The Original and Complete Null-A Trilogy, page 8
The water was surprisingly cool considering the unchanging-mildness of the climate. Gosseyn drank, ate sparingly out of his pack, sampled some of the sweet purple berries the doctor had described. And then began to follow the general course of the creek.
He came to the river in about two hours. Ugly, dark, dangerous river, wider than he had thought; not two hundred but three hundred yards. At least.
It was disturbing, not because he intended even an attempt at fording, but because the plan he did have in mind might not be possible if the width was too great.
He followed the river “west.” He came to where two trees, one on either side of the surging water, joined branches a thousand feet above the ground. He began to climb.
The actual process of climbing was not hard. The gigantic trunk was massively rough, providing a thousand hand and footholds. And there were plenty of monster branches upon which to rest.
But after an hour he still had distance to go; and there was unpleasant depth below him. Besides, the very continuity of the process of climbing, easy though each separate movement was, grew onerous, and seemed endless.
There was a little jump, too, that he had to take, to make his connection with the other tree. It was only five feet, and there was plenty of bole at either end to insure safety. But his muscles wouldn’t relax until he was over the gap, and down on the ground again.
Another hour later, that was.
He struck out strongly toward the northeast.
There were other meadows during the days that followed, other glimpses of a sky, the clouds in which were too high to be visible through the haze of height. At the end of a week, the reluctant thought came to Gosseyn that even a null-A brain might be strained by prolonged journeyings in a dim, spectral world of gigantic forest.
Or perhaps—the possibility interested and sustained him during the second week—the very enormousness of everything, the almost continuous twilight, the hushed and magnificent peacefulness might conceivably make for a mental orientation to a grander environment; and so strengthen every brain affected.
During the second week, he let himself swing gradually south, following a valley that curved gently downward in that direction. On the eleventh day, he crossed a ridge and began his down-the-mountain trek with determination’. On the sixteenth day, he emerged from a belt of trees just as dusk was falling.
He found a grassy nook, and he was settling himself for the night when the plane winged silently over the edge of a nearby hill, and settled down fifty feet away from him.
It rolled to a stop; and a light flashed on in its nose. It swung around with an easy assurance, and caught Gosseyn in a blaze of sunlike brilliance. Automatic light that would never let him out of focus.
Out of that dazzling brightness, a great voice came:
“GOSSEYN, GILBERT GOSSEYN, GET INTO THIS PLANE. A DOZEN GUNS ARE POINTING AT YOU, AND THERE IS NO ESCAPE.”
Gosseyn saw the guns, snouted barrel ends that poked out of the fuselage—and followed his movements.
The sight slowed him, shocked him. With all the swift cunning of a natural fighter, he had walked straight towards his enemy, acutely conscious of the disadvantages that distance placed him under, anxious for the close contact that made resistance possible.
Now, near or far made no difference. So long as he was outside that plane, it had him at its mercy. Useless to argue with an inanimate object, acting under orders.
There remained the vital question: Could it control him inside?
Without a word Gosseyn went around to the side of the plane, pulled open the door, and climbed in. There were two rows of plush seats, glowingly green in color. He had barely time to slip into the nearest. The plane raced irresistibly forward, and became air-borne.
All the lights blinked out. Steeply, the machine climbed into the night sky.
He watched the dark ground become formless. In a minute, the world of giant trees and the land were at one with the night. A uniform black enveloped the hurtling plane.
Anywhere from three to five minutes ticked by; and then slowly the machine began to level off. At first it was merely a lessening of vertical pressure, then the angle of ascent shifted, and kept on shifting until the roboplane was speeding along, still at enormous velocity, horizontally to the planetary surface.
The lights flashed on, as they finally came level. Instantly, Gosseyn’s gaze flashed to the control board. The controls were in a box mounted on the usual balancers, and there was nothing else in the nose of the plane. No guns pointing into the interior. No guns!
A burr of excitement moved up Gosseyn’s spine. But he waited, puzzled. It seemed hardly plausible that the plane was really at his mercy. He looked hard at the vaguely glowing tubes and cells that did all the automatic things. But he couldn’t decide if one of them operated some hidden inside defense.
One blow, he thought shakily, one crushing blow with the whole weight of his body would topple the carefully balanced structure.
The plane might reel and dive to a crash before he could get at the emergency controls. But he was already in danger. The machine’s every action—the stealthy capture of him, the complete shut-off of its lights as it darted into the sky—had a sinister quality. Some of these roboplanes were almost human in their capacity to cater to the will of their masters.
If its purposes had been legal, if for instance it was the agent of a detective, it would have done everything openly. And, for one thing, it would have spoken before this.
Gosseyn hesitated, then said in a steady tone:
“I suppose you know that roboplanes caught exceeding their authority are subjected to heavy penalties.”
A chuckle answered him. It came from a series of circular perforations in the ceiling, a loud speaker.
“I’m sure,” said a mild baritone voice, “that catching a wanted man will never be held against me.”
So it had an alibi. Gosseyn had little doubt now. Somebody—he could only think of “X” and the great Hardie gang—had beaten out the Venusian detectives.
He felt his first terrible chill.
“I won’t explain,” the voice was saying, “how I used the science of unstraight lines to locate you. The details are too involved, and besides we are working under a time limitation.”
It didn’t explain the limitation. But it wasn’t that that momentarily stopped Gosseyn’s gathering tenseness, slowed the contraction of his muscles, readying for assault.
It was the reference to how he had been located. He began to see the picture. A, straight line in the extensional world was a series of curves, whose radii were so remote that the human mind could not distinguish the curve. None of these curves was exactly the same as any of the others, though structurally they were all similar. The mathematics involved was that heady concoction known as the differential calculus, and up to a point the rate of change of the curves could be accurately predicted.
Like all mortals, he had followed the easiest course of the routes he had chosen. He had climbed hills instead of mountains, ridges instead of hills. He had followed valleys and defiles, and finally he had gone down the mountain. The differential calculus had simply—they must have taken radar maps of the terrain—predicted several score points where he would be each day. And the roboplane had finally found him at one of those points.
He grew aware that the roboplane was speaking again:
“There has been for some minutes,” it said, “a threat of imminent violence in your attitude. I must warn you that the entire forward part of the floor is electrified beyond human endurance.”
“Oh!” said Gosseyn, sagging a little in his seat.
He was really caught then, outside and in.
“And now,” said the plane, “I have given you all the time you need to adjust. If you will listen without interruption, we can get down to business.”
As much as any human being with an ever-interpreting brain can listen, Gosseyn listened.
There was nothing else to do.
The voice began:
“To understand the political situation here, you must reach out with your mind to the furthest limits of your ideas of ultimate democracy, and then somehow go beyond. There is no president of Venus, no council, no ruling group at all. Everything is voluntary; every man lives to himself alone, and yet conjoins with others to see that the necessary work is done.
“But people can choose their own work. You might say, suppose everybody decides to enter the same profession. That doesn’t happen. The population is composed of responsible citizens who make a careful study of the entire work-to-be-done situation before they choose their jobs.
“For instance, when a detective dies, or retires, or changes his occupation, he advertises his intention, or, in the case of death, his position is advertised. If he is still alive, people who would like to become detectives come to discuss their qualifications with him and with each other. Whether he is alive or dead, his successor is finally decided upon as a result of a vote among the applicants.”
In spite of himself, Gosseyn had a private thought at that point. It had nothing to do with the picture he was being given of life on Venus, the hopeful, fascinating picture of a super-civilization. It was personal to the roboplane, a concrete awareness that the machine was giving him as objective an account as he had ever heard.
The intensity of honesty brought to the fore a now comparatively old question: Who had instructed this robotic instrument to talk to him on such a level of appraisal?
He grew aware again of the machine’s voice:
“You must now visualize a situation where more than half the applications for all detective and judicial positions are agents of “X.” By a careful system of murders, they have managed to eliminate the more dangerous of the normal membership, and at present have virtual control of all key detective and judicial positions, as well as quantity control of both organizations and—” That Was where Gosseyn interrupted: “Just a minute,” he said dazedly. “One minute, please.”
He stood up, only vaguely aware that he did so. “Are you trying to tell me—” he began.
“I’m telling you,” said the machine grimly, “that you cannot escape capture. And I must warn you. You seem to have no conception of the enormous efforts being made to find you. Your existence and the mystery of your mind potential has caused a great war machine to mark time, while its leaders frantically try to run you down and discover the nature of the threat to them that you represent. In all earnestness, therefore, I say: Do not think you are being lightly asked to do what I now propose as your only logical action:
“You must let yourself fall into their hands. You must do this in the hope that they are so vitally interested in your special mental and physical make-up that they will allow you to live for several days at least, while they investigate your nervous system in detail, and with more care than last time. The last time”—there was a mechanical chuckle—“they acted too hastily and released forces beyond their control.
“But now, before I give you your final instructions, any questions?”
There was a prolonged pause.
“Questions?” said Gosseyn finally.
His mind made a leap, then recoiled before the extent of his danger. He had underestimated his enemy. Memory came of the strong, clear-out, executive character of President Hardie—and he knew that he had no business underestimating men who had gone as far as had the members of this tremendous, solar-system-embracing gang.
The fleeting thought came that all this was a trick of “X”, to make Gilbert Gosseyn give himself up without a struggle. The possibility slowed his intense excitement. Sardonicism came, the realization that there was no way he could judge what was really going on. He must adopt a. casual, meet-situations-as-they-happened attitude, and commit himself to nothing.
He forced himself to sit down. And grew aware that it was raining.
That startled, distracted him. The rain lashed and beat against the porthole beside which Gosseyn sat. He realized that the machine had been shuddering for minutes under the weighty impact of the collapsing sky. With an effort, he drew his thought away from the hiss and roar of the water. There was another angle in all this:
Whoever had given the original instructions to the plane had disapproved of the “X”-Hardie gang.
There was someone here who was on his side. Who?
The plane began to tilt downward.
“Better hurry,” it said, “and formulate your questions.”
They were going to land.
In a few minutes, grimly amused men like Thorson—perhans Thorson himself—would be putting handcuffs on him, and leading him to secret hideouts of the gang. Leading him to his death as if it was already an accomplished fact.
Stiffly, Gosseyn leaned back in his seat. There were basic questions that he would like to have answered, but just where he should begin was a question in itself. He found himself thinking darkly that the time he had spent persuading the Prescotts had been wasted. Because they had merely intended to inform Detective Registry of his story. And right now, Detective Registry was “X”.
He was back where he had started. No one knew but he and the Games Machine and this roboplane.
Gosseyn’s mind poised like a startled bird in flight. Where had the roboplane gotten its information?
He looked up. He parted his lips. But it was the machine that spoke first:
“I’m sorry,” said the voice. “There is no more time for questions. Here, then, are your final instructions:
“In a few moments, you will be landed beside the forest home of an ‘X’ detective. Go to him, and tell your story of the threat to A, as if you do not know that he is an agent of the gang. Carry the pretense through to the last possible moment, but you must be the judge of your danger at any given time. And now, the Games Machine, whose agent I am gives you one last warning—”
“Just a minute!” said Gosseyn. “Did you say the Machine?”
Light was coming at last into his mind.
“One last warning,” the voice repeated relentlessly. “There is a factor involved in this affair, of which the Machine knows almost literally nothing. There is an alien life factor behind “X” of the existence of which scarcely any evidence is available. But whatever evidence there is, you will find it here. “And now we land.”
There was a bump, then a jerky glide, that ended.
“Out,” said the voice. “Get out! I cannot remain here even a minute. Get out. Quick!”
Its tone impelled Gosseyn. He was at the door before he stopped, and half turned. The questions were crowding his brain now.
“But!” he began. And was cut off.
“Hurry, hurry!” said the roboplane. “We can’t take a single chance with this unhuman intelligence. It is vital that no one suspect how you were brought here. Out with you into the night. Every second counts.”
Reluctant but obedient, Gosseyn stepped out into the pouring rain. A moment later he was alone in the immense, damp darkness of an alien planet.
VIII.
“The characters which science discerns in nature are subtle characters. They are relations of relations and characters of characters.”
A.N.W.
He had to get out of the rain. Like a man pushing through a raging stream, Gosseyn bent into the downpour, and trudged grimly ahead.
In a way the rain relieved him. He had had a curious uneasy fear that strange creatures might be watching for him. That fear was gone.
Not in this rain would anything be lying in wait for him. At least, not until he got in among the sheltering trees.
There must be trees. If, as the roboplane had said, he was near the forest home of an “X” agent, then there would be a forest. He could, of course, be going in the wrong direction.
Gosseyn thought not. The roboplane had let him off on this side.
The rain pelted his face and legs and arms. After he had floundered forward about eight minutes, Gosseyn had the feeling that it was letting up a little.
He paused, and looked up. But there was nothing to see. The rain brought the sky right down to the ground; and the sky pressed with a thousand needles of water upon his unprotected, upturned face. Streams of it poured into his nostrils, and sought access to his mouth. „ He stopped breathing.
Standing there, Gosseyn had the impression that he was prisoned at the bottom of a sea in a world of endless water. Dark was that sea; and, like all the darkness that ever was, full of mystery and menace.
He lowered his head again, and plunged on. And realized after less than a minute more that he had been right. The rain was slowing.
It ended while he was still out in the open. Mild and fresh, the darkness flowed around him. No longer was it alien, but peaceful like the nights of the past two weeks.
He knew when he struck dry ground that he had reached the forest. Gosseyn paused, and studied the darkness. Now that the rain had ended, there was physical peace all right. But now, also, what the roboplane had said about the aliens, took on new potentialities:
“Whatever evidence there is, you will find it here.”
Gosseyn stared and stared. But the blackness remained uniform in every direction, untouched even by a suggestion of light.
He began to feel obstinate. He couldn’t have been misled. He strode forward a hundred yards, and he was not surprised when he saw a glimmer to his left. It was a vague reflection that grew brighter as he walked. It became a glow that splashed the ground, and lightened up neighboring trees.
After about ten minutes altogether, Gosseyn saw its source: Massive windows in a tree.
They poured forth a cheerful brightness, promising comfort, and relief from the soaked clothing that clung damply to his body. He decided not to worry too much about physical ease.
Out there in the rain, he had made up his mind that he had no alternative but to follow the advice of the Machine. Pondering that purpose, Gosseyn paused in the shadows of a patch of underbrush, and studied the house in the tree.
He waited, watching for figures to silhouette against the great windows. But the light continued unchanging. There was not even a reflected movement from inside.
