The Original and Complete Null-A Trilogy, page 19
“This is the city side. The open fields on the other side probably have hardly anyone in them. When we leave, we’ll go that way, and work around to your car.”
The young man bellowed in answer: “And to think I believed I could come here alone.”
“This,” said Gosseyn, “is only the beginning. Wait till we come to the gunmen.”
But he didn’t say that very loud; and surprisingly it wasn’t as bad as he expected. They came to a steel fence that enterprising wrecking crews had put up against the crowd. It was for the most part a successful barrier; and the occasional individual who vaulted over it usually slunk back before the threatening guns of the guards who stood in little groups on the other side of the fence, like soldiers lawfully guarding a property from vandals.
Once more, it was a case of straightforward risk. “Keep close to the road,” Gosseyn yelled. “They’ll hesitate about shooting at the trucks.”
The moment they broke into the open, two guards raced towards them, shrieking something that was lost in the bedlam. Their contorted faces were limned in the fitful light. Their guns waved ferociously. And they went down like briefly animated dummies, as Gosseyn shot them.
He ran on after Lyttle, shocked, wondering at himself. He who had so frequently refused to kill—merciless now.
They were symbols, he decided bleakly, symbols of destruction. Having taken on unhuman qualities, they were barbarous entities, to be destroyed like attacking beasts—and forgotten.
He forgot them.
Ahead was the remnant of the Games Machine.
For hours Gosseyn had tied his sanity to a law of logic. A law which held that a machine which had taken years to build couldn’t be unbuilt in twenty-four hours.
He was not quite so right as he had expected. The machine was visibly smaller. But it was the colossal artillery damage that was responsible.
The outer tiers of game rooms were caved-in husks, as if fantastic air pressures had smashed them. And everywhere, thirty, fifty, ninety-foot holes gaped in the gleaming, dented walls. Black, jagged holes that revealed, under the spraying, glittering light, torn masses of scintillating wires and instruments—the outer portions of the nervous system of the dead Machine.
For the first time, standing there. Gosseyn thought of the Machine as a high-type organism that had been living, and was now dead. What was intelligent life but the sensitive awareness of a nervous system with a memory of experiences. In all the man-known history of the world, there never had been an organism with so much memory, such a vast experience, such a tremendous knowledge of human beings and human nature, as the Games Machine. Far in the background of his mind Gosseyn heard Dan Lyttle cry:
“Come along. We mustn’t delay.”
Gosseyn recognized that was so, and moved forward, but it was his body that followed Lyttle towards the realization of their purpose. His mind and gaze clung to the Machine.
Seen at closer range, the extent of the salvage work was more apparent. Whole sections had been torn down, were being torn down, were about to be torn down. Men carrying machines and metal plates and instruments swarmed out of dark passageways; the sight of them shocked Gosseyn. In awful revulsion, he compared them to worms crawling out of the dark orifices of human corpses, bloated with their cargoes of dead body matter.
And once more, then, he stopped, stricken by the realization that he was witnessing the ending of an era.
He stood in a gathering mental mist. It thickened instant by instant; its multiquadrillion tendrils hazed the bright reality he believed in. The altar fires of Ā were burning low; darkness was shading the great airy room in which he had spent his life—
Lyttle tugged at his arm. And that jarred Gosseyn as no words could have. Galvanized, he hurried forward, skirting the fiery glare of the truck and plane lights, the blaze of the beacons that poured down from every projection of metal big enough to support an atomic-powered searchlight.
“Around to the back,” Gosseyn called. And led the way to the overhanging fold of metal, into which the truck had disappeared with the crate containing the Distorter. As they half-ran, the din retreated somewhat; and there were not so many planes or trucks or men.
There was tremendous activity of course. The hissing of cutters, the clang of metal falling, the confusion of movement—all were there, but in a lesser quantity. For every hundred men and trucks in the front of the Machine, there were a score here, working just as hard, just as frantically, apparently conscious that it was only a matter of time until their easy possession was challenged by irresistible numbers.
And still the din grew less. Gosseyn and Lyttle came to the flange behind which the Distorter had been taken, and saw a scant dozen trucks drawn up against a loading platform. Doors had been cut out of the front of an enormous shedlike room; and from this vast, dim area, men were carrying packing cases, machines, pieces of metal and instruments.
The shed was almost empty; and the crate with the Distorter in it stood off by itself, as if waiting for them. An address had been stamped on it in six-inch black letters:
RESEARCH DEPT.,
THE SEMANTIC INSTITUTE,
KORZYBSKI SQUARE,
CITY.
The destination was a source of grim amusement to Gosseyn, as Lyttle and he headed out into an open field with the crate, out into the darkness and away around, down silent streets far from the roar and the carnage around the Machine.
He remembered it again when they reached the car, satirically now. So the Machine had wanted the Semantic Institute to have the Distorter. Well, they could have it. After he got through with it, he’d see that the schoolteachers had their chance.
The professors would no doubt write some learned books about their discoveries. Perhaps they would be allowed to publish them. Perhaps they wouldn’t. Gosseyn wouldn’t put it past Crang to let them.
He realized that the destruction of the Machine was making him bitter and unnecessarily caustic. He put the dark thought out of his mind.
The car drove presently into the yard of the neat little home of Dan Lyttle. In a vague fashion Gosseyn had believed that Patricia Hardie would be waiting there for him.
She wasn’t.
There was an excitement about removing the Distorter from its rate that took away the empty feeling of her not being there.
Briefly, nevertheless, he wondered about the feeling. She had said she would come the next day. It was now—Gosseyn glanced at his watch—5:15 a.m. Kind of early to start worrying.
They laid the Distorter, face upward, on the floor, then sat down and looked at it.
Bright, steely, alien metal—world destroyer! Because of it, the gang had reached into all the high places of Earth, and for long, oh, far too long, it was unsuspected—
His initial capture of the Distorter had proved to be one of the final steps in the crisis of Ā. Because of his action, the Games Machine had felt compelled to do something which it must have known could only end in its own destruction.
Finding itself free, it had broadcast the truth, and brought the Venusian war to Earth. For better or worse, all the forces of the gang and of Ā were now engaged, or about to be engaged.
On the gang’s side were nine thousand spaceships, the organized government of Earth, alien science and all the weapons. On the other side was integration of mind and body—and the mysterious cosmic player who had moved first one, then a second Gilbert Gosseyn into the center of the game for interplanetary power.
Sitting there, Gosseyn felt a black dismay. From every logical angle, the fight was already lost.
He saw that Lyttle was tired. The young man’s head drooped. He caught Gosseyn’s eyes on him, and smiled grayly.
“I was in such a state of tension yesterday,” he smiled wearily, “that I didn’t sleep a wink. I intended to buy some antisleep pills but I forgot.”
Gosseyn said: “Lie down on the couch, and sleep if you can.”
“‘And miss what you’re going to do. Not on your life.”
Gosseyn had to smile at that. He explained that he intended to conduct his examination of the Machine on an orderly basis.
“First of all, I want to locate the source of energy used by the tubes, and so be able to switch it on or off. I’ll need some simple equipment, and the investigation itself will take time. Show me where you keep the instruments you used for taking your course in semantic physics and then go to sleep.”
In three minutes, he was on his own.
He felt in no hurry. For a month he had moved along at dizzying speeds, and got approximately nowhere. The world of Ā, which he had once thought he was supposed to save, was crashing, had crashed around him.
It was obvious that running could be the slowest method of reaching a destination. Time to learn how to walk.
He counted the tubes that protruded from the face of the Distorter, in one flashing glance: thirty-six lengthwise, twenty-four across, eight hundred sixty-four in all.
That meant that thirty times a day, eight hundred sixty-four different gang men could mingle with the true contestants. And more than twenty-five thousand would survive the thirtieth day, and so be “worthy” of Venus. And that had been going on for years, and assumed that the tubes were of a simple design capable of handling only one person at a time.
Gosseyn had a strong conviction that they were anything but simple. Since the Machine had once explained to him the effect on itself when the Distorter was in operation, that was not a problem.
Just what did he expect out of this investigation?
Achie, Gosseyn decided, suddenly shaky. Some key to the aliens who had made it. He picked up Lyttle’s energy scanner, and began adjusting the meter on it, peering from time to time through the eyehole.
Abruptly, he had it.
He could see into the Distorter.
What made that first observation simple was that all the tubes were opaque. Their intricacies withheld, the problem of organizing the complication inside became a matter of following the wire system. Gosseyn searched for the power source. He didn’t have far to go because—the power was on.
That rocked him back on his heels. He had taken it for granted that the Machine would have shut the thing off.
Suppose he had absently touched something live?
It took ten minutes to convince him that there was no apparent way of switching the power off. It was on. And meant to stay on.
The Games Machine, of course, would have used energy probers that could short-circuit a wire system right through metal; and so it had solved its special problems. That was the only possible Science 2560 A.D. explanation.
Gilbert Gosseyn, lacking a prober, was stymied.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t do more on a more risky basis. But he had decided to conduct his examination with the utmost care. And he owed it to Patricia and Lyttle that he adhere to that policy until he had talked to them. Perhaps if he went to sleep, she’d be here by the time he wakened.
But she wasn’t. There was no one else around. It was half past four in the afternoon; and, except for the Distorter, he was alone in the house.
It was the time that first astounded Gosseyn. It would of course be the after-effects of the Coue drug. But how he had slept!
Walking into the kitchen, he tried to feel amused about it. But there was no humor in him. Where was Patricia?
She had named this rendezvous herself. She must know where it was.
There was a note from Lyttle on the kitchen table, to the effect that he had gone to work and that he was leaving the car for Gosseyn to use. The note finished:
—what the radio calls “murderous elements” are beginning to sabotage “peaceful production” and they are to be “ruthlessly” put down by the forces of “law and order”.
You’ll find food all around you. I’ll be back at 12:30.
Dan Lyttle.
After he had eaten, Gosseyn went into the living room, and stared down at the Distorter—dissatisfied with his whole position.
“I am here,” he thought, “in a house, where I could be captured in five minutes. There are at least two persons in the city—not here at present—who know I am in this house.”
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Patricia and Lyttle. He had made the assumption out of things that had happened, out of life, that they were on his side. But it was disquieting to be dependent again in any way upon the actions of other people.
Gosseyn smiled wryly. He had, of course, become practically a neurotic on the subject of not depending on other people.
No, it wasn’t distrust. But suppose something had gone wrong. Suppose, at this very minute, information was being pressed out of Patricia about where he was, about the Distorter.
He couldn’t go out until dark. Which left the Distorter. Undecided, he knelt beside it; and, reaching gingerly forth, he touched the corner tube nearest him. Just what he expected he wasn’t sure. But he was prepared for a shock.
The tube was vaguely warm against his fingers. Gosseyn caressed it for a moment, rueful, irritated at his advance tears.
“If I decide to leave in a hurry,” he thought, “I’ll grab a handful of tubes, and take them along with me.
He stood up, more cheerful. “I’ll give her till dark.” He hesitated, frowning again. Maybe he’d better get those tubes now. They might not come out easily.
He was sitting, examining the Distorter again through the scanner when the phone rang. It was Lyttle, his voice shaky with excitement:
“I’m calling from a pay phone. I’ve just seen the latest paper. It says that Patricia Hardie was arrested an hour and a half ago for—get this; it’s monstrous—the murder of her father. Mr. Wentworth”—Lyttle’s question was strangely timid—“how long does it take to make a null-A talk?”
“There is no set time,” said Gosseyn.
He was cold, his mind like a steel bar that had been struck a mighty blow: and was now vibrating strongly in response. What was it she had said: His release a political move. So must her capture be, or they wouldn’t have announced it. They would have killed her without mercy.
Who could such a political maneuver be directed against, when the entire Solar System was in their grasp?
The whole business was growing more fantastic by the hour. And more deadly.
That chilled him again; and he remembered Lyttle.
“Listen,” he said tensely, “I’ll have to let you decide for yourself whether or not you stick to your job until midnight. If you know somewhere that you can go, go at once. If you feel that you have to come back here, come with care. I might or might not leave the Distorter here. I’m going to remove some tubes from it, and go, well, never mind. Watch the Careless-Guess ads in the paper. And thanks for everything, Dan.”
He waited, but when there was no comment, he hung up. Straight for the Distorter he headed. The corner tube, like all the others, projected about an inch above the metal. He grasped it. And pulled at it with a slowly increasing pressure.
It wouldn’t come out.
He reversed his effort. Pushed instead of pulled. There was probably a catch that needed releasing.
The tube clicked down. There was a sudden, sharp strain on his eyes. The room wavered.
It what? His amazement was conscious, a piercing thought; and the answer, the realization of what was happening equally clear.
Wavered, vibrated, trembled in every molecule. Shook like an image in a crystal-clear pool into which a stone had been violently tossed.
His head began to ache. He fumbled with his fingers, searching for the tube, but it was hard to see. He closed his eyes briefly, but it made no difference. The tube was burning hot under the fingers with which he tried to pull it back into place.
He must have been dazed because he swayed, and fell forward, bumping against the Distorter.
He had a strange sense of lightness.
He opened his eyes m surprise. He was lying on his side in utter darkness; and in his nostrils was the rich odor of growing wood.
It was a familiar heavy scent. But it took Gosseyn a long moment to make the enormous mental jump necessary to grasping the reality of it.
The odor was the same as had assailed him on his futile journey into the tree tunnel behind Crang’s apartment on Venus.
He scrambled to his feet, almost fell as he stumbled over something metallic. And then fumbled against first one upcurving wall, then the other. And there was no doubt.
He was in the tunnel of the aliens.
On Venus!
XVIII.
“Nevertheless, the consuming hunger of the uncritical mind for what it imagines to be certainty or finality impels it to feast upon shadows—”
E.T.B.
The burst of energy that had galvanized him into verifying where he was, subsided. Gosseyn sat down heavily. It was not altogether a voluntary action. His hands were shaking; his body quivered; his knees felt weak.
He realized he was a badly scared man. Curiously, after a moment, that braced him, because he got a sardonic notion about it. The line his thought took was: Gilbert Gosseyn, superman, frightened. Non sense.
And it was nonsense suddenly. The strength crept back into his body. And slowly a co-ordinated interest towards his surroundings built up in him.
He had already noticed it was dark. Now, he realized it.
Darkness! Shadowness, unrelenting darkness. It pressed against his eyes, and into his brain. He could feel his clothes against his skin, at id the pressure of the wood floor. But in this night they could have been vagrant titillations experienced by a bodiless entity. In this unrelieved blackness, substance human or unhuman was almost a meaningless term.
“I can,” Gosseyn told himself, “last two weeks without food, three days without water.”
He recognized that he didn’t really feel as hopeless as that, in spite of his memory of miles of black tunnels. He didn’t feel hopeless because there was a thought inside him about the aliens and the Distorter:
They wouldn’t have focused the Distorter on Earth on just any part of this Venusian tree tunnel. It must be near some special point, easily accessible from where he was. The finding of that point would be an inevitable product of his own care and patience.
