THEY WANTED HIS SECRETS BUT FEARED HIS
PRESENTS
To some, Peter Duncan was the symbol of all
hope; to others, he was a baleful cancer thriving on the minds of men. By
birth, he was an Earthman; by environment, he belonged to a far more advanced
world. Since infancy, Duncan had been reared by the super-intelligent creatures
of the planet Mattrain.
After
thirty years, at a time when Earth was wallowing in the devastation left by
interplanetary war, Duncan returned to his birthplace. Earth had won the war,
but the victory was far from sweet. Whole continents were strewn with the
wreckage of cities; the world government was in the hands of a few cynical,
ruthless men, and the population, though bitter, was too worn out to care.
Duncan took it all in and smiled. On
Mattrain, he had been an intelligent plaything; on Earth, he was a superman.
The people loved him and they feared him, but to no one would he tell the
reason he had returned to the rubble that was Earth.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Duncan
An Earthman, brought up on another planet, he
returned to Earth to find everyone and everything pitted against him—except
one man.
Gaynor
He welcomed Duncan, for as a reporter, he was
tired of being propaganda mouthpiece for a police
state.
General Statten
Ruler of Earth—for him government meant
instant obedience to his will.
Martha Deering
A beautiful woman and brilliant physicist,
she disappeared from the face of the Earth.
The Vrenka
Each one was green with eight tentacles, and
was a member of a hostile race on an alien planet who constantly menaced Earth.
Hengist
They called him a bodyguard, but he was a
member of the secret police whose job it was to spy on the man he was supposed
to protect.
PRODIGAL SUN
by
PHILIP E. HIGH
ACE
BOOKS, INC. 1120 Avenue of the Americas New York 36, N.Y.
the prodigal sun Copyright
©, 1964, by Ace Books, Inc. All Rights
Reserved
Printed in U.S.A.
IE PRODIGAL
by
PHILIP E. HIGH
ACE
BOOKS, INC. 1120 Avenue of the Americas New York 36, N.Y.
THE PRODIGAL SUN
Copyright ©, 1964, by Ace Books, Inc. All
Rights Reserved
Printed in U.S.A.
CHAPTER
ONE
\ hey had not named the age, in truth there were few words
to describe it. The world had known times of plenty and times of famine, ages
of freedom and years of dictatorship. There had even been brief, if localized,
periods of near perfection but this was not one of them.
This
period took the worst, threw them together and made quite sure that nothing
good got in.
It
was not really the world's fault, having been pitchforked into it. Mankind had
just concluded its first interstellar war but the word "victory" was
purely relative.
True
the enemy was flat on its back and quite helpless but Earth had come out of the
encounter on all fours. Today, five years after the enemy's unconditional
surrender, Earth was still licking its wounds and unable to climb to its knees.
The
race was sick, sick of its leaders and sick of each other. Its gut ached from
over-doses of expediency and its sinews creaked with the bitterest cynicisms.
Whether
the men in the long conference room were products or victims of the age is an
academic question and wholly irrelevant—it didn't make them any nicer. They
were mean, hard men, uninfluenced by any consideration save advancement in
their wholly personal rat-race.
This was the age of dog-eat-dog, here the
cheap chiseler, the terrorist and the extortioner blossomed like flowers on a
refuse heap.
First
there was General Statten, a harsh little man with beady eyes and the face of
an irritable peanut. The General wore a smart uniform, impressive rows of
ribbons and decorations but he had flown a desk in an impregnable H.Q. two
thousand feet under the Andes. He was a political general, a brilliant
organizer with a singular ability for discrediting those immediately above him.
Statten's climb to the top had been a. tour-de-double-cross.
Facing
him was Dowd, the industrialist, who had, during the years of sorrow, acquired
a financial empire without parallel in human history. Dowd was insatiable,
having grown drunk on power, he had developed an everlasting thirst for more.
He would have liked to possess the world but Kaft wouldn't let him.
Kaft
represented the secret police. Kaft kept secret files but neither could bring
the other down without his own collapse. Dowd had insinuated himself so deeply
into the financial sinews of the race that he could not be removed without the
collapse of the eonomy.
Kaft,
on the other hand, held those revealing files and his untimely death would
bring them to light. Both took great care that the other stayed alive but they
hated each other venomously.
It
was difficult to understand, even in war, how a police state had arisen from a
loosely democratic government. People don't turn round and say: "Let's
have a secret police," or do they?
In
an all-out war manufacturing plants are switched from luxury goods to war
production and, inevitably, there are shortages and out of shortages grows the
black market.
In
war the best food goes to the fighting men and there is rationing for the
civilian population. A thousand and one petty criminals rush forward to bleed
off this flow of supplies and the black market grows. Beside it spring up
subsidiary rackets, grafting on government contracts, phoney committees
preying on the patriotic, forged papers for the draft-dodger.
The
government has to counter these activities under emergency powers and specially
trained forces have to be created to deal with civil corruption. Maybe, after
all, people do turn round andsay: "Let's have a secret police."
Kaft
was it. He had borrowed the techniques of all the police systems which had
preceded him and added a few of his own.
After
a twenty-five year war it had got so bad that people were afraid to be silent
in case their lack of words be interpreted as sullen resentment against
existing order. They were also afraid to speak.
Kaft
with his pinched pink senile face and scraggy neck. A man with a mouth like a
coin slot in a public vending machine, listening and biding his time.
"I
don't like it." Rickman rolled the cigar from one side of his mouth to the
other. "It's all very well for Dowd to rub his hands and dream of
extending his empire but this could be dangerous. In my opinion we could do
without our visitor. In my opinion this man is a louse but he could also be a menace."
He took the cigar from his mouth and pointed
it at them. "I'll concede that his knowledge is valuable, immensely valuable,
but getting at it is another thing. A jewel encrusted bomb is just as
dangerous as the other kind and digging out a few of the gems is a poor return
if the damn thing blows your head off before you've finished."
"Bombs
have been de-fused before now," said Dowd, stubbornly.
"Bombs we understand."
"Even bombs we don't. The Vrenka had a
lot of gimmicks in the war but we licked most of them."
"It's
a danger to the whole race." There were rare occasions when Rickman
teetered on the brink of political honesty. "This louse sat out the whole
war on a neutral planet and we're going to welcome him back as a V.I.P. Hell,
he may not even be Duncan, he might be a damned alien or, at the very least, a
'plant' for the Mattrain. All this red carpet stuff is being laid on because
Dowd wants to bleed him of advanced technologies and, I repeat, it's damned dangerous, best keep him away."
He
thrust the cigar back in his mouth and chewed at it angrily. "We could
sell out the race for thirty technical blue prints and Dowd could be chief
Judas."
Dowd
sighed and smiled twistedly. He did not look at the politician but addressed
the others. "When our public spirited friend draws on his meager biblical
knowledge I must confess I am impressed, however—" Dowd paused and smiled
meaningly. "Mr. Rickman should take time off for self-analysis because,
believe me, he is highly skilled in the art of implication." He looked at
the other directly. "Mr. Rickman would like others not only to arrange the
crucifixion but to wash his hands as well. What our political friend is trying
to say, without, of course, implicating himself is: 'Let's knock our visitor
off as soon as he arrives.' "
"I protest!"
Rickman was on his feet, flushed and angry.
"Order!
Order!" Hodges the chairman banged his gavel noisely. "The purpose of
this meeting is procedure."
"Gentlemen,
please." Kaft rose, his timing, as always, was perfect. "Mr.
Rickman's apprehensions are not only understandable but commendable." He
paused. His genius for soothing insincerities was well known but seldom failed
to convince at the time. "It is quite true that Duncan may be a 'plant'
for the Mattrain or, at the very least, working for their espionage
organization but we are not quite fools.
Duncan
will be under constant surveillance and"—he smiled slyly—"I have
detailed a special bodyguard to 'protect' him. After the first few public
receptions Duncan won't get near enough to anyone or anything to be
dangerous."
"One
question," General Statten's little eyes were hard but alert. "I have
received information that Independent News has appointed a permanent contact.
Thanks to its blasted charter rights we couldn't block the move."
Kaft
smiled thinly. "We didn't try, too obvious. Let him report until public
interest wanes."
Rickman said, "Who is
this contact and what's his job?
Kaft
leaned down and extracted something from a briefcase. "I have his file
here. His job is to write up a day by day account of Duncan and his reactions
to Earth. If we handle this carefully we may learn quite a lot."
"And the contact
himself?"
"A
man named Mark Gaynor, he's been screened of course. Has a flair for factual
reporting but fortunately an extrovert and without subtlety. An excellent war
record incidentally, organized and personally lead four successful commando
raids on Vrenka bases in the latter stages of the war. Decorated twice,
achieved rank of major. . . ." Kaft closed the file slowly. "A hard,
tough man but excellent for our purpose. If we have to rub out Duncan in a
hurry we have a scapegoat conveniently at hand."
"Sounds as if this goat could butt back
and hard," said Rickman, savagely.
Kaft
smiled. "Well make quite sure he butts the man we choose, thank you."
"We're going to look
this prodigal over personally?"
"But
of course, the interrogation of such a man is not a task for subordinates. We
must handle this with subdety, at first he must feel he is among friends."
The transfer ship hung ready in space,
withdrawn-looking and
somehow timeless. A dull black pear-shaped blob flung carelessly and rather
incongruously against an unwinking mist of stars.
At a distance, but close enough to be
pointed, four bulbous and heavily armed cruisers stood ready and waiting.
During
the war the Mattrain, despite the tactical position of her Empire directly
between the two warring races, had remained uncompromisingly neutral. It was
not a stand which had endeared her to the human race—surely one humanoid people
should help another. Worse, since first contact, the Mattrain had brusquely
cold shouldered all attempts to establish friendly relations. Keep away and
stay away had been her only response to countless suggestions of trade, cultural
exchanges, pleas for medical assistance by which Earth sought to establish
profitable relations with a people several thousand years ahead in culture and
technology.
It
was this technical superiority which had prevented both races from seizing the
Mattrain worlds for their own advantage. Both were acutely aware that the
Mattrain could have beaten both races to their knees in a matter of days.
Again
there were rumors. . . . No one quite knew where these rumors originated but
put together they spelled out something unpleasant. It was said that the
Mattrain had something. No one knew quite what it was but, boiled down,
attacking the Mattrain was suicide for anyone.
There
were a million guesses as to what this something was but no one had put forward
anything definite. Only one man might know, only one man might have an answer.
The man who had sat out the entire war on those neutral Mattrain planets—a man
called Peter Duncan.
The
Mattrain ship, when it finally arrived, was so small it was almost an insult. Here
was no dignity, no ceremony, no sense of the appropriate.
The
cruiser commanders had the uneasy feeling they were being laughed at. The
Mattrain pilot was probably making mocking and slightly vulgar signs with his fingers. All this pointed
show of force and they'd sent that, a
tiny bronze-colored cube no bigger than a ground car.
They
would have liked to have done something about it. They would have liked to have
shown this cock-a-hoop flea cage just what they felt about it. Their resentment
was made worse by chagrined realization that this same flea cage could probably
beat hell but of the lot of them.
The
Mattrain ship touched the side of the transfer vessel, hung there briefly then
drifted away. Watchers saw it boost suddenly to a killing gravity, exhale
sudden brightness and flick abruptly into hyper-drive.
Transfer was over.
The
transfer ship was beaming vision and sound but viewers on Earth caught only a
brief glimpse of a fair-haired smiling man emerging from the transit lock. He
was lost almost immediately in a grim reception committee of white coated and
be-masked medics. They hustled him quickly away and the white doors of the
medical laboratories slid shut in front of the tele-mikes.
Viewers
had a long wait; medical science was taking no chances.
The
experts began on the assumption that he was non-human and worked backwards.
Fortunately they had his natal charts but it made them no less thorough. They
checked his blood, respiration, retina pattern, finger prints and his sexual
organs. They measured, weighed and analyzed-the contents of his bowels, stomach
and bladder. They ran off charts on reflexes, glandular reactions and the
results of deliberate bruising and cuts. They removed fragments of flesh and
skin, scrapings from the teeth and hair from his head and body. Slowly, very
slowly, they became reassured.
At
the end of the sixth grueling hour the Chief Medic removed his medical mask.
"I have no reasons to suppose you are not human. Our tests give reasonable grounds for assuming you are
the original Duncan." The Chief Medic was not an ungracious man, just a
frustrated one suffering from a sense of anticlimax. Somehow the whole business
had turned out to be routine and wholly mundane.
There
was nothing startling about Peter Duncan. A slim quiet man with fair, rather
untidy hair. Certainly he seemed almost unnaturally healthy and well-muscled
but, apart from that, a man you might meet anywhere. Wide but not striking blue
eyes, a good strong chin, a long amused and faindy mocking mouth—hell, the man was
ordinary.
"Nothing
ever happens to me,"
thought the Chief Medic,
savagely. He had spent almost the entire war in a military hospital a thousand
feet underground and was suffering from a sense of frustration. He'd never seen
the war, only the beds, the lines of casualties tossed like unwanted carcasses,
one after another, onto the brightly lit operating tables.
"You
may dress. Food will be brought as soon as you are ready." Belatedly and
with some effort he added: "Good luck, Duncan." The "By God,
you'll need it" showed only in his eyes.
Outside
the tele-mikes were still 'live' and waiting. One of the news circuits was
filling in the time by giving a
résumé of past events.
It
was a particularly cloying broadcast deliberately slanted and predigested for
the lower intelligence brackets and, therefore, coated with an unreal
intimacy. It was, however, reasonably accurate: "No one will ever know
what happened to the Machley.
Loading and preflight
checks had proceeded normally. She blasted out of orbit dead on schedule with
one hundred and eighty-three passengers and a crew of thirty five.
"She was never seen
again.
"Her
last routine message was received five days out of orbit but after that her
fate is one of the mysteries of space. "We do know, however, that a
Mattrain vessel recorded a
disturbance, possibly an explosion on her instruments and
went to investigate. v
"The
aliens found only drifting metallic dust but, nonetheless their instruments
were recording distress signals. They immediately centered on these calls and
found single life-craft."
The
announcer paused dramatically. "Within this vessel the aliens found a man
child, a six-month-old baby boy, the sole survivor of the ill-fated Mackley.
"Whether
the child's mother had a premonition of danger and carried the baby boy to
safety before the Mackley met her end we shall never know. Perhaps
there was prior warning but that, too, will never be known. . . .
"To
give the Mattrain their due, they immediately notified Earth and arrangements
were made to return the child to its own race.
"Fate,
however, decreed otherwise. Before the negotiations could be completed Earth's
Empire was invaded by the cone ships of the Vrenka. And, in the years of terror
which followed, the Mackley and the baby boy were forgotten.
"Only
today, thirty years after the Mackley's disappearance,
does the survivor return, no longer a baby but a mature man—a man named Peter
Duncan."
There
was a carefully timed pause. "What can we expect of this man Duncan,
raised on an alien planet by alien foster parents? Here is a symbol denoting
the unknown. A human being, yes, but with an alien background and an alien education.
A man whose mind must reason differently to our own. A man to whom our way of
life, our hopes, dreams and aspirations may be totally incomprehensible."
The
announcer lowered his voice dramatically. "Why does he return now to his
own race? We must remind ourselves that he was in no great haste to return when
our resources and strength were strained to the limit.
"Again, what does he bring us? Does he
come with the blessings of a superior technology or as an agent of an alien
race. Is he friend or foe? Does he despise or pity us?
"All
these questions must be asked and, when answered, proved beyond shadow of
doubt.
"Although
today we killed the fatted calf for the returning prodigal, shall we one day
deplore his return and the efforts we made to make him welcome?"
Duncan
sat down to the solitary meal which the announcer had described as the fatted
calf. Earth had done her best but a calf?
There
was syntha-steak, medium rare, mock onions and pseudo-tubers. There was a
dessert of lab-fruit and custard-concentrate.
Unhurriedly
he finished the meal, fully conscious that alert eyes and large numbers of
instruments were recording every movement he made. The rate his fork traveled
from his plate to his mouth was, no doubt, the subject of intense study. The
number of times he masticated his food would probably become the subject of
Interdepartmental debate.
He
smiled to himself inwardly. Might as well give them something to gasp about.
He
touched the delivery button and watched the servo eject the carton. He
extracted a cigarette, flicked off the plastic tip and watched the tobacco
light on contact with the atmosphere. Carefully, and with obvious deliberation,
he leaned back in his chair and inhaled deeply.
He
almost spoiled the effect in an effort to fight down a cough but somehow he succeeded. The synthetic tobacco in no way
approached the perfection of Mattrain Kelsna but it would serve as a reasonable substitute until . . .
CHAPTER TWO
Duncan was met at the ferry port by a group of bleak-faced men posing as a reception committee.
A
minor government official shook his hand with obvious reluctance and read a
typed speech of welcome.
Precisely
twelve seconds were allowed for the tele-mikes to get a close-up of him then
the reception committee hustled him into a waiting vehicle and slammed the
door.
"Make
yourself comfortable," said a dry voice before he had landed on the seat.
Duncan said: "Who the
hell are you?" and sat down.
"I'm
your bodyguard." He was a strangely flat-faced man with a button nose and
pale cold eyes.
"Bodyguard?"
Duncan leaned back and crossed his legs.
"That's
what they call it. I protect you against possible assault or alternatively,
protect the people against you—I make myself plain?" He took something
from his pocket and held it up. "In case you're unfamiliar with our
technology this is officially known as a C-type restraint weapon or, to the
vulgar and uneducated, as a club gun." He spun it deftly in his hand.
"It's tuned to the nervous system and, to the recipient, feels like a
numbing physical blow. Note the advance adjustment button close to the butt.
Pressure on this not only knocks the victim cold but clean out of this
world." He smiled faintly. He had a long curiously puckered mouth which
looked as if it had once possessed a zip fastener. "If it's of any
interest I'd be really grateful if you started something."
Duncan
looked at him thoughtfully. "You have a name I take it, apart that is, from the obvious dirty ones your attitude
call to mind?"
The other's mouth thinned, carefully he put
the gun away.
The
name is Hengist." He extracted a single cigarette from his breast pocket,
flicked off the plastic tip and studied the slow curl of smoke. "Tell you
something?" He hung the cigarette from the comer of his mouth. "If
there's one thing I hate above all else it's a comedian. Don't make me burst
out laughing, foster child."
Duncan
shrugged indifferently and looked out of the window.
The vehicle was now leaving the ferry port by
the main gate, flanked by a huddle of storehouses and administration buildings.
Despite
the distance from the city, large crowds had gathered which were being held at
bay by contingents of uniformed police.
There
were jeers and catcalls as the car appeared. The minor government official,
Duncan noticed, had prudently chosen alternative transport and another exit.
The
crowd pressed forward and the police pushed them back again. Over to the left a
group of bearded men bore placards and crudely painted notices on long poles.
ALIEN
GO HOME. DUNCAN YOU'RE NOT WANTED.
Beyond were further examples, ranging from
MATTRAIN SPY
to
DUNCAN THE FUNKHOLE SPECIALIST.
The
vehicle crawled towards the center of the square where the official 'rise'
shaft was marked out in yellow.
The crowd surged forward again and was pushed
back.
The
placards swayed and tossed like the standards of a failing army.
There
was a sudden weakening in the restraining lines of police and the crowd burst
through like a flood.
"Up!
Never mind about the official shaft." Hengist was speaking into the
vehicle-mike, the gun in his hand.
There
came a soft whine of repellers as the concealed auto-driver kicked in the
emergency circuits. The vehicle began to rise swiftly as the crowd seethed
forward.
"Claw them down!"
"Get the alien!"
Fingers
fastened on the lower section of the open window and a woman's face appeared.
She might have been pretty once, in a drab kind of way, but now her face was
twisted with hatred.
"You alien
bastard," she said.
Hengist
hit the fingers with the butt of his gun. The woman moaned gaspingly and her
face disappeared.
He
leaned out, then closed the window. "She only fell a couple of feet, unfortunately."
Duncan
glanced downwards. The vehicle was now rising like an express lift and the sea
of pink upturned faces and shaking fists was rapidly becoming meaningless.
Hengist
sat down and returned the gun to his pocket. "Seems you do need a
bodyguard; one could hardly describe that little rough-house behavior as marked
affection."
Duncan
was placing a lighted cigarette between his lips and inhaled deeply before he
spoke. "You're asking me to accept that lynch-opera as an expression of
public opinion? Really! In this day and age one hint of anything spontaneous
and the secret police would be walking on peoples' faces."
Hengist's
eyelids drooped unpleasantly but, for the first time, his expression held
grudging respect.
"Duncan,
you're a fool." His voice, although by no means friendly, was no longer
actively hostile. "In this day and age the wise man plays it stupid." He
sighed. "All right, the exhibition was not for you but the tele-mikes and
the watching public."
"My opinion didn't
really matter?"
"Off
the record, no." He sighed again. "You get an all-out war and you get
the race squeezed down tight for maximum production. Comes peace and there's no
outlet for all that drive and energy. The ruling classes have got used to their
power and don't want to let go. Worse they daren't. If they ease up, too much
freedom will rise up and overwhelm them. If they press down too hard the whole
damn planet can blow up in their faces. Ticklish, power in a bottle, hold it
down, ease it off, needs a lot of skill to strike a balance."
"Where
do I fit in?" ,
"Politically
you're God's gift to the policy of divide-and-destroy. Get the people divided
against each other, for and against, alien spy versus superman bearing
blessings—follow?"
"Ahead
of you. Incidentally, in the interests of your own safety, aren't you being a
little indiscreet?"
Hengist
smiled with one side of his mouth. "Not really, we're not registering spy
rays at the moment. In any case, with your background and intelligence you
would have reasoned it out for yourself soon enough. It's just passible you
might have aired those conclusions at the wrong time later."
"Thank you for your advice and
information."
Hengist
repeated his one-sided smile. "Don't let it go to your head, foster child,
don't let it go to your head." He turned and stared out of the window.
Duncan
followed his gaze and saw they were nearing the capital.
Government
City was still impressive at a distance but, close inspection revealed that the
only remaining beauty lay in architectural line.
It was like an aging but once beautiful woman
mercilessly exposed to a brilliant light.
Once
it had been a gem, a study in pastels and open spaces. A tinsel of slender
footbridges had linked the soaring columns of the buildings like a shining web
and translucent plastic had blended the contrasting pastels into a single beauty, but now. . . . Now the city had bags under its eyes and
harsh lines at the corners of the mouth. The pastels were grimed with years of
neglect into a uniform grey, the footbridges sagged tiredly or jutted, broken,
over the abyss of the streets like twigs from a dead tree.
In
the parks and open spaces, overcrowding problems had forced the erection of
hideous ten story tenements. They filled every square and open space like brown
untidy bricks.
"You
think that bad?" Hengist seemed to be reading Duncan's thoughts or perhaps
his expression. "You didn't see it as it was, when I was a kid . . ."
He stopped and flicked the spent cigarette into the disposal slot. "That
was a long time ago, maybe it was a dream, but you should see the D.A."
"D.A.r
"Devasted
areas. The Vrenka got into the system twice— know what pin-wheels are?"
"It's a type of
revolving firework, isn't it?"
"Correct,
the Vrenka had a weapon like that. Imagine a pin-wheel a mile across spinning and slithering around a bare two feet
above the ground. They left a trail of glassy slag behind them, a glowing
pathway and mile on either side— pouf! Heat rushed out at head level, doors
crashed in and upper windows blew out. The roofs and upper stories of even the
highest buildings suddenly went bam, geysered upwards as if a tornado had
started on the ground floor and howled its way out at the top. . . ." He
let the sentence trail away and shook himself as if suddenly awakening.
"There are worse things than Vrenka spinners, however." He glanced out of the window. "Better pull yourself
together, Duncan, we're at the end of the journey. . . ."
The
vehicle landed on the roof park of one of the highest buildings which had once
been a pastel ivory. Now it was drab and sleazy with neglect. Great patches of
discoloration showed on the outer walls and even the gracefully curved windows
were opaque with grime.
Inside
the rooms and corridors were still lit with a soft artificial daylight but,
here and there, were patches of shadow where generating cells were breaking
down or had ceased to function completely.
Hengist
showed him to a small quiet room with thick carpets, large comfortable chairs
and a reception committee.
"Do
sit down." Kaft waved him to a chair and went through the formalities of
introduction. "Mr. Dowd, Minister of Finance. General Statten, Defense
Department and Mr. Rickman, House of Representatives. You may leave, bodyguard."
Duncan sat, fully aware
that the interview was crucial.
Kaft
crossed his legs and beamed at him. "You appreciate, I hope, that we
cannot issue papers of citizenship until we have satisfied ourselves as to your
intentions. You are, to all intents and purposes, an alien and we have the
entire race to consider. After all, despite your human origin, your loyalties
may lie elsewhere. We feel therefore that we have every right not only to your
wholehearted co-operation but also some definite proof of your good intentions.
You do understand this?"
Duncan said "Of
course," politely.
"Excellent."
Kaft beamed again. "I'm afraid we must begin with some rather leading
questions. For example, your command of the language. We know it is your
mother tongue but you have been away for thirty years and we find your fluency
somewhat disturbing."
Duncan crossed his legs, outwardly at ease.
"I was given
basic instruction by a Mattrain linguist. Later I was provided with a device for tapping Earth's educational and entertainment
channels."
"You
understood this—er—device?"
"I
knew how to operate it, not its basic principles."
"So
the Mattrain can calmly tap our communications at a distance of sixty light
years." General Statten was scowling and obviously uneasy.
Duncan
smiled faintly. "At double that distance if necessary."
Kaft leaned forward. "Tell
me, Mr. Duncan, do you regard yourself as a member of the Mattrain race or as a
human being?"
"As
a human being, obviously. The Mattrain are six fingered, have golden skins and
their average height is seven feet."
"But
you owe them allegiance?" "I owe allegiance to all intelligent
life." "Really?" Kaft leaned back, his face expressionless.
"This is Mattrain philosophy?" "It is."
"You
surprise me. The Mattrain allowed us to fight a war of near-annihilation and made no attempt to aid us."
"The
Mattrain are of the opinion that the Vrenka also represent intelligent life.
Further that intervention on their part might cause lasting enmity between all
three races."
"This
is the official opinion?"
"The
general opinion."
"I
find you evasive. What was the official opinion?" "As I was not a
confidant of the administration I do
not know."
"Sweet,
isn't he?" said Rickman in a harsh voice. "Everything smooth, pat
and nicely rehearsed." He half rose from his chair. "I suggest you're
a damn spy."
Duncan smiled. "The Mattrain are
perfectly capable of obtaining
information without my assistance. I have
already told you they can tap your communications."
"Perhaps
they visualize an addition to their Empire with an outwardly human agent to run
it for them."
Duncan
sighed. "If the Mattrain had wanted Earth they could have taken it over
before the human race discovered the wheel."
"Thank
you, Mr. Duncan." Kaft smiled, his manner friendly and disarming.
"You do appreciate the heed for this questioning, don't you? Oh, do help
yourself to cigarettes, you'll find a servo-dial in the left arm of your
chair."
He
waited until the other had a lighted cigarette, and was leaning back
comfortably in his chair. "Now, Mr. Duncan, you apparently answered in
good faith and with absolute frankness. Unfortunately, however, the human word
is no guarantee of one's real intentions and there are a large number of
factors to be considered yet. For instance, and this question may reflect
public opinion, having sat out the war on a neutral planet, do you now return
to us as—a poor relation? Further have you any proof of your good
intentions?"
Duncan
blew a casual and rather pointed smoke ring. "You mean will I pay my
rent?"
"One could phrase the
question that way."
Duncan
looked at him thoughtfully. "And another way-having paid my rent, have I
brought any gifts for the family?"
"Mr.
Duncan, you anticipate me." Kaft's voice was still smooth, he had learned
self-control the hard way and patience was one of his primary weapons.
"I'm
glad we understand each other." Duncan's smile held faint impudence.
"Perhaps together we can work something out. How about a new plastic as a
start. It can be stamped, carved or suitably shaped for prefabricated
construction prior to final processing. Once processed, however, it has ten
times the tensile strength of suprasteel and will stand a temperature slightly
in excess of solar heat." He looked thoughtfully at General Statten.
"It would be ideal for military purposes as the substance resists all
known radiation levels."
"What
about manufacturing costs?" Dowd was leaning forward, mouth clamped.
"We're not economically equipped for complicated auto-factory
construction."
"A
normal auto-factory could be adapted in three days and a high percentage of the
necessary chemicals extracted both from now worthless manufacturing by-products
and normal city refuse."
Strangely
it was Kaft who rasied objections. "I would describe your suggestion as a
tit-bit, Mr. Duncan." Dowd opened his mouth but Kaft waved him quickly to
silence. "Oh yes, I agree, such a substance would undoubtedly
revolutionize our economy but considering its source, it's barely a token. I
object to being fobbed off with the equivalent of a string of beads. This
offer smacks of a 'gift to the natives.' You can do better than that, Mr.
Duncan."
Duncan
looked him up and down with deliberate insult. "You're old, Kaft, very
old. At a guess the next scheduled anti-agastic shot will be your last. How
would you like to be forty again? How would you like to live a thousand
years?"
Kaft
was caught on a weak spot and, for a moment, showed it. He licked his lips, his
eyes suddenly bright and furtive, but he said: "Really, we're not fools,
Duncan."
"Give me three years
and I'll give proof."
"We
ought to kill him." Rickman shouted suddenly. He sprang to his feet.
"My God, can't you see what he's doing?"
"Sit
down, you bloody fool." Kaft's voice was soft and menacing.
Rickman paled and sat down,
muttering.
Kaft
turned to Duncan again. "Very well, we will grant you citizenship on
conditions and also on the basis of your promises."
"One minute." General Statten's
little eyes were bright and calculating. "If this man has the knowledge he
claims what's to stop us squeezing it out of him?"
It
was Duncan who answered him. "You could try that but it would do you very
little good. Knowledge needs interpretation, for example the basic
construction of an automatic weapon would be of very little use to a man whose
conceptions extended only to bow and arrow."
Kaft's
eyes narrowed suddenly but when he spoke his voice was still smooth. "We
are not so crude as to apply General Statten's suggestion literally. We have,
however, other means, you could be programmed."
Duncan
laughed softly. "Sorry. My foster parents know your methods and were
alarmed for my safety. They took precautionary measures."
Kaft
nodded. "I anticipated that so shall we get down to basics. We simply
cannot afford to keep you for purely charitable reasons. We must, therefore,
demand adequate payment for our hospitality."
Duncan
ground out his cigarette. "Bluntly, give or else. I must say it took you the hell of a time to
get to the point although, candidly, I expected something like this."
"Now
111 have my say and be damned to you."
Rickman glowered at them from his chair. "My God, he's hooked the lot of
you with the oldest bait in the world—offering you the thing you want most.
Can't you see he's not even worried, he knows he's going to win in the long run."
Kaft
shrugged. "Rickman you're becoming hysterical." "I have been,
Kaft, but not now. No, I no longer regard him as a spy or even a tool of the
Mattrain." Rickman rose. "In my considered opinion our friend comes
in the most dangerous guise of all—an angel of light. I think he comes as the
almighty do-gooder, a reformer with a mission, take a look at history and
you'll find there's nothing more dangerous.
Oh,
yes, hell grant blessings, no doubt about that, but God, you'll pay for them,
you'll pay and pay and pay." Rickman turned abrupdy and strode out of the
room.
CHAPTER THREE
"The press."
Gaynor leaned casually against the wall. "I have an authority to interview
Peter Duncan."
Hengist
looked him up .and down. He saw a dark-haired, compact man with a strong chin
and the white patch of an artificial skin-graft covering his left temple.
"Raise
your hands." Hengist frisked him as a beginning. "All right, stand
over there in the examination cabinet." He flicked the switch as the other
stepped inside. "Yes, yes, your meagre personal possessions match the list
and seem innocuous. Move a couple of inches to your left."
Hengist
was leaning forward slightly, studying Gaynor's stomach and bowels gruesomely
exposed in the cabinet screen. It never paid to take chances. A couple of
almost invisible pills and you could regurgitate a micro-weapon from the
stomach or, alternatively, eject it from one of the body orifices.
He
made slight adjustments and examined Gaynor's head. He had often found devices
concealed in the nostrils and, once, a virulent poison concealed in artificial
flesh behind the eyelid. Desperate men took desperate measures and one of the
rare resistance groups might want Duncan dead.
"Have you
finished?" Gaynor sounded resigned.
"Near enough, you can
step out now."
"Thanks.
You missed the mole spot behind my left ear, did you know that?"
"Don't
worry, any trouble and I can hit it at a hundred feet."
"Thanks for the
warning." Gaynor looked about him.
"When
I was a kid my grandmother had a rather
fascinating toy. It was a plastic egg, inside that was a smaller egg and so on
down the line until you got one the size of a pin head. Getting in here was
like that, first one security officer, then another and so on down the
line." He stopped and grinned.
"All
right," said Hengist sourly. "You've made your point." He
frowned. "Do you make a habit of baiting security officers?"
"Only the pompous
types." Gaynor turned away.
"My
God, man, don't you realize I could
have you programed for that?" Hengist was more startled than angry.
"Why the hell do you do it?"
Gaynor
turned, his eyes thoughtful, then he said, "Bravado, I guess." He frowned. "I'm a returned veteran, you see, got used
to sticking my neck out. Someone needles me and I needle back, it's reflex."
Hengist
scowled at him but there was faint, if grudging, respect in his eyes.
"Don't stick your neck out too far or too often, soldier boy. Believe me
there's always someone waiting with a chopper."
"Thanks for the
advice. May I ask you a question?"
Hengist
was suddenly bitter again. "I have no authority to stop you. What do you
want to know?"
"Well, you know why
I'm here, how do I get my story out?"
"You're
not taking up residence you know, a permanent news contact gets one hour each
week. As to your story, we supply the recorder. After you've done your column
we check it. If it passes the check, which is unlikely, we'll see that it's
forwarded with the censor's comments to your editor."
"Well,
thanks. By the time it sees daylight Duncan could be dead."
"He may be dead
now," said Hengist in a hard voice.
Gaynor
shrugged slightly and turned away. They were all the same these security
officers, stamped out from a machine, killing instruments, with slick
provocative tongues and a superficial education. Softly spoken menacing
cheapjacks, prefabricated units in a gigantic instrument of intimidation.
He
dropped into the nearest chair and thought, "Hell, that's not bad. Got a
sort of contemptuous roll to it. Wish I had
the nerve to write it up." Poindess, of course, pointless writing and
pointless suicide. Bravado he'd told the man, but it wasn't true; it was sheer
nervous reaction. In point of fact the whole set-up scared him cold and this
dangerous insolence was the last twitch of a dying courage. It had been easier
back in the war where the danger was obvious and the issues simple. This danger
back home was insidious. It crept up on you from behind and gradually sapped
your nerve. He wasn't as bad as poor old Mendon, the subeditor, yet, but it
was coming, he could feel it closing in. The friends you made who suddenly
disappeared, the wartime comrades who moved from their homes and left no
forwarding address.
He
forced his mind grimly away from the subject and -tried to concentrate on the
coming interview. Be damned funny wouldn't it if Duncan started asking him questions. On second thoughts, however, not so funny. A casual question
could be damned awkward these days and the only answer one could give was the
polite official evasion. A man with Duncan's background should see through a
smokescreen like that in a couple of minutes. Suppose, for example, Duncan
said: "What was the war all about?"
He'd have to give the official story of
course. The story of a race of monsters descending on Earth's
peaceful Empire. Empire! All five worlds and they'd been hanging onto two of
those with their finger nails. The trouble was, of course, Earth wanted a
stellar empire that looked and sounded like an Empire. When the exploration
vessels had found the sixth they jumped on it with both feet. Survey—if you
could call it that—was superficial. Hell, it was an E-type world, you could breathe there. There was no micro-life
the bacteriologists couldn't handle. Number six here we come.
Too
late it was discovered that another stellar race had set up bases on the
Southern continent.
"Perhaps
we should have fought anyway," thought Gaynor, tiredly. "We found
each other mutually repulsive and we both thought we owned the galaxy."
As
it happened show of force led to show of force and the inevitable provocative
incident. Earth destroyed the Vrenka bases and the enemy retaliated by clobbering
hell out of world number two of the Earth Empire.
It
had been a ferocious war the early boasts of knocking the yellow-bellied
monsters clean out of space within a month were soon forgotten. The Vrenka
fought back with savagery and, it must be admitted, incredible indifference to
odds.
Gaynor
frowned to himself. There was no doubt the Vrenka had guts and, much as the
propaganda sought to detract the point, a rigid code of ethics. The Vrenka
never killed the unarmed or wounded and, if possible, picked up survivors, but
hell, in a straight battle. . . .
What
had they got out of it all? While they had been fighting, a new and corrupt
priesthood sat on its backside in a funkhole insidiously taking over the Earth.
It
was a government of brutal realism. It made no claims of virtue or leading the
world to better things. This is the new feudalism: conform or else. There was
no father-figure, no goal, and worse, no hope.
In
the upper echelons of the administration the jockeyings and double-dealings
made the intrigues of the Borgias look like pleasant and innocuous games for
very young children.
"God,"
thought Gaynor, suddenly, "I've got to watch it or, one day, perhaps drunk,
all this will come tumbling out."
He,
himself, had no cause for complaint. The authorities had not only granted him
second-class citizenship but had bent over backwards to find him suitable
employment. The
move was, he suspected, a deliberate policy of appeasement. Keep the returning
veterans happy until such a time as we can deal with them as individuals.
Gaynor
found that his hands were clenched nervously. One day they'd come for him. He'd
seen enough and heard enough to know what would happen.
There
would be no violence, no threats, no shouting, no rubber truncheons.
The
two quiet callers—there were always two—would seem to vie with each other in
unnatural politeness: "If you would be good enough to accompany us,
sir;" or "The district Supervisor would be grateful. . ."
No
one knew quite "what happened after that. The unfortunate man or woman
left the Security building apparently normal and without worry, sometimes,
even, looking happy and relieved. When one paid a visit the next day, however,
the apartment would be occupied by a stranger. There would be no message and no
forwarding address.
Oh,
yes, you knew what had happened then, your friend had been programed and, if
you were wise, you departed hastily lest you be branded as an associate.
No
one of the normal population quite knew what programing was. You knew it was
something the psych boys had cooked up. You knew it was a kind of conditioning.
But after that you could only guess.
\vhere did they go? There were no concentration
camps, but yes there were the untouchables, the lowest strata of society, but
these, apparently were free or at least they walked the streets like other men.
There
was another story he had heard. On programing you were given a little black
book, a little black book with the word "Programme" on the cover. You
clung to the book as if its possession meant more than food or drink or the air
you breathed. Cynics referred to it as "The Bible of the Damned."
Gaynor shook himself irritably. This was the
way you sapped your own nerve. This way you got like poor old Mendon.
He glanced across at Hengist, comfortable in
another chair, legs crossed, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
Security
agent, classification so and so, officials for the protection of. In another
age he would have been a nasty little gunslinger, selling his skill to the
highest bidder. In a way he still was—a sharpshooter employed to protect the
persons or possessions the Administration considered valuable. Gaynor wondered
briefly if he had ever stood up to anything bigger than a man.
He
said suddenly and with uncontrollable bitterness, "Tell me, Mr. Hengist,
do you boys notch your guns or have you an official scoreboard?"
Hengist
removed the cigarette from the corner of his mouth. "Another comedian. If
you like you can write out your own death warrant and I'll sign it. Tell me,
Gaynor, are you psycho or something? You seem to have a death wish."
"I think we may regard, this as
satisfactory." Kaft did not rub his hands but his manner was definitely
unctuous. 'Tour laboratory, together with your list of equipment will be ready
within three days. You have expressed a wish to work un-supervized and we will
honor this agreement. Further, although you will be confined to the laboratory
and accompanying living quarters, we will grant you all the concessions of a
first-class citizen. For every contribution made to our society one or more, of
the present restrictions will be relaxed. If you fulfill your promises, in
five years you will be a free man in the highest strata of our society."
He
leaned back in his chair and made a steeple with his fingers. "No doubt
you regard our terms as harsh, perhaps virtual blackmail, but you must look at
this matter from our point of view. To all intents and purposes you are an
alien and perhaps hostile to us all. We had first, therefore, to protect the
race and, second, satisfy ourselves as to your good intentions. We could only
do this within the framework of an agreement and an agreement could only be
drawn up if we had something to trade."
Duncan
looked at him with faint contempt. "In the past they said Tour money or
your life' and had done with it."
Kaft
shrugged depreciatingly. "In this troubled age expediency is essential to
survival."
Dowd
said, "How do we know he won't use that equipment to make a super weapon
or something? He could be working for himself."
"He
would have been much better equipped to conquer us from the transfer ship in
the beginning. If Mr. Duncan has the technical knowledge of his foster parents
such an attack would have been easy." He touched a sense plate.
"Bodyguard."
Hengist appeared almost
instantly. "Sir?"
"Conduct
our guest to his suite. You will treat him with the respect due to a
first-class citizen while bearing in mind that he is still restricted."
Hengist's
pale eyes flickered in Duncan's direction with faint contempt but he bowed
politely. "This way, Mr. Duncan, please."
He
led the way down a corridor, and a door on the left opened automatically at
their approach.
Duncan
found himself face to face with a compact dark-haired man who looked as if he
was living under a tremendous strain.
Hengist
performed the introductions. "This is Gaynor, sir, a reporter.
Authorization has been granted for a weekly interview, subject of course to
your approval."
Gaynor held out his hand.
"Glad to know you."
Duncan took the hand,
smiling faintly. "Well, that is nice, that's the first genuine
demonstration of good will I've met."
Gaynor
grinned. "I'm open-minded. You're a human being until proved
otherwise."
Hengist
paused in the act of removing a loose cigarette from his pocket. "The
reporter is also a psychiatric case, sir. He suffers from a death wish."
Gaynor shrugged it off. "I can't help
needling him, but he isn't one of the pick-up creeps, just a gunslinger."
Hengist
smiled faintly. "Don't push your luck, copy boy, although we both know
your days are numbered I could anticipate the date by a couple of years."
Duncan said, "It
sounds as if I'm in a nice world."
"You're
in custody but you probably know that already." He sighed. "So am I
for that matter, the difference being that you and I know it. Our gun-bearing
friend has still to find it out."
Hengist
shrugged. "You see what I mean, Mr. Duncan? A man talking his own head
into a noose has, as I say, a death wish."
Gaynor
straightened. "To hell with you, but you've helped me reach a decision. I
had the choice of sweating it out or living it to the full while it lasted. I
prefer the latter."
Hengist
shrugged. "Could be very brief, not even a swan song." He changed the
subject abruptly. "A drink, Mr. Duncan?"
"Coffee, please. Does our friend rate a
drink?" "No, sir, not unless you say so."
"I
do say so." He turned to Gaynor. "How can I help you?"
"Well,
I'm here to write your personal story. How you react to Earth, your tastes on
this and that. This is a week by week picture, a close-up to be read, heard or
depicted in illustrations according to the taste of the reader."
"And then?"
"It will be slanted one way or another at the behest of the
Censor."
"In
short, you supply the bones, what is built round them depends on current or
local policy."
"Aptly
expressed." Gaynor sipDed
the mineraly derived alcohol
Hengist had dialed for him. "I shall write it up to justify myself but it
will be tom down again."
"I suppose you would
like to ask me some questions?"
"The
procedure," said Hengist, "is for you to submit your questions in written or recorded form in case they touch
upon improper or classified subjects."
Gaynor said,
"Hell."
Duncan
grinned at him sympathetically. "You seem to have chosen a singularly
frustrating subiect for your column. However, you are in a position to listen
and learn in other quarters."
"I don't follow
you."
"Fellow
prisoners—you referred to yourself as a prisoner-might also be a source of
news."
Hengist
interrupted them. "Your hour, and that includes your waiting time, is up,
Gaynor."
The
reporter rose. "Well, that's that. Thank you for your time, Mr. Duncan see
you in a week."
"We can hardly
wait," said Hengist, sourly.
Gaynor
grinned at him insolently. "Me, too," he
said, ungrammatically and with deliberate insult.
Hengist
watched the door slide shut behind him. "There goes a damn fool," he
said.
"You don't like
him?"
"I
don't know him, but I dislike what he represents. He was big in the
war. They gave him a high rank and decorations. He can't forget it and he
can't adapt." He sighed. "He's a kid whistling in a dark street to
show how brave he is."
"You didn't answer my question—you
don't like him?"
"A man in my position can't afford
affection. It's a survival question."
"Then
he was right, you axe a prisoner. You, too, must obey or else—conform or
else."
Hengist
shrugged. "When it worries me, Mr. Duncan, I'll think about it."
"When
it worries you, Hengist, it will be too late." Outside, in the street,
Gaynor's mind was occupied with the recent interview. There was nothing
startling about Duncan. Outwardly he seemed a quiet modest man and yet. . . .
It was nothing he said even if one admitted being overawed by his background
and influenced by prior knowledge. Hell, let's face it, there was power behind
that easy friendliness, not merely superior intelligence, but something
indefinable which radiated outwards. A kind of super vitality which made one
feel only half alive. Yes, power and purpose. Duncan had reasons for everything, his remarks seemed casual but
thinking back. . . .
What
had the meant by other prisoners? Gaynor had the feeling that the remark hinted
at something more than friends or associates. What other?
Gaynor
realized he had reached his destination and was about to step on the slow band
when the answer came.
He
let the main door of the news building slide past without attempting to reach
it. Other prisoners, of course there were other prisoners. Had Duncan meant
that, and if so, why?
He
fumbled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and extracted one absently.
Was the man a thought reader? No, he hadn't given the subject a thought for
months. Could he read one's hidden thoughts?
The
train of thought stopped abruptly as the news angle occurred to him. What a
story, if only they would let him write it.
Gaynor, as Kaft had once remarked, had a
flair for factual reporting. He had discovered the gift on a particularly boring
patrol during the war. He'd been a junior officer then and recorded a few
impressions for amusement. Later, on impulse, he had submitted the tapes to a
news syndicate which, to his surprise, paid him for them and asked for more.
In
the last two years he had developed a nose for news and here, surely. . . . He
could head the column "A Tale of Two Planets" for example and—but
they'd never let him cover it. The mere suggestion would probably bring a
reprimand from Censorship not to mention acute interest from Security which he
would prefer to do without.
He
shrugged angrily, nearly tossing away the unlit cigarette in a gesture of
frustration.
No,
damn it, no. It wasn't treasonable and, God, the subject had never been
touched. Why not try?
CHAPTER FOUR
The censorship department took a long time, but delay, Gaynor realized,
was inevitable. The department was a bureaucrat's Utopia. The place was packed with complicated legal
mechanisms and almost literally festooned in red tape.
The
effrontery of the application, however, gave it a boost which allowed one of
the duplications—no one else dared endorse it—to appear on Kaft's desk within
three days.
"Yes,"
he said, thoughtfully, "I think we can allow this." The application
did, in fact, fit in ideally with his present propaganda policy and he was
irritated to realize that it was an angle he, himself, had overlooked.
Gaynor
opened the official envelope when it reached him and was shaken. He had not
expected the application to get past the first censor and had expected, at
most, an official reprimand, yet here....
At the top of the pages was the usual
photograph and identification details and below, in heavy print:
The bearer is an accredited news representative. An application to visit Camp Six, for the purpose of interviewing a prisoner is hereby approved.
Signed............. (A. Kaft)
Supreme Director, Internal Security Forces. Slightly
dazed, but determined to act before anyone had a change of mind, Gaynor made his way to the roof park and signaled a
taxi.
"Camp Six, official
park."
The
taxi made a clicking sound: "Prohibited area," said the recorded
voice primly. "Have you an authority or, if not, an alternative
destination?"
Gaynor
almost thrust the authority through the taxi's sense-plate. "There's your
authority, you mechanical creep." He waited impatiently as the vehicle's
instruments scanned the official form. God, how these security programed taxis
got him down. In his mind, he was sure they were nothing more than embittered
mechanical old maids. He wished they understood the language he used to them
and would answer back if only to serve as a safety valve for his own pent-up emotions. Unfortunately, you could
shout "louse" or far cruder epithets at them all day and all you
would get back would be: "Destination not listed."
The
taxi door slid open. "Approved. If you will kindly enter."
Camp
Six was situated some twenty miles beyond the city limits and prudently clear
of the main air corridors. The surrounding countryside had been stripped, not
only of cover but of all vegetation down to the bare rock. In the center of
this desolation the long low buildings of the camp lay like blind brown bricks.
"Mr. Gaynor." The reception officer
was polite but the private soldiers had drawn weapons. He accepted the authority
and submitted it to test. "In order. If you will come this way, sir, the
commandant would like to see you."
The
commandant was less polite. He was a big, paunchy man sprawled untidily in a
huge overheated office.
"So
you're the newsman." He did not bother to remove his feet from the desk or
invite Gaynor to sit down. "I hope you know what you're doing." He
bit at the end of a cigar and spat the stub at the disposal slot. "I won't
take responsibility, you understand that." He puffed noisily at the cigar
until it was burning to his satisfaction then pointed it like a weapon.
"You could get killed. You could have your head torn from your body."
He
paused and seemed suddenly to lose patience. "Why the hell can't you look
through a screen and have done with it? People like you are just out to make
work and anxiety for others."
He touched a button on the arm of his chair
and glowered at Gaynor. "A guard will show you to number four. I don't
propose issuing special instructions for your safety, if you're idiot enough to
go in there alone that's your worry." He returned the cigar to his mouth.
"Some of you people could do with a little preliminary instruction, some
of you could have done with some war service, you don't know what these blasted
things are like."
A guard came and conducted Gaynor through
what seemed endless corridors to a long tunnel divided into cells. The door of
each cell carried a combined sonic and recognition lock and would only open to
a special password which was changed in the guardroom at hourly intervals.
Behind
the doors in the high windowless cells were the prisoners or, in terms of
propaganda and expediency, the hostages.
The hostages were not human or even humanoid,
if they resembled anything on earth at all it was a spider, but then only at a
distance.
On
close inspection the oblong headless body was chitinous like that of a beetle,
an impression heightened by twin wing cases on the upper part of the back. The
hostages had long since dropped their wings in their evolutionary climb but the
wing cases remained.
To
the front of the body was a mouth, resembling a slot and, above the mouth, two
large orange, pupiless eyes of immense intelligence and curious melancholy.
The
hostages confounded the scientists by being warm blooded, uncompromising
mammals which appeared to follow the pattern of advanced insects. They had
twelve long green legs, four of which terminated in club-like feet. The rest
were tentacles of incredible dexterity which served them as well, if not
better, than the human hand.
In
times of meditation—rare now—the hostages opened their wing cases and were
transformed. The body within the chitinous armour was covered in a soft yellow
down and the interior of the open wing cases was scarlet.
In
meditation the hostages looked like exotic scarlet blossoms on twelve slender
green stems and almost beautiful except, of course to most humans, the hostages
were an ex-enemy—the Vrenka.
The
Vrenka race had been beaten almost out of existence but an uneasy victor was
taking no chances. Occupation forces were meager and of poor quality, the
hostages, holding high positions in the Vrenka culture, were an added assurance
of the good behavior of a wholly defeated people.
In
Cell Four one of the hostages was asleep and looked like a huge ball of green
string. The Vrenka slept with their legs and tentacles wrapped round their
bodies.
Outside
the guard manipulated the door, spoke the password and presented his face and
badge to the scrutiny of the small recognition screen.
"Takes a little time but you can't be
too careful."
He
was a small sour-faced man with furtive beady eyes set too close to a long thin
nose.
The
door slid open and the guard stepped inside. "On your feet, General."
The Vrenka woke and slowly
began to stir.
"Hurry
it up." The guard drew his gun, went forward and kicked. "What do you
think this is—a guest house or something? You've got a visitor, stand up and
behave yourself."
He
stood back, watching the Vrenka unwind and rise to it's full height of eight
feet. "That's better." He jerked the gun slightly. "Know
something, Mr. Gaynor, I'm just waiting my chance. One false move, one quiver
and there'll be pieces of fried tentacle all over the cell. I'd say it was
self-defense, see? Not that the Commandant would care, he hates the damn things
as much as I do."
He
waved the gun at the Vrenka. "All right, you, get over there behind the
restraint terminals." He nodded to Gaynor. "If he's unco-operative
just press this button, it will freeze him cold and, believe me, he really
hates cold."
"He
can understand me?" Gaynor was fighting down a desire to take the guard
by the throat and squeeze until his fingers met but he kept his voice calm.
"Oh,
he can understand you, all right." The guard winked meaningly.
"Sometimes he plays it stupid but don't let that fool you. He's quite a
little genius in his way. See that blackboard behind him? He can write on that
as quick as you and I can speak."
Gaynor
realized that the sneer in the man's voice was nothing so much as an admission
of inferiority. The Vrenka language resembled nothing so much as an attack of
indigestion, a series of burps, rumbles and curiously muted honks. Mankind had
never mastered it.
The Vrenkas, on the other hand, not only
understood the
language of their enemies but had quickly mastered the written word.
The
guard made for the door. " Traid I have to shut you in and sorry there's
no chair. Make sure the general plays polite host."
The
word "general" was the nearest Earth could get to a Vrenka ranking
which, literally translated, meant: Combat tactician of extraordinary ability
and proved experience. In any case the guard always used the word derisively
and with contempt.
The
Vrenka moved slightly and extracted some white sticks from a recess in the
wall. Then there was a faint scratching sound and the words 'Tour
pleasure?" appeared on the large blackboard. ,
For
the first time Gaynor found himself sweating slightly. The Vrenka had used all
eight tentacles and the words in perfect script had appeared almost as quickly
as he could read them.
The
reporter swallowed, finding himself suddenly at a loss for words. He was
conscious that the Vrenka was quite still, his attitude suggesting patience and
polite attention. There was, Gaynor realized, despite the bizarre appearance,
an extraordinary air of dignity in the alien's bearing.
Finally,
he said, haltingly. "I'm sorry, very sorry. We are not all like the
guard." He had the sudden curious feeling he was explaining and
apologizing for the whole human race.
Words appeared again. "Thank you. This
much we learned in combat. Am I permitted to ask why you came?" . Gaynor
frowned. The question struck him as peculiarly direct and personal and he
realized his motives were obscure even to himself.
He
said, "Look, I don't quite know. I told myself it would be a good story
but that's only part of it. . . ." The sentence trailed away. Was he
getting through to the thing or just assuming that he was because it was
intelligent?
He said, "I fought against you during
the war. I don't hate you. Do you hate us? Don't be afraid to speak the truth,
there will be no reprisals."
The
tentacles moved: "Intelligence hates not individuals but what those
individuals represent. It hates also its own mental picture of its enemy,
without this distorted picture combat would be impossible."
Gaynor
found the wall and leaned against it, shaken. The printed words were not only
disconcertingly to the point but almost a philosophy. Conquest by the Vrenka
had represented, among countless other things, the vilest cruelties because
they looked like something out of a nightmare. Things which looked like that must be cruel—an emotional rather than an intellectual reaction. And, yes,
even when you fought a human enemy, you fought the conception in your mind. He
might be a kinder and sincerer man than yourself but you ascribed to him all
the evil qualities of mankind and fought those.
He
said, "Perhaps you have answered all my questions, even those I failed to
ask myself. Inwardly, I suppose, I wanted to know if there could ever be
understanding between our two races. I think there can, perhaps something
approaching friendship, but, to be honest, I would have felt better if there hadn't. I could then have gone on
justifying our excessess and our armistice terms. Closing my mind to a lot of
other things, I might have slept soundly on the thought that the bastards
deserved all they got."
The
white sticks moved rapidly. "I am deeply moved but there is so little I
can say which would not look unreal or insincere to you. But you have given me
hope."
The
door slid open. "The Commandant says your time Is up, he's including
traveling time."
"Right."
Gaynor looked at the Vrenka. He did not know if the alien could interpret a
human expression but he hoped it could. The melancholy orange eyes met his
with—was it understanding or was that something he only wanted to see?
Outside
in the corridor he fumbled in his pocket and produced the authority. "I
think you'd better take a close look at this, particularly the signature."
He
waited for the guard to take it in, then he said, "As you now probably
realize from that signature I have a certain influence in high places. I'd hate
to have to report you for ill-treating a hostage."
The
guard looked both frightened and angry. "Now look, them damn things—"
Gaynor
cut him short. "I happen to know that the experimental section wants one
of those creatures for examination. What's going to be said if the exhibit is
damaged?"
"The Commandant—"
"The
Commandant is responsible for running the camp. When questions are asked guess
who will get the blame? They will ask questions of the hostage too,
remember."
Color
drained from the guard's face, leaving it a patchy white. "I—I just didn't
think, sir. I'm very sorry."
Gaynor
frowned as if considering the matter. "Very well, 111 overlook it this time but, in the future,
watch it. I may have to see this hostage again."
"Thank
you, sir. Thank you very much." The guard was servile now, shivering and
anxious to ingratiate himself. "Things will change now, really."
"Very
well, we'll leave it as a private matter between ourselves, unless, of course,
I receive further reports."
"You won't, sir. I promise you."
"Good."
Gaynor hoped the man was too frightened to see the sweat on his face. If anyone
ever found out that he'd used Kaft's signature in a game of bluff they'd
crucify him, they'd— He stopped himself shivering with an effort of will. Was
he mad? He'd taken a risk like that for what—an ex-enemy, an alien thing with
green tentacles? No, no, he hadn't. It was something deeper and more
fundamental than that—guilt, racial pride and, yes, shame.
The
Vrenkas had fought savagely, violently, ruthlessly but within the rigid framework
of their own code of conduct. They had never maltreated unarmed prisoners.
Gaynor
was still remembering many things which had happened in the war when he was in
the taxi leaving the camp behind.
No,
there had been no cruelties, and no atrocities. He'd checked with enough
veterans and ex-prisoners of war to prove that.
The
aliens had even done their best for the wounded. At first, of course, they
hadn't a clue to the human body and a lot of men had died but, at least, they'd
done their best. After the first two or three
months, however, when the Vrenka medics had more or less got the hang of the human metabolism, results had been good.
Good
to what purpose? Gaynor felt anger rise inside him. Six million known human
captives and only fifty-six thousand survivors had returned to Earth. The rest
had become victims of their own government's war policy.
The
new priesthood, safe in its underground cathedrals, had dictated a policy of
annihilation and, on their orders, the creaking, scarred and battle-weary
fleets had moved in.
There had been nothing to oppose them, no
cone-shaped vessel to rise in suicidal glory, no single weapon to declare its
token of defense but, nonetheless, they'd kicked the bleeding corpse to fragments.
The
cargoes of solar bombs ripped and tore into the helpless body until even the
most avidly Vrenka-hating commanders were sickened.
Cities
vanished. Lakes appeared in the middle of deserts and dry land rose out of the
oceans. The Vrenka worlds were almost wrenched apart, gouged, cratered and
pitted like the moon and five and a half million human prisoners were destroyed
by human weapons.
Gaynor
found he was clenching his hands painfully and forced his mind away from the
destruction.
Of
course the Vrenkas looked horrible to human eyes. On the raids, for example,
bursting into the domes and running head on into a Vrenka was enough to unnerve
anyone. In a space suit the Vrenkas looked like a crystal ball sprouting
hosepipes, all the hosepipes seemed to hold weapons and the damn thing always
charged.
The
killing, then, had been impersonal and not a considered execution. The
elementary verities of kill or be killed needed neither philosophy nor
justification. There was no time to ask if the creature had feelings like love,
loyalty, values, ideals. Did those things exist only within a human form?
Gaynor's
thoughts turned' to Duncan. The man had obviously come with some comprehensive
plan in which he, Gaynor, had perhaps been chosen to play some minor part.
There was no doubt that Duncan was far more than he appeared. The security
boys were cock-a-hoop now but for how long? In his opinion they had a tiger by
the tail and had yet to hear it snarl. Then, of course, history would repeat
itself. The little wriggling vermin which had operated the instrument of
oppression would weep at the tribunals and protest that they were only acting
under orders.
CHAPTER FIVE
The promise of unsupervised work was less than a gesture on
the part of the Administration. As soon as Duncan moved into the approved suite
with its attached laboratory, every spy device known to science was employed to
keep him under constant observation.
Trained technicians, crouched before the
viewing screens, watched and recorded every move he made.
The
job, however, was not a sinecure and friction was considerable.
"But
what is it?" The supervisor stabbed at the blue-print with his finger.
"That, for example, what is that?"
Kaymen,
the technician, straightened his back and sighed audibly. He was a big
hairy-armed man with a red face, made redder now by suppressed fury. "Mr.
Delero, my instructions were to watch and copy. Within the obvious limitations
of the viewing screen I've done that. I've recorded, photographed and
blueprinted every move he's made but some of those composites are micro-units
constructed in a viewing device which shut us out."
"But surely there's
some comparable device by which—"
Kaymen
interrupted, "Oh, my God," and sighed again. "Look, there's a
normal Fulsum tube here which is wired to this micro-composite and that funny
little grid affair on the left but beyond that I haven't a clue to what it's
supposed to be."
Delero
frowned. "Fortunately he appears in no hurry to finish the device so we
can examine it at our leisure."
"Which
would be fine if we knew what it was supposed to do."
"Where is he
now?"
"Reading
as usual, going through that taped library they've given him."
"Watch it," said Colville from the
other screen. "He's turned off the transcription unit and is getting up. I
think he's heading for the laboratory. Yes—yes, he is."
They
watched Duncan saunter into the laboratory, take a normal electrical switch
from a high shelf and begin to connect it unhurriedly to twin wires protruding
from the device on the work bench.
"If
you ask me," said Kaymen, "he knows we're watching and I think he's
making fools of us. In my opinion, Duncan has built a hoax box. I don't think
that distorted bird-cage does anything. When he switches it on it will probably
play a military march and blow bubbles."
Delero's
mouth thinned unpleasantly. "Mr. Kaymen, you are relieved of further
participation in this vital investigation. Report to the Project Director
immediately. I will continue in your place until such a time as the team is
provided with a suitable and, I trust, competent
replacement."
Kaymen
paled, clenched his fists and backed away uncertainly. "I was only—"
"That is an order, Mr.
Kaymen."
The
technician shrugged resignedly and wandered away. This would undoubtedly mean a
reprimand and declassification. Thank God that trained technicians were in
such short supply that they were treated with a certain latitude. Anyway,
declassification and even a reprimand were preferable to working under that
petulant little creep.
Delero
sat down in Kaymen's vacated chair, satisfied himself that the viewing
recorder was working satisfactorily and made minute and unnecessary adjustments
to the screen. Duncan had finished the connection and was fumbling a cigarette
from a packet on the work bench. Delero watched him break the plastic tip,
place the ignited cigarette between his lips and inhale deeply.
Now! Delero craned forward.
Duncan was stretching out his arm, squinting
through the smoke of his cigarette. . .. He
pressed the switch.
Kaymen
was half-way through the door when he heard Delero scream. He turned just in
time to see the supervisor arch backwards in the chair and fall out of it.
Four
feet away, at the other screen, Colville stood suddenly upright, walked five
uncertain steps and pitched forward on his face. His breathing was stertorous
and his body twitched unpleasantly.
In
the walls the fuses of recorders, detection instruments and spy devices blew
out with sharp popping reports. Both viewing screens blurred, suddenly molten
and dripped plastic glass. In the corner a thin spiral of black smoke curled upwards
from the square brown box of the
emergency power unit.
Kaymen
heard himself shouting something. The room was becoming hazy with bluish acrid
smoke and his eyes ran with water. Somehow he found the alarm switch, banged it
with his fist, tugged at the fire-inhibitor unit and ran for the door.. ..
In
his1 laboratory Duncan exhaled smoke, picked up the cigarette packet
and strolled back to his living quarters, his face expressionless.
Hengist,
leaning against the wall, smiled twistedly when he entered. "I hope you
didn't exert yourself, Mr. Duncan." His manner, although still not
friendly, suggested a certain amused tolerance.
"I've
done four hours work in three days." He sat down and pulled the reader
screen towards him. "I have quite a lot to check on. Oh, by the way,
perhaps you can help me. I'm looking for a woman."
Tes?" Hengist lifted one eyebrow. "I can arrange that. How do you like
them?"
Duncan sighed. "Hengist you have a crude mind. I'm looking for a particular woman, a spatial physicist named Martha Deering. Her name fails to appear in this year's index."
Hengist
hung a lighted cigarette from the comer of his mouth. "If that's the case,
there's only one answer."
"I
guessed that." He looked at the
other thoughtfully. "I believe you know something."
"If I do, it's not in
my own interests to tell you."
"No one will know. No one will hear you."
Hengist laughed, softly. "Would you care
to bet on that, Mr. Duncan?"
The caller-screen interrupted him and he flicked a switch. "Yes—er—yes, sir." His bodv stiffened
visibly. "I'll tell him, sir. Director Kaft would like a
word with you, Mr. Duncan."
In
the soreen Kaft's mo"th
w?s more 'i^e a coin slot than ever. "Ah, Duncan, sorry to rl''«:t"rh von in the middle of your 'work.' " He
paused meaningly. "The truth is, we've had a little trouble here."
Duncan said,
"Reallv?" and looted hfcnk.
"Yes."
Kaft was obvious^ oontro1^"
his temper with an effort.
"Some of our techn'cipns
'-•M-e been rendered
unconscious." He paused, awpre t^«t the
s'^'^tion was delicate and chose his words careMV "We wondered if it was due to some device you were emn'ovinrr in
vo"r exDeriments."
"My
device?" Duncan's exoression of innocence
was so overemphasized that it was insulting, "^eally, Director, you
overestimate me. No device of mine oo"ld possibly
render a
man unconscious." He
paused as if living the matter some thought. "Unless,
of course, our pT^ement
regarding supervision was,
by some technical mist~''e, in'pneed.
If this happened, then, of course, certain debate work I was doing might have effected your
technicians' instruments." He smiled. "If such an accident did ocur t'-e men will regain consciousness within a few hours. For the sake of your staff I hope the faults in their
instruments are soon repaired. A repetition might prove fatal."
He
waited a few seconds watching Kaft's hands clutch and unclutch. There were two
bright patches of angry red on the director's thin cheeks.
"Was there anything
else, Director?"
Kaft
swallowed, somehow he control'ed his temper. "Nothing at the moment,
thank you. Nonetheless, I'm glad we
cleared this
matter up." His smile
as he broke contact was somehow fixed and unreal like that of a skull.
Hengist, his flat face shiny with sweat,
said, "No one outsmarts Kaft."
"I
have." Duncan grinned. "Incidentally, I have just proved my point. No
one can hear you—now about Martha Deering?"
Hengist
shook his head slowly as if in disbelief then shrugged. "All right, I
remember the case because everyone Was talking
about it. All I know about programing is that it's a sort of conditioning, but
with Martha Deering it wouldn't take. She was a hypno-resistant. I don't know
what happened after that, some say they did something to her and let her go
but in my opinion they rubbed her out."
"What had she
done?"
"She
neglected her scientific programme and followed her own line of research."
He paused and seemed to make up his mind. "You know, Mr. Duncan. I could
make the same mistake and kill you before I eot orders."
Duncan
smiled at him. "Why should you? What have I ever done to you,
Hengist."
"I've
nothing against you personally, Mr. Duncan, but I'm not quite a fool. In my
opinion you're the most dangerous man in the world."
The room was quiet, comfortable and,
considering its location, almost peaceful.
Hengist, attending the Sector Director's
office for the usual weekly briefing, lay relaxed in the large comfortable
chair. God, he'd nearly fallen asleep, in fact, may have. Lucky Ralston always
kept people waiting.
The
call-screen changed color. "Bodyguard Hengist, Director Ralston will see
you now."
He
rose, brushed ash from his clothes and stood waiting for the door to open.
Sector
Director Ralston was a dark, havy-shouldered man with a patch of fluffy
colorless down in the center of his scalp where a specialist had done a replanting job on a spreading bald patch.
He
did not look up from the papers on his desk as the bodyguard entered. "Ah,
Hengist, yes. I don't think we need waste your time today. Your report seems to
be quite in order and there are no qualifying questions from H.Q." He
looked up and smiled briefly. "Pick up your instructions at central office
in the usual way as you leave."
Hengist
saluted and left the office, his face thoughtful. At the back of his mind was
the nagging feeling he had missed something. Brief interviews were not unusual
and he'd had hundreds like today. Nonetheless, somewhere or in some way,
something was missing. Or was it out of place?
Outside,
in the corridor, realization struck him. He had never seen Ralston smile
before.
When
he dropped off at the central office for his orders he was surprised to find it
almost deserted. The girl in the small outer office handed him the usual long
envelope without meeting his eyes.
"Remote
today, aren't we?" He grinned. "When are you coming to live with
me?" It was a routine question and he didn't expect an
answer.
Her
reaction was unexpected. She looked up at him and said, "David—oh,
David."
He was amazed to see tears in her eyes.
"You don't have to take it so hard, it was—" The plastic glass came
down in the window before he could finish the sentence.
He
shrugged and turned away. He supposed someone had upset her, probably her lover
or a superior. It happened. She'd get over it. Lanie was a pretty kid in a frail, slender sort of way, but, like all women, temperamental. Upset
them and they simply let fly at the nearest target which, in this case, had
been him.
He sighed, admitting to himself for the first
time that he had always desired her—not that he intended to do anything about
it. Attractive girls didn't get into H.Q. without influence and that influence
was male. You could, of course, be magnanimous and attribute the matter to a
brother or uncle but experience told you otherwise. A director or supervisor
exerted pressure and his mistress was installed in a purely decorative position which was not only
above criticism but conveniently accessible.
No,
if you tried to make up to the female staff you were not only sticking your
neck out but providing your own chopper. One had, therefore, to console oneself
with the females security recruited for the benefit of its officers.
He
left the building, jumped the moving way, and headed for his apartment. Three
hours yet before he need relieve Brade who was "standing in" with
Duncan in his absence.
_Slowly
he became aware, as always, of the noise. The grinding of rollers and worn
bearings, the unnecessary whine of individual boost units. He could remember,
way back, when the moving ways had run silently. He could remember when there
had been parks and trees and secluded green squares where old people had sat
quietly in the sunlight.
He
remembered the first time he had ridden the ways as a kid. It had been night and he'd been
wide-eyed and open-mouthed with wonder. The buildings had been lit from within
and glowed like great pastel jewels. And above, the air traffic had danced and
darted like a million fireflies.
"I'm
thirty-eight," he thought. "This must be the first sign of age,
dreaming, thinking back, remembering childhood, recalling the things which can
never be again. No parks now, no trees and the old people. Did you feel old at
sixty-five?"
The
state couldn't afford the support of the aged now, so one night they went to
sleep and never woke again. Were they warned? Did anyone tell them? Did they
fight sleep, knowing. . . .
Hengist shook himself angrily. That damn man,
this was his fault. He'd been right when he told him he was the most dangerous
man in the world. Duncan had something you couldn't see, something you couldn't
really sense, yet you knew it was there. You had a fair idea of Duncan's game,
you knew he was a kind of superman or, at least, a super intelligence. You knew
he was playing at being a prisoner, laughing at security and getting ready to
twitch the world by the tail but that wasn't the real danger. The real danger
lay in the fact that you couldn't hate Duncan,
you couldn't be impersonal and that was frightening.
You'd
made a pact with yourself to fight down your feelings, never feel anything for
anyone because, who knew, the next day you might be ordered to destroy
him.^Again, your feelings could betray you, slow you down, cause one tiny
hesitation and then. . . . Mentally, Hengist drew his fingers across his
throat. . . .
Duncan
needled you, he made you angry but, whatever he did, you liked him and, worse,
he made you talk. He had a habit of dropping a word or sentence which somehow
triggered you off and, before you knew where you were, you were telling the man
things which you had never mentioned to a living soul.
Yes,
Duncan was here on some secret mission of his own and, if they didn't watch
out, he'd bring civilization tumbling in ruins by sheer personality.
Gaynor
was affected the same way. Hengist smiled inwardly and corrected himself.
Major Gaynor, demobilized, a high-ranking officer at the age of twenty-five and
still paying for it.
Gaynor
had an astute mind, a brilliant two-plus-two-equals-four mentality but he
didn't know how to control it. In this day and age when the answer was four,
and you knew it was four, you said five or three to be on the safe side. The
ex-major would learn that kind of survival-addition too late.
Hengist
sighed. He supposed he could have liked Gaynor too if he had ever permitted
himself to like anyone, but love and friendship were luxuries he couldn't
afford—not if he wanted to stay alive.
He
realized he had reached his destination, stepped on to the secondary and from
there to the tenement block.
In
the hutch-like, all-purpose room he pulled out the recessed table and the
wall-chair and sat down. Might as well look at the official junk before he
dialed a quick meal. Usually officialdom justified its existence by repetition
and pompously phrased orders designed to impress the recipient officer with the
sternness of his task.
Hengist
sighed, slit the end of the long official envelope and tipped out the contents.
There
were no official forms, only blank folded sheets of paper. What the hell?
He
leaned forward, between two of the sheets was a small printed card. He picked
it up, held it between thumb and forefinger, and studied it, frowning:
The enclosed booklet is your assurance of well-being. It is provided to help you adjust to the new conditions you will be compelled to face. Its possession assures of an answer to any question which may arise in your mind. It is a guide to your future mental and physical behavior patterns.
GUARD AGAINST LOSS
The card slipped from Hengist's fingers and
fluttered to the floor. He was consious of a prickling dampness on his forehead
and a remote constricting coldness in his stomach. His body felt detached as if
he were controlling it at a distance and his vision seemed blurred and out of
focus.
With numb fingers he pushed the blank
faceless papers shakily to one side. Beneath them was a small black book.
Printed
in red on the cover was the single word: PROGRAMME.
CHAPTER SIX
Hengist stared fixedly at the black book with the curious
feeling he was unable to move his eyes from side to side.
Programed?
Apart from shock he felt no different but he was suddenly aware that even he had no idea what programing was.
Fumblingly he turned back
the cover.
Printed
on the flysheet was a short note of identification and grim advice:
This book is the property of David Korvin Hengist (hereinafter known as the patient), non-citizen, P-5-228G. The patient must understand that because of his inability to conform to present society he is mentally sick and has, therefore, been referred for treatment. This treatment is not a punishment for misdemeanor but a comprehensive therapy designed to resore him to normal society.
It is advised, therefore, that the patient familiarize himself with this book for his own immediate well-being and a swift return to normal life.
Period of treatment: Seven Years.
Hengist closed the book slowly and sat down.
Gradually his mind was losing its numbness and beginning to function normally.
In the waiting room it had been done, during the period when he thought he'd
been dozing. A whiff of hypnogas through the conditioner and he'd been trussed
and ready.
A
sudden anger rose within him. They'd known but they'd acted slyly, creeping up
behind him to steal his life and never told him why.
And
Ralston had smiled.
Smiled because he knew, because
he was a sadist, because it pleased him to smile and because he was enjoying
the joke.
With
a sudden wrenching bitterness he knew why Larue had cried. She, alone, had
known and cared.
His
mouth twisted slighdy. How would he have treated her if she had been his? God,
he wasn't worth her tears. . . .
Why
had they done this to him? What had he. . . ? Suddenly he knew—Kaft. Kaft had
been made to look a fool and he, Hengist, had been an innocent witness of the
director's discomfort.
Strangely,
Hengist found that his resentment was directed more against Ralston than
against Kaft. Ralston had smiled, Ralston had been pleased, yet Kaft owed him
nothing, but Ralston. . . .
He'd
been with Ralston on a tour of inspection when a man had gone berserk in the
street and hurled himself at Ralston with a length of pointed metal in his
hand.
He,
Hengist, had interposed his own body between the berserk and his superior
officer and club-gunned the man just in time but he'd taken three inches of
pointed metal in his own shoulder.
Ralston
had smiled—smiled. God, he wished he'd helped the berserk man.
He wished . . .
The
pain seemed to start in the center of his brain and press downward against the
back of his eyes. His vision blurred, panting he fell to his knees, both hands
pressed to the sides of his head.
Slowly
the pain turned to a dull burning and he pulled himself shakily to his feet.
His whole body was soaked with perspiration and he was beset with an unnatural
weakness.
He leaned against the wall, slowly beginning
to understand. This was part of what they had done to him. This was—part of
the programme. Somewhere within the pages of the small black book this pain had
meaning.
Numbly
he reopened it. Pain, where was pain? On the first page he found a printed
index. Pain: Causes of . . . 62. He turned the pages almost in a frenzy. The patient experiences psychosomatic pain when his thoughts, actions or emotions are contrary to the therapeutic plan designed to restore him to health and his rightful place in society.
To determine the exact cause of pain, the patient must recall his thoughts or actions at time of onset. In all cases he will discover that he, himself, induced the attack by thought or action contrary to the plan for his recovery. It is advised, therefore, that the patient read the book thoroughly in order to determine his point of departure from the programme of rehabilitation.
Hengist
sat down in the hard chair and turned over the pages. It took him nearly four
minutes to find the answer. The patient is forbidden to harbor thoughts of revenge against society, Security Officers or registered officials. All Officers of the Administration work for the patient's well-being.
In order to aid his recovery the patient must learn to reject these sick thoughts and cultivate the correct ones of appreciation and gratitude.
Gratitude!
Hengist felt his face flush with impotent fury. Of all the cynical
hypocritical. . . .
This time he whimpered when
he fell to his knees.
When
he climbed unsteadily to his feet some three minutes later he picked up the
book and forced himself to begin at the beginning.
The patient will vacate his living quarters within five hours and report to the nearest rehabilitation center. (A list of such centers may be found on page 210 of appendix). The patient will list his personal possessions and surrender them to the rehabilitation officer.
Hengist's mouth twisted bitterly. No one
would come to remove him. Procedure demanded that he throw himself out on his
ear. Something would hit him right between the eyes if he didn't.
Give up all his possessions—did that include
his gun? He'd be glad to give that up to the first creep he met. He'd have his
finger ready on the trigger.
The
agonizing cramp which suddenly twisted his arm almost out of shape brought a
moan of pain from his hps.
The patient is forbiddenHo possess weapons.
Shaking
with the aftermath of pain, he dialed for a stiff drink. How much of this sort
of thing was a man supposed to take?
With
some difficulty he brought the glass to his lips and tipped the liquor down his
throat.
The
pain which hit his stomach almost folded him in half. Sweat trickled down his
face as he vomitted the liquor back.
The patient is forbidden the use of drugs, stimulants or
alcohol.
Holding
himself upright by the table, he fumbled a cigarette from his breast pocket.
He dropped it twice before he was able to flick off the plastic tip. God, much
more of this and. ...
He
coughed at the first puff. He coughed until the tears were running from his
eyes and the air wheezed painfully in his lungs.
The patient may not smoke.
Wearily
he sat down. The pattern was clear now—compulsive conditioning. Whatever he
did or, for that matter, considered doing was contrary to the 'programme.' It
triggered off a pain reaction. Under hypnosis his future conduct had been shaped for him within a
comprehensive reflex action. If he departed from the programme in thought or
deed, pain would kick him back again.
In
six months he would be walking and thinking as delicately as a cat on a high
wire, afraid to digress from his impressed conduct pattern by a fraction of an
inch.
Within a year he would believe it was for his
own good.
In
two years he would be begging permission to thank both Kaft and Ralston for their kindness in
referring him for treatment.
At
the end of his treatment it wouldn't matter. He'd be fixed in a thought and
behavior pattern which nothing could break until the end of his life.
"I
suppose I asked for it," he thought, bitterly. "They offered me a job
and because it seemed legit and secure I took it. When I began to understand
the kind of organization I was in. . . ."
Too late then. Don the cloak of the assassin
or jump off a cliff. Naturally you choose the cloak, you salved your conscience
with the thought that, after all, you were not actually part of the Secret
Police. You were a guard. You protected people.
Looking back, you found you'd done a
double-think when you asked yourself if the vermin you stood in front of were
worth protecting. You closed your eyes to facts and adopted the age old
philosophy of "I'm all right, Jack."
This
was the reckoning. This was the payment. There were no watch towers, no brutal
guards but they'd taken the hopelessness, the pain, the double barriers of
barbed and electrified wire and put them in his mind.
He
straightened. They
thought. Not
to him, definitely not to him. He still had the gun, he'd lived by it now, damn
them, he'd get the last laugh by dying by it.
The
convulsion arched him backwards, twisted his limbs and tossed him helpless and
whimpering into the corner of the room. Finger nails scrabbled at the floor,
froth trickled from the corners of his mouth. . . .
Attempts at self-destruction are primary
symptoms of
the
patient's mental state and must be resisted with every
effort
of the will.
There
was a small line of furtive and frightened looking men outside the rehabilitation
center.
Hengist
was the last, the sun was warm on his back but he was shivering uncontrollably.
His body ached as if it had been beaten and he had the curious feeling that his
stomach was swinging jerkily inside him from a short length of elastic.
Slowly
the line shuffled forwards. "Already," he thought, bitterly, "we
bear the stamp of sneak-thieves. We're bowed like beggars, whining, obscene,
ready to ingratiate ourselves with the first person we meet who has authority.
We're ready to plead, beg, go on our knees, anything to be left in peace."
The
first person he met with authority sat behind an incongruously gay desk in a
bleak bare room. She had her hair bound loosely back and brought round to run
in bright waves over her left shoulder. The style made her look gende, girlish
and almost virginal.
With
a sick feeling inside he realized that he knew her. Her name was Vanda Mayne
and he had met her more than once at security conferences.
"Well, well," she
said, softly. "How mighty are the fallen."
She
crossed her legs carefully and with deliberation. "You like my legs? A lot
of men think they're nice." She wore a black pleated skirt which reached
only half way down her thighs and a white, tightly fitting blouse which was
almost, but not quite transparent. She placed a cigarette between her lips and
looked at him with large blue eyes.
"She's
beautiful," he thought, dully. "Beautiful, calculating and cold and
she's going to give me hell."
"You
haven't answered my question," she said, softly. "Do you like my legs?"
He
swallowed. "Yes—er—yes, they're very nice—very beautiful, Officer."
"Ah,
I like the Officer, you're learning already, I see. You pay a pretty fair
compliment too, considering your position but then, you always did like the
women, didn't you?" She raised her hand and began to stroke her hair
slowly. "You see this white button on my shoulder, lover boy? In case you
don't know, it's a release stud. All I have to do is to press and this blouse
will drop to my waist. You'd like that, wouldn't you? The stud at my waist does
the same thing for my skirt, do you find that intriguing?" She smiled,
almost sympathetically. "Not now, eh? Maybe in a month or, better still,
two months when you're hungry. When you want a woman so much you'll go hot every
time you see a curved line on a piece of paper. You won't have women here, you
know, not for years and, only then if Elgin feels kindly disposed and he never
does. Nonetheless 111 let you look. You'll hate and hate because
you'll see me naked and can't have me."
He
closed his eyes, fought himself, nails biting into the palms of his hands. Pain
was already twisting the inside of his
stomach, bending him over and shortening his breath.
The patient is forbidden to harbor thoughts of revenge
or hatred against society, Security Officers or registered
officials.
"Stand upright and
open your eyes, darling."
He shivered inwardly and
forced himself to comply.
"Don't
tell me you don't like women, lover boy, or have you forgotten so soon. We haven't forgotten, we know.
The joy houses, the parties, the hired women." She exhaled smoke slowly
into his face. "Oh yes, dear, we know, we know everything. How you got
drunk and talked to them about your mother. God, we even know what your mother
looked like. Remember Eltha? Oh, but you must remember Eltha.
You
cried in her arms and said you were sick of killing and, worse, you were cold
sober."
She
shook her head slowly. "Then, of course, there was Lanie. You were afraid
of her, afraid of whom she might belong to, so you just hung around making
frog's eyes and slick wisecracks." She laughed softly. "The real joke
is she belonged to no one and, better still, she was in love with you. You
could have had her for the asking. If it's any consolation she'll be joining
the happy breed of programed defectives within a few days. If the race is to
survive, we must remove the weak links and recast them. Lover boy, stand upright
when I'm speaking to you."
She
paused and flicked ash delicately into the disposal slot. "You know, dear,
sometimes I think there's something a little obscene about people like you.
Women like you, even those whose bodies you hired for sexual relief. They said
you were considerate. They said you were gende. They said you treated them like
human beings." She laughed softly. "Imagine that."
She
moved, stretching herself sensually and with deliberate provocation. "You
like, Romeo?" She straightened and tossed the half-smoked cigarette on the
floor. "Pick it up."
He
stared at her.
"You
heard me, moron. Pick it up." He picked it up.
"Now
dispose of it. No, not in my disposal slot, you fool, your own."
"What?
Please?" He looked wildly about him.
"So
I was right, you are a moron. Look, do I have to draw a diagram, stupid? You've
a mouth haven't you? You have also a tongue. Get rid of the cigarette and clean
the ash from the floor."
He
felt veins stand out on his forehead, his hands clenched. He tried to shout,
"You stinking bitch," but toppled sideways, choking before the words
would come.
She watched him indifferently as he writhed
on the floor, then leaned forward and touched a sense-plate with the tip of her
finger.
A door slid open and two cowed-looking men
ran in. "Take him away," she said.
The
agony seemed to seep out of his pores slowly, receding in slow tides of
darkness and leaving him weak and trembling.
Someone
was holding water to his mouth. He swallowed, choked and swallowed again.
He opened his eyes. A thin-faced man with
lank brown hair was kneeling beside him and dabbing at his forehead with a
fragment of damp plastic sponge.
"My
poor sick friend," said the man. He had the artificially unctious voice
of a man who had made soothing platitudes
habitual.
Hengist stared at him
uncomprehendingly.
"I
am your guide," said the man. "My name is Desmond. I have been
appointed by the medical staff to help new patients. You're sick, you know, you
will realize this as time goes by." He blinked watery brown eyes at
Hengist almost in appeal. "Soon you will be made whole again."
Hengist
winced but he said, harshly. "Who the hell do you think you're
fooling?"
"Ah, a year ago, my reactions were the
same. You think you are the victim of a conspiracy but that is a delusion, my
friend, and part of your sickness."
The
man took his arm. "You must get up, now. Soon Director Elgin will be
hare."
Hengist
saw that he was in a small, brightly lighted room with a raised platform at one
end. Tightly packed, and in even ranks, twenty or thirty blank looking males
stared expectantly at the platform.
A
sickness seemed to rise inside him. He was one of these, in a year
he was going to be slimy, unctious and vaguely obscene like Desmond. He was
going to—Oh, God, no, got to get out, got to get away, try. Let them shoot. . .
.
He struggled to his knees then keeled over
sideways, moaning.
"You must get up. You must get up."
Desmond was tugging at his arm.
He
couldn't, he knew he couldn't. Even if the cramp stopped twisting his legs, he
would be too weak and beaten. Pain wracked his body but, strangely, his vision
was clear.
A
uniformed man walked onto the platform, a man with a small pot belly which
bulged out the front of his tunic and made him look as if he were leaning
slightly backwards.
The
man walked to the center of the platform, spread his legs, locked his hands
behind his back and glowered at them. The action made him seem to lean
backwards even more.
"Desmond."
"Sir?"
"What
is that man doing on the floor?" Director Elgin had the petulant,
pushed-in face of an ill-tempered toy dog.
Desmond
stepped forward, fawning. "Please, sir, our poor sick friend is a new
patient. He has just suffered a very bad attack."
Elgin
made a snorting noise through his nose. "Desmond." "Sir?"
"Step forward and kick our poor sick
friend in the teeth."
CHAPTER SEVEN
The new bodyguard was a watery-eyed youth with a slack immature
mouth and all the observable symptoms of a psychopath. His fingers twitched,
he shifted his weight restlessly from one foot to the other and he was obsessed
with the thought of killing.
"Don't
needle this one." Duncan's voice was casual but Gaynor got the warning.
He
submitted, without comment to a thorough check and provocative and unnecessary
rough handling.
"You
pass." The voice was thin and n^s^l. "My name's Varren, you address
me as Mister Varren—s<*>?"
"I
understand, Mr. Varren." Gaynor kept his voice expressionless.
"I
hope you do or you'll be sorry, very sorry indeed." He took out his gun
and began to fondle it. ,"rl"'s one can kick in
your teeth or punch a hole in your guts. D~n't forget, eh?"
"I
won't, Mr. Varren." Gaynor walked to the nearest chair and dropped into
it.
"Know
what happened to Hengist?" Gaynor said in a low voice.
"I
can guess. He saw too much, partly my fault I'm afraid," said Duncan.
"I
feel I did him an iniustice somehow. He was an ex-veteran and, in his own way,
just as much a prisoner as you and I."
"I know. Hengist
forgot sometimes and ^ronned his mask."
"He's
been programed." Gaynor fumbled for a cigarette, his hand unsteady.
"Makes me feel. . . ."
"You got a cold, perhaps?" Varren
leaned over the back of his chair. "When you speak, speak up. You
understand me?"
It was Duncan who answered. "Don't 0"sh
your luck, Varren. I have the privileges of a first oIpss
citizen and Mr. Gaynor is
my guest. Anything I say and he reports is not only prearranged but censored
afterwards."
Varren's
mouth twisted. "Don't say that to me, Mr. Duncan. You're under house
arrest and—"
He stopped abruptly. Duncan had risen from
his chair. He d;d nothing, his expression had not changed and, when
he spoke, his voice was still calm.
"Go and sit down, Varren, go and sit
down before you're hurt."
Varren
paled, his mouth opened and shut, muscles twitched in his cheeks. "All
right, Mr. Duncan, all right."
"Good.
I am glad we now understand one another. Mr. Gaynor and I are now going to look
at the laboratory with, or without, your permission."
Once
inside, Gaynor said, "What the hell did you do to him?"
"Nothing
but play on his psychology by suggesting he might get hurt. At the back of his
mind, you see, he's convinced I'm a sort of super monster. Consequendy he is
ready to see danger where none exists."
"I thought he was
dangerous."
"He
is, very dangerous, more so since he is overcompensat-ing for his terror."
Duncan sighed. "Unfortunately there is nothing one can do for him, there
are only two forces he understands—fear and pain."
He
indicated one of the hard laboratory chairs. "Do sit down. I asked you in
because you have a fly on your sleeve." He caught it deftly. "I'm
interested in insects."
"I
should have thought," said Gaynor, carefully, "that you had enough on
your mind without worrying about insects." He sighed. "There was a
time when nothing could get through the insect barriers but maintenance is
third rate now; what was it—a common house fly?"
"That
depends on the word 'common' doesn't it?" He inserted it skillfully into
a viewer and pressed a switch. "This takes a little time to warm up
but—" He made a number of adjustments and squinted through the eye-pieces.
"Ah, as I suspected. Look."
Gaynor
leaned forward, the view—probably a product of Duncan's superior technology—was
like a pair of binoculars sunk into a square black box. Through the eye-pieces
a lighted screen revealed hoth external and internal structure of the tiny
insect—only it wasn't an insect.
Gaynor
felt a curious unbelieving numbness. Clearly visible in the screen was the tiny
solar motor and an incredibly complicated drive mechanism for the wings. Behind
the compound faceted eyes were the complete circuits for a comprehensive
tele-recording unit.
Gaynor
found himself sweating. No one, to his knowledge, could construct micro-devices
of such precision, on this planet.
"Where the hell did it
come from?"
"That
I shall have to find out. It will need a little care, there's a minute
container beside the motor with a detectable reaction, possible hydro-nuclear
or solar energy matter." Duncan shook his head thoughtfully. "It's
not big enough to be lethal but one's fingers are also valuable."
"I
still don't know how you propose to find out where it came from." Gaynor
was trying to sound casual.
"Well,
obviously, it isn't radio-contolled or it would be detectable. It is therefore
comprehensively programed so all I need are the programme tapes. I can then
intrepret the electronic symbols and trace backwards."
"That sounds a full
time job."
"It
will take some little time. The only way to deal with a micro device
effectively is to construct and programme another micro device to take it to
pieces."
"How long will that
take?"
"With what I have to
work with here, about three days."
"Do
you think it's—" Gaynor stopped, suddenly remembering his position.
Duncan
sensed the hesitation and smiled understandingly. "Don't worry, no one can
listen. I took precautions against that some days ago, much to security's
annoyance. And, no, to answer your unspoken question, I don't think it's
theirs."
"Then where?"
"That we must find
out. The people who programed this micro-robot know enough about this city to use you as transport."
"You mean I'm being watched?"
"Only as a means of reaching me."
"Things
are getting complicated." Gaynor leaned back against the work bench and
knocked something with his arm.
"Hell." He made frantic catching
motions.
There was a crash and tinkling sounds.
"I'm
dreadfully sorry." Gaynor stared uncomfortably at the bright shards on the
floor.
"Forget
it." Duncan smiled. "Pure accident and it was only a retort."
Gaynor
was still frowning at the floor. "Isn't that glass? I can't think of
another substance which would break so easily."
"As a matter of fact, yes. It was quite
useless." "Then why have it?"
"No
good reason but it probably kept a lot of people busy finding it. It was
included in my list of essentials, you see, and I've no doubt the authorities
had to comb the existing museums to find it."
Gaynor
frowned at him. "I suppose there's a point somewhere. It's just that I
don't see it."
Duncan
smiled. "It's quite simple. When, under pressure, I agreed to co-operate.
I asked for equipment. They were already dubious and a lost of easily procured
articles would have increased their suspicions even further. They would have
regarded my agreement as a hoax, as an empty promise which I had no intention
of fulfilling. Unlikely and unusual items, however, suggested serious
intent." Duncan laughed softly, "Bureaucratic institutions are always
impressed with complication."
Gaynor
fought down an urge to burst out laughing. The man was so damn casual.
"You must have spent a long time studying us."
"Long enough. Once you get the hang of
race psychology, emotional as well as intellectual tendencies are
predictable." He bent down. "Better remove this glass. The robotic
cleaners will get rid of the small stuff, the larger pieces had better go into
disposal. If you would be good enough to hand me that culture tray—also
impressive—it will serve as a dust-pan. Thank you."
Gaynor
watched him tip the pieces into the disposal unit and stand upright.
"Will
they—" Gaynor stopped suddenly. "I say, you've cut your hand."
Duncan
glanced at the deep ragged gash running across the center of his palm. "So
I have. Careless of me, I had forgotten that aspect of broken glass."
"It's a nasty one,
you'd better get it attended to."
"It's
nothing." Duncan held the edges of the wound together. "It will be
healed within an hour."
"An
hour!" Now, look—" Gaynor stopped. "Ah, I suppose that's some
mental asset you have, control over the bodily functions."
Duncan
laughed. "Mr. Gaynor, you're overawed* by my background. The truth is, I'm
just normally healthy."
"Healthy!"
Gaynor looked angry and puzzled. "I should call that an exaggeration. I
was pronounced A-one at my last medic and a wound like that would take about
twelve days to clear up."
"You judge by the standards to which you
are accustomed and since, by these standards, twelve days is average, you draw
a line and say: "There is the norm, I am healthy."
"You
speak as if I were a physical wreck. Is something wrong with my body?"
Duncan looked at him thoughtfully. "By
comparison, yes. Your body is a beleagured citadel, rejected by its allies and
deserted by its friends. Periodically it divides against itself and wastes
enormous energy not only putting things to rights' but attacking those who
exist to befriend it."
Gaynor stared at him.
"Is this on the level?"
"It
is, you'll leam about it one day. In the meantime, let us make a few
comparisons. You have in your left hand pocket an unopened packet of
cigarettes, the top of which you have absent-mindedly been trying to open with
your thumb and forefinger—correct?"
"Correct."
Gaynor sounded slightly out of breath. "What is this—some sort of
parapsychic faculty?"
"If you call normal
hearing a parapsychic faculty, yes."
"Normal
hearing?" Gaynor realized he was being repetitive and probably sounding
obtuse.
"Yes,
normal hearing." Duncan was smiling gently. "As I told you, this is a comparison. I could show similar results with sight
but it's less demonstrable in a confined space."
"You
heard me." Gaynor shook his head slowly.
"How did you know what it was?"
"With acute hearing,
interpretation follows naturally."
Gaynor
grinned ruefully. "It has certain obvious advantages."
"Very obvious. Our psychopathic friend
has twice crossed the room and stood listening by the door. He is now about two
feet from the door, leaning against the wall and checking one of his
weapons."
Gaynor
said: "My God!" Then, wearily, "It's a ripe world, isn't it?
Somehow I feel that human nature should have changed, even if that change was
almost as slow as evolution but, no, in the last few decades it's gotten
worse."
"No one has seen human
nature, only its distortion."
Gaynor said,
"Pardon?"
Duncan
repeated the remark. "You look back in history and there has always been
oppression, war, rapine, cruelty, destruction. These excesses, you conclude,
reflect the nature of man, but do they? Are violence, cruelty, disloyalty,
vice, part of a natural
order when they live side by side with self-sacrifice, friendship, love and
other virtues? When all these factors exist in the single individual surely
something is wrong? What order do you find in a man who loves his wife and
children but callously ill-treats his neighbors because of his political
opinions? Human nature? I think not, again you have drawn a line and said this
is the norm."
Gaynor
frowned. "I'm beginning to see what you're getting at. Have you come to
impose a new order?"
"Did
I suggest that? I could have been suggesting a theory or even propounding a
philosophy."
"Cagey, aren't
you?"
"Call it natural
caution."
"Bluntly, you don't
trust me?"
Duncan
smiled. "Wrong end of the stick. You have yet to decide for yourself
whether you trust me."
Gaynor
frowned, thinking about it. "I suppose you're right, yes, damn it, you are
right." He flicked the tip from a cigarette and inhaled deeply. "This
I shall have to think about."
"Before you think,
look." Duncan held out his hand.
Gaynor
stared. The jagged gash was not only completely closed but some of the scab
seemed loose and ready to flake away.
The
reporter puffed at his cigarette, frowning. "I suppose that sort of thing
is natural for you. I suppose, if the truth were known, you regard us as so
many apes. Obviously you're an intellectual giant but gentleman enough to hide
it."
Duncan
laughed. "Thank you for the implied compliment but you're quite wrong. Let
us say I have the advantages of a superior education which has provided me with
a new viewpoint. I have been trained to observe not the obvious but the
potential and the potential is enormous."
"I don't follow
you."
"Let me put it this
way. Are the feeble gestures of one sick bed-ridden man any indication of the potential of a healthy
one?"
Gaynor
ground out his half-smoked cigarette and flicked the tip off another almost in
one movement. "I've often heard of food for thought but, hell, this is a
surfeit. Ill lie awake for nights chewing this lot over." He exhaled
smoke. "Look, I'm not supposed to ask these questions so you don't have to
answer but, off the record, why did you come? When application was made you
could have refused."
Duncan
nodded. "True, but there are several answers to your questions. First the
Mattrain, although among friends I was still an alien. Second, in its present
stage of development, there are limits to the capacity of the human mind to
absorb knowledge. At the age of thirty, beside the average Mattrain, I was
little more than a very bright infant. In short, I was the ape, house-trained and extraordinarily intelligent by the
standards of my own race but, beside my foster parents—" Duncan did not
finish the sentence.
"Surely
you knew what it was like here? You knew you might get knocked off as soon as
you arrived?"
"Yes,
I knew. I also knew that here a certain task had to be undertaken. The Mattrain
were prepared to do it but I was
the obvious choice so I volunteered."
"What
sort of job?" Gaynor tried hard to keep the suspicion out of his voice.
"Sorry, maybe 111 give you a clue later."
Gaynor frowned but he said,
evenly, "Any other reasons?"
"Well,"
Duncan smiled, "I hoped I might find myself a wife sooner or later."
"A
wife!" Gaynor did not realize he sounded rude until it was too late.
"Good God!"
"Is
it so strange?" Duncan's voice was almost wistful. "I was not aware
that certain intellectual advantages produced sexual indifference."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way.
It was just surprise.
I suppose I'm still looking at you as a sort
of sexless computer." Gaynor grinned apologetically. "Hardly tactful
or flattering. May I ask another question?" "Go ahead?"
"Well there's a rumor that the Mattrain
worlds have something which protects them, a super weapon or perhaps some
natural phenomena. Is it true?"
Duncan
shook his head slowly. "At the present time I cannot answer that question
in full, nonetheless I'll give you a lead. You can fight a people, you can
fight a technology but you cannot conquer a people and a planet. The Mattrain worlds could be destroyed but never
conquered."
Gaynor
shook his head slowly. "I don't understand you, of course, but you always
appear frank so 111 put my cards on the table. As a man I like
you. You're direct, friendly and, even if you despise me intellectually it
doesn't show and,, for that, I'm grateful. On the other hand, when I give it
thought, the whole set-up seems slightly improbable. You walk into a dangerous
situation and allow yourself to be coerced into giving away technical
information which, you must know, will be used to the detriment of the race.
When questioned you're ready with a set of slick answers which, although
remarkable enough in themselves, add up to only a minute total of your obvious
potential. None of it appears to justify your threat to the race or, come to
that, the obvious risk to yourself."
"So?"
"So
I reason it like this." Gaynor paused and swallowed, suddenly
uncomfortable but determined to say his piece. "You're here on a mission
but whether it's good or bad I still have to reason out for myself. Whether
you're working for the Mattrain or acting on your own initiative I don't know
but I'd like to find out what that mission is."
Duncan nodded, thoughtfully. "I admire
your honesty and congratulate you on your reasoning. Yes, stretching a point, I
suppose I am here on a mission."
"But you're not going to tell me what it
is?"
"Not
entirely but, as I said earlier, I'll give you a clue." He paused.
"The race has a long and bloody history. It has fought against itself and
against the Vrenka—"
"So?"
Duncan
shook his head a little sadly. "I'm sorry to tell you this, Gaynor, but
there could be a final enemy. ..."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kaft leaned forward in his chair, his face expressionless.
"Well, what is it?"
"Something
you damn well ought to see." Dowd looked both belligerent and nervous.
"It's very seldom I support Rickman but in this case—" He tossed
something on Kaft's desk and dropped into the nearest chair. "You'd better
read that."
Kaft's
mouth thinned. He watched Rickman occupy another chair and search his pockets
nervously for his cigar case. Dowd had, Kaft decided, brought Rickman along for
moral support and this was some sort of showdown.
"Let
us not become hysterical." Kaft's voice was soothing. "And, Dowd,
please, you know I detest riddles. Before I look at the paper you have thrown
on my desk, let us hear first why you came and, second, the origin of that
piece of paper."
Dowd
calmed himself. He was a naturally aggressive and overbearing man but Kaft had
the knack of making him feel adolescent and unruly.
Rickman,
watching, felt the familiar coldness in his belly. Kaft frightened him. Kaft
with his unnatural calm and unwieldy over-wordy sentences. God, looking at
him, made you shiver. He was leaning forward now, scraggy necked, bald head
catching the light and looking rather like a snake. Yes that was it, a snake,
an ancient cobra rising up from behind the desk, poised and ready to strike.
"Hold it," he told himself, frantically. "Hold it. Pay
attention. Listen," but the flutterings in his stomach went on.
"Well,
as you know," Dowd was saying, "I've a lot of ships out at the moment
primarily for base reconstruction. The Vrenka left very little to work on. One
of these ships, checking her sub-radio equipment, picked up a message on the
absolute fringe of known bands and recorded it." He pointed. "The
paper on your desk is that message. I suggest you read it."
Kaft
picked up the paper between thumb and forefinger. "These symbols?"
"The
symbols are the original message. You will find the translation on the opposite
page."
Kaft
turned it over slowly and began to read. There was no visible change of
expression on his face but his thin brows drew together slightly.
Sir,
Conditions here are several times worse than we imagined with the entire structure in wild and hopeless disorder. A few more su° (Periods of 53 Terran days-translator) and it would have been too late. I am glad to report that phase one of Operation Ratio has already begun and phase two should be complete in one local cycle.
I must report with regret, however, that certain sections, (an approximate 25%) are so grossly distorted that reshaping is out of the question. Under these circumstances violence cannot be avoided and, inevitably, the race will have to do its own pruning.
Kaft laid the message down.
"There was no signature?"
"Nothing, not even a
call sign."
"And the
symbols?"
"They
are Mattrain representation symbols. The translation has been double checked
by a team of experts."
"This message was
destined for Mattrain?"
"Undoubtedly,
the co-ordinates were checked by the computers." Dowd leaned forward.
"The important point, however, is that the message came from Earth. Do you have to guess who sent it?"
Kaft
nodded slowly. "This is no time for games and, I agree, the source is
obvious."
"We
should have killed him," said Rickman. "We should have killed him as
soon as he got here."
Dowd
scowled at him. "All right, we gambled and lost." He looked directly
at Kaft. "What are we going to do and how soon? Rickman's warnings do seem
close now. The message suggests some sort of take-over bid with Duncan sending
a progress report."
"A
do-gooder," said Rickman. He chewed angrily at his cigar. "This
sounds like a brilliant little scheme to coerce us into a Mattrain-inspired
culture. A kind of alien Sunday school to make all and everyone happy. Only I
don't like the pruning part."
"Yes."
Dowd looked at him thoughtfully and very nearly with respect. "You know
something, Kaft, he could be right. Want to lay bets as to who get's pruned
first?"
Kaft nodded. "I am inclined to agree
with both of you but let us use our heads. It would be unwise to be panicked
into some sort of action which might prove disastrous. For instance, have we
any guarantee that Duncan's death will stop the operation?" He paused,
suddenly grim. "The wrong course of action might precipitate something
worse, we must stop and think this out."
"Yes.
Yes." Dowd was nodding slowly. Despite his hatred of Kaft he was
intelligent enough to respect both his judgmerit and his considered caution.
"Had you something in mind?"
"It would be unwise to kill him before
we know what he's doing. If we could see some
of his equipment we might be able to get some idea of his plans and perhaps
thwart them. We might also be able to follow through on some of his techniques
and turn them against him. If not, of course, we must kill and ask questions
afterwards which might prove unrewarding."
"I
see your point." Dowd pulled at his ear, frowning. "We got him into
that laboratory, surely it would be easy enough to get him out."
"And
have him destroy or remove his equipment first? That would be pointless. No,
well have to move him by subtlety, get him out on some plausible pretext and
have experts check, copy and photograph every device in the place. After all,
even a superman cannot send a sub-space radio call without equipment."
Rickman
laughed harshly. "I suppose I'm always out of line but I still say kill
him. In the first place I don't think any pretext will deceive him and, in the
second, I think you're deluding yourselves. For example, and to quote from the
text, you can build a non-directional sub-space radio transmitter with—again I
quote—one solar cell, two Sharon compensator grids, one Larange tube and four
short lengths of high resistance wire. I've no doubt our alien friend can make
one with a good deal less."
Dowd
said, "You make a good point but I think Kaft's is sounder. We could lose
a lot of golden eggs killing this goose."
"Yes and this goose could cook ours
while we rob the nest."
"There
are limits to expedience," said Kaft. "So far he has fulfilled his
promises." He turned to Dowd. "I understand the new plastic is
revolutionary."
"As
a matter of fact we're still making tests. This stuff could take a solar bomb
attack."
"All right." Rickman sounded beaten
and resigned. "Carry on until it's too late."
"Why don't you shut up?" shouted
Dowd. "Well kill him soon enough, we just want a look at his equipment
first."
"Seems
simple enough to me, give him a holiday, show him the world and, when he comes
back—bang."
Kaft
leaned back in his chair. "Well! Rickman, sometimes your direct simplicity
teeters on the edge of genius-^why not? Why not let him see the world, a tour
of inspection. We promised to relax restrictions. Such a concession not only
suits us admirably but, if handled sltillfully, allays suspicion. Yes, the
ideal solution, ideal."
The
caller interrupted him and he laid his finger on the sense plate. "Yes?
Yes, send him up." He looked at them.
"Statten, unlike him
to be unpunctual."
Fifteen
seconds later General Statten almost ran into the room. He looked greasy,
alarmed and slightly furtive.
"Thank
God you're all here." He dropped into a vacant chair and fumbled with a
brief case. "This, to my mind, is bad, damn bad."
"We were discussing
Duncan," said Kaft, mildly.
"To
hell with Duncan." He got the case open at last and fumbled inside it.
"Here we are. Take a look at that." He rose and laid a photograph on
the Supreme Director's desk.
Kaft frowned at it.
"Where did this come from?"
"One of our four
survey ships."
"Where was it?"
"Maximum
limit, thank God. As soon as it spotted this thing, the crew did the sensible
thing and took a jump into hyper-drive."
"Let's
see that." Rickman snatched the photograph before anyone could say no.
It
was not a good photograph, it was a long distance magnified shot taken at the
absolute limit of the radar-camera's range. The developed print was wavy and
blurred at the edges but there was no mistaking the subject. It showed a long,
blunt-nosed, curiously waisted object which was all too obviously a spaceship.
The vessel conformed to no design known to man. It was not Vrenka, not
Mattrain.
"Oh,
God," thought Rickman. "Another batch of blasted aliens, pray God
they haven't found us yet."
The
private luxury flyer rose slowly above the city with its escort of eight
security vessels.
Duncan
leaned back against the comfortable upholstery and exhaled smoke. "I hope
they find what they want."
Gaynor
stared at him blankly. "You think there's something at the back of this
trip?"
"Administrations
such as this one are not given to magnanimous gestures. Friend Kaft couldn't
keep the enthusiasm out of his voice. The more casual he became about concessions
for my services, the more he betrayed his eagerness to get me out of the
laboratory." Duncan smiled faintly. "Acute hearing makes one
conscious of intonation, consequently one learns quickly to interpret."
"In short, he's up to
something?"
Duncan
laughed softly. "Of course, nonetheless I'm glad of this trip. It makes a
welcome break. In the first place, I have no idea where I am. I arrived in a
closed ship, whisked to the city and kept there. I only assume we're in a
tropical or semi-tropical zone but beyond that I'm lost."
"We're
in South America." Gaynor was marveling at the other's outward calm. The
man must be extraordinarily sure of himself. Aloud, he said, "A thousand
years ago this was unexplored jungle then some expedition or other discovered
uranium deposits. Needless to say, a city grew up here almost overnight.
Later, when man discovered solar energy, and nuclear devices became as obsolete
as the combustion engine, the city lost purpose and almost faced death. Fortunately,
however, World Government decided it was an ideal center for administration
purposes and moved in lock, stock and barrel." He paused. "By the
way, we're not being spy-rayed, are we?"
"If
we are, some unfortunate technician fell flat on his face about ten minutes
ago."
Gaynor
scowled at him. "Despite a liking for you which my intelligence tells me I
should distrust, there are times when I could cheerfully strangle you. You're
so damned casual."
Duncan
smiled, gently. "Sorry, I keep forgetting you're not wholly in the
picture. I suppose, subconsciously, I am already regarding you as an
ally."
Gaynor
frowned again. "I've been thinking about that. You were right. I was not
sure if you could be trusted. Look, I'll lay my cards on the table. I still
don't trust you wholly, but in my estimation, you're infinitely preferable to
those lice down there. I'm with you, with one reservation. If it's worse in the
frying pan than it was in the fire I shall do my level best to rub you out. Is
that quite clear?"
"Perfectly
clear." Duncan held out his hand. "And I trust you will never be
forced to kill although, I regret, there must be violence. Some people may
dislike certain changes."
Then you are here to take
over and impose a new order."
Duncan
smiled and shook his head. "Wrong on all counts. I have no intention of assuming
the cloak of leadership or, for that matter, permitting any other life form to
do it. Yes, there will be a new order, true order, but I shall not impose it.
True order like true freedom resides in the individual and cannot be imposed
from without."
Gaynor
looked perplexed. "I follow the philosophy but the rest escapes me. I can
see clearly that you cannot impose an ideal on man^by holding a gun at his
head. He may act and speak as you wish but his mind is in revolt, even our
mutual friends down there get that point."
Duncan
sighed. "This is a little difficult as it involves a superior technology."
"Ah, you have a
gimmick, a device."
"You
can put it that way if you wish although it's far from accurate. In truth I
need an interpreter to make it understandable."
"Have you one in mind?"
"Well,
yes, but unfortunately something happened to her. Her name was Martha Deering,
a solar physicist. Ever heard of her?"
Gaynor
leaned forward. "Of course, security had the hell of a job trying to seal
off stories about her. Apparently she was programme resistant."
"What happened
then?"
"God
knows, there were millions of guesses. The most persistent and, incidentally,
the most unlikely is that they started working on her from another angle but
she escaped in a private flyer. As there was nowhere she could go, the real
truth is, probably, that they killed her." He glanced quickly out of the
window. "Hello, we're going up, ten to One you're first point of inspection is the D.A."
"Is there nothing else
to see?"
"Candidly,
not much and, in any case, your visit has propaganda value. You gloat or seem
shocked, according to the news service."
"Apart
from propaganda, has the administration nothing to show, no monument to its own
conceit, nothing?"
"Nothing.
North America is as drab as the South, further, it is a trouble spot.
Resistance is, of course, individual but it never stops."
"Africa?"
"A
desert. The old story of over-cultivation and subsequent soil erosion. There
has been a lot of talk about reclamation but nothing has ever been done. A few
cities still cling to the coastline but behind them is a never-ending
Sahara."
Duncan frowned. "A sick race on a sick
planet."
Gaynor
looked at him thoughtfully. "You're an adept at standing on the brink of
something, aren't you? I wish I knew just where you're leading?"
"As
I've told you before, I can't go into details but there is an enemy and that
enemy must be rendered harmless. As it stands now, the repercussions may be
violent and disturbing. So, for your peace of mind and your subsequent
support, it would be better if you followed through step by step."
Gaynor
said, "I get the drift but—" He changed the subject abruptly.
"Why did you put that idea of visiting the prisoners in my mind?"
"With
new understanding, there is a possibility of cooperation. I wanted the seeds
sown at an early date."
Gaynor
sighed, suddenly resolved to curb his curiosity. "Let's hope that it
happens soon." He became suddenly conscious that the center of gravity had
shifted and that the vessels were arrowing upwards away from the Earth.
"Hello, we're going to leap-frog, jump ,to the D.A."
"What are your
reactions?"
"Not
cheerful. I have never been there but I've seen pictures. Thousands of miles
of graveyard is not an inspiring subject for study and there is an unpleasant
story about it too."
"Hengist
told me they got through with what he called spinners."
"Spinners
and other things, mostly heat-generating weapons. The worst part is, although
it is not generally known, that the Vrenka had never tried for the home planet
until one of the suicide vessels got through and clobbered theirs. As you will
see, there were no half-measures. I don't know what the solar bombs did to
Vrenka but they certainly hit back fast and hard."
"In a way you respect the Vrenka, don't
you?" "They fought to their own rules but they kept to them. We, on
the other hand, had only the individual consciences
of ship
commanders to make the rules. The majority were decent enough men but the
principles they might have kept were often vetoed by the lice back home."
Duncan
looked at him thoughtfully. "Gaynor, what you're trying to tell me is that
you're ashamed of your own race. You have a guilt complex about it and, worse,
you're humiliated that a creature which, in your eyes stepped out of a
nightmare, has a superior code of conduct."
Gaynor
shifted his position uncomfortably. "I can't deny it but it makes me
damned uncomfortable to hear it. One cause, I suppose, is immaturity. We judge
a creature's morals and intelligence by its appearance. If it's not humanoid,
it automatically becomes a monster."
"Now you find the
truth difficult to live with?"
"Very
difficult and looking back at history—" Gaynor stopped uncomfortably.
Duncan
placed an ignited cigarette between his lips. "Tell me, Gaynor, by what
standard do you judge the mentally sick?"
"Standard? What sort
of-"
Duncan
cut him short. "Remember what I said about a sick race? This heritage of
violence could be part of that sickness."
"Are you suggesting
we're all nut cases?"
"Not
quite, but you could be far from normal. Tell me, as an ex-commando, can you
compare your mental state now with your mental state in action?"
"Hell, there's a world
of difference."
"Precisely.
A reasoning intelligence is hardly at its best when fighting for its
life."
CHAPTER NINE
"We're going down."
Gaynor craned forward staring at the heavy cloud bank which seemed to be
rushing to meet them. "A hundred to one it's the D.A. and, as I said
earlier, the story about it is even grimmer than the view. Of course, I'm not
supposed to know but you can't really hush up a story like that—" He broke off. "Ah, mountains, the Alps, I
think."
He
leaned forward and touched a switch. An illuminated guide map appeared in the
facing wall of the flyer with a white
dot marking their exact position.
"Not
a bad guess. It was the Alps but I'm way out on our estimated course."
They
were now descending slowly. Mist swirled round the curved viewing ports, clung
there briefly and was gone.
Duncan
looked down and suppressed a gasp. It was far' worse than Gaynor had suggested.
Below
the torn and blackened land was pitted, cratered and twined with unnatural
canals. They were still too high for details but here and there were piles of
jagged ruins which might once have been cities. White strips, terminating
abruptly on the hps of craters, marked the beginning and ending, of what might
once have been major highways.
On
the map the white spot was passing slowly over printed words:
SECTOR
DEUTSCH Precinct Berl
The
vessels were still descending slowly and the two men began to distinguish
details.
Craters,
which in the course of years had filled with water, had become lakes and the
whole area was twisted and twined with unnatural canals.
Cities appeared to have fallen in on
themselves and flown together liquidly like wax models exposed to a hot sun.
Duncan
saw one immense building, bent or melted into a huge arch, its upper story
resting in the glazed ruins on the opposite side of what had once been a main
street. It had been golden once but it was now a muddy discolored brown. It
looked like a huge and dirty half melted candle into which someone had cut the
shape of windows.
On
the map the white spot was moving slowly over the words:
SECTOR
FRANK Precinct Par
As
they approached the coastline they were low enough to see the individual waves.
A high wind was whipping the waters of a narrow channel into a turmoil of
grey-green waves and flying spume.
Once
four enormous bridges had spanned the channel and, here and there, the black
teeth of their supports still showed above the waves. By a strange twist of
fate one graceful arch in the very center of the channel still remained,
imposing but curiously incongruous and alone. The wreckage of a ground car,
white with salt, still hung like a broken toy half on and half off the jagged
lip of the bridge's twelve lane highway.
Across
the channel, the destruction was even worse. Canals and winding areas of glassy
slag crossed and re-crossed like the silvery trails of giant snails. The few
buildings which had not melted to shapelessness were jagged and hooked like
black fingers reaching from the earth and clutching desperately at nothing.
Gaynor
leaned forward. "Believe it or not, there were surface survivors even
here. They were mostly civil defense units and rescue squads. When the attack
was over, they were rounded up, taken away and the area abandoned completely.
It became, in all terms a write-off and was even deleted from civil
reports."
"Is that what you were going to tell
me?"
"Only
part of it. This sector had one of the most efficient and comprehensive
sub-surface shelter systems in the world. There may have been hundreds of
thousands, perhaps millions, of survivors. The official report says that all
shelters were checked and some few hundred survivors rescued but that's not the
story that went round afterwards. The rumor was that large numbers of survivors
were suspected beneath the surface but the Administration followed its usual
policy of expediency. As is the case with most authoritarian systems it was
rigid and quite unprepared to deal with hundreds of thousands of survivors.
Mass evacuation would not only have weakened the creaking economy but revealed
all the ineffien-cies of supply and transport, not to mention all the
corruption in the rationing of food supplies."
"And so?"
"So,"
and Gaynor's mouth tightened, "the shelters were sealed off and the
entrances blown in. A team of experts checked the entire area from one end to
the other sealing off possible air vents to make sure no one came out to tell
about it."
He
shook his head, his face grim. "There must have been a lot of truth in the
story. The rumors were so persistent that the Administration had to extend
their emergency powers. In the Americas there was a spontaneous uprising which
took a week to put down and there was mutiny in several ships of the defense fleet."
He shook his head again. "No, I don't think there can be any doubt that
the story is* true. I've been told that there is still a minor but permanent
garrison somewhere in the area which makes regular check patrols. The story is,
of course, that they are stationed there to locate and rescue the few odd
surface survivors who evaded the early round up. That aspect of the story might
be true. A few shocked or deranged survivors have been picked up from time to
time. Somewhere they had found food stores or rationed stocks of canned
supplies and had managed to live, after a fashion."
Gaynor
sighed and glanced downwards. "I lived here once, years before the war,
fortunately I was too young to remember—" He stopped and changed the
subject abruptly. "This was once one of the great production areas of the
world—the times this sector has been knocked down and rebuilt. Man himself did
a pretty fair demolition job but the Vrenka certainly showed us how it should
be done, not that we didn't outdo them in our final attack." He turned suddenly.
"Boiled down there's no damn sense in any of it. Is there an answer to all
this madness, Duncan?"
The
other looked at him thoughtfully. "All events have a cause and all human
actions a motive. That's not an original observation but it's worth
investigation."
"You think there are understandable causes?"
"When
there is no true balance there are bound to be repercussions." He paused.
"I hinted once that the human body was out of tune. The same, with due
respect, applies to his mental state. A man's mind should be precisely balanced
between emotion and reason. In true order a man would consult reason before
being swept away by emotion. The emotion itself should be the force which
vitalizes and empowers his considered action. Bluntly, the race is unstable and
out of balance. You consider this instability normal because you have met and
experienced no other."
"I
get your point but I'm not sure I care for it." Gaynor was frowning.
"Hell, you're telling me politely we're all nut cases."
Duncan
looked at him directly and without smiling. "Mr. Gaynor, you're
demonstrating my point admirably. You're allowing pride and resentment to
overrule your intellect."
Gaynor
flushed and shifted his feet uncomfortably. "Ill concede that round to
you." He was honest enough with himself to see the truth when it was
pointed out to him, then he grinned. "I could still punch your head with a
little encouragement." He glanced out of the flyer and changed the
subject. "They certainly want us to see this area."
"They
also wish to remind me I was not here to fight. Nonetheless, they are rendering
me a service. I am memorizing some very important land marks."
Gaynor frowned. "I'm
not with you."
Duncan
smiled. "Some time ago I found a somewhat dubious insect on your coat
sleeve. I back-tracked the programme tapes to a thumb-size vehicle, rocket-type, forty miles beyond the city
limits." He laughed. "Little fleas have smaller fleas upon their
backs to bite 'em. In short, our insect took back a passenger which it brought
here."
"Here!" Gaynor
looked downwards then stared at the map.
The
white spot was almost still, it rested direcdy on the printed words:
SECTOR BRIT Precinct Lond
The Administration had not been idle in
Duncan's absence. They'd gone through the suite and laboratory with a fine tooth comb but results had been anything but rewarding.
They
found a sealed container anchored in a magno-beam which they couldn't open and
couldn't shift. This discovery did nothing to cheer them but there was worse to
come. Sensitive instruments detected irregularities in one of the laboratory's
air conditioners. It appeared to be running under its own power and was almost
frictionless.
After
some effort they managed to get it out of the wall but discovered another
disconcerting feature.
"What
the hell do you make of an air conditioner which blows out ten times more air
than it sucks in?" asked a bewildered
looking technician.
It was left to the top scientists to explain
it to Kaft. They chose Langerman. He was a rebel but too brilliant to be
disposed of yet.
Tm
afraid I can add very little to help." Langerman's tone suggested he
didn't care much either way as far as present company was concerned bat was
clever enough not to let it show in his expression. The device will not open to
any instrument known to our science. Neither can our science stop it."
"Is
that all you can tell us?" Statten's voice was abrupt and accusing.
Langerman
blinked at him as if suddenly realizing he was alive. "Er—yes, a
correction. The device does not exhale ten times its intake of normal
atmosphere. For every cubic meter of air it exhales exactly the same amount
plus nine cubic meters of a completely unknown gas."
"Unknown?" Dowd
half rose.
"Precisely.
The gas is unknown both to this planet and to science. Its atomic structure
defies analysis. It is incredibly light and, once released, the molecules rise
instantly to the absolute limits of the atmosphere. Enough of these devices
working together could, presumably, rapidly form a blanket of this gas round
the atmosphere itself."
To what purpose?"
"I have no idea,
Director Rickman."
"Is the gas
harmless?"
"Combined
with sufficient atmosphere, quite harmless. Naturally, inhaled alone, it would
cause oxygen starvation and consequent suffocation."
"Any other
observations?"
"Yes
the gas has one peculiar property. It causes curious refractions to direct
light." Langerman paused and put his hand in his pocket. "One of my
team found this outside the city. I could have brought dozens more but I
thought one would be enough." He laid something on the desk. "As you
see, it is another air-conditioner but this one is the size of a walnut. Its
output is proportionate to its size and, as near as I can tell you, all of them
are doing some sort of atomic conversion job to produce this gas."
"How did they get there?"
"That
I am unable to say. One must assume Duncan has some sort of transmitter to
broadcast these things wholesale."
"Are you suggesting
it's some sort of weapon?"
"No,
Director, but I'm also quite confident Duncan is not broadcasting these devices
for amusement."
The
directors looked at each other without speaking, then Kaft leaned forward and
touched a sense-plate. "Duncan has become a luxury we can no longer
afford. . . ."
Miles away the luxury flyer with its escort
of security vessels turned abruptly for home. The two men were quick to notice
the change.
"Looks
as if the holiday is over." Gaynor managed to keep his voice casual.
"I
was afraid it might be cut short." Duncan smiled. "I don't think we
need worry, however, out here. They'll want us inside where nothing can go
wrong—they think."
Varren,
evidently, shared this opinion that nothing could go wrong. "Well, well,
I've been waiting for you. Nice holiday?" He was sprawled in a chair
facing the door, his hand ostentatiously in the right hand pocket of his tunic.
"Varren,
you talk too much." A squat bald man stood behind the chair evidently an
assistant executioner.
Varren
licked his lips. "Shut up. I've been waiting a long time for this. I'm
going to shoot his legs-out from under him, see? I'm going to make this alien
jerk eat dirt and like it." He paused then raised his voice. "Your
time's run out, Duncan. Nobody loves you anymore, see?"
"Mind
if I have a cigarette first?" Duncan crossed to the cigarette box.
Gaynor was never quite sure
what happened after that.
He
did not see Duncan throw the box but suddenly the bald man was falling
backwards with blood streaming down his face.
Varren
screamed, fired blindly and inaccurately, stumbled and tried to run for the
door.
Duncan
swung his fist. There was an ominous crunching sound and Varren halted in
mid-stride and crumpled to the floor.
"My
God!" Gaynor was still numb with surprise. "Supposing they'd opened
up as soon as we came in?"
Duncan
shrugged, rubbing his knuckles. "That would have been too bad but I knew
if Varren ran things he'd have to try to frighten me. He had to boast, you see.
He had to gloat and he had to prove to himself he had the nerve to do the
job."
Gaynor
crossed the room and bent over the bald man. "Well, his face is a mess but
he's breathing."
"Excuse
me, I have some equipment to pick up." Duncan stepped over the prostrate
body and entered the laboratory.
"You mean we might get
out of here?"
"We
might, I did make preparations for that eventuality." He emerged from the
laboratory some seconds later. "We'd better take their weapons. Varren
come round yet?''
"He
won't come round." Gaynor, kneeling by the crumpled body, looked shocked
and disbelieving. He stared up at Duncan with something akin to fear. "You
hit him with your bare fist and stove in the side of his head."
Strangely
Duncan looked shocked and genuinely distressed. "I'm sorry. It was an
emergency, you see." He shook his head sadly. "I hit him just to stop
him but I forgot how frail his body was."
"God!"
Gaynor wiped sweat from his face, surprised to find he accepted the
explanation. Then another thought occurred to him. "Duncan, honestly, are
you human?"
The other looked up from his distressed
contemplation of the
still body and met Gaynor's eyes. "Yes, I am human, quite human but of a
different order—one day you'll understand." He changed the subject
abruptly. "I have to pick up one or two gimmicks and I'll need your help.
We've got to get out of here fast."
Gaynor
followed him without question, finding within himself a wondering confidence.
He was, he realized, like a small boy watching his father control inexplicable
and dangerous-looking machinery. Duncan knew what he was doing. Somehow he had
the whole business worked out. Between them and escape from the building, were
control barriers, detectors and twenty pr thirty trained Security guards, yet.
. . .
Duncan closed the equipment
box. "Right, shall we go?"
"You mean we're just
going to walk out?"
"We
are. If we meet anyone in the corridor just stand to one side and let them
pass."
"We're invisible?"
"It's
a little more subtle and confusing than plain invisibility. This gimmick slows
down light and sound within a narrow field for a limited period of time. With
luck, our delayed images, will walk along the corridor in approximately fifteen
minutes. The resulting confusion and apparent invulnerability of our images
should give us a head start. In time, of course, the techs will come up with
the right answer but by then, I hope, we'll be wellxm our way. Let's hope our
flyer is still on the roof park."
"Will
that help us? Most transport works on a system of beamed power."
"Not
when I've fixed it. I didn't spend hours delving into that taped library for
nothing. All I have to do is to remove an inspection plate, rearrange a couple
of circuits and she'll run on raw energy. Let's go." He strode towards the
door.
Gaynor
followed him. "Where the hell are we going, anyway?"
"Back where we came
from to the jumping off point of our robotic fly." He grinned. "Don't worry, our reception may not
be exactly friendly but our unknown watchers think they can use us and, more
important, they know we're coming."
CHAPTER TEN
It was some little time before the Administration heard
of the escape which was, perhaps, fortunate as they were already dealing with
problems. . . .
"Plague!"
Statten's little eyes protruded slightly.
"Don't
get alarmed." Kaft's voice was soothing. "A full report was sent in
almost at once and Medicine has already come up with an answer. Conner will be
up here soon with preventative injections."
"What
about the Relethane? That's in our bodies almost from birth?"
"True,
Relethane, is introduced into the bloodstream in infancy and protects the
individual for life against all the major diseases. Unfortunately, as in this
case, nature has come up with a resistant strain."
Statten scowled.
"Where did this thing start?"
"Sector
Stralia. Fortunately a local medic took the law into his own hands. There have
been thirty-three thousand deaths but all local."
"Stralia, that's
Manson's sector, isn't it?"
"Was Manson's sector. Manson is dead. He was blown
out of the sky trying to make a run for it."
"On whose
orders?"
"The
medic's orders, but for such emergency measures Manson might have brought the
plague here."
Statten frowned. "A
medic giving orders is all wrong."
"He'll
be dealt with later but, at the moment, he's damn useful."
"That's what I call real gratitude." Rickman was
bitter.
"It sets a precedent." Kaft's tone
dismissed the point as of no consequence. "Another crisis and the whole
medical branch will be throwing their weight around like security men. We shall
commend the medic, of course, but we'll have to make an example of him later as
a warning to the rest."
Rickman
said, "Well, of all the—" Then wisely decided not to finish the
sentence.
He
was uneasily conscious of a curious lucidity of mind which had troubled him, on
and off, for the past few days Rickman had trained himself to think within
certain defined limits wherein introspection played no part, but of late. . . .
This
morning, for example, just after waking. It had seemed as if a mirror had been
lowered suddenly in his mind and he had been unable to escape his own
reflection.
Rickman
hadn't liked the experience. The mirror had been flawless and the revealing
likeness penetrating and inescapable. He had seen himself not in the dressing
of his imagination but in a kind of revolting nakedness. The public image of
the hail-fellow-well-met but ineffective politician had vanished exposing a
ruthless weakling. A hypnotic orator mouthing an endless stream of platitudes
and given to long winded rhetoric.
Rickman
had always liked to imagine himself as a man whose natural brilliance had
carried him to the top. This uncontrollable introspection told him otherwise.
At
best he was an inspired moron with all the qualities of a first-class parasite.
His only skill, it such it could be called, was an intuitive faculty for
recognizing an ascending star and clinging to it desperately as it went up.
When
the first jockeyings for power had begun with the untoward disappearance of the
last democratic minister, he had been quick to recognize the men of promise and
had clung to them with the blind persistence of a leech.
This
peculiar and, fortunately, short lived clarity of mind had shaken Rickman
considerably. It was bad enough to be faced with one's self but the really
disturbing part had been the inescapable realization of its truth. He had been
telling himself ever since that the reflection was distorted but affirmations
lacked depth and conviction.
He
had gone over to a real mirror and examined his reflection with alarmed
intent. "It was not a bad fate, was it?"
The
new, clear-seeing self, however, thought very little of it. It was all right
with its large public smile and even suggested an embracing, if slightly
vacuous, geniality but relaxed the reddish, healthy face, was beginning to
show the signs of rich living. The eyes were bloodshot, jowels were forming and
the mouth slack and without character and as well, his solid body had a
noticeable paunch. Even the graying hair at the temples which he had previously
considered distinguished, now appeared to him as premature and faintly
disreputable.
Rickman
shifted uncomfortably, now that blasted clear-thinking was back. In his time he
had hated, feared and despised a considerable number of people but it was the
first time in his life when his entire resentment had been directed against
himself.
"Rickman," he
told himself miserably, "you stink—stink."
He
became slowly aware that the door was open and that a white coated man had entered and was bowing politely.
"Everything
is ready Supreme Director. If you will step this way."
"The
fawning type" thought the new Rickman, sourly. "Down on his knees,
licking the floor in case Kaft's shoes are defiled by a speck of dust."
He
realized dully that a month ago he would have applauded Medic
Conner's attitude as wholly proper. "Ill get over it," he told
himself desperately. "Probably strain, maybe I ought to go out and get
drunk or something."
He was
so intent on his thoughts that he was almost surprised when he found himself
in the next room.
Kaft was already full length on the operating
table and two white coated men were carefully rolling back his sleeve. Another
stood by with a plastic drip-feed while Conner officiated with all the unctuous
politeness of an underpaid head waiter.
"What exactly is this stuff?" Even
to himself Rickman's voice sounded off-key and unnatural.
"Stuff?
Oh, you mean the basis of the injection." Conner bowed. "Well, briefly,
Director Rickman, the injection stimulates the natural defenses of the body,
chiefly the white corpuscles, and this stimulation together with Relethane already
in the blood stream, makes the body capable of dealing with any resistant
micro-organism."
The
politician scowled at him. "Has it been tested? It sounds a rush job to
me."
"In
the limited time at our disposal Sir, tested to the limit. More than ten human
guinea pigs have been injected and exposed to the invasion of deliberately
mutated organisms. Not only were the test cases immune to these unnatural diseases
but showed no dangerous reaction to the preventative injection."
Rickman
frowned. Surely there had been a time when medicine had spent months even years
of comprehensive tests before risking their discoveries on the human body?
"In what way does it
stimulate the white corpuscles?"
"The
human body has grown lazy over the generations, Director Rickman, the injection
reawakens the corpuscles for their natural task."
Sudden
understanding seemed to come to Rickman like an inspiration. "You mean it
mutates them?"
Conner
looked surprised and suddenly respectful. "You seem to have a quick grasp
of essentials, Director. Yes, within certain limits, you are correct."
"Thank
you." Rickman turned away. Deep down inside him was the uneasy feeling—or
was it a relic of supersti-
Hon?—that
there were limits to what could be done to the human body. Mutating a part of
it, even for its own defense, struck him not only as tricky but dangerous.
He
looked at the milky fluid in the drip feed. He looked at Kaft and found himself
shuddering but he was never quite sure which effected him. Perhaps it was Kaft
himself but most likely his arm. It was an ancient arm, white, withered and
ribbed unpleasantly with distended bluish veins. No doubt the rest of Kaft's
body was equally repulsive and equally withered. Rickman looked at the arm and
shuddered again.
"Do
sit down, Director Rickman.*' Conner was bowing and rubbing his hands beside
him. "Only a few minute and it will all be over."
"It
won't." Rickman his own voice seemed to come from very far away. "To
be candid, I pass."
"Pass!"
Dowd's voice seemed to come booming at him like thunder. "Whats' the
matter, have you gone mad, Rickman?"
"Not
mad, it's just a hunch, I think I'd prefer to take a chance. . . ."
The hue and cry began quietly with a routine
message to police and internal security forces but it grew with the passing of
time.
"Attention, Armed
Services.**
"World Defense.
Emergency, emergency."
In
underground operation rooms* needles danced on the faces of dials and banks of
viewing screens lit up from within. Within eleven minutes the whole system of
planetary defense was geared into a single unit for the pin-pointing and
destruction of one solitary flyer.
Many
people thought secretly that the Administration panicked quickly and behaved
like fools but if they were fools, the experts in their employ were
not. Most of them were outstanding scientists with a wealth of war experience
behind them. It took the experts in the main operations room exactly six
minutes to figure out the apparent invulnerability of a single flyer and find
precise reasons for the phenomenon.
"Delayed
image." Cottew flicked off the pocket computer with the tip of his finger.
"Just check these figures, Pullman. There's a discrepancy of fifteen
minutes. This is new but not unbeatable, given enough time." He touched a
sense-plate. "Harris, I want all the pertinent data on that flyer with the
exception of thrust-power. Apparently the power source has been changed or we
could have cut off the beamed power."
"Fifteen point O nine minutes." Pullman had the exact
figures already. V
The
plate lit and Cottew touched it. "Harris? Yes—yes-fine—fine—exactly what I
want—thanks." He turned to Pullman. "The crate has been gimmicked but
it's a luxury job and not built for high speed travel in the atmosphere. According
to the friction-graphs of the model, anything over eight hundred will peel off
the skin or throw too much stress on the frame. She'd have to go high to escape
those dangers but if she wants to get away she'll have to stay low."
"Why
low? She could kick over fifteen hundred in the stratosphere."
"Because
Duncan isn't a fool. Height widens the scope pf our defenses and, from the
point of view of perspective, narrows theirs. Think of six hundred guns in an
arc. If the target is too damn close and going too fast you can bring none of
them to bear. Pull your target out, however, and, relatively speaking, not only
is he going slower but you can bring all your weapons to bear."
Pullman
glanced at his watch. "Be dark in ten minutes, will it help him?"
"Very
much the reverse. He's in a delayed-image field, even if he were fool enough to
betray his position by using the flyer's radar, which, of course, he isn't, the
radar is still inhibited by the field. To use a very ancient expression,
Duncan
is flying that kite by the seat of his pants or, if you prefer it, by sheer
skill and dead reckoning. As he is pushing that thing along at close to
seven-fifty at zero feet he must have super sight and impossible
reflexes."
Pullman
grinned faintly. "Somehow I can't help mentally raising my hat to
him."
"Neither
can I. But we've got to keep this impersonal." Cottew touched a button and
the map in the center* of the enormous operations table was thrown abruptly
into vivid relief. "Last reported bearing"—he glanced quickly at his
figures—"image, here." He leaned forward holding a stick of erasable
rad-chalk. "Somewhere within this area." He drew a gleaming white
circle, calculated some more and drew another circle'within it. "Inner
circle for the image."
Pullman,
leaning over his computer, pressed a number of switches. "A dead straight
course at seven hundred and fifty miles an hour places him exactly on bisector
sixty-one in forty-three point two nine seconds."
"Great."
Cottew banged his fist on the nearest sense-plate. "Code battery,
Molly—alert."
"Muller,
at the co-ordination firing board, said, "I have her linked—standing
by."
Cottew glanced quickly at the master
chronometer on the wall. "Gear her in on red six and time her down to fire
on red eighteen."
"Red six," said Muller. Then, after
a slight pasue. "Counting now—ten—eleven—twelve—"
Cottew,
watching the chronometer, was conscious of a strangely familiar feeling of tension. He'd done this so often in space
but with the added terror of knowing that if he had miscalculated. . . .
"Fifteen— sixteen—zero!"
Miles
away, Gaynor said, "God, that was too damn close for comfort. Do you think
they're on to us?"
"Their calculations are good enough to
need a change of plan. Well stop. They may plot position on a change of course
at the same speed. If we want to stay alive, we have to think one step
ahead—ah!"
Miles
ahead, in a rough arc, needles of white light lashed suddenly at the darkening
sky.
"You
were right." Gaynor was shaken. "It doesn't cheer me knowing that
these damned automatic weapons are sunk into the ground all over the continent.
It's a relic from the war, they were wise after the attack as usual."
Duncan
nodded, brushing his fingers over a small control box in his hand. "Thirty
miles an hour for one minute, seventy for two, three hundred for one and half
and a vari^ able zig zag should get them working hard. Now for the image."
"I'd forgotten that part."
"I've
had to keep my mind on it. In twelve minutes that image will stop as we have
stopped and they'll know what measures we took. They will also know, because
they are astute men, that they were close enough with that first try to make us
take evasive action. So that image will have to alternate. In short I'm going
to cut the field for brief periods. Long enough to get them wondering but not
long enough for them to pick up the real flyer with instruments."
"Do you think we'll
get clear?"
"We're
not out of the woods yet. Our position may become more difficult to pinpoint
but soon our general direction will be clear and they can concentrate along a
probable route line. It may be some hundred of miles wide but it gives the air
and space fleets something to work on." He glanced at his watch. "Ten
minutes more and well be over the ocean and that's the real tricky part."
In
the operations room Cottew had his tunic undone and was sweating profusely but
inwardly he was enjoying himself. This was a game of wits he understood and he
had played often in the operations section of capital ships. In those days,
however, the game had been far more dangerous and almost as complicated. The
Vrenka ships had had no confusing time/lag devices but they had other things: distorters
which played hell with radar and the infamous refraction screen which totally
deceived visual observation.
"No,"
he thought, watching the information screens. "Things even out. Sooner or
later, you get things stacked in your favor." The flyer had a tremendous
technical advantage but there was only one flyer.
Back in the war he'd had to handle the approach of twenty or thirty enemy ships
coming in from all angles.
"Image gone," said a voice from one
of the sense-plateS.
The
whole room was a bable of voices but long experience had endowed Cottew with a
unique faculty of selective hearing.
"Did it fade or flick out
abruptly?" "It faded, sir."
"Damn,
that suggests we missed him. Let me know if or when it appears again."
The
answer came in eleven seconds. "It's back, sir, still at ground level but
standing still."
Cottew
swore again. With a fifteen minute time lag the real ship could be pushing
seven-fifty again. Before he could begin to calculate, the image vanished for
three seconds and reappeared..
Under
his breath, Cottew exhausted his vocabulary of foul words but admitted to a grudging respect. This Duncan chap was a
very smart man. He frowned to himself. Until now everything had been impersonal
and the enjoyment had been in skill and the application of control. Thinking
back, he had never really hated the Vrenka, at least, not as reasoning beings
or even as monsters. They had been dangerous, yes, but abstract dangers,
figures on star charts, blobs on radar screens, degrees, angles, decimal
points, but never, to his mind, personal entities.
He shook himself irritably and picked up the
chalk again. Let's see, now. He drew a jagged line away from the
city—zig-zag—ah—
"Pullman, come here a
minute."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Pullman came over quickly, flicking the pocket computer back to
zero. "Important?"
"I
think I've a lead. The position as I see it is this: Duncan is doing an
alternate and, to my mind, a very clever one. He's doing a zig-zag at different
speeds and, to confuse us, cutting the image briefly but there's one thing
we've all overlooked—he must be going somewhere. A
man of his caliber wouldn't make a blind run for freedom unless he had some
sort of refuge in mind. Obviously, then, he's heading somewhere which, to him,
represents concealment or safety. I don't think it's near enough to pinpoint
yet but if we can plot a general route we might be able to block it."
"If
not ahead, I'm level with you." Pullman pressed buttons at the side of the
operations table which measured given angles, bisected map degrees and came up
with carefully tabulated results.
After
exactly eleven seconds with his computer he said, "Ah," and reached
for the chalk. "Way out here." He drew two widely separated parallel
lines across the map.
"Now
we're getting somewhere." Cottew took an empty pipe out of his pocket and
thrust the stemjbetween his teeth. "Better still he's going out over the
sea which for him is going to be damn dangerous."
"Here I'm way behind
you. Why?"
"That
device of his is far ahead of our technology but it can't perform miracles. It
slows vision and sound so that we see what the flyer is doing fifteen minutes
after it's done it but that is its limit. The flyer, the real flyer, still has physical effects on its surroundings. It still pushes
air out of its way at high speed although we have to wait fifteen minutes to
hear the noise. Now"—Cottew took the empty pipe out of his mouth and
frowned at the bowl—"when Duncan gets over the sea he must still fly low
and the flyer will still push air out of its way—"
"I'm
ahead of you now." Pullman looked excited. "Unless Duncan keeps that
flyer to a virtual crawl, his progress is going to disturb the surface of the
water. If he pushes that kite the surface disturbance will show up like the
wake of a ship."
"Yes."
Cottew thrust the pipe back in his pocket. "And, if he goes too slow,
sooner or later, we can plot from the image, draw an arc, say somewhere along
that line and plaster the whole length of it."
Pullman
grinned. "Nicely tied up but in a way it's something of a shame, isn't
it? I mean, he put up such a damn good show, it seems unsporting."
Cottew
shook his head slowly. "This is not the age of sportsmanship." He
looked at the other with faint amusement. "A rabid sentimentalist in this
set-up strikes me as incongruous."
Pullman
laughed. "But for our long years of friendship I'd resent that." He
shook his head thoughtfully. "I must confess I do keep raising my hat to a man pushing that ship flat out at zero feet
without instruments. His passenger must have passed out from" sheer terror
in the first few minutes."
"Passenger?"
Cottew blinked at him. "I've had my head stuck in a research unit for
weeks, haven't kept up with the news. All I know is the story of this Duncan
and that he made a break for it in a flyer. Who is this passenger—another
near-alien?"
"Hell no, a reporter named Gaynor. From
what I can gather from a number of conflicting reports they have, to quote,
'formed a traitorous alliance against the race.'
"GaynorP"
Cottew pulled at his chin, frowning. "The name seems to ring a bell
somewhere. Have I heard it before?"
"You
may have read his articles or, more likely, heard of him during the war. He was
the youngest major in the armed services and had quite a reputation."
"Not
the bloke who knocked out those asteroid bases, is he?"
"That's the
chap."
"Damn," Cottew
said savagely.
"You know him?"
"Only
by reputation. Those damn bases were a thom in the Second Fleet's side. When he
rubbed them out it left a blind spot in Vrenka detection ring and we slipped
through." He made an irritable gesture. "I wish you hadn't told me,
you've made the whole business personal and unpleasant." I m sorry, I—
"Skip
it. It's not your personal issue but mine and whatever I do now is going to
leave a nasty taste in my mouth." He laid his hand on a sense-plate.
"Attention Squadron Control."
On the map, pinpoints of light began to move
towards a given point and slowly to arrange themselves
into two arcs.
Pullman frowned at his figures and at the
map. "If we have this route correctly, he's boxed."
Cottew scowled at him and laid his hand on
the sense-plate. "Image bearings, please."
"O-six,
O-five, O-four, bearing eight-three, speed thirty-two point eight."
Cottew
looked up slowly, his face looked strained but curiously resolved. "He did
say, O-eight, O-five, O-six, didn't he?"
"O—" Pullman met Cottew's direct
gaze and stopped.
Briefly
there was an unspoken understanding and agreement between the two men.
"Yes."
Pullman's voice was firm. "O-eight, I heard it distinctly."
"Thank
you." Cottew's gratitude was brief but obvious. He leaned forward quickly
and drew an arc. "Squadron Fjre Control, Section Nine, release on five.
One—two—"
Over
a hundred miles away, twenty square miles of ocean lurched suddenly as if
struck by an enormous fist then gey-sered skywards in column of steam and
boiling water. Long streamers of fog rose on either side nearly concealing the
two hundred foot waves which rolled outwards from the center of the eruption.
A
rush of wind caught the flyer, tossing it sideways like a piece of straw but somehow Duncan fought it back to an even keel.
"Hell."
Gaynor picked himself from the floor and touched a growing lump on his forehead cautiously. "This is getting
uncomfortably close."
"True,
but it will give us a breather. This fog will conceal any surface
disturbance for several miles."
Back
in the main Operations Room, they waited tensely. The image had gone but both
men were aware that this was no proof of the flyer's destruction. Duncan,
knowing the explosion would render detection instruments ineffective for
several minutes, had probably cut his device to add to the confusion and make
another escape run.
Forty minutes later a voice said,
"Attention control, aircraft or image, O-nine, O-four, O-two, bearing
six-one. Speed six, six, one point O-seven."
Pullman
frowned at the map. "He's certainly pushed it and if that's the image
we'll have to start plotting the position all over again."
"I think not, gentlemen," said a soft voice behind him.
"Certain
sections of the Administration are a little doubtful of your loyalty."
The
two experts turned quickly, unconsciously clenching their fists.
The
four men who had entered unnoticed smiled. "We trust there will be no
disturbance." They were in plain clothes but two of them had their hands
ostentatiously in their pockets.
Cottew
turned an angry red then sighed resignedly. "There will be no trouble. Why
should I provide your pleasure."
"That
is not a wise remark. It has been noted and will be brought up at the
enquiry."
Pullman said,
"Enquiry? What have we done?"
"That
is not for us to say but depends on the findings of the Board. We were given to
understand you would be charged with gross negligence or deliberate error,
probably the latter."
Cottew
glowered at them then shrugged. "Well that's nice. I hope you have someone
handy to run this set-up."
"You
need have no worries on that point. Technician Holmes has been placed in
complete charge."
"Rayden Holmes?"
"Correct.
Now, if you will be good enough to come quiedy with us."
"Certainly."
Cottew felt alarm but also a certain inward triumph. Rayden Homes was a
pro-Administration creep and probably regarded as a first-class Security risk
but as a mathematician. . . . Cottew, despite his position, fought down an
inclination to chuckle. Oh, yes, Holmes had considerable skill in selling
himself but when it came to the real thing, a thing like this, he couldn't plot
the position of a stationary ground car on a straight road.
The officer in charge of Sector Squadron
control was not an incompetent man. It was only that he lacked experience and
that Rayden Holmes, now in charge of Operations Control, had overlooked one
vital part of the pursuit. He had omitted to instruct the local Sector Controls
to scramble or code their Squadron orders.
"Sector
Italia, Sector Italia, all local squadrons. Strike bearing, O-four, O-six,
O-two, degree four-three, fire on seven. One—two—three—"
The officer in charge was blissfully unaware
that he was providing the escaping flyer with all pertinent data on pursuit.
"Seventeen
degrees off beam and twenty-five miles out of range," said Gaynor happily.
"Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn't there— wuzzy?"
Duncan looked at him and winced slightly.
"Is that a traditional joke or are you personally
responsible?" "Six—zero."
Twenty-five miles away needles of blue-white
light lashed suddenly from the sky and the snow-capped peak of an inoffensive
mountain exploded abruptly into glowing fragments.
"Sector Italia, image
still visible, bearing—"
Gaynor
shook his head becoming serious again. "Sector Italia, the last outpost of
civilization. A few more minutes and we'll be reaching the D.A. What
then?"
Duncan
smiled faintly. "Well, at least we'll be clear of embedded automatic
batteries, not that we have so much cause for worry. I have a strong feeling
that the pursuit was handed over to less competent men several hours ago."
Gaynor flicked the tip from a cigarette.
"What do we do when we get there? Our mutal friends are not that incompetent
and close enough to make it uncomfortable."
"My idea was to pre-set the controls,
slow down for three
seconds and jump out. Our friends can then amuse them-
selves for several hours chasing and, if lucky, finally destroy-
ing an empty flyer." »
Gaynor looked at him with
respect. "Good aren't you?"
"Not that good, I underestimated the
efficiency of the experts. They nearly got us twice. I made the mistake of
judging them by the standards of the Administration and that error nearly
proved fatal."
Gaynor shrugged. "We
survived."
"True,
but thank luck and hope it stays with us. We have new friends to meet."
Four
hours later the flyer stopped a foot above an uneven area of glassy slag and
they jumped out. Then there was a sudden rush of wind and the craft was gone.
Gaynor
looked round him quickly and shivered. At close range the devastation was even
worse than it appeared from the air.
They had landed in the center of an open
space which might once have been a small park or public square ringed by small
mountains of slag and the blackened shells of buildings. Here and there walls
stood or leaned tiredly one against another forming blind openings which might
have led anywhere. Many of the openings were half-sealed where plastic had run
molten and slowly cooled. Near many of the higher walls were fantastic rows of
stalactites and stalagmites like brown and needle-sharp icicles.
Gaynor shivered again.
"You sure we're at the right place?"
Duncan had no time to
answer the question.
"Right on the
button," said a pleasant masculine voice.
Gaynor
turned, startled. There was no living being within sight.
"Don't look so alarmed, Mr. Gaynor,"
said the voice. "Directional audio beams are not new. Oh, yes, we have
reason to believe you relieved your ex-guards of their arms, throw them away,
please. Thank you. By happy circumstance you are facing the right way, would
you be good enough to walk straight ahead. Briskly, please, our friends up
there are not exactly hanging about you know. Left a little. Excellent. Yes,
between those two walls—"
The
two walls leaned against each other and had fused together at the top forming
a tunnel. Inside it grew dark and they went forward cautiously but suddenly
there was light.
"Welcome,
gentlemen." A young blond man was putting away a directional microphone.
He wore a light tunic, very brief shorts and sandals as if dressed for the
tropics.
Gaynor
stiffened, realizing that they were surrounded by armed men similarly dressed.
The
blond man made an apologetic gesture. "Sorry, natural precaution." He
smiled again. "Welcome to the underworld. I have a strong feeling my name
should be Orpheus or perhaps someone better known and grimmer but, alas, I am
only here to conduct you to the Mayor. This way, please."
A
section of wall slid silently to one side revealing a downward sloping and
brightly lighted corridor.
As
they entered, the armed men close behind them, they were both conscious of a
warm fresh breeze blowing in their faces.
Gaynor looked at the guards, they were
dressed alike in tunic and sandals and all seemed young. They all wore, he
noticed, a peculiar flash on the right hand shoulder of their tunics, larger
than, but similar to those worn by the officers of ancient land armies. There
was a matching flash indelibly marked on the flesh of the right arm slightly
above the wrist.
The
markings themselves appeared to consist of colored symbols although none of the
men appeared to have matching symbols.
Gaynor
shrugged mentally and gave it up. Obviously the shoulder and arm flashes did
not denote rank but might indicate technical qualifications. The men looked
healthy, well-trained and highly efficient.
He
realized suddenly that he was curiously untroubled. Although surrounded by
guards he felt almost free. The sense of oppression that the security guards
induced was somehow lacking. Perhaps these people were different.
They reached a broad tunnel which was almost
a highway and the blond man indicated a blunt-nosed transparent vehicle some
twelve feet in length. "Step inside please."
A
few pedestrians passing along the tunnel glanced at the prisoners and the
escort curiously but without hostility. They, too, Gaynor noticed, wore shorts
and tunics although there was a wider range of color. All, including the women,
wore wrist and shoulder flashes.
He
lowered himself into the slightly sloping seat and the door slid shut as the
last man climbed in.
The
vehicle rose and appeared to stop an inch from the tunnel roof. There was a
lurch and suddenly they were rushing silently forward.
Gaynor
realized that speed in a narrow tunnel could be deceptive but it appeared
colossal. The walk blurred, corners and tunnel intersections raced at them and
were gone yet the vehicle still hung an inch from the roof as if glued to an invisible
rail.
Finally the vehicle stopped with startling
suddenness but indétectable
recoil and the door slid
open.
"This
way." Their blond guide indicated a narrow corridor apparently terminating
in a blank wall which slid to one side abruptly as they approached.
"I'm
sorry, but I'm standing behind you with a drawn gun." The man's voice was
still pleasant. "If the Mayor thinks you're all right I'll put it away.
Forward, please."
They
found themselves in a small but comfortably furnished room. A man sprawled
comfortably in an oldfashioned easy chair looked up as they entered.
Gaynor
was struck by him instantly, like Duncan he seemed to radiate
something—character and, what was it, power or determination? He rose, but
physically he was not unusual. He was tall, thin and almost willowy in his
movements. The mouth was long, humorous, the eyes dark and the skin brown and healthy.
The graying, rather lank hair was parted at the side but had a tendency to fall
untidily over his forehead.
"Welcome,
gentlemen." The voice was deep but not unpleasant. "All right,
Trace, you may go." He smiled as the door slid shut behind them. "My
name is Sebastian, Paul Sebastian. They call me the Mayor but don't let the
title deceive you. I am probably one of the most benevolent and, at the same
time, one of the most ruthless dictators the world has ever seen. I will
therefore begin by laying my cards on the table. Mr. Duncan, I am not prepared
to barter. You returned to this world on a mission which, so far, you have
kept to yourself. I want to know the full scope of that mission and what it
will do to the race. You will tell me your entire scheme frankly and in detail
or I shall order your immediate execution. There are no 'buts.' "
To Gaynor's surprise,
Duncan smiled.
"I
shall be happy to answer you frankly but, with due respect to Gaynor, in
private. There are special reasons for privacy which I feel sure you will
understand."
The
Mayor nodded. "You seem sincere but it is only fair to tell you that
should anything happen to me, you and your entire community will be dead in
eleven seconds. This way." He made a brief movement with his hand and a
dark-haired man entered.
"Michael,
entertain Mr. Gaynor in my absence. I have a private matter to discuss with our
visitor."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Michael—Gaynor never discovered whether it was a first or
second name—was an alert, intelligent man with bright dark eyes.
"Entertain?
What the hell does that mean? Do sit down, old chap. Comfortable? Good. Perhaps
you have some ideas?"
Gaynor digested the flow of words. "I'd
like to ask some questions if that's in order."
"Delighted,
my dear chap. In point of fact, I am a»histor-ian, an expert on our brief but
colorful history. Anything you want to know about our society, I have the
answer. True, it may not be the right answer but it will be near enough for you
to get an outline. Go ahead."
"Well,
I'd like to know not only how you managed to survive but, having survived,
continued to function as a community.
It must be quite a story."
Michael
smiled but he was suddenly serious. "Well, as you know, in the middle of the war or just about eighteen years ago, we
got well and truly clobbered. In this Sector, however, it was not a new
experience. Our remote ancestors were getting their share of air attack long
before man got into space. We had, therefore, generations of bitter experience
and a hell of a lot of recorded know-how. Call that
item one. Item two, was what I choose to call a population asset. On this
planet we had one of the greatest concentrations of people ever collected into
single area. Accommodation, therefore, was one of the greatest social problems
of the entire Sector. It was solved by digging down as well as building up. If
we put up a twenty story tenement, only ten of those stories appeared above
ground so you will see our local underworld began long before the coming of the
war. Item three, beneath this underworld lay at least two thirds of our
industrial strength, auto-factories, construction plants and so on to conserve
surface space. Even below this ran the tunnels of the largest, the most
efficient and, incidentally, the most complicated transport system in the
world."
Michael
paused and grinned. "You can put the rest together for yourself. At the
first hint of war, the old know-how was put to use and the Sector prepared for
major attack. When it came, we were almost ready."
"Surely the Administration
knew this?"
Ill
Michael
grinned wickedly. "They knew part. This Sector is old but wise and saw the
writing on the wall well in advance. £hir top men had a highly efficient
resistance organization in being long before the last democratic minister was
helped to jump off a roof. When the inevitable happened and the rat-race began,
the resistance organization was well concealed and ready."
Michael
paused, then continued. "The Administration, like a lot of regimes in
history, was completely merciless but in many ways too damned smart for its own
good One example which helped us greatly was its policy of appointing its
security forces from other sectors. This policy achieved its aim of avoiding
sector loyalties but denied their best men the very thing an efficient riolice
system requires—local contacts. We were, therefore, in just the right position
to proudly display those parts of our shelter system we wanted them to see—in
short, about one tenth. We also decorated the surface with large numbers of
impressive-looking but purely decorative air-vents."
Michael
paused and laughed softly. "When our new masters took office they were
treated not with resentment but a surfeit of rich living. The most lavish
suites in the Sector were provided for their use all of which, by curious
coincidence, were at the very top of the highest buildings in the Sector. I am
not suggesting for one moment that our blokes were prophets. They just wanted
to be sure that if anything did happen the best people bought it first."
Gaynor
thought about it. *T suppose you've no idea why Sector U.S. never followed
suit. You had many ideas in common."
"True, very true. Their record of
individual resistance was, and still is, far higher than ours but they lacked
the one great asset of an operation like ours—concentration. They had a far
larger population but spread over a far greater area. Four men close together
can dig a single hole far quicker than four hundred men a mile apart. Then, of
course, they had no underground system like ours or the doubtful privileges of
being clobbered by aliens and then officially entombed by one's own race. The
Vrenka did us a favor, you know, they erased our oppressors and gave us
independence." "How many survived?"
"Twelve
and a half million. We now number sixteen million."
"Good God, just how
big is this underground city?"
"It
goes down seventeen levels and now extends nearly to our South Eastern
coastline.
Gaynor
shook his head slowly, fumbled in bis pocket and produced an empty packet.
"Ah, well."
"Try
one of ours." Michael tossed him one. "They're not superb but they
don't turn your ears green like your brands. In the first place they're not
synthetic and in the second we have manufacturing standards. No, there's no
tip, just suck in a couple of times. If you are fortunate enough to join our
community you'll get forty a week basic."
"Basic?"
"Unlike the Administration we maintain
the aged and physically unemployable. For these there is the basic: free
accommodation, food, beamed entertainment and a few minor luxuries."
"Your economic system
seems well worked out."
"Our
economic system is not only unique but revolutionary. Basically, of course, it
is not new, being dependent on productive capacity. But no one, in all
history, has ever come up with an abstract monetary system. We have an
intangible, personal exchange system which cannot be manipulated and cannot be
stolen." Michael paused and grinned apologetically. "Sorry, call it
community pride, I'm apt to wax over-enthusiastic, but don't be decived, I am
proud. We all are. Imagine what it
was like in the first three years, with men, women and children sleeping in
shifts because of space conservation. Everything was rationed, water, food, clothing materials, and
even oxygen. Manual, technical and medical people got normal atmospheric
content, but now," Michael's smile of triumph seemed to light his face
from within, "there is no rationing. We have adequate space and better
still we have real know-how. By nuclear engineering we can draw air, food and water
from the naked rock. We can take our waste products and transform them into
consumer goods. We are technically and economically independent of everything
but our unyielding determination to improve." He laughed. "Yes, I
know I'm bragging but we have only one form of government with which to
compare ourselves. Our efforts make the opposition machinery look like a lot of
rusted spares tied together with string."
"That
I believe." Gaynor nodded quickly. "The Administration is so
terrified of its own shadow that it is programing some of its best men."
"I
agree up to a point but in that respect it would be unwise to take the narrow
view. The Administration, in this sphere, is singularly efficient and
far-seeing instrument of policy. Have you considered that in five years the
Administration will have ten million organic robots quite single-minded and
incapable of revolt. In ten years it will have thirty million, fanatically
determined to do what they're told and, for that matter, incapable of doing
otherwise." "You've never thought of a showdown?" "Often,
but Mayor Sebastian is an astute man. One of his favorite ideas is that too
many regimes have been destroyed by ambition so we sit tight and prepare.
Numerically of course our position would be hopeless but our friends would pay
a prohibitive price for victory. Don't go away with the idea that couple of
solar bombs would settle us forever. Before those bombs could hit us thirty of
their major cities would be smeared out of existence." Michael shook his
head slowly. "Yes, I know I sound bitter. It's something yon have to experience before you can
understand. Imagine what it was like down here, listening to the explosions,
the enormous machines and knowing what they meant. Your own race was callously
writing you off, ridding themselves of an economic embarrassment, burying you
alive without so much as a prayer." He stopped as if listening and rose
abruptly. "Come on, we're wanted." He paused as if listening again
and suddenly smiled. "Tell me, Mr. Gaynor, how would you go for a long
cool beer? I gather there's going to be some sort of celebration."
Medic Connor was obviously ill at ease and
maintained his professional assurance by an effort of will.
"You
are quite sure you feel perfecdy well, Director Rickman?"
"Perfectly
well, candidly I've never felt better.*' "I see." Conner didn't but
it went against his interests and profession to say so. He had made a thorough
examination of the director and his findings only supported the other's
claim—Rickman had never been in better shape in his whole life.
Conner
held up a small test tube. "You felt no ill effects such as nausea or
dizziness when you excreted this liquid?"
"None
at all. It was only the peculiar color which made me decide to call you in for
a check-up."
Conner
said, "I see," with a kind of mental blankness. The whole business
was not only without precedent it was insane. He had no answer at all because
there was no answer. He debated with himself. Better be honest or outwardly so,
particularly with Rickman. Rumor had it he was small-brained and apt to take a
lie as a personal insult to his intelligence. Worse, he had a long and
unpleasant memory. Yes, yes, better be frank.
"I
had better tell you what this liquid is, Director." He held up the test
tube. "It's Relethane. You know its existence in your bloodstream is protective, I take
it? Quite candidly, Director, I have no idea why your body chose to excrete it.
This form of protection has been in use for several generations and there is no
record of the body disposing of it." - Rickman shrugged, surprised to find
himself curiously indifferent. "One of those things."
"Ah,
yes, quite." Conner sounded fatuous and knew it. "You will need
reprotection immediately."
Rickman frowned at him.
"No, I don't think I will."
"But, Director, your
position, your personal safety—"
"To hell with it. I
feel far better without it."
"But, Director, you
could fall prey to—"
"No
doubt, no doubt." Rickman thrust the inevitable cigar between his teeth.
"Everyone thought I would go down with the plague in a couple of days but
it never happened. Anyway, the infection seems to be dying out, dropping by
seventy a day and only one case in fifty proving fatal."
"It reached Sector
U.S. Sir."
"True,
but as mild as they come, some of the cases had no idea they were ill."
Rickman puffed smoke. "You worry too much, Conner."
"Yes,
sir." Conner looked at him and wished he could define just how the other
had changed. It was not only physical although that was baffling enough, there
was something else, something keen and discerning in the personality which had
never been there before. In truth, thought Conner, wondering at his mental
temerity, Rickman has always been a loud overbearing lout but now. . . .
The
politician was also deep in thought. There was one symptom—if such you could
call it—which he had omitted to mention to the Medic and that was his nose. Not
that he could find anything the matter with it. There was no soreness or
congestion and yet, well, to put it frankly, something stank. The smell was not there all the time but when it did, now, for example,
there was a faint but clearly discernible putrid smell as if something had "gone off" somewhere which,
of course, was ridiculous. Plumbing odors had ceased to exist long before the
discovery of nuclear energy and the suite's air-conditioners detected and
removed odors before they could enter. The smell, therefore, was imagination-he
hoped.
"I'm
afraid I must refer your decision to the Supreme Director, Sir." Conner
looked nervous but determined.
"You
do that." Rickman waved his cigar. "Natural, got to cover yourself in
case of accidents." He glanced at his watch. "Can't hang around here
any longer, urgent meeting."
"Yes,
Director. Thank you. Thank you very much." Conner withdrew, bowing.
It
was only twelve seconds after his departure that Rickman realized that the
"smell" had gone with him. Yes, now he came to think of it, that
meeting yesterday. . . . No, ridiculous, everyone didn't smell, particularly
Dowd who was most careful of his bodily hygiene. The fault, therefore, lay in
his nose or in his imagination—which?
When
he entered the conference room, however, the smell was back stronger than ever.
Did Kaft have jsome cheese somewhere?
"We
got them." Statten looked shriveled, beady-eyed and gloating. "It
took a little time but we got them in the end."
Kaft
waited until Rickman was seated then pricked the bubble. "We destroyed the
ship, General. As yet there is no evidence that the fugitives were in it."
"God
be praised for pessimism." Dowd looked venomous. "We must have got
them. Where the hell could they have gone? It cost enough to do the job. Not to
mention that idiot from Sector U.S. who shot down the wrong ship."
"The
idiot," said Kaft, softly, "has been programed. The ship which was
clearly marked belonged to a sub-director. There are far too many
"idiots" in this sector and it was necessary to set an example by
including his family and friends."
He folded his thin, pink hands. "To
return to the subject, to assume the fugitives were in the ship is premature.
At the height they flew, they could have stopped the vessel briefly and jumped
out almost anywhere."
Statten
thrust out his chin aggressively but a section of Kaft's desk lit and he was
compelled to wait while the other took the message.
"Good morning,
Director Kaft."
They
all heard the voice clearly although the normal audio-frame devices should have
confined it to his immediate hearing.
"Good morning, gentlemen." The
voice was not only cheerful but insolently familiar. "No, no, Director,
you can't shut me off so don't try. This is Paul Sebastian speaking. You don't
know me but I know you, so it might be wise to listen." There was a slight
pause. "We thought you'd like to know we have Duncan safe and sound. We
thought you'd like to know that we intend to keep him."
Rickman,
strangely detached and clear-headed, saw the knuckles whiten on Kaft's thin
hands.
"Who are you?"
"Does
it matter? The point is, however, we are first-class psychologists. We know,
whatever we say, or whatever threats we make, you will try and find him.
Literally and politically you cannot afford not to find him, so you will gear
everything to that end. Sooner or later your experts will tell you where he is
and where I am but, although we cannot stop you, Kaft, we can impose
restrictions on how you do it. Don't come looking for Duncan with a solar bomb.
We will not permit the kind of madness which could destroy the entire planet.
We warn you, therefore, one hint of a solar weapon and we will burn you and
your precious city to the ground."
"Bluff." Kaft's voice was so tense
that the single word sounded clipped and brittle.
"You
think so? We can see you, we can see your city. You, too, can see most of it.
Choose a point."
"Many
men with minor advantages have spoken too often and too loudly." Kaft had
recovered from his surprise and regained his outward composure. "Any fools
with a missile and a certain amount of training can hit a given point but I
must warn you our tracer system here is first-class. Before your missile
strikes this city, its launching point will be pinpointed and a hundred
counter missiles will be on the way to that site."
"You
are a crude and unimaginative man. You interpret power in terms of mass rather
than in efficiency."
Kaft's
mouth turned into a lipless line but he kept his temper. "I feel tempted
to call your bluff, Mr.—Sebastian."
"You name it, we'll
bum it."
"Very
well. On the opposite building, and visible from my office, is a latticed
directional tower for air traffic control. Its destruction would offer very
little danger to innocent people except of course the instigators. As I have
said, we have a first-class tracer system—"
"Mouthy
upstart." Dowd strode to the window. "I'd just like to—" He
stopped and there was a strained silence.
"It
must be some sort of trick." Statten's words were so run together they
sounded like a gibber.
Rickman,
staring past Dowd, felt a constriction in his stomach. The directional tower
was a tangle of latticed wreckage broken in half and leaning drunkenly to one
side.
The
voice supplied the coup de grace. "Thank you, gentlemen. Oh,
incidentally, we know why Duncan came to Earth. . . ."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"We thought you should see all that, at least before proceeding
further." Sebastian smiled.
"It
must have shaken their sense of security." Gaynor stubbed out his
cigarette.
"Theirs
yes. They are incompetent men, but not their technicians. I find it deplorable
but encouraging that the Admininstration has so much talent and so little skill
in employing it. Another beer, gentlemen?"
"This tastes,"
said Gaynor, carefully, "really like beer."
"It
is beer, my friend. We do our own
fermenting and there is no metallic content whatever. I must warn you however
that once you become a member of our community you will find it prohibitively
expensive and will seldom be able to afford it. Costs are related to space, you
see, and fermenting vats are area-consuming."
He
paused and raised his glass. "Gentlemen, we are prepared to accept you
both into our community providing you are prepared to submit yourselves to the
necessary molding."
Gaynor
felt a stiffening inside him. "Just how do we do that?"
"Don't
look so alarmed, Mr. Gaynor. We educate you into our culture and instruct you
as to its functions. Let me be more explicit: you will have noticed we all wear
shoulder flashes. You must, to fit into our society, understand and be able to
read the shoulder flashes of every individual in the community. This is the
educational side and you will be tutored completely in deep hypnosis. There is
no programing and no attempt to coerce the personality. You will be exactly the
same as now save that you have acquired necessary and comprehensive
information. Secondly, and not under hypnosis, we shall require your presence
with the psychiatrists. The session will take about four hours and consists of
intense questioning which is required for assessment. After which, you too,
will be presented with a shoulder flash and wrist markings."
"You mean—" Gaynor was a little
stunned and forgot to finish the sentence.
Sebastian
finished it for him. "Exactly, Mr. Gaynor, in this community we wear our
hearts or, more aptly, our characters on our sleeves."
Gaynor
thought about it.- After a time he swallowed and said uncertainly,
"Suppose I'm a damn crook?"
"Then you'll have an admirable
advertisement for your talents, won't you? Not only will you have to live with
it but it will be impossible to deceive those you meet. Not that you will be
disliked. This is a free community. People will just be more careful with their
valuables, that's all. We encourage people to face themselves and later you
will see how well it works."
"A man or woman can be
anything?"
"We
restrain only violence, sadism and attitudes of mind which might betray or
destroy the community. This we do by psychiatric means and is quite harmless.
Any questions?"
"Yes."
Duncan was frowning. "I'm afraid I raise a problem, I'm a
hypno-resistant."
Mayor
Sebastian frowned and looked thoughtful. "Usually I enjoy a real problem
but this one floors me."
Duncan
frowned at the floor then looked up. "I take it you keep records of these
symbols and their associations?"
"Of course, otherwise
the system could not be applied."
"They could be shown
on a reader?"
"Yes."
"Very
well then." Duncan smiled. "The solution is simple enough. I'll learn
them."
"You'll
what!" For the first time Sebastian seemed to loose some of his urbanity.
"Good God, man, there are thousands.
These thousands can be arranged into hundreds
of thousands of linkages and associations. To show them singly or in groups
would probably take two days. It's an impossibility."
Duncan
laughed. "Are you a gambling man, Mr. Sebastian?"
The
other looked at him then his mouth twitched. "It's a bet, I'll give you
two days, a reader and a private room. After that you'll have to submit to some
stiff questioning. Personally, I still think it's an impossibility, even for
you, to memorize the lot."
An
hour later Michael conducted them to their temporary living quarters. It was a
small but comfortable room with two beds and every article of furniture was
ingeniously recessed. Despite its smallness, the general appointments suggested
luxury class living. One wall consisted of a wide artificial window which had
been cleverly contrived to give the impression of a spacious garden beyond.
There were lawns, trees, a winding path and a small lake. Pressure on a
"S" button brought the sound of rustling leaves and a faint bird
song. They learned later that the light changed with the passing hours from
dawn to sunset.
"I'm
weary." Gaynor sat on the edge of the bed and slid off his shoes.
"Did you tell him the truth?"
Duncan hesitated.
"Yes. Yes I did."
"All of it? You
sounded doubtful."
"Not
doubtful—uncomfortable. You see, I have told you only a very small part."
"Don't
let it worry you. I am slowly becoming reassured." Gaynor sounded sleepy.
"Perhaps,
but I'd prefer you to understand. In the first place, there was no
intimidation. In the second, he is the only man I have met on this planet
capable of receiving the full truth with all its implications. Our friend Mayor
Sebastian is the nearest thing to a superman this planet has ever produced."
"Superman!" Gaynor was suddenly
wide awake again. "What does that word mean, exactly?"
"Not
quite the mental picture. Sebastian is the rare example of an intelligence
determined to function despite extreme pressure. One could draw a parallel with
a cripple who, by sheer guts, has almost succeeded in overcoming his
disabilities."
Gaynor frowned. "You mean—I
baven't?"
Duncan
shook his head slowly. "You see how difficult it is for me to tell all the
truth. If I said yes, you would naturally resent it."
Gaynor
flushed slighdy. "Ill concede the point but see how much I can take."
"Very well, the difference between the
average man— which includes you—and Sebastian hinges on one factor. Paul
Sebastian recognizes his disabilities."
"Disabilities—what
disabilities?"
Duncan
smiled gendy. "I suggest we leave it there for the time being. Within the
next few months you will note certain changes. When they begin to trouble you I
may be able to explain."
Gaynor
scowled at him. "What is this, some sort of all-embracing scheme for the
betterment of the race? If it is I'm not sure I like it. Sounds as if you
intend to programme the race into virtue."
"Sorry,
it's neither so complicated nor paradoxically so simple. I have but one part to
play, to defeat an ancient enemy who, in a few more years would have destroyed
the race completely."
Gaynor
glared at him then almost smiled. "Fortunately I'm tired, too tired to
blow my top over riddles."
Sleep,
however, was long in coming. The riddles grew with thinking until nothing made
sense. He forced himself to concentrate. Duncan was a superman but claimed
normality. If the claim was true—which seemed unlikely—what of the rest of
mankind?
Gaynor
shifted uncomfortably in his bed. He was getting the same answer as Duncan.
Again, this business about an enemy at which Duncan had hinted more than once
and made no sense at all. Only the completely educated idiot thought that
victory proved something conclusive. Oh yes, you could knock a man down because
you disagreed with his views but that sort of superiority convinced no one. It
did not prove your own views were superior. Nor did it mark you as a better
man, rather the reverse—
What
sort of victory in this day and age marked up a profit for the winner? The days
of vast booty and territorial gains were too far in the past to remember. There
was but one token of victory in this age—survival.
What
was Duncan going to do anyway—fight this enemy alone or recruit a few million
others to help him? No, come to think of it, he'd firmly denied ends like that.
Under
his breath Gaynor swore horribly and tried again to sleep.
"I assume I have lost my shirt."
Sebastian laid the report to one side. "Frankly, I thought the task of
committing all those symbols to memory was too much even for you, but my
psychiatrists are quite satisfied so I must admit I was wrong." He smiled
and changed the subject. "You told me that the preliminary work was done,
should there be any visible effects yet?"
"Visible
effects, no. It is possible, however, particularly in tropical or semi-tropical
zones. Some reactions may be becoming apparent."
"I
see." Sebastian pulled at his chin thoughtfully. "And once this
process begins it will be swift?"
"Very
swift. To many it will look as if the world is falling to bits round their
heads. Fortunately to you and a few others, who will know exactly what it
means, it will appear less alarming."
"How long would we
have had before—"
"A year, perhaps, no
more. The plague was the beginning."
"It
sounds as if you acted just in time. Tell me, in view of what you knew, didn't
you feel repulsed by your reception or at least despairing of mankind?"
"I
was distressed but I had to remain detached. A wholly distorted growth cannot
be cured, one accepts it as inevitable. Perhaps mercifully, I was not given the
power to see which was truly malevolent and which was not. We shall all be in
for some surprises. Some, of course, were so patently victims of circumstance
and external pressure that it made everything worthwhile." He paused and
looked at the other thoughtfully. "I suppose you know about Hengist? I
feel a personal responsibility for his misfortune. Kaft was so wide open for
needling that I quite forgot he might take it out on a witness."
"You liked
Hengist?"
"Let us say I saw through his shell and
liked the potential behind it."
Sebastian nodded. "I'm inclined to
agree. We keep files on most of their people and his record is almost clean. He
did a straight bodyguard job and never stepped beyond it. No sadism, no
corruption and no informing." He paused and looked at the other direcdy.
"What had you in mind? Pulling him out?"
"If I could I would, but I'm afraid it's
impossible."
"Not
that impossible. Four hundred of our best people were once Administration
employees. We thought we could use them better so we arranged a disappearance,
you'd be surprised at facilities we have for a job like that. It's true, of
course, they were not guarded like you." He smiled. "Why don't you
pay a call on the Guild of Adventurers. I'll give you their address. They might
be able to help you."
Duncan
shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. I couldn't ask anyone to take a risk like
that to salve my conscience."
Sebastian
laughed. "You don't understand, do you? Our society is based on
psychological honesties not on ideals. Men join the G.O.A. because they are
what the name implies— adventurers. They are not interested in your conscience
or for that matter its immediate ends. All that would interest these people is
action and the degree of hazard. This type of mind lives by challenge. It
relishes the supposedly unclimbable peak. The guild might like this one because
they have never pulled a programed zombie from the Administration underworld.
Why not put it to them? It's entirely up to them whether they do it or
not."
Duncan
shook his head. "They might be swayed by the author of such a
proposal."
"It
can go on their weekly agenda anonymously. The suggestion would then be
considered on its own merits and you need have no qualms if it is
accepted."
Duncan's
face looked both relieved and bewildered. "Ill be glad when I understand
this community. With due respect, from my vantage point, it looks like a
brilliant example of organized eccentricity."
Sebastian
laughed, quite unoffended. "Many a true word is spoken in jest. Let's take
a look at it. Incidentally, and while on the subject of eccentricity, no one
will ever take your shoulder flash seriously. In the first place
the integrity symbols are high above normal standards and they certainly don't
mesh in with your type of creative ability. As for the I.Q. figures, I was
compelled to ask the psyches to tone them down a little or write
"superman" in large letters across your chest. In the end, they saw
the wisdom of my words and agreed to tone them down."
Duncan
grinned at him. "I congratulate you on your modesty. Have you looked at
your own symbols recently?"
"I look at them constantly to be candid.
The real strain is trying to live up to them—this way."
Just
outside the door was one of the now familiar projectile-shaped transparent
vehicles.
"Where would you like
to go first?"
"I think I'd like to
study your observational techniques."
"Step in, we're not
three minutes away."
Observation
room (One/S) was a long room with high walls which were covered with long six
foot reflectors.
"Disillusioning,
isn't it?" Sebastian smiled apologetically. "The old, old techniques
of refractory and periscopio
observation. We have,
however, good sound reasons. Any kind of radar-based spy-beam is detectable and
would betray us instantly. Nonetheless we have brought these ancient
techniques to a fine art, particularly in magnification and night observation.
The commander of the old-time submarine would have sold his soul for
instruments like these." He beckoned one of the technicians who were
moving quietly round the room. "Our guest would like to take a look at the
surface, please."
"Certainly, sir. If
you'll come this way."
They
followed him to one of the reflectors. He made some adjustments and stood back.
Duncan
was startled. The reflected image was so perfect that it gave the eerie
impression they were standing on the surface among the ruins.
"The
periscope eye is concealed in one of the stalagmites," said the technician
with obvious pride. "The complete picture is brought to you through an
aperture slightly smaller than the head of a pin."
Sebastian
said, "I don't know if you know it but the opposition has a small
garrison over to the west. There are also a large number of one-man observation
posts at regular intervals throughout the D.A."
"I
understand there were large numbers of surface survivors at one time."
There still are. That is the real reason for
the garrison. A great number have been caught or killed but the wily ones still
evade the patrols."'
"How do they
live?"
There
were still a large number of surface, or basement, stores or warehouses. Many
contained concentrates, preserves, canned protobread and things like that.
Obviously some of those stores have been found or there would be no survivors."
He sighed. "We brought In all the women and children we could find, but
after a year or two there was little we could do for any surviving adults. We
used to bring them in at first, but many were deranged and all suffered a convulsive
claustrophobia as soon as we got them inside. They had grown used to the
surface and preferred it—despite its risks and discomforts—to the feeling of
constriction down here."
"Do they live in
communities?"
"Oh
no. Deranged or not, they are far too cunning for that. A group is far more
easily detected by instruments than a single individual and these people know
it. They have become, in consequence, complete individualists who live and
travel alone."
Sebastian
paused and shook his head thoughtfully. "It's strange. Some seem to follow
regular circuits and pass through this area at more or less predictable times.
Many of them, perhaps a little callously, we know by nicknames: One Eye, Mad
Mark, Trembling Tim, Dirty Dora, and so on. Many of these nomads are glimpsed
but never seen again. But as I say we have our regulars."
One
of the technicians came over and joined the small group round the screen.
"Excuse
me, Mayor Sebastian, but I couldn't help overhearing part of your conversation
as I passed just now. I thought you might like to know we've got a beautiful
picture of one of the regulars on reflector seven."
"Fine. Well come over."
The
technician strode ahead and began to make swift adjustments as they
approached.
"Wonderful.
Conditions are perfect." He turned. "There you are gentlemen. I'm
afraid she's not very pretty but then none of them are. We call this one Krazy
Kate."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Krazy Kate sat between two huge piles of rubble eating
preserved syntha-meat from a plastic container. She ate slowly and with evident
relish, pushing the meat into her mouth with her fingers.
As
the technician had remarked, Kate was not pretty. The lank black hair was so
coated with dust it was almost white and the skin of the face was black except
round the mouth where the greasy fingers had wiped it partly clear of dirt.
Her
clothing consisted of a tunic-type uniform which was a mass of shreds. Round
her shoulders and fastened at the throat were the tattered remains of something
which had once been a ceremonial cloak. Its tatters swung and twisted incongruously
every time she moved like a coat of monkey tails.
Krazy
Kate finished the meat, licked the inside of the container, sucked her fingers
carefully and wiped them dry on her clothing.
All
her movements, Duncan noticed, were jerky and uncertain as if there were some
lack of co-ordination between muscle and brain.
The
woman half rose, winced, limped a few steps and sat down again. She leaned
forward and very gingerly pulled up the leg of torn but tight-fitting slacks.
Beneath these, and obviously serving as a bandage, was a long strip of filthy
material completely encircling the upper calf.
Slowly, and in obvious
pain, she began to unwind it
Duncan, unconsciously craning forward, saw
the makeshift bandage fall to one side revealing an ugly wound which was
obviously infected. The surrounding flesh was badly inflamed and the whole
calf unnaturally swollen.
"It looks like a stab
wound."
"She
probably slipped and caught it on one of the stalagmites," said the
technician. "Some of them are sharper than needles."
Duncan nodded, barely hearing. "That
wound is septic, in a few hours she'll be lunning a fever." He
frowned thoughtfully. "Is it possible to magnify the face, please?"
"Anything
to oblige, sir." The technician made swift adjustments and the face
seemed to rush forward and loom above them.
Even
without the dirt the face would have been far from prepossessing. The flat
Asiatic features were sallow-skinned, loosely fleshed, high cheek-boned and
oddly angled. The eyes were protuberant and staring. The mouth loose and inclined
to drool.
Duncan straightened slowly
as if deep in thought.
"Do
you know anything about glandular disorders, Mayor Sebastian?"
"Not enough to make a diagnosis. Is it important?"
"I
think so. Is there a doctor anywhere who could take a look at this picture?"
"We could hook one in
but I'd like to know why."
"Never
mind, call the doctor in later. That woman, apart from her general filth, is
such a glandular mess I don't think she could have got that way naturally.
Secondly, and more important, in seventy-two hours she'll be dead from septicemia."
He-paused and faced the other directly. "I'd like to beg a first aid kit
and your permission to go out and try and bring her in."
The
mayor looked at him strangely. "My dear chap, the first aid kit is yours.
As to the rest, this is a free community and if you wish to risk your life on
such a doubtful errand of mercy that is your business. I must point out,
however, that you are on your own. I cannot risk the safety of the entire
community just for you. Secondly, you will do well to observe that the woman
is armed. The butt of some sort of weapon is tucked into the waist belt. Please
bear in mind that the woman appears deranged and is, to all intents and
purposes, a hunted animal. Alas, important as you are, I have no authority to
restrain you which, I must admit, I regret." He paused, frowned, then
suddenly held out his hand. "Best of luck. I think you're a damned idiot
but I know it won't deter you."
Krazy Kate rewound the bandage fumblingly
about the swollen calf and stood up, wincing. A hot and tiny hammer beat inside
her leg but she was beginning to accept it as part of her everyday misery. She
limped on, but not once did she forget her natural caution. Bitter experience
had taught her to hug every available scrap of cover and, where necessary,
crawl on her belly across open spaces. Always there was the danger of the
men—the men in black uniforms—who came riding over the rubble on shining silver
rafts. Men whose weapons spat long threads of purple fire, gouging great holes
in the ground in bright puffs of vapor.
She shook
her head slowly and limped on. Not far away was a hole in which she could rest
until she felt better.
She
rounded the curve of a ruined wall and stopped as if frozen.
Right
in front of her and seated on a pile of half-fused slag was a man. A fair-haired
man in a light tunic with his hands resting open and empty on his knees.
The
man was so still that she wondered for the moment if he were a statue like the
one she had found to the north with half its head melted away. Then she saw the
rising and falling of the chest and her hand began to slide very slowly up her right thigh towards the gun. Perhaps, if she
kept quite still, but moved her hand very, very slowly, she could draw the gun
and kill the man.
"Do
not be afraid." The man said the words very slowly as if he understood
that she was slow to understand. Then he smiled and repeated them once more.
Dully
she was aware that her creeping hand was becoming hesitant and that the muscles
in her arm were trembling. The man did not wear a black uniform and he had
smiled.
"I
will not hurt you." Very slowly he lifted his hands from his knees and
held them out, palms upward. "I will not hurt you. You see, my hands are
empty. I have no gun."
No
gun? She tried to think. If he had no gun then he would be easy to kill. No
need to—but he had smiled—
"You
are not afraid of me." The man's voice was still gende but had become
strangely compelling.
Not
afraid? Briefly and inconsequently she thought how kind the man was to speak so
slowly and then her fingers touched the butt of the gun.
He
said, very gently but in the same compelling voice, "Your leg hurts—I can
make it well—you would like me to make it well."
She
heard herself say, "Yes," her voice sounding thick, muffled and far
away. It was so long since she had spoken. Often she muttered to herself but to
speak—She was touching the gun and she wondered in a muddled way why she had
not drawn it and killed the man.
"Don't
be afraid, little girl. Don't be afraid." He came forward and knelt down
beside her.
Little
girl—little girl? It seemed to mean something kind and far away which she
couldn't quite remember. Somehow it made her feel infinitely sad and she felt
her eyes fill with tears.
Little girl? Fearfully she stretched out a
hand, ready to
jerk back at the slightest movement, and touched the man's shoulder.
"There,
there," he said. He had unwound the bandage and was skillfully dusting the
wound. Infection had gone too far for the powder to be wholly effective but it
would delay its progress and take away the pain.
Krazy
Kate felt the tears running down her face and could not explain even to herself
why she wept. The man seemed to mean something forgotten, sad, but wholly
necessary. The warmth of his shoulder beneath her hand represented not only
kindness but, in some strange way, security. She must tell the man. She must
make it clear. . . .
She
knew what she wanted to say but speech was almost a forgotten thing.
"Not—not—"
Her throat jerked and her face twitched and twisted in spastic agonies.
"Not—not go, please." She stopped, panting, almost exhausted by the
effort of speaking, and her fingers dug into the man's shoulder. "Not
go." She had to make him understand that he must not leave her. "No,
no, no."
He
rose slowly and took her hand. "Come." He pulled gently and slowly
she understood.
"Yes—come."
She clung desperately to his hand but followed him without question.
"It's all over,"
he said softly. "You will soon be safe."
It was then she jerked away
her hand and pulled the gun.
It did not take the Administration long to
discover that their major cities were crawling with armed micro-robotics which
would take years to find and destroy but their reactions were swift. In
exactly eighteen hours they had proofed an entire suite against micro-robotic
invasion. Beyond was an anteroom where those entering or leaving were subjected
to the scrutiny of high powered scanning devices. By the time the experts had
finished a non-filterable virus would have stood a very poor chance of escaping
detection.
In this stronghold the Administration
conferred with the experts who were not slow in determining the location of the
opposition. It was obvious, therefore, that the first point of consideration
must be the garrison. Here, all too clearly, was a read-to-use salient through
which, if held, their main forces could be poured when the attack came.
They
realized however, the need for subtlety, or the DA. people would pinch out this
salient before it could be used. Extension or massive reinforcement was,
therefore, out of the question, but it was not long before the experts came up
with a solution—quality reinforcement.
The
idea was simple enough. Pull out Private Smith (Class O/l, non-technical) and
replace with Private Jones (Sci/ tech/Elec-sol-chem 1st Class/combat).
The
same applied to equipment. Pull out the obsolete Mark 111 energy rifle and replace with the newest and latest Mark IX. There was no difference in appearance but the Mark IX had three times the range and could punch a
four foot hole right through a thirty story tenement. A very handy instrument
indeed, if that same tenement happened to be direcdy below you.
The plans for quality reinforcement had yet
to be dispatched to the Garrison Commander. And Corporal Rune of Outpost 23
had no idea that plans for his swift return to civilization were already on
their way.
Corporal
Rune was bored, frustrated, resentful of this spell of duty and inherently
vicious.
These
outposts strung at intervals across this desert of unending ruin seemed at the
moment pointless. His own spell of duty was, he felt, a deliberate punishment
for some obscure and unmentioned offense.
It
was true that they were warm and reasonably comfortable. It was also true that
this job had once held much more than boredom. But now ...
Irritably
he turned towards the entertainment screen then decided against it. He was sick
of the tapes. He knew them by heart, and even the pornographic ones served only
to increase his frustration. He wanted the real thing. Not a lot of little
three-dimensionals mimicking human perversions on an entertainment screen.
Eight
or ten years ago, he remembered, things had been different out here. The
nomads—he always referred to them mentally as Arabs—had been more numerous and
less wily. One could go hunting, have some real sport and, if one were not too
particular about bodily hygiene, rape one or two personable, if slightly
deranged, young women.
Those
days were gone. The Arabs had been halved and those who remained were wily and
often armed. Not only had they learned to move close or among the larger ruins
where search instruments were less effective but they seemed to have developed
a sixth sense for floaters or the approaching hunter.
No,
things were definitely not what they used to be. He remembered that professor chap,
for instance, who had really been a good one. What had the fellow called
himself? Ah, yes, a lecturer on social sciences. He had been filthy, bearded
and slightly insane but it might have been true.
"My
dear fellow, why should you kill me? My death is not even an economic solution.
My demise cannot benefit the culture which supports you. I am not its prisoner.
It is not called upon to feed me or worry itself as to my well-being. Why then,
does it employ you to dispose of me? Your psyche alone will be coarsened by
cold-blooded murder and I am confident you will not be reimbursed for this
ill-considered act. On the other hand, surely the regime has not deteriorated
to such an extent that it requires the assurance of scalps in its plastic
wigwams."
Rune had listened until he had grown bored
then he had raised the punch gun, set the dial at low and knocked the man off
the low wall where he had been sitting.
"That, my friend, is
the act of an unregenerate savage."
Corporal
Rune had knocked the man down again. He had knocked him down seven times before
it finally sunk into the other's mind that this was more than a sadistic game.
This was a very big cat with a very small mouse and there was no escape.
"Men
like you drag even the civilized down to your own level." He had picked up
a jagged length of fused plastic and tried to hurl it like a spear.
Rune
had flicked the adjustment to full power and fired for the last time.
The
professor of social sciences had dropped the makeshift spear, opened his mouth
and exhaled blood. Most of his chest was caved in and he had fallen sideways
without a sound. . . .
Rune
shook himself irritably. These days nothing happened and, even if it did, one
had to be careful.
Wearily
he turned on the search-field, expecting it blank as usual, and was surprised
to find an indicative pink spot at extreme range of detection.
He
swore. The damned Arab would be gone before he got there. He frowned,
undecided. It was worth a try and in any case it would pass the time. Yes, why
not?
He
plugged in the personal search unit, locked on the bearing and thrust the
instrument into his pocket.
It
was the work of seconds to pull out the floater and it rose swiftly as soon as
he touched the release.
He
took a quick glance at the search unit. Hell, two spots now, if only these damn
floaters were faster.
Nonetheless he held it at a
moderate speed and close to the ground. He, too, had learned to hug every scrap
of cover.
The
floater was nothing so much as a thrust-driven gravity raft on which one lay
full length. A transparent cover could be pulled over the prone operator but,
at the moment, he scorned it. The damn thing took time to remove and the
essence of this business was speed.
A
hundred yards from the indicated spot he locked the floater a foot from the
ground and approached on foot. The Arabs were behind a huge mound of slag and
if he worked round to the right—yes—yes—ahl
He raised the gun and
froze. He knew that face.
Too
late he realized that the other Arab, a woman, had seen him and he panicked,
trying to run back for cover and fire at the same time.
The
woman's weapon made a booming noise and ejected what looked like a white mist.
Rune never had a chance to scream. The hail
of microscopic fragments, driven down a line-of-force, had sufficient velocity
to penetrate clothing and skin. There, they combined with the body chemistry
and instantly ignited.
Corporal
Rune became his own funeral pyre, a pillar of flame which flapped its flaring
arms, tottered a few paces and finally collapsed in a smoking heap.
"Oh,
God." Slowly the woman put her hands over her eyes. Dimly she seemed to
remember that she had always hated death and violence.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Gaynoh was quite unaware of the drama taking place on the
surface. He had just finshed his final session with the psychs and was watching
uneasily as a bright shoulder flash was attached to his tunic and an exact copy
stamped indelibly on his wrist.
"I'll
leave you to chew it over." The psych smiled. "You're a newcomer so
you may not like what you see. There's a perfecto-mirror in the corner. It will
save you standing on your head to see your war paint. By the way, one of our
lads will be in later to give you a briefing on general economy and social
conduct." He withdrew and the door slid shut behind him.
Gaynor
scowled at the closed door and approached the mirror with some hesitation. He
had the uncomfortable conviction that he was going to get a close look at his
own soul and he was not altogether .sure he was going to enjoy the experience.
He
didn't, but he found compensations. His integrity and personal honesty symbols
were of a high standard and his creative ability potentials something to be
proud of. Loyalty was also a clear Symbol which went well with marked physical
and moral courage, but hell—Gaynor felt himself coloring uncomfortably—despite
clearly defined principles which, no doubt, served as a restraint, boldly
defined symbols of sensuality placed him firmly in the category of a roue.
He
glared at his reflection in the mirror. There was a mistake, no doubt about
that. He'd have to have a word . . .
It
occurred to him suddenly that he'd never had a chance to find out. Most of his
time had been spent in the armed forces and he'd had his hands pretty full
since his return. On the other hand, there had been three or four
"incidents" and a lot of his thoughts. . . . Perhaps he'd better
forget about having that word.
He
looked at the rest of the symbols. They labeled him as stubborn to the point of
pig-headedness and there was a strong coupling link of aggression.
"Don't
look so perturbed." The psych had entered unnoticed. "Actually
you're quite likeable and, in any case, you'll find it all extraordinarily
helpful in measuring yourself against given circumstances." He. motioned
the other to a convenient chair. "Let's get down to business, shall
we?" He smiled. "My name's Relling, by the way, I'm your guide and
mentor for the next few hours." He tossed over some papers.
"I
have offers here from three publishing houses. They're familiar with your work
and offer you your own column. You can take your pick. There's very little
difference in the rates. Needless to say there is no censorship here but there
are libel laws and one can be sued for deliberate slander."
"They're
offering me a job? They have only the politically slanted
columns to go on."
"Don't delude yourself. Your closeness
to Duncan brought you under almost constant surveillance. That secret write-up
on the Vrenka was considered top-rate reporting."
"You
haven't missed much, have you? I'm beginning to be half glad I've lived a pure
life recently."
Relling
laughed. "I applaud the "half." As your flash tells me, you are
an honest man." He rose before Gaynor became embarrassed. "Let's go
and look at the city. You must learn economic conduct and the best way to teach
is by demonstration."
He touched a button and a small black object
was ejected from a wall slot.
"Here
we are, tuned and ready." He held up something dangling from a long thin
chain. "This is your economic key, most people wear them round the neck.
You will find the chain stretches sufficiently for normal use. Put it on."
Gaynor obeyed
self-consciously.
"Excellent."
Relling rubbed his hands as if he had accomplished something important.
"Now let's go out and spend some money."
"What
money?" Perplexity made Gaynor sound aggressive.
"Mine for demonstrable purposes. You
have only basic, a hundred units a week, which is not enough to go rash on. Of
course, as soon as you decide on this job, you will get a salary plus
basic."
Gaynor
thought of something. "One thing, I like the idea of this job but I'm well
aware trouble is brewing. Have you any kind of military organization to which I could be called in the event of a crisis?"
"Ah,
we were hoping for that. I'll tell you how to get in touch with the Reserves on
our return. Your combat experience will be more than useful." He moved
towards the door. "Now let's take a stroll down Regent Street."
Gaynor said,
"Pardon?"
"Just
our main tunnel, we borrowed a lot of names from the surface."
The
first look at what Relling called the main tunnel left Gaynor considerably
shaken. Despite heavy traffic passing over their heads, the tunnel roof was so
cleverly contrived to represent the sky that the procession of vehicles looked
like air traffic. Skillful murals and imaginative lighting gave the wide tunnel
a convincing appearance of a wide airy street flanked by tall and graceful
buildings.
"Seventeen
miles of this," said Relling conversationally. "This is the heart, or
more aptly, the main artery of our underground city."
Gaynor
shook his head slowly, unable to comment. There were shops, cafés, places of entertainment and even the familiar
moving ways.
"Don't
be overawed, old chap. Remember, a great deal of this was already in being long
before the war." He laughed. "Like all cities it has its defects. As
physical culture is a must in this kind of existence every other damn door
leads either to a gymnasium or a swimming pool. We are probably the most
aquatic, the toughest and over-exercised people in all history."
He paused and made a
gesture at a doorway. "Let's eat."
Gaynor
glanced upwards. The sign over the door said Cosmopolitan Cafe. He
put the name down to nostalgia or wishful thinking but the interior took him by
surprise.
The whole café was designed to represent an old-world garden and there was even a small
pond complete with rushes and a number of moving and wholly life-like ducks.
"Our
roboticists are good." Relling seemed to be reading his mind.
"Particularly the men who made those. The only ducks they had ever seen
were on a historical tape. Take a seat."
Gaynor
sat down, a litde dazed, close to a wall cleverly contrived to resemble part of
an ancient farmhouse and suitably covered with rambler roses.
"This
is where we begin." Relling pointed to a small boxlike device attached to
the far side of the table. "Most of this will be more or less familiar.
Pick up the printed menu. Select your dish. Note the number of your selection
and dial it Simple enough. The meal will come up through the delivery shute in
the center of the table." Relling paused and beckoned him closer.
"Now we come to the tricky part. Having selected our meal, the device
expects us to pay for it and will not serve the meal until we do. Now on top of
this box you will note the following: a calibrated dial with a double set of
figures, a small slot for an economic key and three blank dials. The first
blank dial is marked standard charges. That will show the cost of the meal. The second is marked balance which is obvious and the third, adjusted balance, will
be made plain when I pay for the meal. Now watch." He leaned forward and
inserted his economic key into the small slot and immediately the three dials
lit. The dial marked standard charge showed 4.07 and the second dial marked balance showed 6y-282d-19.08.
Relling
smiled. "Yes it looks confusing but really it is quite simple. Our
economic system is based on a time/work unit system. The cost of the meal is
4.07 while my credit balance at the bank is 6 years, 282 days and 19.08
hours-follow? I then set the pointers on this calibrated dial to the cost of
the meal, or the figures under standard charge, which gives the bank authority to deduct that
amount from my credit balance as you will see. Look."
Gaynor
- saw the dial marked adjusted balance suddenly display the figures; 6y-282d-15.01.
"Simple
isn't it?" Relling withdrew his key. "Now let's sit down and enjoy
this meal while it's hot. You can ask questions as we eat."
Gaynor
had so many questions that he never remembered the contents of the meal.
"What's to stop me
from using your key?"
"Each
key is exactly tuned to the personality of the owner. Use mine and your order
will not only be rejected but the device will call the police."
"I could hold a gun to
your head while you used it."
Relling
grinned. "All these mechanisms incorporate an hysteria index of acute
sensitivity. You'd still get a rejection and the police. Sorry, Gaynor, we have
all the answers. You can't beat this thing. All these devices are hooked to the
robotic bank which retains and records the entire credit of every individual in
the community. You go to work and clock in, and immediately the robotic bank
begins ticking in your credit until such a time as you clock out. While
working, you are adding to your abstract credit balance which can never be lost
or stolen."
Relling
pushed aside his empty plate. "You'll find work rates only mildly
confusing. For instance, the publishing houses offer you a reporting job at
rates of six to one or more aptly six hours pay for one hour's work, which, if
not riches, brings near-affluence."
"May I borrow or loan
credit under this system?"
"Oh
yes, there are transaction devices in the financial houses, but the robotic
bank keeps a tight check on one's ability to repay and a deduction/repayment
rate has to be fixed beforehand."
Gaynor
laughed. "I had no intention of borrowing but I'd like to try this thing.
How much are cigarettes?"
"A
fifty packet, top standard, will cost you exacdy one hour."
"I should have enough on basic."
Gaynor rose, fumbled for his key and inserted it in the slot. "Hell, I
forgot to dial." He began again and reinserted the key.
The dials lit. Standard charge said
1.00 and balance 14.02.
Gaynor
remembered to use the pointers of the calibrated dial and bis adjusted balance
appeared almost immediately. When he withdrew the key the cigarettes were
already on the table.
"Congratulations.
You picked that up quickly. Candidly I think we should have a beer to
celebrate."
"Thanks, but that's
damned expensive isn't it?"
"Ten
days a glass but to hell with it. It's not every day I instruct an outsider."
"Wait until I'm
working and I'll return the compliment."
"Oh,
for God's sake man, you don't see any miser symbols on my flash, do you?"
Gaynor
sipped the beer and looked about him. The cafe was slowly filling and something
about the people reminded him of his early childhood. They spoke in normal
voices, they behaved naturally and they often laughed. The contrast between
these casual, if noisy people, and the cowed rank and file of the
Administration was overwhelming.
His
attention was suddenly attracted by a girl at a nearby table and he found
himself unable to look elsewhere. Like everyone else in the community she wore
the familiar shorts and tunic but there was something about the way her
blue-black hair caught the light, and the curve of her. . . .
Gaynor
remembered his revealing shoulder flash and felt the back of his neck turn hot.
"You like Estelle?"
Relling's eyes were amused.
"You know her?" ~~
"She's
in my area. It's my business to know her." He waited as if expecting some
comment and Gaynor suddenly remembered that the girl, too, must have a
shoulder flash. He looked and said, "Good God."
Relling
smiled. "What am I supposed to conclude from that exclamation?"
Gaynor
frowned slightly, "I don't quite know. It took me by surprise. Is this
sort of thing permitted?"
"Permitted?
This is a free community. Estelle chooses her own life."
"Yes,
yes. I appreciate that. It was seeing it on her shoulder flash which shook me.
Hell, it's almost advertising."
Relling
looked at him intently, then smiled. "I forget you come from another
community where women are coerced into that kind of life. I forget your society
does not, like us, recognize both love and lust and allow for both. The Administration,
I must remind myself, recognizes only the latter."
"Now look—"
"Allow
me to continue, please. This is a very necessary part of your education."
He paused and sucked alight a cigarette. "Let's carry this thing a little
further. Estelle's glandular balance is such that only the promiscuous life is
physically and emotionally satisfying for her. She recognizes these tendencies
in herself and has, accordingly, placed herself at the service of the
community. In our books she is a necessary, useful, and highly respected member
of our society. As you are beginning to see, the basis of our free society is
the old adage of 'Know thyself and act accordingly.' "
Gaynor
scowled at him. Intellectually he agreed with Relling and his theories up to
the hilt, but something inside him made him want to dispute the point angrily.
"Got
everything taped, haven't you? Everything's pat, pigeon-holed and precisely
arranged to fit the theory."
Strangely
Relling looked pleased. "Excellent. Now let's get you taped."
"What do .you
mean?"
"I'm
your psych, remember? Your argument is not with me, or the theory. It's with
Estelle."
"What the hell do you
mean? I don't know her."
"True,
but this is one of those rare occasions when a man is attracted to a woman emotionally and physically at first sight.
The realization that she is what she is has upset your emotional balance so you
have to fight about it. Look at it this way, under the old system you could
have fallen in love with her. She could have deceived you and the net result
could have been violence or even murder. This way, our way, there can be no
deceit and, if you have an affair, at least your eyes are open to the
truth."
Gaynor
glared at him, then slowly relaxed. "Well, you're right about me but I'm
not sure I like the truth." He grinned ruefully. "You made me feel
adolescent and sort of naked."
"Fine,
that was the idea and that was the lesson you had to learn." He exhaled
smoke and smiled. "Calmed down enough to meet her yet? If you read her
flash thoroughly, you will have noticed she is, like yourself, creative.
Estelle is an accomplished sculptress."
Gaynor
did not answer at once. "Does—I suppose—I mean do people ever change,
change enough to have their flashes altered?"
"It
happens quite often, anyone can apply for reassessment." Relling ground
out his cigarette and looked at the other directly. "Don't count on
anything, Gaynor. You could get really hurt that way. Why not accept Estelle as
she is? You'll find it a much happier and much safer way to live." He
rose. "Face it now. I'll fetch her. . . ."
She
was tall, he saw, tall and slender and she moved with a grace that made his throat tighten uncomfortably. She'd no right to
be—no damn right at all and he thought suddenly, startlingly and with
unshakeable conviction which seemed to have no relation to his usual thinking
processes:
"She's
mine. There's nothing Relling can do about it. Nothing her damn glands can do
about it. Soon she'll know too."
When
Relling introduced them Gaynor was outwardly calm and inwardly assured.
"Please sit down. I
hear you're a sculptress."
She smiled. "How
flattering. Are you really interested?"
"Of course, I'd like
to see some of your work."
She said gendy but with a
faint smile. "Before or after?"
"That
remains to be seen." He was still inwardly calm. "Unfortunately, as
Mr. Relling explained, until I take up a contract I'm financially embarrassed."
She
jrianced at his shoulder flash. "You look trustworthy enough to my
eyes."
"Thank
you." He liked her eyes. They were large, dark, strangely warm and
expressive. "Do you live far away?"
"No,
quite close. We could walk if you wish. Would you like to walk?"
"Very
much." He rose. "I'll just—" but Relling had disappeared.
"Well, that settles that. Shall we go?"
"This
way." She took his arm then looked at him quickly. "Do I frighten
you. You're very tense."
"I'm
not frightened. Call it disturbed. I've never met anyone quite like you."
"Are there no girls outside—my kind of
girl?"
"Your kind perhaps. But not like you.
You're individual."
She
laughed softiy. "You're different too. Only I can't put it into
words."
"You will."
"You
sound very confident. Do you always speak to your hired women as if you were
courting them? Or is that a new line from the outside?"
He
laughed, curiously sure of himself. "The answer to both your questions is
no—only to you."
She looked at him quickly
and uncertainly. "If I hadn't taken a good look at your shoulder flash I
would wonder if you were a nut case. Up these stairs."
He
touched her hand as the door slid shut behind them and she shivered.
"Who's tense
now?"
She
shook her head, frowning. "You're different. You make me feel sort
of—strange."
"Let's find out how
strange." He drew her close.
She
clung to him for a few seconds then wrenched away. "This is some sort of
trick. What are you trying to do to me?"
"Make you know as I
know."
"You're mad—don't you
know what I am?"
"I
know what you were/' He pulled her to him and kissed her mouth. For a few
seconds she struggled then began to cling to him fiercely.
Slowly he released her.
"Now you know."
She
looked up at him dazedly. "Yes—yes, I know. But I've changed somehow. What
have you done to me, what is it inside me making me know. . .."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The doctor looked down at the inert figure on the bed. "I
agree with you, Mr. Duncan, a glandular chaos like this could not occur
naturally." He pulled back the woman's eyelid. "To me it looks like
deliberate manipulation to bring about a personality change and inhibit the
intelligence." He made a few brief tests. "Over-active thyroid. Some
sort of jiggery-pokery with the pituitary—horribly botched job. I wonder why
they did it."
"Perhaps
because she was a hypno-resistant but, as you say, it was a botched job."
"As far as I'm aware the Administration
only tried that once and then—Good God, you don't think this wreck is Martha
Deering, do you?" "It could be."
"You
took a hell of a chance finding out. In her state she could
have blown your head off."
"She
very nearly did." Duncan smiled faindy. "However, I considered the
whole business worth the risk. We know Martha Deering was manipulated. We know
she escaped before the manipulation took full effect. Can you do anything for
her?"
"I
think I can do a sounder job of restoration than they did from
the demolition angle but I'll make promises only after the first tests."
Duncan
left the clinic, entered a call
box, and dialed a private number.
The
Mayor's face appeared in the screen. "Hello, Duncan, what can I do for
you?"
"I
called up to apologize. I'm afraid our tour of inspection was rudely
interrupted."
"Think
nothing of it, but tell me, are you prone to quixotic gestures?"
"It
was not exactly quixotic. I had reasons for supposing, now partly confirmed,
that Krazy Kate was in reality Martha Deering, the radiologist."
Sebastian
looked thoughtful, then smiled. "Good luck, anyway." He broke
contact.
Duncan
left the call box frowning. Good luck? What exactly had Sebastian meant by
that. Surely he did not suspect— On the other hand to a man of the mayor's
sagacity the whole business might be blatantly obvious.
His
mind went back four years to a day on Mattrain. He'd been tapping Earth's
communication bands which was part of his daily education and had locked in on
an instructional beam. A woman scientist had been lecturing student groups on
radiology. Duncan found himself listening to her voice rather than to her words and suddenly knowing—God, it was different now, now that he was here.
Duncan
sighed inwardly. Already the signs were showing but he must wait and see. His
own position was so difficult. Nonetheless, any day now, people would start
asking questions. Ask Duncan, Duncan will know. Duncan will explain. Yes, yes,
Duncan, the superman, whose business it would be to explain the faculties and
functions of sex as the ancient frictions gave way to the true realizations.
Yes,
it was true he had the answers but it was text book knowledge, second-hand
information from his alien instructors, observation and demonstrable example
on Mattrain itself.
God,
he was like an elderly maiden aunt giving advice to the lovelorn with the same
lack of experience. He who had never touched a woman's body, let alone slept
with a woman in his arms.
Duncan
sighed again and walked slowly back to his room ignoring the moving ways. It
seemed that all his life he had stood alone, a man of two worlds who was at
home on neither.
On
Mattrain he had been the intelligent ape for whom allowances must be made,
lessons simplified and mechanisms adjusted downwards to the level of his
limited intelligence. Not once, of course, by word or gesture, had his
instructors or foster parents referred to his mental state. Everyone had been
unfailingly loving, gentle and considerate, but even so comparisons had been
unavoidable. Mattrain youngsters, half his age, had been mentally computing
dimensional equations—a subject he had never grasped—as part of their normal
education, while he fumbled blindly with spatial mathematics. The same
youngsters controlled the mechanisms of their civilization by force of mind
whereas he, the bright ape, must have those same mechanisms adapted—the button,
the switch, the visible dial.
Then,
suddenly, the change in role from the retarded outcast to the superman with no
real crutch for help. Despite all his advantages he still had to act, he still had to convey superiority
which, in view of his past, had been a full
time job. The race had accepted him as homo superior, but several times he had
nearly failed. He had underestimated the opposition on his run to the D.A. and
he had never considered that a man like Paul Sebastian could develop in this
chaos. Not that Sebastian was a danger.
On the contrary, he was a life-line. But he should have been prepared
for the grand exception.
Only
a genius or a superman—and Sebastian was both— could have
maintained such absolute power without being corrupted by it. True, the mayor
was a dictator but paradoxically he enforced freedom. The shoulder flash, the
free expression of human personality had been his idea and he defended that
freedom with ruthlessness which would have put Kaft to shame. His method was
simple—he controlled the sources of power. Power ran this community. Without
power there was no food, no air, no production and no economy. Built into
Sebastian's body was a micro-mechanism into which all sources of power were
linked. This same mechanism included a psychological register and an hysteria
index. If Sebastian died suddenly and by violence, a fuse would blow and all power would cease immediately. If on the other
hand, he were taken seriously ill, power failure would be slow. The Medics
would have time to remove the mechanism and transfer it to one of those trained
and educated to take his place. Nothing had been left to chance. However, the
mechanism was equipped with a poison register.
Sebastian
had made sure that if he were protected from the people, the people were
protected against him. The hysteria index watched his mental state and would
render him unconscious if he became insane or developed psychological
sickness.
Duncan
reached his room and the door slid shut behind him as he entered. The change,
he thought, is really beginning now but what the hell will Sebastian be like
when— There was another side to the coin however, an unpleasant side and that
would come too. This kind of pruning was not going to be happy even if the dead
branches did obligingly chop themselves from the tree.
The
old-fashioned caller purred suddenly and he touched a switch, forgetting his
rather morbid thoughts.
"Mr. Duncan?"
"Yes, speaking."
"Ah,
fine. Guild of Adventurers here. We got your boy. Thought you'd like to
know."
"Boy?"
Duncan clicked the visual switch. "I don't quite follow, I'm afraid."
The
dark-skinned man in the vision screen removed a pipe from his mouth and smiled.
"Hengist, of course. The job was put on our agenda some days ago and we
thought it tricky enough to be interesting. We pulled him out right under their
noses posing as security boys from another sector."
"Thank you, but how on
earth did you do it?"
"Simple
enough really. We have our own flyer which we built ourselves. One of our lads
cooked up a rather unique anti-detection unit which the opposition doesn't know
about yet." The caller grinned. "Hengist's war record made it worth
the trip and now the psychs have deprogramed him. He seems a good bloke.
Sardonic humour, dog-like gratitude despite that, and bags of guts considering
what he's been through. Oh, yes, just one other thing. Having studied his file,
we pulled his girl out as well which was perhaps fortunate. As soon as the
psychs cleared him he wanted to go back for her. The psychs would like you to
call them on that point. They fear it might be some obscure kind of fixation.
You see, Mr. Duncan, Hengist insists he has developed a built-in faculty for
recognizing his better half and that she's it."
Duncan
smiled faintly. "I'll ask you a question. Have you been feeling
extraordinarily clear-headed lately?"
"Yes—yes, I have. Disturbingly
clear-headed." "You are quite normal. So is Hengist. The same
fixation may hit you or even one of the psychs any day now."
"It's bad, very bad." Statten
looked near to panic. "The hysteria level is so high the whole world could
explode into insurrection right now."
"Is
that all you're worrying about?" Dowd looked as if he could hit him.
"I don't need a board of psychs to tell me that. All I have to do is look
out of the window." He picked up a report and shook it angrily.
"Sixteen officers in the coming assault have vanished without trace. A
brigadier has been shot by persons unknown while crossing the parade ground. We
can't find Frond. We can't find Langerman. Sixteen experts have been caught
trying to slip out of the city and that's only a small part of the hundred and
eight who appear to have succeeded. On the top of that we have thirty cases of
industrial and military sabotage on our hands." He glowered at the Supreme
Director's empty chair. "Today, of all days, Kaft has to be late."
"We're
fifteen minutes early," said Rickman in a reasonable voice.
"Is that so?" Dowd was obviously
looking for a quarrel. "Under the circumstances he
should have been early, too." He looked at the politican suspiciously.
"Too many people are taking this business very casually indeed. I,
personally, have been unable to find the time for rejuvos or hair-plant but
maybe this business doesn't worry you particularly."
"What
are you talking about?" Rickman sounded more puzzled than aggressive.
"Don't
play it up, Rickman, your genius for emphasizing your natural stupidity is no
longer funny. You were gray at the temples, and you had jowels. You don't get
firm flesh without a rejuvo and your hair doesn't change color without a dye or
plant."
Rickman was no longer full of bluster or
overemphasis. He was becoming used to clear analytical thinking but he was
careful not to betray the fact.
"You've
got to do something when you can't sleep, haven't you. If you can get a good
night's rest with all this worry on your shoulders you're a better man than
most, Dowd."
The
industrialist scowled at him. The explanation was not only sensible but wholly
in keeping with Rickman's character and yet Dowd tried to put his finger on
something which he sensed was there. He had no idea what it was yet. In some
strange way, Rickman was different. Dowd
wished he could decide in what way.
Inwardly
Rickman was hoping that the tension inside him didn't show. Firm flesh, dark at
the temples—what the devil was Dowd talking about? Yet he had the uncomfortable
feeling that Dowd might be right. Although he had not bothered to study himself
in the mirror recently he had been conscious of an increasing vitality and a
greater strength in his muscles.
Casually
he leaned forward so that he could see his reflection in the bright surface of
the conference table and felt his scalp prickle with sweat. It was impossible
to see his color but his face was noticeably thinner and the hair at his
temples completely black.
"Kaft
is taking this thing too damn casually." Dowd was striding nervously up
and down and he passed the politician leaving a faint smell of decay.
Rickman
tried to breathe it away and fought down an inclination to retch. It occurred
to him suddenly that the smell seemed peculiar to certain people but not to
others. But why? He wished he could find an answer. He had given up blaming
his own nose.
^ He
took another furtive look at his reflection. Damn it, he kid look younger. Not only had the gray disappeared from his temples but his
hair looked thicker, wavy and almost blue-black. He had a sudden memory of himself laughing, broad shouldered, slim waisted with
an artificial rose on the lapel of his coat and Gelda clinging to his arm.
The
memory made him uncomfortable. That had been a long time ago in the early days of the w.ar
when a respectable background was considered essential for a rising
poli-itican.
Rickman
fought a brief and losing batde with an increasing sense of guilt. Hell, he
hadn't much to be proud of, had he? It was strange really that he had never
divorced Gelda. But there had been so many pressures and, if he were frank with
himself, marriage had been a form of protection against all the women who had
passed through his private suite.
He
wondered what Gelda looked like now. Must be ten years since— Why had he seen
her then? She had still been decorative. Probably some sort of public
function-He had never quite understood how they had ceased to— Yes, he did, be
honest. Too many others, too much work away from home and a mistress in hand
was preferable to-Looking back began to make him feel a little sick inside. So
many damn women and he couldn't remember a quarter of them. At least he'd been
fond of Gelda once, but the rest had been a procession of bodies. What had
Gelda got out of the bargain? The answer was damned everything; Yet the
hideously ornate home and the benefits of a first-class citizen didn't seem to
rate anymore.
He
realized that Kaft had arrived and was lowering himself into his chair. The
Supreme Director looked gaunt and there was a suggestion of unhealthy
sallowness beneath the pink senile skin.
He
looked about him. "I have read the reports, gentlemen. Kindly refrain from
repeating them." He leaned back, outwardly calm. "It is suspected
that some sort of psychological projector is being used from the D.A. which is
affecting the minds of the rank and file. Operation Nutcracker will therefore
be brought forward by several weeks and the counter measures to the present
near-insurgence will be launched within seventeen days instead of
twenty-five."
"It's
Duncan," said Dowd, savagely. "When he escaped, public opinion jumped
in his favor and a lot of people look upon him now as some sort of
savior."
"Or
the lesser of two evils," said Kaft, softly. "If we are to survive we
must remain realists."
"We
should have pulled out of the city and plastered the enemy with solar
bombs." Statten's mouth was so tight that his nose threatened to meet his
chin.
Kaft
looked at him with distaste. "And how long do you think we'd survive with
several million dead, thirty cities out of commission and our industrial
strength halved? Our economy would fold up overnight and the subsequent riots
would overwhelm us."
"But, good God, to let the enemy dictate
strategy is military suicide."
"As
they play it, perhaps, but they are dealing from the pack. We deal from our
sleeves."
Statten
said: "Sleeves, hell—look at history. Once a people get the stink of
defeat in their nostrils they'll use any weapon to break out. If we start
bearing hell out of them with conventional weapons they'll smear our cities
anyway."
Kaft
sighed. "Our attack has certain aspects which, if successful, should
prevent this." He pushed across a sheet of paper. "This is a rough
outline of the proposed assault."
Statten
picked it up and studied it frowning. He took a long time to read it and when
he laid it down he was still grim. "I grant top marks for Operation
Cardiac. If we pull it off we've won. But throwing in our entire security
forces is a hell of a risk. Every damn sector will start its own insurrection
as soon as we pull them out."
"True, but if we win we can-crush them
one at a time.
Further,
with these D.A. people defeated, there will be no rallying point, no Duncan and
no psychological interference. Once we get Sector U.S. under our heels again
the rest of the planet will toe the line soon enough."
"Why
only security forces?" Dowd was still glowering and aggressive.
"Because
at the moment the armed forces cannot be trusted."
"We could still lose." Dowd sounded
pessimistic.
"Again
true, but we need no reminder that we are realists. One day before the attack
we shall withdraw from this city to our original headquarters beneath the
Andes. This stronghold is stocked and self-supporting. Key personnel and a
picked defense force are already there and there is more than enough room for
us and our entire staffs." He paused and looked directly at Statten.
"All solar energy devices were transferred to the stronghold on my orders
over two months ago. You see, General, there is a lot to be said for a card up
the sleeve."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"I
know you'll be very happy." Duncan felt more than ever like an elderly maiden
aunt.
"Yes,
thanks." Gaynor began to pace restlessly up and down Duncan's small room.
"You're sure this thing isn't some sort of psychological disorder? I mean,
I knew at the time. I know when I'm with her but after a few hours of
separation—"
"That's
just the point. This particular faculty is reciprocal. You're not meant to be separated for long periods in these early stages."
"I'm afraid I don't follow." Gaynor
sounded resigned.
"Very well, I'll try and explain."
Duncan sighed inwardly.
"Under
the old order in the animal world, and often among men, one had to fight for a
mate. This method, it was concluded, was nature's way of ensuring the survival
of the strongest and best. The existence of man, one of the weakest of animals,
refuted this belief entirely, but that is beside the point at the moment. The
old order is now giving way to the new and man finds himself developing a
faculty placed there by nature but inhibited until now. This faculty is
nature's recognition unit and genetic meter for bringing about the perfection
of the species by selective breeding." Duncan paused and smiled
apologetically. "Yes, I know that sounds horribly crude but I thought it
wiser to get down to basics first. This faculty, when brought into contact
with—or close enough for normal senses—its reflecting complement, immediately
responds. In short, both male and female become emotionally and physically
responsive to each other and there is a resulting recognition from this newly
developed faculty. Both know, by this, that there is the perfect partner, the
exact physical and emotional complement of the other."
"Does this thing
last?" Gaynor was still pacing uneasily.
"Well
there's no hit and miss, if that's what you mean. There is no possibility of a
man or woman ending up with the wrong partner."
"I
didn't mean that. Look, you must know what I mean. All this "happy ever
after" stuff, how often is it true—one time in ten million? Oh yes, we've
a lot of convincing imitations of true love after several years of marriage—a
hell of a lot of things look good in public—but we know it's not that way in
life. I'll concede the rare exceptions, but the general trend, no. Too often
the couple are living either in toleration, resignation or despair, and love is
a dead and half-remembered dream."
Duncan
nodded understandingly. "Let me assure you that there is no fear of that.
Under the precise conditions of the new order man is not fully man nor woman
fully woman without the right partner. The two sexes, besides cohabitation,
were intended to function as a single unit and the emotion you refer to as love
is a constandy deepening and exciting realization of this truth."
Gaynor
sucked alight a cigarette and exhaled smoke. "How do you know?"
"Mattrain
has exact order; it happens there. The same order is coming about on this
planet now—" Duncan realized suddenly he was on dangerous ground and
changed the subject quickly before Gaynor asked him for his personal experience.
God, it was a fine thing when you knew about a faculty and dare not trust it yourself.
He said, evenly,
"Where is Estelle by the way?"
"Gone for
reassessment. Do you think she'll get it?"
"I
know she'll get it. If she's changed enough to recognize her own faculty, her
glandular balance, and with it her way of life, have reverted to the norm.
Speaking of glandular balance, I have to run along to the clinic in a few
minutes. Care to come?"
Gaynor
glanced at his watch. "Be a couple of hours yet at least. Yes, I'll come
along."
At
the door of the clinic he said, "I suppose you want moral support while
you visit Krazy Kate. I saw the news reports next day. Hell, you took a
chance."
They reached the private ward and Duncan
waved to a chair
by the door. "I'd better prepare her. You're the first outside visitor
since she was—since she arrived."
Gaynor sat down heavily. He hadn't really
wanted to come but it would serve to pass the time. Without Estelle he was full
of doubts and emotional jitters. To be brutally frank he'd fallen in love with
a woman of a certain type and unless he had the emotional reassurance of her
nearness— He forced his mind away from the subject angrily. Krazy Kate might or
might not be Martha Deering, but she was hardly prepossessing, was she? No doubt, well scrubbed
and in clean clothes she was a litde less repulsive but even so—
"You can come in
now." Duncan was back.
Gaynor
rose. He was basically a kind-hearted man and he had a pleasant smile ready on
his face as he passed through the door.
It
fell off when he got inside and he stood there stupidly and rather rudely with
his mouth open.
The
woman in the bed looked at him sympathetically and with understandng. "Oh,
Peter, you never warned him—the poor man." She patted the chair by the
bed. "Don't be upset. Peter has an over-developed sense of the dramatic.
Come and sit down and talk to me."
Dazedly
he sat down, wondering if this were some sort of joke. The woman was propped up
by a pile of pillows, a mass of wavy chestnut hair fell to her shoulders, her
complexion was pale but without blemish, the blue eyes wide, long lashed and
full of understanding. He realized he was looking at an intelligent and
strikingly attractive woman.
"You are—?" He
was unable to finish the sentence.
"Krazy
Kate? Yes I was, but as you see I have had expert treatment. Now I am almost
back to normal. Changing conditions helped things along too. It was mean of
Peter not to warn you."
He
shook his head. "All this in about ten days. It's incredible. Do you
remember much of—of what happened?"
"Not
a great deal. I remember being picked up, taken to a special clinic and later
released or more aptly confined to my own suite. After a few days, I realized I
was becoming sluggish and stupid. The single guard was not particularly bright
and I managed to get out of the suite and to my flyer while I still had some
faculties left." She paused frowning slightly. "I had no idea where I
was going. I just kept flying and then, I suppose they cut the power beam. It's
all rather vague and far away now. I remember there was a terrific crash. I remember I was in the sea and
struggling ashore from the wreck, but after that everything seems blurred and
unreal. It devolved into a sort of horrible half life—part animal, part memory.
I must have learned to survive. I must have acquired cunning but I cannot
remember how—"
He
said, gendy, "I'm sorry, I had no wish to open old wounds."
"Please,
it isn't like that really. It's like a nightmare, but I can talk about it now.
I see it in perspective and I know it's over." She smiled and changed the
subject. "You're Peter's first friend I understand."
"Yes,
a rather dubious one at first, I'm afraid. It was a question of demonstration before faith."
Inwardly he was conscious of a curious sense of readjustment. Hearing Duncan
referred to as Peter threw him slightly off balance and there was an underlying
familiarity and affection in the woman's voice as if— Strangely the suggestion
made Duncan human. Despite their friendship there had always been the aura of
superiority but now . . .
He
glanced at his watch. "I hope you'll forgive this short visit but I have
an appointment."
Duncan grinned. "He
has an hour but he just can't sit still."
She
smiled at him. "I understand. Peter has told me. She would like you to be
there waiting, I know."
"Yes, yes, thank
you."
Once
back, he resumed his restless pacing. Could this business be true despite what
Duncan said? A woman of this kind was surely a very different kettie of fish.
When
she arrived, however, his doubts vanished as if they had never been. She was
his; she belonged to him completely.
"You got it?"
"Of
course." She pressed herself against him. "I'm afraid it shook the
examining board. They've given me a new flash, not just altered a few
symbols."
He said. "Every time we're parted it
gets worse." "Yes." She pressed her mouth to his. "But
every time we're together again it get's better. . . ."
Rickman
saw the danger signals as soon as they began to appear and was surprised at his
own calm. A year ago, no doubt, he would have blundered blithely onto his own
execution but now, with a clear mind, the writing on the wall was all too
plain.
Perhaps
it was because of that same clear mind that an asterisk had been placed against
his name. That and other things.
A
man couldn't go on taking rejuvos every day. Couldn't go on looking more alert
and healthy under daily increasing pressures and long conferences into the
early hours, unless ....
He
knew what Kaft thought, he knew what Dowd and Statten thought. The sum of their
thinking would amount to the same total—he, Rickman, had pulled off a super
double-cross. Somehow, in some way, he'd sold out to Duncan and this unnatural
vitality was part of the return payment. Kaft would remember that Duncan had
once said to him: "How would you like to live a thousand years?"
Rickman
could see that such a conclusion was the obvious one because it appeared to be
supported by facts. His paunch had vanished. His graying hair had grown dark
and visibly thicker. The veins, once visible in his nose, had disappeared and
the muscles of his face had toned up and grown firmer. Bluntly, in a few short
weeks, he appeared to have grown ten years younger.
Rickman
slid shut the door of the flyer, touched the servo which ejected cigars and
thrust one between his teeth. Despite the now familiar sense of well-being the
politician had not spent a good night. It was all very well having a clear mind
and strong tendencies to introspection, but he had developed a conscience with
it. You couldn't explain away to yourself your failure to visit your wife for
ten years. Worse, the threadbare justifications for countless infidelities no
longer registered—it had never been her fault but his.
Rickman
scowled, puffed smoke through the cigar and started the flyer. It was not his
past which troubled him now but the repercussions of what he intended to do.
Whether he got caught or whether he didn't was immaterial—he knew exactly what
would happen to Gelda. He had enough on his conscience already and he had no
wish to add to the burden. It was hell being able to think, wasn't it? Until a
few months ago his entire life had been dictated by fear. You disguised that
fear by self-deceit and subjugated your intelligence to that one emotion.
Now—oh, yes, you were still afraid, hellish afraid, but you could think without
it influencing your judgment.
He
lifted the flyer, flicked on the V.I.P. switch and watched the city air
controls halt traffic in his favor. No doubt he was being watched but a visit
to his wife, although it might bring a derisive comment from Dowd, should not
arouse undue suspicion. Thank God it was only a five minute hop.
The
roof of the apartment block which Rickman had once called home had cost a
fortune in public money. With typical ostentation he had rejected the normal
suite but commandeered the entire roof. Upon the flat airy expanse of
plasto-concrete, thirty stories above the street, he had ordered the erection
of a hugely ornate Spanish-style bungalow and he had not stopped there. An
authorization chit had supplied enough air-trucks, labor and material to turn
the rest of the roof into a semi-tropical garden. There was a lawn of real
grass, beds of exotic flowers constantly attended by a robotic gardener, and a
clear winding stream of real water which emptied itself in a huge swimming
pool. There were even groups of slightly drooping but wholly genuine palms.
And
he had gone in for elfin figures and jovial plastic rabbits in a big way.
The
net result, he realized, as he approached it now, was ornate vulgarity. It was
garish, crude and depressing like, a play-park without lights or people. Too
often, he realized, he had used this monstrosity as balm for his conscience. He
had given Gelda the best. She had everything money could buy, a fine home, a—
Just how long could a man get by on soothing cliches like that?
He set the flyer down in the small
park—disguised as a corral—and hurried towards the house. The door mechanism
recognized him instantly and the artificial wood slid silendy to one side as he
approached.
Gelda
looked up from the studio couch and raised her eyebrows.
"Well,"
she said. "It's pleasant to see a visitor. Have we been introduced?"
"This
is no time for comedy." He was irritated to find himself off guard and
acutely embarrassed.
"What
did you expect—tragedy, heroics?" Her eyes mocked him. At thirty-eight
Gelda Rickman was still a beautiful woman. She had a white, almost translucent
complexion, slightly slanting dark eyes and an incongruous but attractive
sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her mouth was wide, full,
and had once hovered almost continuously on the brink of laughter. She had, he
remembered, always reminded him of a fawn. She was small-boned, tiny, slender
and, God, she had kept her figure; she was still softly curved.
"This
is no time for lust," he thought angrily. He flung the stub of cigar at
the disposal slot and missed.
"What
do you want?" Her voice was still cool and almost amused. "No—let me
guess, some public function? After ten years I am to be taken from the shelf,
dusted, displayed and returned."
He said, thickly, "I had special reasons
for coming and I haven't much time." He thrust another cigar between his
lips and puffed a cloud of smoke. "You haven't much time either."
"I?"
She rose. "Director Rickman, don't push me. If I have a duty to fulfill I
will do it but don't order me around like an animal."
"You
little fool." He was suddenly brusque and impatient. "This is the
only decent thing I've done in my life and this is no public function. This is
operation rub-out and I happen to be the blot."
She
paled but she had always been quick. "You, of all people? I can hide you
for a while but you must know they'll find you sooner or later."
He stared at her, suddenly
lost for words. "You'd hide me?"
"Why, yes. Isn't that
why you came to me—for help?"
Rickman
felt a sudden burning sensation at the back of his eyes. She'd do that for him after all he'd—
"I'm
running." Emotion made his voice strangely harsh. "True to type I'm
running like a rabbit but I came to pick you up as I ran."
"Pick me up—why?"
"Oh
GodI" He was suddenly distraught. "Do I have to remind you what they
did to Fray's wife or how Menekin's mistress ended up?"
She
opened her mouth, her eyes strangely misted, then turned quickly. "You've
changed, haven't you? I can see it as well as feel it." Her voice was
controlled, practical and without emotion. "I have felt and experienced
certain changes within myself but I never expected—" She turned to face
him again. "Thank you, even if we failed, you remembered me. When do we
go?"
"Better not make it
more than an hour, less if you can."
"All
we need is food, a dozen proto-cubes should last us weeks."
He exhaled smoke.
"You're taking this very calmly."
"No."
Her eyes were suddenly misted again. "No, not calmly, gratefully, perhaps
desperately. I thought it was all over. I thought I should never see you again.
No, don't look like that, please. I'm not being possessive nor demanding. It's
just that you cared enough to come. It's just that you remembered me."
She smiled faintly but without bitterness. "It's been rather lonely.
Security wives have no friends. We cannot console ourselves with a lover. Only
a madman would make a pass at a Director's woman." She closed the small
case she had begun to pack. "I'm ready."
"Fine."
He turned towards the window and his muscles seemed to lock into painful
paralysis.
A
security flyer was just landing in the small park beside his own machine.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rickman turned slowly back from the window, his face pale.
"Gelda, I'm afraid we're too late. We've got company." He was filled
suddenly with the memories of a half forgotten love. "God, I'm sorry,
darling, damn sorry."
"How many?" Her
voice was still calm.
"In
that flyer probably two but. don't delude yourself. They'll be picked hatchet
men."
"Are
you going to give in now?" It was a direct question and there was no
challenge in her voice.
"I
hadn't thought—hell—no, I'm damned if I am." He was filled with a strange
sense of purpose. "They think they know me. They think I'll bluster,
threaten and finally go on my knees. They'd like that but they're not going to
get it." He made an abrupt gesture. "There's a gun in the wall-shelf
of the cocktai} bar, get it, hide it and if I go down—" He stopped, not
quite sure how to continue, then, pleadingly, "Don't let them get you
alive, Gelda, please."
She looked at him with a strange expression
in her eyes which awoke a curious response in himself. "I won't. I promise
you."
He
nodded and looked quickly through the window; two men were already skirting the
swimming pool and approaching the front door.
Trudy
and Valance! Rickman felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, against those two
he stood less chance than a trussed rabbit. Desperately he fought down a rising
panic, dropped into the nearest chair and tried to look relaxed. They would not
shoot him out of hand, not through the back nor as he rose from the chair.
Trudy and Valance were artists, sadistic gourmets and they'd want their fun,
particularly with a top line ex-director.
The
door slid open—all doors opened for Security men— and they stepped inside.
Trudy
was lean, tight-jawed, neatly dressed; one of his slightly protruding teeth
pushed down his lower lip at the corner giving him a permanent sneer. Valance
was short, jerky of movement, wooden-faced, blank-eyed and petulant.
"Sorry
to disturb you, Director." Trudy's polite sneer was at its evil best.
"Why,
hello, boys." Rickman was surprised at his own calm. "Is this
something important?"
"You
bet." Valance hopped from one foot to the other as if he had temporarily
lost his balance and only just regained it. "And you're it, Rickman.
You're the important one."
"I
am?" He was trembling inside but he managed to look suitably blank and
obtuse. Then he smiled. "This is a joke, eh? Ha, Dowd, I'll bet. Not the
first time he's pulled a gag like this." He chuckled convincingly and
stretched, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets.
"Yes,
yes, a joke." Trudy's cackle was high and thin like that of an old man.
"Only Dowd isn't playing this one— we are."
"That
so?" Rickman looked blank and vaguely apprehensive. "Something
up?"
Trudy
cackled again and leaned forward. "I'll say. You're right on the button,
Director."
It
was then that Rickman raised his arm and fired through his pocket.
Trudy
was still leaning forward when the charge hit him and he staggered uncertainly.
An expression of terrified disbelief filled his face briefly then his muscles
went limp. He fell, slowly and jerkily like a puppet, like something supported
by strings which were slowly being severed. There was a blackened hole in the
center of his chest and, as his body struck the floor, a grotesque puff of
black smoke was ejected from his open mouth.
Rickman
tried to swing round but he stood no chance. Valance was shocked but his
reflexes were as quick as ever. A gun was in his hand with terrifying quickness
but he never fired it.
There
was the rasping report of an energy weapon and Valance toppled backwards, his
head a blackened cinder.
Rickman
jerked from the chair and spun round. "Geldal" He caught her as she
fainted and carried her to the studio couch. The gun from behind the cocktail
bar was still clutched tightly in her hand.
He
forced whisky between her lips and chafed her hands desperately. "Gelda,
Gelda darling, wake up."
Slowly
her eyelids flickered open and she looked up at him. "I couldn't let him
kill you, not—not now that I've found you again."
God,
he thought suddenly ashamed, she's still in love with me. She's never stopped.
And she saved my life. She.killed Valance.
He
said brusquely, "Come, we've got to get out of here." "Of
course." She rose, pale and unsteady but obviously clear-headed. "We'd
better take my flyer. It's out at the front."
"Yes." He nodded quickly. "Ill
pre-set my own flyer to take off in an hour. No one will worry about Trudy and
Valance for some time. They like to enjoy their fun." He hurried from the
house and was back in less than a minute. "Lets go." He gripped her
hand and almost pulled her from the house.
The
parked vehicle which belonged to his wife was a luxury craft but fortunately
discreet in appearance. He was glad he had insisted on a four-contact receptor.
If they wanted to bring him down by cutting the beam they would have to bring
down about a third of the normal air traffic as well.
He
took the craft away slowly, close to the roof, and dropped skillfully into the
block rise-shaft. At express level he pressed the craft to twenty miles short
of absolute maximum and held it there. The flyer was fast. The city seemed to
fall back and diminish to toylike size in a matter of seconds.
He
fumbled in his pockets and produced a cigar. "So far, so good."
She
said, practically. "Where are we going? We must be going somewhere."
"There's only one place we can go and
that's to the D.A." "We shall be safe there?"
"I
think you will, Gelda. I don't think they'll take it out on you."
Her eyes filled with tears. "Meaning
that there's little hope for you."
"Look,
Gelda, let's face facts, there's nowhere else to go. Wherever we try to hide,
they'll find us. In another community, a people with some kind of principles
won't punish the innocent."
"But you—"
Rickman
puffed smoke. "From their point of view I'm a war criminal, but I'm giving
myself up voluntarily. I don't suppose I'll get more than a funeral oration but, perhaps, if the Gods are kind, 111 get a life sentence. In any case, it's our only hope."
She nodded, her face pale.
"Which way are we going?"
"The
way they won't expect—across the African continent We'll take our time, hole up
in daylight, and half bury the flyer in sand. Maybe it will work and maybe
we'll lose them. They're in no position to send out special patrols. Too many
people are breaking out as it is."
She
looked up at him. "Sitting here beside you it's hard to believe that less
than four hours ago I had no idea— It's strange, I sensed the change in you
even before you spoke. Oh, you looked younger but that means nothing. It was
something I sensed inside you as if you'd found yourself."
He
smiled, tilting his head at an angle, the cigar jutting from the comer of his
mouth. "See that? Remember how I used to do that? Good picture, good publicity—that's
about all I found, Gelda, a public picture."
"You're more than
that."
"Perhaps now, I've managed to put
something there, not much, perhaps just a few seeds but something."
"You have changed, haven't you?"
"Yes
and sometimes I don't quite understand it. Why have I changed and not Kaft or
Dowd, why not—" He stopped, frowning. "I didn't have it—my God, I
didn't have it." He turned towards her. "There was a specially
prepared serum when the plague started. I refused it, but it was given to all
security and official personnel. It might, or might not, have been extended to
others but the plague died out and no one bothered. Everyone I know, including
you, who escaped the injection, seems to be undergoing some sort of change, but
the rest—I wonder what's happening to the rest?"
The last few hundred miles were the worst and
Rickman tried to force the growing tension from his mind. He glanced at Gelda
sleeping beside him and sighed. She, too, had changed or was it that he saw her
in a different light? Dimly he remembered he had once loved and desired her
more than anything in the world. She was, he recalled, the only woman who had
ever made him feel like a man. Never been a man, had he?
He
thought bitterly that it was a shame he was probably going to his death.
Something had grown up between them, a responsive something that— God, he was
in love with her again, wasn't he? It was strange when you came to think about
it that he hadn't touched her even when they'd holed-up in the desert for two
days. It was not that he hadn't desired her. It was just that he seemed to have
developed sensitivity. He hadn't wanted the frantic desperate copulation of a
hunted beast. He'd wanted— God, he had changed, hadn't he?
His
thoughts began to creep back to the present and he forced them elsewhere. It
was not too difficult. A great deal had happened in the few days they'd been on
the run—that ship, for example.
They'd
found it hidden between two enormous sand dunes in the center of the African
continent. A long, alien vessel which had been curiously familiar and,
suddenly, he had remembered. It resembled the ship Statten had shown them, the
radar photograph. At the time he had thought "another bunch of blasted
aliens."
Despite an inward terror and fear of possible
pursuit, an even greater fear had forced him down to take a look. He'd had the
inner certainty that unless he investigated for himself a supernatural fear
would break his nerve completely. There was no natural explanation for this
belief but it had been too strong to dispute.
He had landed behind the biggest dune and
approached the alien cautiously and on foot with the gun ready in his hand.
A hundred yards from the ship he stumbled
over a dead alien. When he reached the ship there were seven more sprawled in
varying attitudes round the open port. Cautiously he stepped inside but the
ninth and last alien was also quite dead. He sat upright in a high-backed
padded recoil chair and a bank of instruments in front of him clicked and made
chuckling sounds in a kind of regular order.
Rickman
had the impression it was some sort of sub-space radio and functioning
automatically. Perhaps it had been sending a warning—the alien's last dying
act. It could easily have been a warning: "Danger—don't come. Danger—don't come." Yes,
it might well be something as factual as that.
Outside
he had studied the bodies and he saw that they had been dead only a short time.
There was no visible cause, no wounds, no charred holes from energy weapons but
their postures had been the postures of agony. They looked as if they had died
of some swift and terrible,disease.
He
paused and studied one of the creatures before he returned to the flyer. The
alien was humanoid but blue. He had a stunted, bow-legged, heavily muscled body
and the sharp fanged face of a hairless dog. There was something about the
thing which made Rickman shudder. The Vrenka, by comparison were off-beat but
nearly benevolent
Gelda
stirred beside him and awoke. "Are we getting close now?"
"A
hundred and eight miles." He was tired and his eyes felt gritty and hot.
"Do you think we'll
get through?"
"We might. Patrols were not increased as
Kaft thought it might give forewarning of his proposed attack." "Do
you think it will succeed?"
"If
it doesn't, he's had it. The whole structure of his regime is falling apart at
the seams."
She
said, simply, "I'm glad. I hope he fails, now that you're out. Strange, a
week ago—well, I thought you were like him."
"Perhaps, once, I was. No, that's wrong,
Kaft is a lot of things but not a coward. I was always a coward, I clung to
that bunch because I felt safe. As a matter of brutal fact I am still a coward
but I can think apart from it."
"I
know." Her voice was quite detached. "I know because I feel as you
feel. It isn't exacdy telepathy. It's a sort of emotional response."
"I think I know what
you mean."
"You
should because you should be feeling it, too." She paused as if seeking
words. "The whole world is changing, particularly for lovers." She
sighed. "I have the strange feeling that there have never been lovers but
only viewers, would-be lovers who saw the promised land from afar but never
reached it. Sowers of dreams who saw the bright flowers whither away before
they could grow to beauty."
Rickman
nodded and realized that a few years ago her words would have seemed affected
and completely meaningless. He remembered now that Gelda read and collected
books. Printed books such as had existed before the reader-screen replaced the
newspaper and periodical. Most of those books had been poetry books, a subject
which might well have been a suspect and alien language for all it had meant to
him then.
He
realized abruptly that to him alone it was still meaningless but that he could
understand and respond to it through her. God, he was beginning to understand.
They were growing together, gaining a clearer and wider picture of the world
through each other's faculties. Separated they would only be half-things. . . .
She
said, softly, "Yes—yes." As if he had said the words aloud. Then,
wistfully, "We had to wait so long."
"Think of all the generations who died
and never reached it." He paused, then said in a low voice, "There's
the coast ahead, only a few more minutes."
"I'm frightened, I think I'm frightened
for both of us. Must we go on?"
"I've
told you, dear, there's nowhere else to go and, one thing, these people
obviously have principles. They could have struck first and bargained
afterwards. In all probability that one blow would have been enough."
"What will you say to
them?"
"What
can I say to them? Although I was not, at the time, directly responsible, I
supported the people who buried them alive. My record isn't pretty."
"Can't you bargain
with them?"
Rickman
shook his head. "No thanks. Betrayal is not my currency anymore. Although
there is something they must know about counter-propaganda."
"I don't follow you
dear."
"They're
not getting battle plans or time and date of the proposed assault, but I have
to tell them this other thing—" Rickman stopped, frowning. "I don't
suppose they'll be able to do anything even then, but you never know. Perhaps
with Duncan's help—"
"You know Duncan,
don't you?"
"I've
met him. He always frightened me to death. Nothing I could lay my finger on.
Just something he sort of "gave off", vitality, intellect. God knows.
Of course, he was never so bad as Kaft painted him. He never started the plague
for example, although that yarn was put around a good deal. I don't think
there's any doubt, however, that Duncan is here on some sort of mission. Maybe
it's a good mission. Perhaps if I had not been so frightened I might have
backed it, but as it was then I wanted him killed. Looking back, my terror was
completely emotional, even superstitious. In my mind, Duncan was a kind of
alien bogey-man, towering even above the entire Administration and I felt we
had a tiger by the tail." He smiled faintly. "It looks as if we had,
but we damn soon let go. Kaft, of all people should have known better than play games with a superman."
Rickman paused. "What are you thinking?"
She
looked up, smiling. "I was listening, my dear. It just struck me suddenly
that you'd missed something, something about Duncan which, perhaps, only a
woman would sense."
"You don't know
him."
"I've
seen enough of him on news items, darling, to realize one important
thing." She hesitated, slightly. "This may shake you a litde, dear,
you see—Duncan isn't exactly a man."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"Your name?"
Sebastian barely glanced up from the papers before him.
"Rickman—Arthur
Rickman."
"Mr. Rickman, you were number four in
the Administration political structure. Why did you run away?" "They
were going to kill me."
"Why
run here? You must have known you would face charges of crimes against
humanity."
"Yes, I did but I
thought you would spare my wife."
Sebastian
looked up, his face thoughtful. "That was your sole reason?"
"That
coupled with the fact that there was nowhere else to go."
"May I question him?" Rickman
recognized Duncan's voice and shivered slightly. This would make a normal cross
examination look like—
"Mr.
Rickman, some three months ago the Administration and all security officers
were given a preventative against the plague. Were you included?"
"No, I refused."
"On what
grounds?"
"It's difficult. Call
it part hunch, part cowardice. I suspected that the serum was a rush job and
had not been fully tested. I disliked the idea of something mutated in my bloodstream."
"Thank you, that will
be all."
"Mr.
Rickman." Sebastian pushed the papers to one side. "Had you arrived
here a year ago you would have been tried and executed within three days. Now,
however, the world is changing and the evidence in our possession suggests that
you are changing with it. You will, therefore, be brought before a psychiatric
examining board headed by Mr. Duncan. If the findings of that board confirm
your change we shall wipe the slate clean. We shall give you a fresh start,
your past crimes will be erased from the records and you will be an absolute
discharge."
"Discharge?"
Rickman stared at him dully and had the sudden conviction he was going to
faint. He fought against it desperately, while faces blurred and the room
seemed to rock from side to side. At a great distance he heard Sebastian's
voice continuing—
"In
the new age and in the new order we judge a man not by crimes committed in the
past, because in the past he was insane. What we must ask ourselves is whether
that man is still insane or has he, like the world, stepped forward into
sanity."
Finally the voice stopped. Rickman overcame his
weakness and forced himself erect. "I did not expect this. I expected
execution, you would have been right to execute—" He stopped helplessly.
"Perhaps I would have pleaded. I don't know. I might have traded, but I
had nothing to trade. I can give no dates, no plans, nothing that would have
bought my life." He paused frowning. "They're in a bad way, you know.
The whole structure is toppling and they're desperate." He looked at
Duncan. "Some day this week you're going to lead a commando raid on Camp
Six to release the hostages. It won't be you, of course, but they'll say it
was. They're that desperate."
"What
effect will that have on normal events?" Sebastian was leaning forward,
frowning.
"The
hostages will be shot to pieces, of course, but some programed robots have been
constructed to resemble the Vrenka exactly. These same robots will be permitted
to run amuck in the city and Mr. Duncan will be made responsible. It's a
propaganda measure to swing public opinion away from Duncan before the
population explodes into rebellion. Kaft is prepared to sacrifice five thousand
innocent people to stop the riot. They'll be torn to pieces by these alleged
Vrenka."
"Thank
you, Mr. Rickman." Sebastian smiled faintly. "You have done us a
great service. Perhaps you would like to tell your wife the good news."
When
he had gone, Sebastian said, "We must stop this. Not only are innocent
Jives to be sacrificed needlessly, but we have moral obligations to the future
and our ex-enemy."
Duncan
grinned. "We have the space cruiser Boston also, which is almost as big as
Camp Six. If we're quick we could beat them to the punch."
"Excellent.
We could bring forward our own propaganda speech and undermine the whole thing
anyway." Sebastian was beginning to sound excited and boyish. "With
luck we can get the whole business going within the hour. While I'm speaking
the Boston can go in, pull out our ex-enemies and . . ."
"Ready,
sir?" The technician stood ready with his finger on the switch.
"I'm
ready." Sebastian watched the other depress the switch, smiled almost
boyishly and faced the microphone.
"Attention,
please. This is Paul Sebastian, elected mayor of the free community in sector
Brit."
In thirty cities throughout the world,
"concealed micro-units on a myriad of wave-lengths received and amplified
the words. They were concealed in crevices, air conditioner units, public
service vehicles and there was no escape from them.
For
five minutes Administration technicians fought desperately to jam the
broadcast but finally gave up in despair. Some of the micro-units were
recorders and they, in their turn, repeated the message later. Altogether the
entire speech was repeated five times and ninety-eight per cent of the population
heard it.
"I
am speaking to the enslaved, but freedom loving, people of the entire world.
Attention please. At eight a.m. on the first day of this week a space
vessel landed secretiy in this sector. The Captain and his entire crew of
officers and men voluntarily placed themselves, and their ship, at the
disposal of this community. The Captain was John D. Radnor and the ship was the
cruiser Boston.
"One
hour later this vessel was joined by the Tearaway, the Janero and the capital ship Deutschland captained respectively by Thomas Zimmer, Mark Halsey and Donald
Switzer. May I remind the peoples of the world that the capital ship Cosmos and the second cruiser squadron are light-years away and cannot get back
in less than eight weeks. The four remaining capital ships, together with
sixteen cruisers are out of commission or undergoing extensive overhaul—"
Sebastian
paused meanfully. "And this, gentlemen of the armed services, is the exact
position in a proposed assault which, your news services assure you, is a minor
police action. However, my reason for speaking to you was not for propaganda
purposes but something far more important. The Administration may, as it
boasts, rub us out like a bug, but their triumph would be short-lived. For this
government and all it stands for, the tides are running out. Night is coming
and for them there is no dawn. The entire world is changing and they must
change with it or be swept away forever.
"Already, hundred of millions listening
to my words, know the world is changing. Already these same millions are aware
of a new clarity of mind and the strange ability to reason uninfluenced by
emotion. To all comes a new vitality and even to the aged a fresh lease of
life. New meanings and new interpretations exist in the relationship between
man and woman, and the word "unity" has new meaning. ■
"You
have perceived these changes and in this, my first broadcast to an entire
people, I hope to explain them both in cause and effect.
'The
change is not in man alone but is taking place throughout the entire structure
of all living matter. Mother nature is putting her house in order and all
living things are finding their true purpose in an exact order.
"Consult,
if you wish, your medics and biologists. They will confirm my words on one
point alone. Today, in the human bloodstream, are micro-organisms which, a scant year ago, would have caused a painful and violent death. As the
days pass, the operation of a functioning nature will become more and more
apparent. Nature was never intended to be divided against itself. It was
designed as a functioning co-operative unit but it was
forced to near chaos and self-destruction by external forces which might have
eventually destroyed it completely."
Behind
the microphones Sebastian paused, sipped water, inhaled quickly at an already
lighted cigarette and began speaking again.
"Do
not imagine for one moment that these changes are confined to man and
microscopic life. In this world's remaining jungles the vegetation is both
changing its appearance and purpose. Incredulous observers report that carnivores
are to be seen devouring the thick broad leaves of a hitherto unknown plant. Tests of these same leaves give a basic protein reading far higher than the creatures chosen as a natural
prey.
"The fact that these same jungles are
spreading outwards at incredible speed of three feet a day shows that nature is
ready herself for new demands and a new dispensation.
"A
few days ago some of our own observers made a brief study of the African
continent and here, too, were visible changes. In some spots coarse grass was
appearing, usually close to the banks of the ancient waterways. More astounding
stall was one deserted section of the coastline where a small green flowerless
shrub with wirelike vines appeared to be doing distillation jobs."
Sebastian
paused and sucked alight a cigarette. "These plants were drawing in sea
water, removing the salt for their own nutrition and passing back the fresh
water into the desert. Already ponds and in some cases lakes were beginning to
form."
He
paused again deliberately. "The deserts are being pushed back. Chaos gives
way to order. Let us look at that chaos before we leave it behind forever.
"Consider
the senseless waste and the equally senseless savagery to which we once glibly
referred to as "the laws of nature." Under these "laws" is
every creature which lived, fought against or devoured each other. On this
battlefield, man, the dominant life form, walked alone and, throughout this
world, was hated. Only in rare cases—the dog was a notable example—did man and
another life-form have a dim realization of some sort of reciprocal tie between
all living creatures. Other creatures knew, of course. It was part of their
inherent structure to know, but that knowledge was inhibited by external
pressure.
"Strangely,
only one class of living creatures managed to fulfill their exact purpose and
became, in consequence, virtual pariahs. These were the parasites. These
creatures were fulfilling their purpose completely. The trouble was, however,
that their unfortunate hosts didn't know about it. They didn't know that the
association should be complementary—that rare co-operation and interdependence
betwen life forms which science calls symbiosis. Upon this word
"symbiosis" rests the entire structure of the new order and I am
going to try and put it before you in simple words.
"We
all know, that despite chaos, the human body tried to function as a single
unit. Although this same body often divided against itself and was compelled to
divert a prodigious amount of energy defending itself against outside attack,
nonetheless every living cell tried to work for the benefit of the whole. True
order should be like this with every life form working together for the greater
good."
Again
Sebastian paused for long seconds. "True order is a complete symbiosis of all nature with man at the peak, just as the brain is the peak or natural fulfillment of the functioning human body.
"In
this new order the human mechanism need no longer maintain a vast army of
aggressive cells to resist hostile invasion. The micro-organisms which once
threatened his life now work with his body to maintain its functions. Consequently,
man enters a new estate in which his life expectation may be measured not in
years but in centuries.
"As
I have tried to stress, all life is interdependent and mutually beneficial one
to the other. As the years pass man will begin to see not only his dependence
upon, but his responsibility to the entire structure of nature. Just as, in the
previous analogy, the human brain protects and functions through its body so
will man protect yet function through nature."
To the listening world there was a long pause
then Sebastian said, "It seems even on the brink of a new era there are
those who would turn back the clock or, ironically, stand on the shore and
order the changing of the tides. I. have just learned that orders have been
given for an all-out assault on this community. This is the last throw of a
dying order, the weak but desperate gesture engendered by a succession of
dismal failures. Perhaps this gesture will mean the end of this society, but
nothing the Administration can do can change the tides. Order condemns them,
the world condemns them and even an ex-enemy snatched from their savage prison
today and carried by us to safety can only turn from them with revulsion for
these are no longer human."
Faintly
and far away the listening world heard the clangor of the alarms, but Sebastian
continued to speak.
The
Administration technicians had done their best but several hundred thousand
micro-robotics relaying the message on hundreds of different wave lengths were
beyond their powers.
Kaft
realized that there was only one hope left. After the attack on Camp Six which
had snatched the Vrenka hostages from under his nose, his only hope was to wipe
out the opposition forever.
He
overruled Statten, picked his main assault groups and wrote an epitaph after
their names long before they reached the fighting—they were expendable.
The assault was divided into two sections and
scheduled for precise tasks under the code names of "Bludgeon" and
"Cardiac."
Bludgeon
was the main group and intended, as the name suggested, to crush the opposition
by sheer weight of numbers and material.
Kaft
was quite certain it would fail. Operation Bludgeon would lose him a million
men, perhaps more, but it might spell the success of Cardiac. No diversions or
feints for Kaft, none of the subtler skills of strategy but a gigantic all-out
assault to hide the real aim—Cardiac.
He
began the attack with an armada of aircraft, troop-freighters and
strato-flyers.
A hundred miles from the target, however, one
tenth of this force had become many converging lines of wreckage. The orbiting
space-craft, highly accurate in precision gunnery, were taking an appalling
toll of the invasion force.
Kaft, watching the progress of the assault
from his underground stronghold was, however, unperturbed. He had expected
losses; he had expected near-massacre. With a strong space fleet backing the
defenders, the losses were bound to be high.
The
insurgent's deflector screen was, however, something of a shock. He had
anticipated resistant devices, even a major force screen but not a gimmick
which blew his own fire-power back in his face.
The
mass discharge of energy weapons which, in a matter of seconds, should have
pushed back and burned out the generators of any force screen known to science,
simply gushed sideways in a mushroom of blue-white flame. Four wings, or eight
hundred and twenty-two aircraft, were caught in that gout of diverted energy.
In one second an entire section of sky was black with aircraft; the next only
some wisps of grey smoke and a few falling fragments showed that they had ever
existed.
Cardiac,
however, went well. The compact force of picked specialist and trained fanatics
landed without loss just beyond the deflector screen and immediately went into
action.
The
new energy borers rolled out of their transports, whined shrilly and began to
sink into the ground like mechanical moles. Cooling devices followed and the
assault units poured down the resulting tunnels.
Within
seven minutes they were through to the first level and fighting their way down
a secondary tunnel opposed only by light forces which they pushed back quickly
by sheer weight of numbers and a horrific disregard for losses.
Cardiac
knew exactiy where it was going and the tall security major in command wore a
thin sneer of satisfaction. "Another few hundred yards down, Lieutenant,
and we'll have the bastards on their knees. They'll be guarding special
installations, naturally, but we're after something bigger, better and more
vulnerable. Experts have been taking sonic checks on this place for months and
they located the main shelter. Once we hold that, we can squeeze them into submission.
This place is equipped to house four thousand adults and six times that number
of children. Once taken I shall warn the entire community that for every shot
fired against government forces will mean the death of one woman and three
children." He paused and sighed. "Be damn glad when this business is
over, I feel so damn tired—"
Ahead
of them the assault forces had reached a wider tunnel with a number of small
openings on either side. Resistance appeared to be weakening and counter fire
inaccurate.
Combat
inexperience, fanaticism and the excitement of pursuit led the advancing troops
past these smaller openings on a wave of exalted over-confidence. They were
security police, not combat troops and were drugged with early success. This
was a push-over. They'd have this little business tied up in less than twenty
minutes. More than four hundred men had gone forward before something green
reached from the first opening and caught one of the iruining men as he went
past^The green things lifted him high and flung him against the opposite wall.
More
waving green things appeared in an opening on the opposite side of the tunnel.
One swung at a man's head and decapitated him bloodily.
In
the immediate vicinity morale wavered. Four more Vrenka appeared and it snapped
completely. Few of the men had fought in the war and were psychologically
ill-equipped to deal with the aliens. They fired wildly, panicked and tried to
retreat. They were immediately shot down by their own officers as an example
but it was too late. Already panic-stricken men were shouting
"Vrenka!" and the tunnels echoed to the word.
The
forward units which had run into stiff opposition and were suffering heavy
casualties realized^ abruptiy that the aliens were behind them and morale
crumpled completely. Within six seconds the entire force was in hopeless chaos.
Hundreds were fighting to get out while groups of ruthless experts shot down
the retreating men in an effort to get the attack going again,...
CHAPTER TWENTY
In the stronghold Kaft sighed and snapped off the viewing
screen. "We've lost." His voice was factual.
"We've barely
started." Statten was shrill.
"The
enemy has barely started." Kaft leaned back, his face expressionless.
"Cardiac has been blunted and we'll never get it rolling again."
"You
should have let me handle this." Statten looked shriveled and accusing.
Kaft
shrugged. "It was a gesture. Victory could never have been
exploited."
"I don't follow you at
all, what—"
"You
never have been able to reason, have you?" Kaft made a reproving noise in
his throat. "Always the thinking is left to me. Always I must add the
column of figures." He leaned forward. "You know as well as I that we
confirmed that alien ship on the African desert. You also listened to the enemy
broadcast. You heard but were too lazy to follow up with a little
reasoning." He leaned forward and touched a switch. "I suggest you
listen to that part again—"
There
was a faint hissing sound. Then Sebastian's voice filled the room: "Just
as the human body once mobilized to protect itself against outside invasion so,
today, does the entire structure of nature mobilize to repel invasion from
out-world life-forms whose emanations are pronouncedly hostile.
"In
proof of this claim, less than a week ago an alien vessel of unknown origin
landed in the center of the African continent. This vessel was obviously an advanced scout for an invasion fleet and it was treated as such. The crew left their craft for
preliminary survey but survived only a few hours. When they were found they
were past help, they had been destroyed not by the weapons of man but by the forces of nature.
"This,
it may now be told, is the secret of the Mattrain worlds. A solar system
wherein the true order of nature has existed since the inception of life. An
order of complete symbiosis with all nature functioning in unity like the parts
of a perfectly contrived mechanism. The same integral functioning of nature
as it applies to Mattrain is being brought to pass on this planet now—"
Kaft leaned forward and cut
the speech. "Well?"
"I
don't like it." Dowd began to pace up and down. "It makes near sense
and that's more frightening than fantasy."
"You
can add near sense as you call it and reach a total-would you care to
check?" Kaft smiled thinly and held up a thin pink hand. "Let us take one point
at a time." He extended a finger. "The world is changing perhaps, or perhaps not due to the causes Sebastian
states."
"You
don't believe this fantasy?" Statten's voice was more frightened than
challenging.
"I
face facts, Statten, and there are more in my possession than in yours."
He sighed. "For example, programing no longer "takes" and those
already programed threw off its effects. Elgin, our local director, was torn to
pieces by a crowd of misshapen people who, although still twisted with pain,
were not feeling enough to hold them back."
"Is
that why Ralston shot himself?" Dowd turned in the act of helping himself
to a stiff brandy.
"Not
quite." Kaft shook his head slowly. "I don't know it all. Apparently
he ran into Hengist when the enemy raided Camp Six. As you know they were old
enemies but Hengist took no revenge. Later that day Ralston went berserk and
had to be destroyed by his own men. He kept shouting, *I can't stand his damn pity.' "
"What
was he shouting that for?" Dowd gulped down the brandy.
"I
don't know but I can draw my own conclusions." Kaft sounded remote.
"Ralston sensed what was going to happen to him."
"Heroic." Dowd's
voice sounded slurred.
"Hitting
it, aren't you?" Statten's voice was harsh and accusing. "I should
have thought at a time like this—"
"Don't
push me, General." Dowd was already dialing for another drink. "In
the first place I'm liable to hang one on you and, in the second, I feel too
God damn sick to care."
"Have you seen a
medic?"
"What
time have any of us had for anything like that?" Dowd gulped at the
liquor and sighed. "I suppose I should really; I ache all over and my
hands and feet feel numb. Can't feel my right hand to be honest. It looks all
right but—" He broke the sentence to raise the glass and drain it.
"Careful,
Dowd, careful." Statten sounded alarmed. "Alcohol could be an
outright poison if you're really sick."
"Save
it. Nothing can make any difference." Kaft sounded detached.
"What'n hell do you
mean by that?"
"I told you, Dowd,
near-sense figures add up to a total."
Dowd scowled, dialed
another drink and said, "Add 'em."
"You'll admit to
certain visible changes?"
"Yes—er—yes."
"Rickman changed?"
"Hell, yes, that was
too damn obvious."
"In
short, everyone changed but us. Now we have to ask ourselves why."
"What!" Statten
half rose.
"It's
simple enough, General. There was a plague and we had an injection. That
injection cut us off from change, shut the door with us on the outside. We're
like dead branches on a young tree. We're being disposed of because we don't belong. We're in exactly the same position as those alien scouts but the process
is slower."
"You're
mad." Statten's voice sounded as if something inside it had rusted.
Kaft
shrugged. "I could be but I don't think I am. That is why I said we could
never exploit victory. The entire security force was given the injection. You
cannot hold down conquered territory with dying men."
"We
must do something." Statten was shrill. "We must have treatment, we
must get Conner and—"
Kaft
cut him short. "Conner is dead, very dead indeed. I am not the only man
capable of adding figures, you know. Someone else arrived at the same total
before me. Conner and his entire staff were shot to pieces in the laboratory.
Presumably someone went there for assurances and didn't get them."
"What
the devil did we launch the attack for?" Statten looked bemused.
"Why
not?" Kaft shrugged. "One does not surrender to fate without a
fight."
"You
sound very calm." Statten was obviously controlling himself with
considerable effort. "You have more or less stated we're doomed—don't you core?"
"I
pride myself on being a realist, General. This is not the end I would have
chosen but there are compensations. I rejected perhaps several hundred years of
life—Duncan, I remember, offered me a thousand—but there was a price. Rickman,
you will remember underwent personality changes. We might have gone the same
way. One thousand years as changed men, General, one thousand years to recall
our mistakes and remember that we lost an empire. A thousand years to live and
see others use the power and authority which was ours. Speaking for myself,
gentlemen, no thank you."
"But we're going to die." Statten's eyes seemed to bulge.
"You've
got a point there." Dowd's voice was thick and uncertain. "I applaud Kaft's viewpoint. There are com—compensations
in death but giving in is another thing." He began to dial for another
drink. "We run back to our underground stronghold like rats down a hole
but odd, this is an operational headquarters not a tomb. Drunk or sober I'm not
going to sit down and die."
"You'll
sit and watch yourself rot." Kaft said it almost casually.
"You may." Dowd turned unsteadily from the
auto-serve and banged his fist heavily on the table. "There are other
medics, other laboratories, other opinions. I don't give in, I don't give way,
I don't—" He became suddenly conscious that they were not listening to
him. "What's the matter? What are you staring at? Answer mel Do you hear?
I'm not—"
He
stopped. Sweat beaded his forehead but he did not panic. He seemed to be held
in stasis, strangely shut from feeling or emotion—
With
a kind of frozen calm he leaned forward, picked up the little finger of his
right hand and dropped it into the disposal slot. . . .
Duncan did not hear the
door open but he sensed that someone was in the room and turned quickly.
"Martha I"
"Yes.
Martha." She paused to suck alight a cigarette. "The clinic
discharged me today with blessings. It's a fine thing I must spend my first
hours out of bed looking for my man."
"Martha,
please. This is not a simple issue, you must understand—"
"That you're not a
man?"
He paled. "You
knew?"
"My dear, you're the expert on all these
newly functioning faculties. Of course I knew and, no, it doesn't matter."
"You're twenty-eight and I'm—" "Sixteen—seventeen?"
He
flushed. "Under the slower processes of the new order—about
seventeen."
She
put her arms around his neck. "We marry at seventeen even on earth you
know."
"I'm a kid, Martha. I'm gauche,
ignorant, inexperienced and I've never known a woman intimately in my
life."
She
pressed her lips to his cheek. "It's about time you did, Peter." Her
face was suddenly flushed. "Hold me close, darling, hold me close—"
Outside
Gaynor turned and winked. "Well, that seems to be that. I suppose one day
he'll remember that I'm the only visitor that lock would respond to."
Estelle
squeezed his arm. "I knew you'd help. She seemed so lost when I met
her."
Slowly
they began to walk back. Round the next comer they met a Vrenka heading in the
opposite direction. The alien carried a small blackboard which it immediately
extended. On it was printed "Good day to you." There was a
scratching sound and the words "Mr. Gaynor" were abruptly appended.
Gaynor grinned and said,
"Good day and thank you."
When
they were out of earshot he laughed. "Even our ex-enemies are becoming
respectable."
She
smiled up at him. "I was frightened when I first saw them. I think a lot
of people were, but general opinion has changed."
He
laughed. "Blame the kids for that. They seem to think they're some sort of
toy."
"Don't
you think the mayor took an awful chance letting them loose?"
"I thought about that
myself but, after long consideration, no. As the mayor explained in his speech,
a changing nature would destroy an outworlder whose emanations were hostile. I
think the fact of their survival proved their attitude and, at the same time,
whatever happened in nature must have effected them also. If we can think more
clearly so, no doubt, can they." He laughed again and shook his head.
"I must confess it shook me rigid when I first saw a crowd of children
playing maypoles with one in Hyde Park."
"They're
very gentle, somehow. They don't even look violent anymore."
He
sighed. "I don't think the Vrenka, as a race, has ever been as violent as
man. They became violent only when they thought we meant to destroy. Any
creature will become violent if its life is threatened."
"You have strong
feelings about this, haven't you?"
"Very
strong, one day survival may depend on the cooperation of all intelligent
life-forms no matter what their appearance." He paused, frowning. "I
can understand a lot now. I can understand why the Mattrain stood apart and
refused to help. You don't give weapons to the insane. If they had tried to
help us directly we should probably have regarded it as an act of aggression.
Fortunately fate provided the solution, they sent back Duncan as negotiator and
superman."
"Yes,"
said Estelle softly. "Only he's not a superman now, not at this
moment—"
"I made you happy and, if I couldn't see
it in your eyes, I should still know because you're part of me now."
"And
you of me." He kissed her. "You know, Martha, long before I saw you
on that educational programme, long before I fell in love with you I used to
look at this planet and shudder. All around me was beauty and, on this, my home
world was nothing but ugliness. Although I had been educated to understand the
causes, I was still shocked by what
I
saw and a very necessary part of my education became a torture." He sighed and shook his head. "The Mattrain are
immensely tall but they move with indescribable grace. Their marriages never
failed while Earth's seldom endured. It was like looking down from heaven into
hell. It was almost a relief when they told me I could do something about
it." He sighed again. "It had to be done, you know. Another hundred
years and there would have been no human race."
She
touched his cheek with her finger tips. "Tell me about it. I have to share
it now—remember?"
"I
remember." He smiled. "Well, the plague was the beginning, after
that there would have been something else and then something else until there
was no one left to fight or devise counter serums."
"What stopped the
plague?"
"Measures
taken against given conditions." He paused and smiled. "This is right
in your field, darling. With degrees in radiology and as an accredited solar physicist you should get this
perfectly. What would happen if micro-organisms in a culture tray were subjected to hard
radiation?"
She thought about it.
"They'd either die or mutate."
He
averted his face slightiy. "Martha, Earth is the culture tray and the
entire planet has been subjected to the influence of hard radiation since the
inception of life." He paused. "In the known universe there are
countless suns. Most of these suns function perfectly but a small number are
defective. We call these defectives "Rogue Suns" and Earth has one of
them."
She
stiffened, suddenly understanding. "So that's the ancient enemy, our own
sun. I should have seen it, Peter, and I've been calling myself a solar
physicist."
"Don't
blame yourself, dear. You had no subject for comparison just as man had no way
of knowing he had been knocked sideways and inverted." He smiled grimly.
"We owe a great deal of sorrow to our ancient enemy.
His radiation was increasing yearly and was on the verge of proving fatal. This
is the kind of prodigal sun for whom no one would kill a fatted calf."
"But
what could anyone do about a sun." She looked dazed.
He
laughed. "I'm with you. Even the Mattrain have yet to come up with a
technique for manipulating a sun. They did, however come up with a simple
solution which, although quite beyond my science, I was able to put into
effect. The answer was insulation. The Mattrain created a gaseous substance
which, when released in quantities, completely cloaked Earth's atmospheric
envelope. This gas kept out the dangerous radiations completely and reduced
the prodigality to its correct level. As you are beginning to see, Nature,
relieved of external pressures, knows her job and is putting her house in order
rapidly, although it will be centuries before we reach a true and absolute
balance."
"It's
miraculous." She lay still for a long time with her face intent and
thoughtful. Then she moved closer to him. "This love between us—it is part
of this change?"
His
arms tightened about her. "At this moment, at this time, and to me, it is
all of it..."
Foster child of the
Mattrain—planet of supermen-Duncan returned to Earth, his birthplace, only to
meet suspicion, hostility and hatred. Upon arrival, he was engulfed by an angry
populace who, fearing that he was a spy, welcomed him with jeers and signs
saying, ALIEN GO HOME!
To Duncan this
reception was not unexpected. He had come, not for his pleasure, but for a purpose—his
was a mission on whose success hinged the existence of the whole human race.