jennifer, Charlie's niece.
Jeff took the brown hand she put up and drew her to the dock beside him, studying her while she shook out her dripping red hair, and regained her breath. Sea Water had plastered Jennifer's white blouse and knee-length dungarees to her body like a second skin, and the effect bordered on the spectacular. "'Did you see it?' she demanded. Jeff wrestled his eyes away to the scoop that floated like a purple island in the bay. "'A proper monster,' he said. "'You got out just in time.' She looked at once startled and impatient. "'Not the scoop, you idiot! The owl!' It was Jeff's turn to stare. Owl? There was one on the dock, but I thought— So did I, she sounded relieved. But if you saw one, too— All of a sudden it was standing there on the deck beside me, right out of nowhere.
I lost my head and grounded the queen, and it vanished—the owl, I mean. So did mine, Jeff said. While they stood marveling, The owls came back.
Chaffis, three and four, were horribly shaken by the initial attempt at communication with the natives. Nothing in Cerimian experience had prepared them for creatures intelligent but illogical, individually perceptive, yet isolated from each other. "'Communication by audible symbol,' Chaffy, three said. He ruffled his feathers in a shudder. "'Barbarous!' Atavistic, agreed Chaffee Four. They could even lie to each other. But their dilemma remained. They must warn the natives before the prowling Zid found them, else there would be no natives. We must try again, Three concluded, searching out and using the proper symbols for explanation. Vocally, said Chaffee Four. They shuddered and teleported.
The sudden reappearance of his hallucination, doubled, startled Jeff no more than the fact that he seemed to be holding Jennifer Mack tightly. Amazingly, his immediate problem was not the possibility of harm from the owls, but whether he should reassure Jennifer before or after releasing her. He compromised by leaving the choice to her. "'They can't be dangerous,' he said. "'There are no land-dwelling predators on Calaxia. I read that in—' "'Nothing like that ever hatched out on Calaxia,' said Jennifer. She pulled free of him. "'If they're real, they came from somewhere else.' The implication drew a cold finger down Jeff's spine. "'That would mean other cultures out there. And in all our years of planet-hunting, we haven't found one.' Memory chilled him further.
"'A ship landed inland a few minutes ago,' he said. I took it for an E. I. Consulate craft, but it could have been—the Cerimians caught his mental image of the landing, and intervened while common ground offered. "'The ship was ours,' said Chaffee, three. He had not vocalized since fledgling days, and his voice had a jarring croak of disuse. Our Zid escaped its cage and destroyed two of us, forcing us to maroon it here for our own safety. Unfortunately, we trusted our star manual's statement that the planet is unpopulated. The Terrans drew together again. Zid? Jeff echoed. Chaffee Four relieved his fellow of the strain by trying his own rusty croak. A vicious canthorian predator combing the island at this moment for prey.
You must help us to recapture it.
So that you may identify it, Chaffee Three finished helpfully, the Zid has this appearance. His sigh projection of the Zid appeared on the dock before them with demoniac abruptness. Crouched to leap, twin tails lashing, and its ten-foot length bristling with glassy magenta bristles. It had a lethal pair of extra limbs that sprang from the shoulders to end in taloned, seizing hands, and its slanted red eyes burned malevolently from a snouted, razor-fanged face. It was too real to bear. Jeff stepped back on suddenly unreliable legs. Jennifer fainted against him, and the unexpected weight of her sent them both sprawling to the dock. "'We lean on weak reeds,' Chaffee Three said. "'Creatures who collapse with terror at the mere projection of a zid can be of little assistance in recapturing one.' Chaffee Four agreed reluctantly.
"'Then we must seek aid elsewhere.' When Jeff Aubrey pulled himself up from the planking, the apparitions were gone. His knees shook, and perspiration crawled cold on his face, but he managed to haul Jennifer up with him. "'Come out of it, will you?' he yelled, ungallantly in her ear. "'If a thing like that is loose on the island, we've got to get help.' Jennifer did not respond, and he slapped her until her eyes fluttered angrily. "'There's an EI Communicator in my cabin,' Jeff said. "'Let's go!' Memory lent Jennifer a sudden vitality that nearly left Jeff behind in their dash for the cottage up the beach. "'The door!' Jeff panted inside. "'Fasten the hurricane bolt! Hurry!' While she secured the flimsy door, he ripped through his belongings, aligning his EI Communicator again on his breakfast table.
Finding out where the islanders got their calm crystals had become suddenly unimportant. Just then, he wanted nothing so much as to see a well-armed patrol ship nosing down out of the Calaxian sunrise. He was activating the screen when Jennifer, in a magnificent rage in spite of soaked blouse and dungarees, advanced on him. "'You're an earth-interest spy after all,' she accused. "'They said in the township you are no artist, but Uncle Charlie and I—' Jeff made a pushing motion. "'Keep away from me. Do you want that devil tearing the cabin down around us?' She fell quiet, remembering the zid, and he made his call. "'Aubrey, Chain One Forty Seven. Come in, Consulate.' There was a sound of stealthy movement outside the cabin, and he flicked sweat out of his eyes with a hand that shook.
E. I, for God's sake, come in! I'm in trouble here! The image on his three-inch screen was not Consul Satterfield's, but the startled Consulate Operator's. "'Trouble?' Jeff forced stumbling words into line. The E. I Operator shook his head doubtfully. "'Consul's gone for the day, Aubrey. I'll see if I can reach him.' "'He was about to send out an E. I. Patrol ship to take over here in the islands,' Jeff said. Tell him to hurry it. He knew when he put down the microphone that the ship would be too late. E. I. might still drag the secret of the calm crystal source out of the Islanders, but Jeff Aubrey and Jennifer Mack wouldn't be on hand to witness their sorry triumph. The flimsy cabin could not stand for long against the sort of brute the Owls had shown him, and there was no sort of weapon at hand.
They couldn't even run. There's something outside. Jennifer said in a small voice. Her voice seemed to trigger the attack. The Zid lunged against the door with a force that cracked the wooden hurricane bolt across, and opened a three-inch slit between the leading edge and lintel. Jeff had a glimpse of slanted red eyes and a white-fanged snout before reflex sent him headlong to shoulder the door shut again. "'The bunk!' he panted at Jennifer. "'Shove it over!' Between them, they wedged the bunk against the door and held it in place. Then they stood looking palely at each other, and waiting for the next attack. It came from a different quarter—the wide double windows that overlooked the bay. The Zid, rearing upright, smashed away the flimsy rattan blinds with a taloned seizing hand, and looked readily in at them.
Like a man in a dream, Jeff caught up his communicator from the table and hurled it. The Zid caught it deftly, sank glistening teeth into the unit, and demolished it with a single snap. Crushed, the rig's powerful little battery discharged with a muffled sputtering and flashing of sparks. The Zid howled piercingly and dropped away from the window. That gave Jeff time enough to reach the storm shutters and secure them, only to rush again with Jennifer to their bunk barricade, as the Zid promptly renewed its ferocious attack on the door. He flinched when Jennifer, to be heard above the Zid's ragings, shouted in his ear, "'My scoop should have the Queen afloat by now. Can we reach her?' "'Scoop!' The Zid's avid cries discouraged curiosity before it was well-born.
"'We'd never make it. We couldn't possibly outrun that beast.' The Zid crashed against the door and drove it inches ajar, driving back their barricade. One taloned paw slid in and slashed viciously at random. Jeff ducked and strained his weight against the bunk, momentarily pinning the Zid's threshing forelimb. Chaffee Three chose that moment to reappear, nearly causing Jeff to let go of the bunk and admit the Zid. "'Your female suggestion is right,' the cerimian croaked. "'The Zid does not swim. Four and I are arranging escape on that premise.' The Zid's talons ripped through the door, leaving parallel rows of splintered brakes. Both slanted red eyes glared in briefly. "'Then you'd damn well better hurry!' Jeff panted.
The door, he estimated, might—or might not—hold for two minutes more. The cerimian vanished. There was a slithering sound in the distance that sounded like a mountain in motion, and with it a stertorous grunting that all but drowned out the Zid's cries. Something nudged the cottage with a force that all but knocked it flat. "'My scoop!' Jennifer exclaimed. She let go the barricade and ran to the window to throw open the storm shutters. "'Never mind the door. This way. Quick!' She scrambled to the window-sill and jumped. Numbly, Jeff saw her suspended there, feet only inches below the sill, apparently on empty air. Then the door sagged again under the Zid's lungings, and he left the bunk to follow Jennifer.
He landed on something tough and warm and slippery—a monstrous tail-fluke that stretched down the beach to merge into a flat purplish acreage of back, forested with endless rows of fins and spines and enigmatic tendrils. The scoop he saw—and only half believed it—had wallowed into the shallows alongside his dock. It had reversed its unbelievable length to keep the head submerged, and at the same time had backed out of the water until its leviathan tail spanned the hundred-odd yards of sloping beach from surf to cabin. Just ahead of him, Jennifer caught an erect fin-spine, and clung with both arms. "'Hang on! We're going!' The scoop contracted itself with a suddenness that yanked them yards from the cottage, and all but dislodged Jeff.
Beyond the surf, the shallows boiled whitely where the scoop fought for traction to draw its grounded bulk into the water. Jeff looked back once to see the Zid close the distance between and spring upward to the tail-fluke behind him. He had an instant conviction that the brute's second spring would see him torn to bits, but the scoop at the moment found water deep enough to move in earnest. The Zid could only sink in all six taloned limbs and hold fast. The hundred-odd yards from cabin to beach passed in a blur of speed. The scoop reached deeper water and submerged, throwing a mountainous billow that sent the Island Queen reeling, and all but foundered her. Jeff was dislodged instantly, and sank like a stone.
He came up, spouting water and fighting for breath, to find himself a perilous twenty feet from the Zid. The Zid, utterly out of its element, screamed hideously, and threshed water to froth. All its earlier ferocity vanished under the imminent and unfamiliar threat of drowning. Jeff sank again, and churned desperately to put distance between them. He came up again, nearly strangled, to find that either he or the Zid had halved the distance between them. They were all but eye to eye when Jennifer caught him and towed him away toward the doubtful safety of the island queen. Chaffee's three and four appeared from nowhere, and stood solemnly by while the zid weakened and sank with a final gout of bubbles.
"'We must have your friend's help,' Chaffee's three said to Jennifer then, "'to recover our investment!' Jeff wheeled on him incredulously. "'Me? Go down there after that monster? Not on your—' "'He means the scoop,' Jennifer said. "'They brought it ashore to help us out of the cabin. Why shouldn't it help them now?' The scoop came up out of the water so smoothly that the island queen hardly rocked, dangling the limp form of the zid from its great rubbery lips like a drowned kitten. "'Here,' Jennifer said. The scoop touched its vast face to the queen's rail, and dropped the unconscious body to the deck. The zid twitched weakly, and coughed up froth and water. Jeff backed away warily. Damn it!
Are we going through all that again? Once it gets its wind back—Choffee Three interrupted him this time. The crystal now. We must have it to quiet the zid until it is safely caged again. Jennifer turned suddenly firm. "'No. I won't let this Ei Informer know about that.' The Cerimians were firmer. "'It will not matter now. Galactic adjustment will extend aid to both Calaxia and Terra, furnishing substitutes for the crystals you deal in. There will be no loss to either faction.' "'No loss?' Jennifer repeated indignantly. But then there won't be any demand for our crystals. We'll lose everything we've gained. Not so, Chaffee Three assured her. Galactic will offer satisfactory items in exchange, as well as a solution to Tara's problems.
The scoop, sensing Jennifer's surrender, slid its ponderous bulk nearer and opened its mouth, leaving half an acre of lower jaw resting flush with the island queen's deck. Without hesitation, Jennifer stepped over the rail and vanished into the yawning pinkish cavern beyond. Appalled, Juff rushed after her. "'Jennifer, have you lost your mind?' "'There is no danger,' Chaffee Three assured him. "'Scoops are benevolent as well as intelligent, and arrived long ago at a working agreement with the Islanders.' This one has produced a crystal, and is ready to be relieved of it, else it would not have attached itself to a convenient human. Jeff said dizzily, "'The scoops make the crystals?' "'There is a nidus, just back of a fleshy process in its throat, corresponding to your own tonsils, which produces a crystal much as your Terran oyster secretes a pearl.' The irritation distracts the scoops from their meditations.
They are a philosophical species, though not mechanically progressive, and prompts them to barter their strength for a time to be rid of it.
Jennifer reappeared with a walnut-sized crystal in her hand, and vaulted across the rail. "'There goes another scoop,' she said resignedly. The Queen will have to tack with the wind for a while, until another one shows up. "'So that's why your sail's bellied backward when you came into harbor,' said Jeff. "'The thing was towing you.' A thin, high streak of vapor trail, needling down toward them from the sunrise rainbow, turned the channel of his thought. "'That will be Satterfield and his task force,' Jeff told the Chaffees. I think you're going to find yourselves in an argument over that matter of squeezing Terra out of the crystal trade. They reassured him solemnly. Terra has no real need of the crystals.
We can offer a tested genetics program that will eliminate racial anxiety within a few generations, and supply neural therapy equipment, on a trade basis, of course, that will serve the crystal's purpose during the interim.
There should be a flaw somewhere, Jeff felt, but he failed to see one. He gave up trying when he found Jennifer eyeing him with uncharacteristic uncertainty. "'You will be glad to get back to your patrol work,' she said. It had an oddly tentative sound. Somehow the predictable monotony of consulate work had never seemed less inviting. The prospect of ending his Calaxian tour and going to a half-barren and jittery earth appealed to Jeff even less. "'No,' he said. "'I'd like to stay.' "'There's nothing to do but fish and sail around looking for scoops ready to shed their crystals,' Jennifer reminded him. "'Still, Uncle Charlie has talked about settling in the township and standing for council election.' Can you fish and sail, Jeff Aubrey?
The Consulate rocket landed ashore, but Jeff ignored it. I can learn, he said.
End of Traitor's Risk by Roger D.
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10 Wizard 37:55
This reading is by Alex Talander of Davis, California. Wizard by Larry M. Harris. Although the masquerade itself as a necessary protection against non-telepaths was not formally formulated until the late years of the seventeenth century, Groups of telepaths in hiding existed long before that date. Whether such groups were the result of natural mutations, or whether they came into being due to some other cause, has not yet been fully determined. But that a group did exist in the district of Offenberg in what is now Prussia, we are quite sure. The activities of the group appear to have begun approximately in the year 1594, but it was not until eleven years after that date that they achieved a signal triumph, the first and perhaps the last of its kind until the dissolution of the Masquerade in 2103.
Excerpt from A Short History of the Masquerade by A. Milge. Crystal 70454368. Produced 2440. Jonas came over the hill, whistling as if he had not a care in the world. Which is not even approximately true, he reflected happily. The state of complete and utter quiet was both foreign and slightly repugnant to him. He was never more pleased than when he had a job in hand, a job that involved a slight and unavoidable risk. This time, of course, the risk was more than slight. Why, he thought happily, it was even more for him to get killed, and most painfully, too. With a great deal of pleasure, he stood for a second at the crest of the hill, his hands on his hips, Looking down at the town of Spire, as it baked in the May afternoon sunlight.
Behold the tortoise, he maketh no progress unless he sticketh out his neck, but he maketh very little progress unless he picketh the right time and place to sticketh out his neck, which can be quite a sticky problem for a man in a medieval culture. Jonas did not, in spite of his pose, look like the typical hero folk-tale or scribe's tome. He was not even seven feet tall, for instance, nor did he have a handsome, lovesome face with flashing blue eyes, or a broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted marvel of a figure. He was instead Somewhat shorter than the average of men in Europe in 1605, and for some time thereafter, he had small, almost hidden eyes that seemed to see a great deal, but failed completely to make a fuss about the fact.
And while his figure was just a trifle dumpy, his face completed the rhyme by being extraordinarily lumpy. The nose, as a matter of strict truth, was hard to distinguish from the other contusions, swellings, and marks that covered the head. Nor, of course, did he carry the sword of a great hero or noble. Jonas had no Vaughan to stick on his name, and he had never thought it worthwhile to claim one and accept the tiny risk of disclosure. After all, a noble was only a man like other men. And besides, Jonas knew perfectly well that he had no need of a sword. His adventures, too, were a little out of the common run of tales. Jonas had, he thought regretfully, few duels to look forward to, and he had even fewer to look back on.
And as a maid is won by face, figure and daring, and a wife by riches, position or prospects, there was a notable paucity of the licent ladies in Jonas's career. All in all, he thought, sadly, he was not a usual hero. But he refused to let the thought spoil his enjoyment. After all, he was a hero, though of his own unique kind. There was no denying that. And in his own way he had his reward. He took one hand off his hip to scratch at the top of his head, wondering briefly if he had managed to pick up life in the last town he had visited, and he took another look at the city. Spire seemed a lot better, at first glance, than some of the other places Jonas had visited. For one thing, it had a full town hall built, no less, of honest stone, and probably a relic of the momentines.
This was the parish church, of course, a good solid wooden structure, and a collection of houses strung along the dirt paths of the town. The houses of the rich were naturally wooden, the poor built of baked mud. There were a great many baked mud structures, and only one wooden one, besides the church, that Jonas could see. The paths were winding, but comparatively free from slop. That was pleasing, he told himself. And the buildings themselves, wood, mud, and stone, clustered in the valley below him as if they were afraid, and needed each other's protection. Which, in a way, they did. Jonas reflected on that a trifle grimly, thinking of the holy Inquisition with its hierarchy of priests and layfolk, busily working in Spire, just as it worked in every other town throughout Offenburg, and throughout the civilized world.
Ordinarily, he would not have given it a thought, beyond a passing sigh for the ways of the world. He had other business. But now— He grinned to himself, and the grin turned to a laugh as he started down the hill. The grislier methods of the inquisitorial process were well known to him by reputation, and soon he might be testing them out for himself. There was absolutely no way to be sure. That thought pleased him greatly. After all, he told himself, there was nothing like a little danger despite the boring business of living. By the time he reached the bottom of the hill, he was whistling loudly. He stopped at the first house, a mud construction with a badly carpentered wooden door and a single bare window that looked out on the street.
It smelled, but Jonas went up to the door bravely and knocked. There was no answer. He went on whistling Fortuna Plango Volnera under his breath, and after a time he knocked again. This time he heard movement inside the house, and nodded to himself in a satisfied fashion. But almost a minute passed before the head of an old woman showed itself at the window. She was really extraordinarily ugly, he thought. She wore a bonnet that did nothing whatever to enhance her doubtful wrinkled charms, or to conceal them. And besides, it was dirty. "'Nobody's here,' she said, in the voice of a very bernardous toad. "'Go away!' Jonas smiled at her. It was an effort. "'Madam,' he began politely. "'Nobody's home,' she repeated, drawing slightly back from the window.
"'You go away now!' "'Ah,' as Jonas said pleasantly, "'but you're home, aren't you?' The old woman frowned at him suspiciously. "'Now?' she said vaguely. Well, this is your house, he said, the house where you live. Never saw you before, the old man said. That's right, Jonas said equally. You come to turn me out, she demanded. Her eyebrows, which were almost as big and black as her ancient moustache, came down over glittering little eyes. I hold this house free and proper, she said in a determined roar, and nobody can take it away from me. It belongs to me, and to my children, and to their children, and to the children of those children. The catalogue seemed likely to go on forever. Exactly, Jonas said hastily.
Well, then, the old woman said, and started to draw back. Jonas gestured lazily with one hand. Wait, he said. I am not going to take your house away from you, madam. I am only here to ask you a question. Question, she said. You come from Heraknouf. I am an old woman, but I do no wrong, and there is no one can accuse me of heresy. I am in church every week. I am more than once. I keep peace with my neighbors, and there's none can say a mystery about me. The woman, Jonas thought, was full to the eyebrows with words. Probably, he told himself, trying to be fair, she didn't have anyone to talk to until a stranger came along. He sighed briefly. "'I do not come from the Inquisitor,' he said truthfully.
"'Nor is my question one that should cause you alarm.' The old woman pondered for a minute. She leamed her elbows on the windowsill, getting them muddy. But that, Jonas thought, didn't seem to matter to this creature, apparently. "'Ask!' she said at last. Jonas put on his most pleasant expression. Madam, he said, I wish to know if there be any family in this town to give room to a wayfarer. Understanding, of course, that the wayfarer would insist on paying. Paying well, he added. The old woman blinked. You looking for an inn? she said. An inn in this town? The idea appeared to strike her at the very height of idiocy. She covered her face with her hands and shook. After a second, Jonas discovered that she was laughing.
He waited patiently until the fit had left her. Not an inn, he said. There is no inn here, I know, but a family willing to take in a stranger. Strangers are seldom here, she said. Herr Knopf watches his flock with zeal. Which meant, Jonas reflected, that he was in a fair way to get himself burned as a heretic unless he watched his step carefully. Herr Knopf's fame has reached my own country far away, he said with some truth. Nevertheless, a family which—wait, she said. You have said that you will pay well, yet you do not appear rich. Jonas understood. Fishing in his own pocket, he withdrew a single shiny coin. I also wished, he said smoothly, to pay for any help I may receive, such as the answering of an innocent question, a question in which the respected inquisitor Knuff can have no interest whatever.
The old woman's eyes went to the coin and stayed there. Well, she said, it is said that the family called Sharp has a house too large for them. Now that the elder son is gone, there is only the man, his wife, and a daughter. It is said that the man is in need of money. He would accept payment, were it generous, in return for sharing room in his house. I would be most grateful, Jonas murmured. He passed the coin over. The old woman's hand snatched it and clothes on it. Where might I find this family, he said. It is now late in the afternoon, the old woman said. Perhaps they are at home. You will see a path which takes you to the left. Follow it until you reach the last house. Knock at the door."
"'I shall,' Jonas said. "'And many thanks.' The old woman, still clutching her coin, disappeared from the window as if someone had yanked her back. Jonas turned with relief and got back on the path, but it stank quite as badly as the house had. He endured the stench, heroically. Sharp proved to be a barrel-shaped man who was unaccountably cheerless, as if the inside structure had been carefully removed and then replaced by sawdust, Jonas thought. Evie the offer of seven krona for a single week's stay failed to produce the delirious joy Jonas had expected. The money is needed, Sharp said in a dour, bass voice, staring off past Jonas's left ear at the darkening sky. And for the money you will be welcome.
I must take your word that you are not dangerous. I can only pray that you do not betray that trust. It was far from a warm welcome, but Jonas was satisfied with it. I shall work to do you good, he said, and not evil. Stranger, Sharp said. Work for your own good. Do nothing for me. This is an accursed family. There is no good to be done to me or my wife or child. Jonas tried to look reassuring. He thought of several things to say about the sunny side of life, and decided on none of them. My sympathy, he began. Your sympathy may endanger you, Sharpe said. My son is gone. I pray that there is an end to it. Jonas peered once into the mind of the man and recoiled violently. But he had enough in that one glimpse to tell him the reason for Sharp's misery, and it was quite reason enough, he thought.
Herr Knuff, we do not mention that name, Sharp said. My wife has resigned herself to what has happened. I am not so wise. I promise you, Jonas said earnestly, that you will be in no danger from me, no more, that I will help you out of your difficulties and ensure your peace. Then you are an angel from heaven, Sharp said bitterly. There is no other help, while the Inquisitor remains and our sons become suspects to his rages. Jonas shook his head. There is help, he said, and you will find it. Your son is gone, accused, questioned, confessed, and burnt, but there will be no more. Sharpe looked at him for a long time. Come with me, he said, at last, and led the way into his mud-house. Inside there was only one large room, but it seemed spacious enough for four.
Three pallets lay against the far white wall, a single one against the left. Sharp went to the back of the house, near the single bed. "'This will be yours,' he said. "'While you are with us, it is poor, but it is all we can offer. I am honored,' you know," said. "'Here we are alone,' Sharp went on, his voice lowering. "'My wife and daughter have gone to visit a neighbor, for they have not yet closed us off entirely from all human contact.' He grimaced. Jonas peered into the mind again, very gently, but the mad roiling of pain and memory there was too strong for him, and he returned. "'If you have anything to say to me,' Sharpe said, "'Tell me now. No one can hear us, not Herr Knopf himself.'" "'To say to you?' "'Regarding your plan,' Sharpe said.
"'Surely you have a plan, and if I may play any part in it—' Jonas blinked. "'Plan?' he said. "'Of course,' Sharpe said. You speak of an end to troubles, an end to the Inquisition and the buildings, an end to the question, and so you must have a plan for ridding us of Herr Knopf, one which you would tell me. Jonas shook his head. I have no plan, he said. It means danger, Sharp pressed him. But I do not mind danger, in such a cause. I am not vengeful, but my son was no wizard. Yet the Inquisitor took him and had a confession from him. You know well the worth of such confessions, and soon there will be others, for when the curse strikes a family it does not stop with one member. He tightened his lips.
It is not for myself, I am afraid, he said. Jonas nodded. Were there such a plan, he said, be assured I would tell you. But there is none, Jonas said. Her knopf shall remain for all that I can do while the earth remains. Sharpe opened his mouth, shut it again, and then shrugged. I see, he said at last. You do not trust me. Perhaps you are wise. I might talk foolishly. I am an old man, older in this last month than in all my years. Believe me, Jonas began. I— Let it be, Sharpe said quietly. I believe you. If that is what you want, I believe you. He shrugged again, moving out toward the door of the hut. And in any case, he said, the money is needed, for there are fines to pay and costs of the Inquisition.
I understand. Jonas said helplessly. Sharp turned and looked at him full in the face. In the man's big eyes, bitterness and hopelessness glittered. "'I am sure you do,' he said, and turned again toward the door. The others he met only briefly. Frau Sharp was a little woman with the face of a walnut, who looked as if she had never really been cheerful. Her son's death, he saw when he looked into her mind, had not come as a surprise to her. It was one more unhappy event in a lifetime in which she had expected nothing else. Unhappiness, she told herself, was her portion in this life. In the life above, things would be different. Jonas had met the type before, and was uninterested in going further.
But Ilse Sharp was something else entirely. She did not say a word to him, coming into the house that evening, apace behind her mother, like an obedient slave. She was about seventeen, and her mind was as fresh and clean and pretty as her face and figure. Jonas started musing on heroes again, but he never had the chance to make a move towards her. She had a very nice smile, and from memories in the other's minds he could hear the voice, low, unquiet, and entirely satisfactory. Jonas sighed. The job, he told himself sternly, came first, and afterward—though, come to think of it, there wouldn't be an afterward. The evening meal was simple. There was a single dish of meat and some sort of beans.
After it had been eaten and the darkness outside grew to full night, it was time to retire. Jonas went over to his pallet, removed his jerkin and shoes, and lay down. He heard the others readying themselves for sleep, but he did not look into their minds. Soon they were asleep and breathing heavily. But Jonas stayed awake for a while. "'It's really too bad we can't work this sort of thing at a distance,' Clarton's voice said suddenly. "'But then, none of us has ever met the man, and you can't read a mind if you haven't had some physical contact with the man who owns it.' "'It's too bad,' Jonas agreed politely. Five hundred miles away, Clarton chuckled, and the linkage of minds transmitted the amusements to Jonas.
"'You don't think so,' at any rate," the director said. "'You're having adventures, and to find time. It's the sort of thing you like, after all.' Jonas shrugged mentally. "'I suppose so,' he said. "'I like to work on my own, do my own job. And it's got you into trouble before,' Clarton said. "'But you can't afford any mistakes this time.' "'I know the risk perfectly well,' Jonas thought back. Clarton's thought carried a wry echo. "'You know the risk to yourself,' he told Jonas. And you've accepted that. You rather like it, as a matter of fact. But you haven't thought of the risk to the rest of us, and to the town you're in. Jonas sent a thought of uncertainty. What? Clarence transmitted the entire picture in one sudden blow.
The chance that Jonas would not be killed immediately, but would be discovered. The chance that the Inquisitor would get from him the secret of the Brotherhood. That's impossible, Jonas said. Clarence sounded resigned. Nothing's impossible, he said. And if the secret is let out, why, the Brotherhood is finished. Finish before it's barely started, because you can read a man's mind doesn't mean you can defeat him, Jonas. But you know what he's going to do, and if he's got you in a wooden house and he's going to burn it down, what good does that your knowledge do you? But you can transmit false thoughts—and confuse him, Clareton said. Fine, fine. If you've ever met the man before, and suppose you haven't, then you can't transmit a thing to him.
You're trapped in the house, remember, and the fire's started. What good's your telepathy? But— It's a sense, Clareton said. Like any other sense. But it isn't magic any more than your eyes are magic. They're given by God, if you like. They grow, they develop. So the ability to read minds, to transmit its thought, is given by God. No one knows why or how. Fifteen of us have developed it. Fifteen who are members of the Brotherhood. But there are others. Of course, Jonas thought impatiently. I know all that. You know a great deal, Clareton said, which I sometimes find it necessary to bring to your attention. I've done all right, Jonas thought sullenly. Clareton agreed. Of course you have, he thought.
You're not the most careful of man, and great care is needed. The brotherhood must grow. This new sense is of great value. Perhaps we can learn to teach it to others in time, though we have had little success with that. But at the least we can maintain our numbers, pass the gift on to our children. If it is possible, Yonis said. We must try, Clarendon said, and your job is enormously important. I know that, Yonis thought wearily. You have accomplished the first step, Clarendon said. Do nothing rash. Of course not. You will not accept help. I will not, Yonis thought. Very well, then, Clarendon thought. There was the ghost of another idea. Yonis caught it. I know perfectly well that you wouldn't have sent me if there were any other available member, he thought.
There is no need to remind me. I'm sorry, Clayton thought. He radiated caution, worry, patience. Jonas turned to the bed and cut off from the director with a grunt. He was tired. Long-distance linkages were a drain on the body's energy, even when the person involved was easy to visualize. But Clareton had insisted on an intermittent contact. If there were such a thing as total contact, constant contact over a period of days, Jonas thought Clareton would use me for a puppet, a veritable punch among men. He would override me and take me over the way a traveling Entertainer rules his jointed dolls, and that would be a fine thing for a hero, wouldn't it? He grimaced in the darkness. Constant contact was simply impossible.
Any reaching out used energy, and linking up for a long period simply burned the body up like a long starvation. It was as bad as a penance. Jonas was thankful for that. And for the rest? Well, he thought resignedly, what was a hero without a quest? And what was a quest without someone to set it? But that someone had to be Clarton. With his caution and his old woman worry, Jonas sighed and set about the business of falling to sleep. The days passed slowly, with great boredom. Jonas made contact twice with Clarton, who told him over and over to wait, to do nothing. The next move is coming soon. Do nothing to hurry it. You can only upset the natural course of events, which is unwise, Jonas thought readily, and risky, and very probably impious as well.
As for the piety, Clareton thought, I leave that to the priests and the women. But wisdom and caution are my task, Jonas, as they must be yours. I—you are a hero. Out on an adventure, Clareton thought witheringly. But set your course with sense. Travel it with caution. You will the more certainly arrive. Philosophy for a dull plodder, Jonas thought. Philosophy for one of the Brotherhood, Clareton thought back. We are tiny as yet. We have no force. You can add to that force, add greatly, but you must be wise. I must be slow, you mean. I mean what I have told you, Clarton thought. And—one more thing, Jonas. Yes? The daughter. Clarton thought. I have seen her in your mind. Ignore the wench. Is she worth what your task is worth?
I never—' Then my caution is unnecessary, Clarton thought, but in the unlikely case that she might tempt you to folly, remember it. Jonas, who disliked irony, sighed and cut off. That was the third night. During the days he had done the things he had planned. He did no work with the Sharps, but let them find him when they returned to the hut of an evening, reciting strange words. Once he built a small outdoor fire and walked around it, Wittershins, for several minutes. Then he put the fire out and went inside. He wasn't sure whether or not anyone was watching him that time, but soon or later it had to happen. And it happened, as Jonas suspected it would, through the wife. Mrs. Sharp came back to the hut early one day, threw a frightened glance at Jonas sitting in a corner doing nothing at all, and left.
He hardly needed to see into her mind to know where she was going. And twenty minutes later, two men came to the hut. They stood in the open doorway, Mrs. Sharp behind them, twittering like an ancient bird, and Jonas watched them boredly. There were giants for this part of the world, almost six feet tall, with great hands and jaws, One had black coarse hair on his head and a stubble about his face. The other was bald as an egg. "'That's him,' Mr. Sharp said, just a trifle hesitantly. "'He's the one. He came to stay with us, and we didn't know.' The man with the black hair said, "'Ugh! Grr! Herr Knuff said take him back,' the bald one added. "'Herr Knuff?' Jonas said, entering the conversation with a light, pleasant tone.
"'He's the—' Mrs. Sharp tried to get the word out, and then pushed by the two men and came into the hut.' I didn't want to, but there's something strange, and we can't afford any suspicion, and— Jonas realized slowly that she was crying as she looked at him. It's all right, he said uncomfortably. You're—I'll be perfectly all right, Jonas said. He stood up. This here knoop, he said. He wants to see me? He said bring you along, the bald man told him. The black-haired man nodded very slowly. Grr, he said. Jonas sighed and went forward to meet with the two big men, leaving Mrs. Sharpe sobbing in the background. The poor woman felt terrible, he knew, but there was nothing he could do about that. Then let us go, he said, and marched off.
Feeling that one more effect wouldn't hurt, he led the way to the town hall. Let them figure out how he had known just where to go, he thought. Their minds were very, very boring, and quite blank. Her knuff, Jonas reflected, might be a definite relief. First there was the cell, which was in the basin of the town hall. It was damp, and the air was not too good, but there were compensations. Rats, for instance. Jonas told himself, after the first couple of hours, that he simply wouldn't have known what to do without the rats. Trying to trap and kill them, with no weapons beyond his bare hands, even an eating knife he had carried in his jerkin had been taken away, leaving him to the uncomfortable reflection that he was going to have to die with his fingers.
Was a pastime that occupied him for several hours on the first day. On the second day, the rats began to bore him. By that evening, they were annoying him, and when the third day dawned bright and warm, as near as he could tell from the tiny slip of window at the top of his cell, Jonas was telling himself that any move at all was a move in the right direction. He set up a shout for one of the guards. The bald one had brought his meals every day, but the black-haired one was the man who checked his cell at night. For once, Jonas thought he was lucky, the bald man appeared, after some fifty minutes of screaming and cursing. Jonas was not at all sure whether the black-haired man understood language.
There was little trace of it in his mind, and virtually nothing that might be called intelligence. With the bald man, at least, he could communicate. "'What's wanted?' the guard said sourly, staring through the bars. Jonas smiled softly. "'You know why I'm here, don't you?' he said in a voice as close to a silky as he could make it. "'You,' the bald man said, "'you're here, in a cell.' That's right, Jonas said patiently. He rubbed at his face. Do you know why I was put here? You cast spells. You make things happen. That's right, Jonas said, smiling again. I'm a wizard, a warlock. That's what they say, isn't it? You make things happen, the bald man said. But he had the basic idea. Jonas checked that in his mind.
Very well, he said. Now, I wish to see Herr Knuf. The Inquisitor calls you when he wants you, the bald man said. Now, Jonas said. When he wants. If I am a wizard," Jonas said, I have powers, strange powers. I could make you—he reflected for a minute—I could make you into a beetle, and squash you underfoot. As a matter of fact, I think I will. He gazed reflectively at the bald man, who gulped and turned a little pale. You—you are in a cell, he said at last. Locked up. Do you think that will stop me? Jonas said. He came to the barred door, still smiling. You would not dare. Why not? Jonas asked. What have I got to lose? He raised one hand, clawing the fingers slightly. He took a deep breath, as if he were about to spit out an incantation.
His eyes glittered. The smile broadened. A long second passed. I will tell the Inquisitor you wish to see him, the bald guard said. Jonas relaxed and stepped back. I shall be most grateful, he said formally. The guard turned and started to walk away. Five paces down the corridor, the walk turned into a run. Jonas watched him go, and then sat down on his louse-infested cot to await developments. The minutes ticked by endlessly. He thought of trying to reach Clareton, but decided, not entirely with regret, that the contact would use up too much energy, and he needed all the energy he could conserve now. The second step had been taken. The fact that he sat in a cell in a prison was proof of that.
The third step, the all-important final step, was about to begin. Georg Knopf was a tall man with skin in the colour and apparent texture of good leather. He had a face like an eagle, and his eyes were ice-blue. He moved his thin, strong hands gently back and forth on the table that held his papers, inkstand and pen, and said in a voice like audible sandpaper, "'You wanted to see me!' True," Jonas said pleasantly. Knopf was sitting behind the table. Jonas had not been asked to sit. He remained standing, and he was reasonably sure that his feet were going to hurt in a minute. He tried not to let the thought disturb him. The man's mind was like his office in the town hall, sparsely furnished, almost austere, but with all the necessities laid out for easy access.
Underneath the strength and iron of the mind, Jonas caught the spark glowing, and nearly smiled. In spite of the reports, in spite of logic, there had been a chance of the Brotherhood to guess wrongly about this man. Now that chance was gone, and the Brotherhood was right again. "'Not many asked to see me,' Knuff said in the same voice. He went on looking at his hands. There was bitterness in his mind. Bitterness that had changed to hate. Their pleas tend to be exactly the opposite. I do not plead, Jonas pointed out. It was necessary that I come to see you. The question was, he told himself, exactly what were the inquisitor's real beliefs? His public professions were well known. Jonas searched and found the answer.
Knuff was an honest man. That, of course, made matters simpler. Necessary, Knuff said, looking up for the first time, his gaze stabbed like a sword. He was uneasy, Jonas knew. With another mind proving his, he could not help but be uneasy. But he could not find a cause. It would never occur to him. And he controlled his feelings superbly. "'You believe that I am a wizard,' Jonas said. Knuff waited a bare second, and then nodded. "'I can do many things,' Jonas went on. "'It was necessary that I bring these to your attention, and to prove to you that they were not wizardly or magic.' "'Many have told me,' Knuff muttered, "'that their feats were natural.' It is a common defence. "'So I have heard,' Jonas said easily.
"'But I shall prove what I say.' "'I am under no compulsion to listen to you,' Knopf said after a pause. Jonas shrugged. His feet were beginning to hurt, he realised. He sighed briefly, but there was no time or attention to spare for them. "'I can only see you by having myself accused of witchcraft,' he said. "'In that way you will be forced to listen to me. You may listen now, or later, at a full hearing of the Inquisitor's Court.' "'Am I to take my choice?' Knuff said. He smiled briefly. His face remained cold. The strong hands moved on the table top. It is a matter of indifference to me, Jonas said, but the weight becomes boring after a time. Knuff's eyebrows went up. Boring is... hardly the word others would use.
I am not like others, Jonas said. He wished for Clareton suddenly, but there was no way to reach him safely. He had to make his move alone. Well, he told himself, that was what he had wanted. I can tell you what is in your mind, he said. The words hung in the air of the room for a long time. At last Knuff nodded. The devil grants to many his power of seeing the minds of men, he said quietly. This is not devil's work, as I shall prove, Jonas said. He shifted his feet. But let me establish one point at a time, in the most scholastic manner, if you will permit. I permit, Knuff said. There was interest in his mind, overlaid with scepticism. Of course, but interest all the same. That, Jonas thought, was a better sign than he had ever dared hope for.
Very well, he said. Think of a word. Think of any single word. I shall tell it to you. As any wizard might do, who had the help of his lord the devil, could have muttered, Do you expect this to prove? One thing at a time, Jonas said. Could have nodded. A second pass. Jonas licked his lips. The possibilities prated before him. On one hand, success. On the other, there was the torture and death of the Inquisition. Jonas took a deep breath. There was no way to back out now. Heroism looked a little empty, though. He closed his eyes. Cabbages, he said. Knuff neither applauded nor looked surprised. "'As I have said,' he murmured, "'that which the devil can grant.' He paused and looked down at his hands.
"'Am I to take this as a confession?' he said. "'Do you wish to hurry your own death?' "'I am no wizard,' Jonas said. "'A stranger!' Knuff said, who enters a small city, is seen at mysterious undertakings, plucks words out of the centre of a man's mind. Why, the picture is a classic one. Del Rio himself, Holzinger, or any of the others, could not describe it better. Yet all this was done to draw your attention, to fix it on what I have to tell you, Jonas said, shifting his feet again. I am no wizard, but a man who may do certain things, and here is my proof. You may do the same yourself. The silence was a long one, and at the end of it Knopf rose. He walked to the door of the room and opened it, and the bald-headed guard came in.
"'He has tried to tempt me to a pact with Satan,' the inquisitor said. "'But take him away!' Some day, Jonas thought, back in his cell, there would be a method of controlling minds that did not require the willing cooperation of the two parties. Some day, the man who reads minds will be more than a passive onlooker. But the talent was new. It needed practice. It needed training. The cell grew dark as the night came, and the dampness seemed to increase. Jonas heard squeaking and thought of the rats, but he couldn't even summon up enough energy to try for them. He sat cross-legged in a corner of the cell and closed his eyes. He sighed once, deeply. This is what a hero came to and told himself. This was the end of heroics and playing a lone hand.
Why, if he had it to do over again, he would— You would do exactly the same thing, Clareton's voice said. Jonas grinned suddenly and said straighter. I should have known you'd be getting into contact sooner or later, he thought. I try to keep track of all our men, Clarton thought. In a case like yours, I try harder. My foolishness, Jonas thought, sometimes works to my benefit. Clarton's thoughts were dry. If you hadn't gotten impatient and tried to hurry things, his voice said in Jonas's mind, you wouldn't be back in your cell now. There is a time and a place for your disclosure. Another day in here would have driven me out of my wits, Jonas thought. Better out of your wits than dead, Clareton thought.
Jonas sighed. However, Clareton went on, there is still a way out for you. I have read the situation in your mind, and your next move will have to be rather more spectacular than usual. So long as it works, Jonas said, I will be satisfied. It will work, Clareton said. At least, I think it will. Another day dragged by. Jonas put in his time alternately going over the new plan and feeling more frightened than he had ever believed possible. Clareton reached him once, but the contact was weak and fleeting. The director hadn't enough strength to reach him again, at least not for a day or so. Jonas was exactly where he'd wanted to be—on his own. He hated the idea. Time passed somehow. When morning dawned, Jonas awoke to find the door of his cell being unlocked.
The bald man and the blackhead man were both there. He looked up for them with distaste. Then he saw what was in their minds, and the distaste changed to fear. "'You have confessed,' the bald one said. "'It is necessary that you ratify your confession. Come with us.' Jonas knew what that meant. Ratification of a free confession took place under torture. He wiped his face with one hand, but he hardly thought of escaping. He had to go through with the plan. The two guards came into the cell and gripped his arms. Jonas allowed himself to be carried out into the corridor and down it to a great wooden door. The guards opened it and dragged him through. The torture chamber was brightly lit, with torches and brackets along the walls that gave off, by a small fraction, more light than smoke.
In one corner the rack itself stood, and there were other tools of the trade scattered around the room. Jonas found that he was sweating. The guards brought him to the center of the room, couldn't for standing near him, a perfectly bright expression on his face. His voice was the same rough rasp, but it seemed almost mechanical. "'You have confessed to me,' he said. "'Your heresy. Now you will be made to ratify your confession. That done, your penalty will be exacted.' And the penalty, of course, will be death—death at the stake." He forced himself to remain calm. Now was the time for his play. He took a deep breath and felt the strength in him gather to a single point and flow outward. The two men suddenly seemed to stagger.
There was a second of confusion, and they had let him go. He stood alone in the room. He turned and walked to the door, but he did not open it. Instead, he leaned against it. He forced his voice into the patterns of calmness and ease. Your men cannot touch me, he said. Wizard, no," Jonas said. The confusion he was broadcasting kept the men from doing anything they required, even a simple plan. But he couldn't keep it up for long. A man like yourself, a man with a particular talent, given by God—'The name of God.' "'I can say that name,' Jonas told the inquisitor. "'No wizard may say it.' "'It is a trick,' Knopf said. Jonas shook his head. "'Not at all. I will ask you to do nothing against the faith.
I merely ask you to test for yourself what I say.' You are a heretic, Knuff said suddenly. I cannot. You can pray, Jonas said. Knuff blinked. Pray, he said. Meditate on a prayer, Jonas said. Keep your mind open. Keep yourself ready for the gift of God. It will descend on you. Knuff shook his head. It is a trick, he began. A trick, Jonas said? But the prayers of God and his church? And that was the unanswerable question, for no wizard could use the name of God. No wizard could pray. So the inquisition said, so Knopf said, Snow Knopf had to say, and so he had to believe. Slowly his mind opened and became receptive. The prayer hung in the air of the smoky room. Jonas slipped in. Now, he said quietly.
His control slipped. The two guards came towards him, overpowered, and held him in a brief second. Wait, the inquisitor said heavily. Wait, release him. And so, Kletran thought, the job was accomplished. Naturally, Jonas thought. Clareton's thought had an overtone of weariness. There is no need to be smug, he told Jonas. After all, you did not do the job yourself. Unimportant, Jonas thought. The man is convinced. He can be trained further and join the Brotherhood. It will take time, Clareton said. A few years, perhaps. But in the meantime, there will be no trials in Speyer. No trials, Jonas thought. But—oh, I see. Of course. Clarence thought. Any man who considers himself a wizard will have his mind seen by the Inquisitor, and since there are no wizards, at least, none we have discovered.
The trials will cease, Jonas finished. And the Brotherhood has gained a new member, Clarence said. A member with influence and power. It is an important step forward, Jonas. Of course, Jonas thought this interestedly. Yet you seem bored by the matter, Clarence thought, puzzled. I don't see—oh, I see the woman in your mind—the daughter, and—now stop it, Jonas thought. Stop it. Cut off. After all, he finished, there are times when even a hero wants a little privacy. Postscript. In 1605-1606, in Offenburg, there were no executions. H. C. Lee. Materials to War, the History of Witchcraft. Volume 3. Page 1148. End of Wizard by Larry M. Harris. Recording by Alex Talander of Davis, California. www.alexctalander.com.