The Darkness on Diamondia, page 17
It was more information than Gerhardt was qualified to digest immediately. Since he was not a man who admitted ignorance (if he could help it) he did not immediately ask for clarification.
He did toy with the idea of pretending to be scared but decided no.
Instead: “What about me?” he urged. “Why not just put me down somewhere?”
But Zoolanyt had his orders about that, also. “Your expert knowledge may be needed to deal with what your chemical weapon did to those two.”
“You don’t need me for that.” He spoke halfheartedly. “They’ll awaken spontaneously in an hour.”
He didn’t really expect that to change the decision that had already been made. And it didn’t. Zoolanyt ignored the words.
The plane flew on. Gerhardt sat there, neither happy, afraid, angry nor sad. At twenty-six (he looked younger) he had no personal feelings that he knew about: simply knowledge and trained responses.
Literally, his responses had been ground into his nervous system by artificial energies that matched the vital neural flows in his body and brain.
His response to a new situation like this was suspension of response.
So he waited; not blank, of course. It was his custom to review a patient’s case history prior to the patient’s arrival. There was no patient coming, but Bray and Lositeen were an analogous situation. Gerhardt reviewed every word and implication.
He decided for the interim: I’ll let them both think they’re free.
…After the two awakened, and later, after the craft landed, and there they were on the ground, Gerhardt maintained his no response status. Except, he found an opportunity in the jungle to whisper to Bray-Morton that false Mortons were going to be killed.
What to do finally?
No decision on that by Gerhardt. Judgement suspended. Response delayed.
Wait.
Thirty-One
The first time Morton mind-brothered, he aimed at Marriott.
A test. He said nothing. Just looked.
A jungle scene… And, accidentally, apparently a key moment. A large group of Irsk guerrillas were coming across a clearing to where Marriott stood beside a stretcher, which was being held up by two Irsk. Marriott was gazing across the stretcher at the approaching group; and so Morton could only guess who was on the stretcher. The edge of it was barely visible from the corner of Marriott’s eyes.
He guessed Isolina.
As the fighting dyl came up, the carriers lowered the stretcher to the grass. This action momentarily attracted Marriott’s attention. He turned. Looked down. It was Isolina.
She looked forlorn. The beautiful Diamondian sometime prostitute was out here in the jungle where she could make no clever use of her body.
Was she afraid? There was a dullness in her brown eyes that reflected a lower energy state than fear—apathy, perhaps. Yet during those moments that Morton (through Marriott) stared at her, it was also obvious that she was not completely defeated. Something in her manner suggested that she was taking note of her surroundings; observing, listening.
Indeed, as he looked at her, she lifted herself and gazed at the new arrivals.
Marriott did the same. It was significant to Morton that the fighting dyl ignored their deposed leader and addressed the Irsk stretcher-bearers. “Is this,” one of the newcomers asked, “the girl friend of the one who has the mind-brother?”
“Yes.”
The guerrilla glided forward in the tentacled fashion and stood above the woman. “In your opinion,” he addressed her, “what is your boyfriend, the Negotiating Colonel trying to achieve?”
Marriott had turned again, and so Morton not only heard but saw the interchange. It was clear from the expression on Isolina’s face that being directly spoken to had alerted her. She was visibly thinking hard, as she said after a moment’s hesitation, “Colonel Morton is involved in many negotiating activities. To which one do you refer?”
“A confusion has arisen as to which is Colonel Morton’s real body. Normally this would be a desirable condition—interchangeability makes it easier for the darkness to deal with large groups of people. However, in this situation we need to find some way of identifying the real one correctly. Is there any clue that you can give us?”
The look on Isolina’s face showed that it was a difficult question for her. But she clearly had no intention of making such an admission, for she said quickly, “As everyone knows, the Negotiating Committee is here to achieve an Irsk victory, and unless the Irsk do something to turn the Committee members against them, the Colonel Morton who is in favor of the Irsk winning this war, will be the real one.”
It was—Morton had to admit it—an impressively skillful dialogue on the part of Isolina Ferraris. Highly disturbing, therefore, to realize that he could still think of no way to save her life.
…Morton did his second mind-brothering with the quartet of Bray, Gerhardt, Lositeen and Zoolanyt, utilizing Dr. Gerhardt as his viewpoint.
Impression of neutralness. The scene: trees, brush, a narrow tail; everything hemmed in. The young psychiatrist walked directly behind Lositeen and though they were only a few yards from each other, he kept losing sight of that silent being, so dense was the jungle.
Morton could hear sounds from behind Gerhardt. Presumably, the noises were caused by Bray and Zoolanyt, but not once during this initial contact did Gerhardt turn his head.
The very coldness of the man was ultimately admirable. Literally, Gerhardt was not disturbed by his situation.
…On his second contact with the little group, Morton mind-brothered with Lositeen. And that was sad. A blank mind watched the jungle trail and seemed to draw its responses automatically from a subawareness level. Morton in his training period had been chemical; and he had never had a total shut off like this.
It was sad that the Irsk, who had seemed so mighty a factor because of his present life guardianship if the Lositeen Weapon, was suddenly a nothing. Yet it looked that way. The kindly disposed, hard working antirebel presented a conditioned appearance that was as close to zero as a living creature could be.
Could I dehypnotize him? Morton wondered.
Since he was still taking no actions, still only looking, still with no plan for coping with the vast power of the enemy… he merely thought that and did nothing.
Soon there would have to be action against the colossus in the sky. But not yet.
Back up in the field, Morton told himself: It has to be a victory that I can now do mind-brothering on my own decision… From this vantage point, with his body either in a bed in the Corapo military post (preferably) or in a nearby hospital, he could for the first time contact anyone—except, apparently, the people who were in the Colonel Charles Morton lineup.
He had tried twice more for Bray; and once (in those two attempts) found himself sharing the brain of a Diamondian, who walked along a street of a Diamondian city that Morton did not recall having seen before. For a few minutes, he observed a Diamondian male’s inner world; then, shuddering, he withdrew. The second attempt, he mind-brothered with an Earth federation soldier who was making love to a prostitute.
Interesting but discouraging. He very much wanted a conversation with Bray. But, apparently, that was a 10,000 to one chance and therefore not practicable.
Where else could he go that would be valuable to him now? What people should he contact? He made several attempts to visualize the Irsk duplicate in the Gyuma jungle, the luminous creature that had talked to Joaquin after the decimation of the Diamondian peace group.
Got nothing. Which was slightly baffling. But it again emphasized that the enemy was not really down on the planet. Because, aside from that one try (and it was a failure), he really could not think of anyone else (besides Marriott) to mind-brother with.
Should I talk to Marriott?… Once more, he decided …not yet.
The next time he contacted Gerhardt, it was shortly before dusk and another key moment.
The route of the little group of four had finally brought them to the top of a hill. And there, below and around, was the view of the Gyuma Ravine that Morton had been hoping for.
Everybody stopped. Gerhardt did so to catch his breath after the climb. Through the psychiatrist’s glasses Morton saw a jungle land, already darkened by the long shadows from a sun that was sinking toward the west. The trees spread like a mist of gray and black, and some green to a remoter distance than his preconception of it.
Shadows, thick growth, faraway cliff walls—it was impressively sizable. Sometimes (he thought) one tended to be overwhelmed by interstellar, multi-light-year separations and failed to realize that sixteen miles of jungle three miles wide constituted a respectable area, particularly for beings who were afoot.
The heights eye look greatly relieved him. The darkness, he thought, will have a hard time pinpointing anyone in this huge, he relished the meaning, wilderness.
He accompanied the two humans and two aliens down the far side of the steep hill. And was still with them on a stretch of open ground, still up above the floor of the ravine, when there was a sound and a flash of light ahead. Lositeen, who had remained in front of Gerhardt, stopped. The friendly Irsk reached back with one tentacle, which he placed on Gerhardt’s arm urging him down.
As Gerhardt sank into some long grass, Bray crawled up beside him. A moment later, Zoolanyt came up from Bray’s rear, and he also knelt down. During the minute of silence that ensued, Morton attempted to reconstruct the sound that Gerhardt had heard.
To his practiced awareness it was an energy noise; the kind that metal can make when a flow of electrons or protons or other particles is set in motion by overriding force.
But there are friendly energy sounds and unfriendly. This noise had in it, as Morton now relayed it through his awareness, something of the unpleasant, sinister quality of a steel rattlesnake.
Power!
It occurred to him that the flash of brightness was a light counterpart of the sound. In his analogy he conceived it to be the rattler striking with a flickering movement of its steel bright head.
…Disconcerting, after reacting to the event out there with such an eerie stream of speculation, to realize what they had witnessed was probably an intense electrical manifestation, deadly, not to be dismissed as minor, definitely an enormous output—but mundane.
He waited there, aware that, incredibly, the psychiatrist remained in the same frozen, no response state as earlier. It was Bray who broke the verbal silence of the group. “What,” he asked, breathless, “was that!”
The two Irsk didn’t know. Zoolanyt said presently, “I’ve just talked to Mgdabltt. And he has no idea either. He is anxious to question Colonel Charles Morton.”
The real Colonel Charles Morton, hearing those words through Gerhardt’s ears, decided that it was time to act. Night was falling. His observational stance had provided him with a priceless opportunity to think and to look and to experience the fantastic ability to mind-brother.
With that behind him, what should he do first? Talk to Marriott, obviously.
Like a wraith, he faded out of Gerhardt’s mind. In point of distance, he went about three miles. In terms of reality, light-years.
Thirty-Two
Straightforwardness.
Morton’s duplicate somewhere inside Marriott’s brain said aloud, “Captain, I have just this minute mind-brothered with you. I’d like to talk to you.”
There was a long pause after he spoke the greeting. During the pause, Morton was able to observe that the group of guerrillas and the two Irsk who carried the stretcher with Isolina on it, and Marriott, were walking along at the bottom of a cliff. Marriott, as it quickly developed, brought up the rear.
The physicist was quick. He slowed. He fell back several steps then said in a low voice, “What do you want?”
“Is there any way,” Morton asked, “that we can work together and defeat the—” he hesitated over the word but only for a few seconds, “Mahala System? You saw the fireworks just now, didn’t you?”
Immediate astonishing reaction. Marriott’s lips quivered. Tears came into his eyes. Startling to feel another man’s emotions so directly. But Morton felt them, and they were disconcertingly intense.
“We’re all in extreme danger,” Marriott whispered. “What we saw is only a tiny sample. Diamondia is about to become a shambles. The Earth federation forces will be exterminated. The Diamondian people are on the verge of being killed to the last man, woman and child. And even the Irsk may not survive. I can’t at this moment explain why it’s holding back at all, but I know that the only hope we have is if I can get back the control I lost to you.”
To Morton it sounded like an attempt to overwhelm him. But unfortunately it also felt like truth. He addressed Marriott again. “Why don’t we have a discussion? The other night I said I was open to helping you. Maybe we can bypass that election and just give control back to you. Can we? I’m willing. Will the Irsk permit it?”
Marriott laughed, a sharp, barking laugh of disdain. Amazing the instant change of emotion in the man, from deep terror to cynicism.
Marriott said arrogantly, “They never had any say in my original control. And if you mean it—and if we can work out a method of return whereby you don’t learn what my control system was—then they’ll have no say now.”
As he heard those words and that tone, Morton had a thought about Marriott, not for the first time: This is not an easy man to like… But obviously that mustn’t be a factor. In a crisis, mere personality madness was immaterial. He had in his time found many able men hard to take. But every one of them had at the decisive moment been on the side of the human race.
So there was no second choice, really. Marriott it had to be. “Consider it settled,” Morton said hurriedly. “But tell me, since you’re so dangerous to it, why didn’t the darkness destroy you after you were deposed?”
“You don’t understand,” was the reply. “It’s logical within its frame. I’m not dangerous to it now. Besides, I’m always connected to the Corapo defense, so I don’t believe it has ever thought of attacking me. Then, too, it has a hard time killing anyone by selection. It deals in large groups, not individuals. It probably knows where all the cities are, and it will first wreck all buildings with iron and steel in them—which is just about every house and structure on the planet. Then it will continuously stir up rock that has iron in it… If you can, picture walking along an open countryside and suddenly the ground under you, with you on it, is jerked up a hundred feet. That’s what we saw. There was an enormous electrical discharge when that happened.”
His voice, as he spoke, was hoarse. He seemed to have forgotten his companions a short distance ahead. It was too loud. He was overheard. The nearest Irsk slowed and turned. The large, misty blue eyes stared at Marriott. Then: “Oh, somebody’s mind-brothering with you.” The guerrilla was tolerant. “Can’t you just whisper your replies like the rest of us do?”
The dyl turned without waiting for an answer and glided on.
Marriott said in a low voice, “We’re very close to the ship. Where’s your body?” When Morton hesitated, the physicist urged, “I’ve got to know where you are for what I’m going to do.”
Morton temporized, “Suppose I tell you when you’re ready.”
The other man agreed at once. “But that means you’ve got to stay with me, so that I can communicate with you at a moment’s notice.”
The requirement startled Morton. Because it had the black and white characteristic of a puzzle. He thought: Really, everywhere I look the puzzle aspect continues…
Truth was, he could think of no other place where he ought to be or go. He did want to talk briefly to Isolina as soon as he could figure out a way to help her. But that was all.
On that basis, with that one reservation, he agreed.
And missed a momentous meeting.
Thirty-Three
It was half an hour later. Dusk misted everything. Lositeen, who was still in front, stopped. He glanced back at Gerhardt and actually seemed to be himself for that moment. He said in his gentle voice, “There’s somebody coming. A duplicate of something. Not an Irsk.”
Bray and Zoolanyt came up to where Gerhardt and Lositeen waited. The four stared along the dim trail at the… demon.
There was still light farther, higher, up. And so the luminous being was correspondingly hard to see. His head, though not manlike or Irsk-like, was egg shaped—In those first moments, Bray had a strong impression of a leonine being. His eyes were wide apart, round and golden in color.
He paused less than fifteen feet from the little group, and he said in a voice that had an odd lisp to it, “Colonel Charles Morton, I wish to speak to you. Come closer.”
No holding back on such a direct request. Bray shuffled forward reluctantly.
Night was falling rapidly, and in the long spans of half-light that was dusk in the jungle it was progressively harder to see. Under his breath Bray uttered critical comments on the bad luck that had brought about this meeting at such an unfortunate time. But better now (he realized) than five minutes hence.
What he could see was a figure at least a head taller than himself. It had none of the substance of a solid body. It stood waiting for him in front of a large, fronded plant—and he could see the plant through it.
Bray came to within four feet of it and couldn’t force his legs to move another step. This is a brand new situation, he thought. There are no precedents. He remembered Professor Pocatelli’s statement: “… they can kill.”
It did not kill. It talked. It said, in that lisping voice, “I am a duplicate of one of the creators of the Mahala System. My original self departed more than two thousand Diamondian years ago. But I, the duplicate, remained in this area of space to act as monitor and guide.
