Complete Short Fiction, page 40
So June 10th was the day of the attack on Earth. This was April 4th, Earth reckoning. Two months! A month for the journey to Earth and a month—for what?
AS MRS. CORLISS slipped quietly into a dreamless sleep, Cross had the answer, the tremendous answer. Impossible to waste another day searching for the true slans, especially now that they loomed larger than ever as supreme villains. Later perhaps that trail could be picked up again, but now—if he could get out of this damned mess—
He frowned mentally. What the hell was he making plans for? Within minutes he would be under physical examination by members of the most ruthless, most thoroughgoing and efficient race in the Solar System. In spite of his successful attempt at delay, in spite of his preliminary success in getting a crystal into the hands of one of his escort, luck had been against him. Ingraham was not curious enough to take the crystal out of his pocket and open it.
He’d have to make another attempt, of course, but that was desperation. No slan would be anything but suspicious at such a second try, no matter how the approach was made. He—
His thought stopped. His sensitive mind stilled to a perfect state of reception, as an almost inaudible voice spoke from Ingraham’s radio; and the words flowed across the surface of Ingraham’s mind:
“Physical examination completed or not, you will bring Barton Corliss immediately before me. That supersedes any previous order.”
“O.K., Joanna!” Ingraham replied quite audibly. He turned: “You’re to be taken at once before Joanna Hillory, the military commissioner.”
It was Prentice who echoed the hard thought in Cross’ mind. The tall slan said:
“Joanna is the only one of us who spent hours with Cross; and she was appointed commissioner with that experience and her subsequent studies in mind. She supervised the world-wide successful search for you, and she also predicted the failure of the attack that was made with the cyclotron. In addition, she’s written four books outlining in minutest detail the hours she spent in your company. If you’re Cross, she’ll recognize you in one minute flat.”
“I’ve read the books,” said Cross quietly.
It was true; and he had known after the first volume that under no voluntary circumstances must he come under the calm scrutiny of that able and terrible young woman.
AS CROSS emerged from the case room, he had his first glimpse of the city of Cimmerium, the true, the underground city. From the doorway he could see along two corridors: one led back to the elevator down which he had come; the other to a broad expanse of tall, transparent doors.
Beyond the doors lay a city of dreams.
It had been said on Earth that the secret of the materials that made up the walls of the Grand Palace had been lost. But it wasn’t. For here in this hidden city of the tendrilless slan was all the glory of it—and more. There was a street of soft, changing colors, and the magnificent realization of that age-old dream of architects; form-perfect buildings that were alive, as music was alive.
Here was—and no other word could apply because no word in his knowledge was suitable—here was the gorgeous equivalent in architecture of the highest form of music: polyphonic as distinct from symphonic.
Out in the street, he cut the unearthly beauty of it from his mind. Only the people mattered; and there were thousands in the buildings, in bustling cars and on foot; thousands of minds within reach of a mind that missed nothing, and searched now with a desperate intensity for one, just one, true slan.
And there was none, not a trace of betraying mind whisper; not a brain that did not know its owner was a tendrilless slan. Definitely, finally, the leaky brain shields gave of their knowledge. His conviction that they must be here was shattered, as his life would now be.
Wherever the true slans were, their protection was slan-proof, beyond logic. But then, of course, logic had said that monster babies were not created by decent folk. The facts, it happened, were otherwise. What facts? Hearsay? But what other explanation was there?
“Here we are!” Ingraham said quietly.
Inside the fine, long, low building, a few men and women moved in and out among row on row of great, thick, shiny, metallic plates. This, Cross knew, was the Bureau of Statistics; and these plates were the electric filing cabinets that yielded their information at the touch of a button, the spelling out of a name, a number, a key word.
No one knew—so Corliss’ mind had informed him—how much information was in those cabinets. They had been brought from Earth, and dated back to the earliest slan days. A quadrillion facts were there for the asking; included no doubt was the entire story of the seven-year search for one, John Thomas Cross—the search that Joanna Hillory had directed from the inner sanctum of this very building.
But that last didn’t matter now. There was a great truth to be discovered, a cross reference that perhaps had never occurred to anyone else in all this world of tendrilless slans.
Ingraham was saying: “She’ll have us in in a minute or so.”
Cross asked: “Do you mind if I ask a few questions from the ’Stics?”
Ingraham shrugged: “Might as well while you’re here.”
No one followed Cross, no one interfered with him. He stood very still for a moment, recollecting exactly what he had seen in Corliss’ mind about the operation of this machine. Swiftly, then, he punched: “Samuel Lann” followed by “Natural Mutation.” He touched the activating button, and read on the glowing plate:
Excerpts from Samuel Lann’s Diary, June 1, 1971 to December 15, 2056—
Today, I had another look at the three babies, and of course there is no doubt that here is an extraordinary mutation. I have seen human beings with tails; I have examined cretins and idiots, and observed those curious, dreadful, organic developments that human beings are subject to. But this is the opposite of such horrors; this is perfection—
Two girls and a boy. What a grand and tremendous accident. If I were not a cold-blooded rationalist, the exact rightness of what has happened would make me a blubbering worshiper at the shrine of metaphysics. Two girls to reproduce their kind, and one boy to mate with them. I’ll have to train them to the idea—two girls and a boy. Oh, cosmic coincidence that such a birth should have happened to a scientist. It couldn’t have happened better if I had planned it myself.
“June 2, 1971,” began the machine, but Cross pressed urgently at the dissolver, manipulated the number key, and produced “June 7, 1973,” followed by:
Some damn fool journalist wrote an article about the children today. The ignoramus stated that I had used a machine on my wife. Where the devil did he hear about them at all? I’ll have to retreat to some remote, uninhabited part of the world. Anything could happen where there are human beings, superstitious, emotional asses. Thank Heaven, the present day human being is on his last lap. An end to stupidity and eternal wars and black lies—
Hurriedly, Cross punched at random “May 31, 1988”:
Their seventeenth birthday. The girls thoroughly accept the idea of mating with their brother. Morality after all is a matter of training. I live in panic lest a meteorite fall and snuff us all out, or some other cataclysm destroy these precious lives.
It was “August 18, 1990” that produced:
Each of the girls had triplets. Wonderful! At this rate of reproduction the period when chance can destroy them will soon be reduced to an actuarial minimum. The children are fully alive now to the importance of their lives, and that their descendants are the future rulers of the Earth. I must see to it that the children of one marry only the children of the other. We must get away from inbreeding as soon as possible—
From behind him, Bradshaw called: Come along, Corliss. Miss Hillory will see you now . . . alone!”
The floor felt strangely hard beneath his feet, as he walked the hundred feet to the open door. Sardonicism was almost a physical weight on his mind. Eight hundred years of hell and death—perhaps more if the nameless, timeless period that followed the war of disaster was as long as some estimated; and now, a part of the simple truth rediscovered by a man on his way to death!
There was not—never had been—a slan-making machine. All slans were purely natural mutations.
THE INNER sanctum of the chief of statistics was large and cozy, and it looked like a private den rather than a business office. There were books on shelves; against one wall was a smaller version of the electric filing cabinets outside. There was a soft-toned chesterfield and multipneumatic chairs and a rug; and finally there was a great, gleaming desk behind which sat a proud, smiling, youthful woman.
Cross had not expected Joanna Hillory to look older; and she didn’t. Another fifty years might put lines into those velvet smooth cheeks, but now there was only one difference, and that was in himself. Eleven years before, a boy slan had gazed at this glorious woman; now his eyes held the cool appraisal of maturity.
He noted curiously that her gaze was eager-bright, and that seemed out of place. His mind concentrated. The co-ordinated power of his senses abruptly dissolved her facial expression into triumph and a deep, genuine joy.
Alertly, his brain pressed against her mind-shield, probing at the tiny gaps, absorbing every leak of thought, analyzing every overtone—and second by second his puzzlement grew. Her smile flashed into soft laughter; and then—just like that—her shield went down. Her mind lay before him, exposed to his free, untrammeled gaze. Simultaneously, a thought formed in her brain:
“Look deep, John Thomas Cross, and know first that all Porgrave receivers in this room and vicinity have been disconnected. Know, too, that I am your only living friend, and that I ordered you brought before me to forestall a physical examination which you could not possibly survive. I watched you through the Porgraves and, finally, I knew it was you. But hurry, search in my mind, verify my good will, and then—we must act swiftly to save your life!”
There was no credulity, no trustfulness, in his chilled, logical brain. The moments fled, and still he probed the dark corridors of her brain—searching for those basic reasons that alone could explain this wondrous thing. At last he said quietly:
“So you believed in the ideals of a fifteen-year-old, caught fire from a young egotist who offered only—”
“Hope!” she finished. “You brought hope just before I reached the point where most slans became as hard and ruthless as life in a hate-filled world can make them. Human beings, you said, what about human beings? And the shock of that and other things affected me beyond recovery. I deliberately gave a false description of you; you may have wondered about that. I passed it off because I was not supposed to have an expert’s knowledge of human physiology. I didn’t of course, but I could have drawn you perfectly from memory; and the picture grew clearer every day.
“It was considered natural that I become a student of the Cross affair; and natural, too, that I was appointed to most of the supervisory positions that had any connection with you. I suppose it was equally natural that—”
She stopped almost expectantly; and Cross said gravely: “I’m sorry about that!”
Her gray eyes met his brown ones steadily: “Whom else will you marry?” she asked. “A normal life must include marriage. Of course, I know nothing of your relationship to the slan girl, Kathleen Layton, but marriage to several women, frequently at the same time, is not unusual in slan history. Then, of course, there is my age.”
“I recognize,” Cross said simply, “that fifteen or twenty years is not the slightest obstacle to marriage among long-lived slans. It happens, however, that I have a mission.”
“Whether as wife or not,” said Joanna Hillory, “from this hour you have a companion on that mission—provided we can get you through this physical examination alive.”
“Oh, that!” Cross waved one smooth, powerful hand. “All I needed was time and a method of getting certain crystals into the hands of Ingraham and the others. You have provided both. We’ll also need the paralyzer gun in the drawer of your desk—and then call them in one at a time.”
With one sweeping movement of her hand, she drew the gun from the drawer. I’ll do the shooting!” she said. “Now what?”
CROSS LAUGHED softly at Joanna Hillory’s vehemence and felt a strange wonder at the turn of events, even now that he was sure. For years he had lived on nerve and cold determination. Abruptly, something of her fire touched him. His eyes gleamed:
“And you shall not regret what you have done, though your faith may be tried to the utmost before we are finished. This attack on Earth must not take place—not now, not until we know what to do with those poor devils aside from holding them down by force. Tell me, is there any way I can get to Earth? I read in Corliss’ mind something about a plan to transfer to Earth all slans resembling me. Can that be done?”
“It can. The decision rests entirely with me.”
“Then,” said Cross grimly, “the time has come for swift action. I must get to Earth. I must go to the palace. I must see Kier Gray.”
The perfect mouth parted in a smile, but there was no humor in those fine, brave eves.
“And how,” she asked softly, “are you going to get near the palace, with its fortifications?”
“My mother spoke often of the secret passages under the palace,” Cross answered. “Perhaps the Sties machine will know the exact location of the various entrances.”
“It knows,” Joanna Hillory said gravely, “and so do I. The best entrance for your purpose is located in the statuary section, two miles inside the grounds, constantly under brilliant lights, and directly under the guns of the first line of heavy fortifications. Also, machine gun emplacements and tank patrols control the first two miles.”
“What about my gun? Would I be allowed to have it on Earth?
“No. The plan of transferring the men resembling you includes their disarmament.”
He was aware of her questioning gaze on him, and his lean, strong face twisted into a frown.
“What kind of a man is Kier Gray, according to your records?”
“Enormously capable for a human being. Our secret X rays definitely show him as human, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“At one time, I did think about that, but your words verify Kathleen Layton’s experience.”
“We’ve got off the track,” Joanna Hillory said: “What about the fortifications?”
He shook his head, smiling humorlessly: “When the stakes are great, risks must match them. Naturally, I shall go alone. You”—he gazed at her darkly—“will have the great trust of locating the cave where my ship is, and getting the machine through to Earth before June 10th. Corliss, too, will have to be released. And now, please call Ingraham in.”
XVI.
THE RIVER seemed wider than when Cross had last seen it. A cold, turgid quarter mile of swirling May waters that glinted and shone in twitching, twisting patches of darkness and light in endless reflection from the incessant, changing wonder-fire of the palace.
There was late spring snow in the concealing brush where he removed his clothes; and it tingled coldly against his bare feet when he stood at last stripped for his grueling task.
He held his mind on the verge of thoughtlessness; only the thin realization came that one naked man against the world was a sorry tribute to the almost illimitable power of atomic energy. So many weapons he had had, and not used them when he could; and now this ring on his finger, with its tiny atomic generator, and its pitiful two-foot effective range—this was the end product of all his years of effort.
The sky was overcast, and the trees from the opposite bank made swirling shadows half across the river. The darkness streaked the ugly swell of racing water, that carried him half a mile downstream before his long backstrokes finally brought him to the shelter of the shallows.
He lay there, his mind reconnoitering the blare of thought that came from the two machine gunners hidden in the trees.
Cautiously, he edged into a patch of concealing brush, donned his clothes—and lay patient as an old tiger stalking its prey. There was a clearing to be crossed; and it was too far for hypnotic control. The moment of their carelessness came abruptly—and he covered the fifty yards in a fraction over three seconds.
One man never knew what struck him. The other jerked around spasmodically, his long, thin face strained and ghastly in the flicker of light that peered through the foliage.
But there was no stopping, no evading the blow that caught his jaw, and smashed him to the ground. In fifteen minutes of crystalless hynotism, they were under control. Fifteen minutes! Eight an hour! He smiled ironically. That certainly precluded any possibility of hypnotically overpowering the palace with its ten thousand or so men. What he must have was key men.
He brought the two men back to consciousness and gave them his orders. Silently, they took their portable machine guns and fell in behind him. They knew every inch of the ground. They knew when the tank patrols rolled by in their ceaseless night rounds. There were no better soldiers in the human army than these palace guards; and in two hours there were a dozen trained fighters slipping along like shadows—working in a silent, swift co-ordination that needed only an occasional soft-spoken command.
In three more hours, he had altogether seventeen men, a colonel, a captain and three lieutenants—and ahead was the long cordon of exquisite statuary, sparkling fountains and blazing lights that marked at once his goal and the end of the first simple operation.
THE FIRST hint of the coming dawn misted the eastern sky as Cross lay with his little army in the shadows of shrubbery and stared across the quarter mile of brilliantly lighted area. He could see the dark line of woods on the other side, where the fortifications were hidden.
“Unfortunately,” the colonel whispered, “there is no chance of tricking them. The jurisdiction of this unit ends right here; it is forbidden to cross to any one of the dozen fortified rings without a pass, and even a pass can be used only in the daytime.”
