Complete Short Fiction, page 39
THE CITY rode high on a plain that shrank back from the sheer-falling, ragged edge of a solid, dark tongue of sea. The glass flashed in the Sun, a burning white fire that darted over the surface in dazzling, vivid bursts of flame.
It was not a big city. Compared to the thirty million of population and eighty-mile spread of the grand city of the palace, it was tiny. But it was as big as it could be in that forbidding area of land. It crowded with tight-fitting temerity to the very edge of the appalling gorges that ringed its glass roof. Its widest diameter was three miles; at its narrowest point, it sprawled a generous two miles; and in its confines dwelt two hundred thousand slans. The figures were according to Miller and Corliss.
He saw the landing field where he expected it would be a flat field of metal at one projecting edge of the city. The field was big enough to take a battleship, and it was streaked with shining threads of railway. Lightly, his small machine settled toward one of the tracks onto metal cradle Number 9977. Simultaneously, the great bulk of warship above him surged off toward the sea, and was instantly lost to sight as it passed the towering cliff-edge of glasslike roof.
Below him, the automatic machinery of the cradle rolled on its twin rails toward a great steel door. The door opened automatically, and shut behind him.
What his swift vision beheld in that first moment of entry was not unexpected—but the reality soared beyond the picture of it that he had seen in the minds of Miller and Corliss.
There must have been a thousand ships in the section of the vast hangar that he. could see. From roof to ceiling, they were parked in like sardines, each on its cradle; and each—he knew—capable of being called forth if the proper numbers were punched on the section instrument board.
The machine stopped. Cross climbed casually down and nodded curtly to the three slans who waited there for him. The oldest looking of the three came forward, smiling faintly.
Well, Barton, so you’ve earned another examination! You may be sure of a swift, thorough job—the usual, of course: Fingerprinting, X ray, blood test, chemical reaction of the skin, microscope measurement of hair, and so on.”
There was a dark expectancy to the overtone of thought that leaked from the minds of the three men. But Cross did not need their thoughts. He had never been more alert, his brain never clearer, never more capable of distinguishing the subtlest exactness of details. He said mildly:
“Since when has chemical reaction of the skin been a usual part of the examination?”
The men did not apologize for their little trap, nor did their thoughts show any disappointment at failure. And Cross felt no thrill at this first small victory. For no triumph at this early stage could hide the desperate truth: that he could not possibly stand a thorough examination.
He must use to the limit the preparations he had made these last several weeks when he had analyzed the information from Miller’s and Corliss’ minds. He must have time—or he was finished before he could start.
The youngest man said: “Bring him into the laboratory and we’ll get the physical part of this examination over. Take his gun, Prentice.”
Cross handed over the weapon without a word.
They waited then; the oldest man, Ingraham, smiling expectantly; Bradshaw, the youngest, stared at him with unwinking gray eyes. Prentice alone looked indifferent as he pocketed Cross’ gun.
But it was the silence, not their actions, that caught Cross’ mind. There was not a physical sound, nowhere even a whisper of conversation. The whole community of the hangar was like a graveyard, and for the moment it seemed impossible that beyond those walls a city hummed with activity in preparation for a monstrous war.
He actuated the combination, and watched his cradle and ship slide off soundlessly, first horizontally, then up toward the remote ceiling. There was abruptly the faintest squealing of metal, and then it settled into position; and silence grew over the brief protrusion of sound.
SMILING INWARD at the way they were watching him for the slightest error of procedure, Cross led the way to the exit. It opened onto a shining corridor, the smooth walls of which were spaced at intervals with closed doors. When they were within sight of entrance to the laboratory, Cross said:
“I suppose you called the hospital in time, telling them I would be delayed.”
Ingraham stopped short, and the others followed suit. They stared at him. Ingraham said: “Good Heaven, is your wife being revived this morning?”
Unsmiling, Cross nodded. “The doctors were to have her on the verge of consciousness twenty minutes after I was due to land. At that time they will have been working for approximately an hour. Your examination and that of the military commission will obviously have to be postponed.”
There was no disagreement. Ingraham said: “The military will escort you, no doubt.”
It was Bradshaw who spoke briefly into his wrist radio. The tiny, yet clear, answer reached to Cross. The speaker said:
“Under ordinary circumstances, the military patrol would escort him to the hospital. But it happens that we are confronted by the most dangerous individual the world has ever known. Cross is only twenty-six, but it is a proven fact that danger and adversity matures men and slans at an early age. We can assume then that we are dealing with a full-grown true slan, possessed of weapons and powers beyond compare.
“If Corliss should actually be Cross, then the coincidence of Mrs. Corliss’ return to consciousness at this important hour betokens preparation for all possible contingencies, particularly of suspicion at the moment of landing. He has already suffered a major defeat in that there is going to be an examination, the final determining portion of it by people other than those who now accompany him.
“Nevertheless, the very fact that postponement has been necessitated for the first time in our examination of men resembling Cross requires that experts trained to preliminary examinations be with him every second of the time. You will, therefore, carry on until further orders. A surface car is waiting at the head of elevator Number 1.”
As they emerged into the street, Bradshaw said: “If he is not Corliss, then he will be absolutely useless at the hospital—and Mrs. Corliss’ mind will possibly be permanently injured.”
Ingraham shook his head. “You’re mistaken. True slans can read minds. He’ll be able to do as good a job of sensing errors of the surgical room as Corliss with the aid of the Porgrave receivers—”
Cross caught the grim smile on Bradshaw’s face, as the slan said softly: “Your voice trailed off there, Ingraham. Did it suddenly occur to you that the presence of the Porgraves will prevent Cross from using his mind, except in the most limited way.”
“Another thing”—it was Prentice who spoke—“the reason for Corliss going to the hospital at all is that he will recognize when something is wrong because of the psychological affinity that develops over a period of years between a husband and wife. But that also means that. Mrs. Corliss will recognize instantly whether or not he is her husband.”
Ingraham was smiling grimly. “We have then the final conclusion: If Corliss is Cross, the revival of Mrs. Corliss in his presence may have tragic results for her. Those very results will go far to prove his identity, even if all other tests we make turn out negatively.”
Cross said nothing. He had made a very thorough examination of the problem presented by the Porgrave receivers. They constituted unmistakable danger, but they were only machines. Absolute care, together with his superlative control Over his mind, should reduce that constant menace.
Recognition by Mrs. Corliss was another matter. Affinity between a sensitive husband and his sensitive wife was easily understandable; and it was unthinkable that he should contribute to the destruction of this slan woman’s mind. Somehow he must save her sanity but—
Quite clearly, he saw that the danger was enormous and, worse still, it was immediate.
THE CAR sped smoothly along a boulevard that glowed with flowers. The road was dark, glassy in appearance, and not straight. It wound in and out among the tall, spreading trees that half hid the buildings that lined the far sides of the shaded walks to the left and right.
The buildings were low-built structures, and their beauty, the flowing artistry of their design brought him genuine surprise. He had captured something of the picture they made from the minds of Miller and Corliss, but this sheer triumph of architectural genius was beyond his anticipation. A fortress was not expected to be beautiful, gun turrets ordinarily were built for usefulness rather than to serve as poems of architecture.
As it was, they served their purpose admirably. They looked like actual buildings, part of an actual city, instead of being merely a thick armored screen for the true city below.
Once again the vastness of the defense forces showed with what respect the true slans were viewed. A world of men was going to be attacked because of the tendrilless slan fear—and that was the ultimate in fantastic, tragic irony.
“If I’m right,” Cross thought, “and the true slans are actually living in with the tendrilless slans, as the tendrilless slans in their turn live with the human beings, then all this preparation is against an enemy that has already slipped inside the defenses.”
The car stopped in an alcove that led to an elevator. The elevator dropped as swiftly into the depths as the first elevator had come up out of the hangar. Casually, Cross took one of the metal “crystal” cubes out of his pocket and tossed it into the wastepaper receptacle that fitted snugly into one corner of the cage.
He saw that the slans had followed his action. He explained:
“Got a dozen of those things, but apparently eleven is all I can comfortably carry. The weight of the others kept pressing that one against my side.”
It was Ingraham who stooped and picked up the deadly little thing. “What is it?”
“The reason for my delay. I’ll explain to the commission later. The twelve are all exactly the same, so that one won’t matter.”
Ingraham stared at it thoughtfully, and was just about to open it, when the elevator stopped. He put it decisively in his pocket. “I’ll keep this,” he said. “You-go out first, Corliss.”
WITHOUT hesitation, Cross stepped into the broad marble corridor.
A fine-looking woman in a white cloak came forward: “You will be called in a few minutes, Barton. Wait here.”
She vanished into a doorway; and Cross walked slowly across the width of the stately corridor to a glass window, stared through it into the room beyond. Gradually, his muscles grew tense, his nerves taut. With uttermost fascination he gazed at an entire roomful of—
Monstrosities!
Dead babies lay on tables, row on row of them, stretching in even lines away from the glass through which Cross stared.
The nearest of that gruesome line was human in shape, but it had three legs. Small, golden slan tendrils lay flat on its head; two semihuman arms emerged from its shoulders, tapering off into boneless tentacles. Its eyes were lidless, and the glazed eyeballs that stared sightlessly up at him had no color, unlike a normal human baby, whose eyes at birth are invariably blue.
Cross’ mind became very still, as he gazed at the thing. It was not human, and not slan. But he knew the answer. Horribly, it had tried to be a slan. Somewhere in the months before it was born or conceived, a true slan had turned a slan-controlling machine on its mother.
In all the years since he had first heard of these—creatures—here was his first sight of them, here the reality behind all the devilish accusations that he had, in his childhood, denied so passionately, and branded as the vilest of lies.
Genuine, intellectual horror coursed through him. Here were some of the dreadful failures of slan attempts to make more slans. No wonder there were attempts at slan extermination. What manner of distorted mentality could go on committing such atrocities, prepared to accept such a criminally high percentage of failure.
He thought: Was he a fool to keep searching for beings capable of such scoundrelism, to think of aligning himself with them? Everywhere he turned the material evidence against them piled higher and higher. Before such silent witnesses as these babies, his theory seemed shabbier every minute. Here was nothing but evil and danger.
Danger! He grew aware of a surface thought from Ingraham. He turned as the older slan said:
“This business of Mrs. Corliss worries me so much that I feel, before we allow you in there, Corliss, we ought to make a simple test that we haven’t used for years because of its lack of dignity, and because of other equally effective tests.”
“What’s the test?” Cross asked curtly.
“Well, if you’re Cross, you’ll be wearing false hair to cover your slan tendrils. If you’re Corliss, the natural strength of your hair would enable us to lift you right off the ground, and you’d scarcely feel it. False hair, artificially fastened on, could not possibly stand pressure. So, for the sake of your wife, I’m going to ask you to bend your head. We’ll be gentle, and apply the pressure gradually.”
Cross smiled gently: “Go ahead! I think you’ll find that it’s genuine hair.”
It was, of course. Long since, he had discovered a kind of answer to that dangerous problem—a thick fluid that, worked over the roots of his hair, gradually hardened into a thin layer of rubbery, flesh-looking stuff, sufficient to cover his betraying tendrils. By carefully twisting the hair just before the hardening process was completed, tiny air holes were formed through to the hair roots.
Frequent removal of the material, and long periods of leaving his hair and head in the natural state had in the past proved sufficient to keep the health of the top of his head unimpaired. Something similar, it seemed to him, was what the true slans must have been doing these many years. The danger lay in the periods of “rest.”
Ingraham said finally, grudgingly: “It doesn’t really prove anything. If Cross ever came here, he wouldn’t be caught on anything as simple as that. Here’s the doctor, and I guess it’s O.K.”
THE BEDROOM was large and gray and full of machines, softly pulsing machines. The patient was not visible, but there was a long metal case, like a streamlined coffin, one end of which pointed toward the door; the other end Cross couldn’t see, but he knew the woman’s head was projecting from that far side.
Attached to the top of the case was a long, bulging transparent test tube affair. Pipes ran from it down into the “coffin,” and through these pipes, through that bulbous bottle, flowed a rich, steady stream of red blood.
A solid bank of instruments sat almost stolidly just beyond the woman’s protruding head. Lights were there, glowing with the faintest unsteadiness, as if now one, now another was yielding obstinately to some hidden pressure. Each time, the one affected fought stubbornly to regain the infinitesimal loss of brightness.
Prom where the doctor made him stop, Cross could see the woman s head against the background of those whispering machines. No, not her head. Only the bandages that completely swathed her head were visible; and it was into the white pulp of bandage that the host of wires from the instrument board disappeared.
Her mind was unshielded, a still-broken thing; and it was into the region of semithoughts that flowed along in dead-slow time that Cross probed cautiously.
He knew the theory of what the tendrilless slan surgeons had done. The body was entirely disconnected from nervous contact with the brain by a simple system of short circuit. The brain itself, kept alive by rapid tissue building rays, had been divided into twenty-seven distinct sections; and thus simplified, the enormous amount of repair work had been swiftly performed.
His thought wave sped past those operation “breaks” and “mends.” There were faults in plenty, he saw, but all of a distinctly minor character, so superbly had the surgical work been done. Every section of that powerful brain would yield to the healing force of the “medical light,” which was what the tissue-building rays were called.
Beyond doubt, Mrs. Corliss would open her eyes a sane, enormously capable young woman—and recognize him for the impostor he was.
Icily detached in spite of urgency, Cross thought: “I was able to hypnotize human beings without crystals years ago, though it took a great deal longer. Why not slans?”
She was unconscious, and her shield was down. At first, he was too aware of the Porgrave receivers, and the immense danger they offered; and then he grooved his mind to the anxiety vibration that would be normal for Corliss—and hanged the consequences. All fear drained from his brain. He strained forward with frantic speed.
It was the method of the operations that saved him. A properly knit slan brain would have required—hours! So many millions of paths to explore, without a clue to a proper beginning. But now, in this divided brain, it was different. A mind split by master surgeons into its twenty-seven natural compartments; and one of them was the mass of cells comprising the will power.
In one minute he. was at the control center; and the palpable force of his thought waves had made her his slave.
He had time then to place the earphones of the Porgrave receivers over his head, noting at the same time that Bradshaw already had on a pair—for him, he thought grimly. But there was no suspicion at the surface of the dark-haired young man’s mind. Evidently, thought in the form of an almost pure physical force, completely pictureless, could not be translated by the Porgraves. His own tests were confirmed.
The woman stirred mentally and physically; and the vague, incoherent thought in her mind clattered as a sound in his earphones:
“Fight . . . occupation—”
The words fitted only because she had been a military commander, but there was not enough to make sense. Silence; then:
“June . . . definitely June . . . be able to clear up before winter then, and have no unnecessary deaths from cold and dislocation . . . that’s settled then . . . June 10th—”
He could have repaired the faults in her brain in ten minutes by hypnotic suggestion. But it took an hour and a quarter of cautious cooperation with the surgeons and their vibration-pressure machine; and every minute of the time he was thinking about her words.
