Collected Short Fiction, page 658
The carnivorous citizen thrust its long muzzle forward, past Quamodian’s cheek. He felt its hot, faintly fishy breath on his ear as it whined softly, “This spectacle does not appear usual. Can you explain it?” Quamodian said simply, “I think our own sun has gone rogue.”
“But that’s impossible,” cried the girl. “Sol is not an intellectic body! No trace of volition has ever been detected!”
Quamodian spread his hands, indicating the violence of the aurora. “Then you explain it,” he said.
The distant chorus of the grass-green spirals chimed in, “We have recorded reflected intensity of stellar emissions. They have approximately doubled. Three conjectures: One, that this star is pre-nova; improbable. Two, that previous soundings to determine intellect in this star have been in error; improbable. Three, that it has acquired volition.”
“You mean it’s gone rogue?” the girl demanded. “What probability do you give that?”
“No assessment,” chanted the spirals. “No known data for comparison.”
“Report to Almalik!” ordered the girl. “You, citizen! You have transcience facilities!”
But the spirals replied, “Our signals from Almalik are disordered. We cannot comprehend their meaning. Nor can we receive acknowledgment of our own reports.” Quamodian had had enough. “Forget Almalik!” he ordered. “And never mind about the sun, either; we can worry about that later. Right now I’m worried about a girl. A human girl named Molly Zaldivar. Perhaps she is somewhere nearby, with or without the rogue intellect. Can any of you detect her?”
Silence.
“Try!” roared Andy Quam. Then, sulkily, the predator citizen lifted its muzzle.
“For some time now,” it bayed softly, the transcience receptor in Quamodian’s ears converting it into words he could understand, “I have registered the presence of quarry on that far hill.”
“Quarry?”
“An ancestral trait,” the citizen explained. “It is a particular refinement of chemosampling in ambient air. What you call the sense of smell. But—is not Monitor Kwai Kwich ‘human girl’ and are not you ‘human male,’ Monitor Quamodian?”
“Certainly! What about it?”
“Then this quarry cannot be what you seek. It is male. And it is severely injured.”
They skimmed over the pitted road, dropped toward the hillside where the carnivore citizen had scented a man. Its sense of smell had not been in error.
The man was the Reefer, huddled against the trunk of a bent evergreen tree. He looked gray and ill in the flickering colored lights of the aurora. One arm, badly swollen, was in a sling. He gazed up at the flyer apathetically as Quamodian jumped out.
“I want a word with you,” Andy Quam shouted.
The Reefer growled hoarsely, “Make it short. I’m a sick man.”
“Where is the rogue? Where is Molly Zaldivar?”
The Reefer shifted his weight awkwardly, flinching from the movement of his arm. “Gone. I don’t know where.”
“When?”
The Reefer shook his head wearily. Pale with pain, he pulled a short black stick from his pocket, gnawed the end off it and began chewing grimly. “A root that grows on the Reefs,” he said, his voice almost inaudible. “Filthy to chew, I guess, but it eases pain. It has always been my personal substitute for Almalik . . . When did the rogue go? I don’t know. It dumped me here this afternoon. Couple hours ago something went on over there—” he gestured weakly at the hill that lay over the cave—“and I saw something bright in the sky.”
“The aurora?” Quamodian demanded.
“No! That’s been going on since dark. This was something else. I think . . .” His voice trailed off; he shook himself and finished: “I think the rogue is out in space. Maybe took the girl with him.”
Monitor Clothilde Kwai Kwich interrupted. “Andy! This man is dying. I suggest we get him to a hospital.”
The Reefer grinned painfully, worked his lips for a second, then jetted a stream of black liquid at a rock. “Good idea, miss,” he said. “Only it’s too late for the hospital. I’m going to the church.”
“Gosh, preacher!” breathed Rufe, wide-eyed behind Andy Quam in the shifting auroral lights. “Never thought he’d say that!”
“Never would,” rumbled the Reefer, “if I had the choice. Knew it was coming. Your robot inspector told me weeks ago. ‘Malignant fusorian virus,’ he said, and he acted like he was enjoying it—much as a robot can enjoy anything. And he said the Visitants could clear it up, but no doctor could. Expect he’s right.”
“So you’re joining Almalik,” said Andy Quam.
The Reefer shrugged bitterly and winced from his slung arm. “I’ve tamed my last sleeth. My free life’s ended.” A spasm of pain whitened his face beneath the scars and the dirty beard. “Don’t think I like it, Quamodian! But half my body’s on fire.”
“Good!” cried Andy Quam. “That’s fine! Now, if you want a ride to Wisdom Creek, you can start paying the fare!”
The boy gasped, and even Clothilde Kwai Kwich darted a sudden incredulous look at Quamodian. The Reefer licked his lips, staring at Quamodian. “What’re you talking about? I’m too sick for jokes!”
“That’s good, because I’m not joking. I’m going to leave you here to rot—unless you make it worth my while to take you in.”
“How?”
“Easiest thing in the world,” Quamodian said tightly. “Let’s just start by telling me the truth about what you and Cliff Hawk were doing.”
Under the many-hued gleam of the auroras the Reefer’s, eyes gleamed whitely, furiously. If he had had the transcience powers of the sleeth Andreas Quamodian would have been stunned or dead in that moment. There was madness in his look, and a rage that could destroy planets.
But it passed. The Reefer looked away. His jaws worked; he gulped, spat a thin black stream of the juice of his root and said:
“Why not? Makes no difference any more, does it? After all, the Visitants will soon be burrowing in my brain and exposing all my secrets for Almalik to know. Might as well tell you now as have you find out that way . . . but let me sit down in your flyer, Quamodian. I’m telling the truth about being sick.”
Andy Quam opened the bubble for him, and painfully the huge man sank into the cushions. The autonomic circuits of the flyer compensated for his weight, and he sat bobbing slightly, looking down on them.
“Truth is,” he said, “Cliff Hawk was only working for me. Insolent pup! I knew he thought he was pretty high and mighty, chasing after pure knowledge and all that stuff. But all I wanted was a cure for this virus. Ever since I picked it up on the Reefs, more’n twenty years ago, it’s been sleeping there inside me. I didn’t mean for it to kill me, Quamodian. But I didn’t mean to take on the Visitants, either.”
He soothed his splinted arm with rough, blunt fingers, staring up at the many-hued sky. “I did like some of the things the Visitants had to offer, of course. Physical immortality, just about. A cure for this fusorian poison. Power . . . The rogues were my way of getting those things, without letting those parasites into my body. Hawk was just my engineer.”
“So you knew Cliff Hawk was creating a rogue?” Quamodian leaned forward to search the Reefer’s lax and bloodless face.
“Two rogues, Quamodian. The first got away.” He grinned with a spasm of pain. “Looks like the other one did too!”
“I see,” whispered Andy Quam, staring up at the angry aurora. “The first one entered our sun. Now it’s rogue too!”
The Reefer shrugged.
Clothilde Kwai Kwich cried: “Monitor Quamodian! This must be reported at once. Since our citizens are not in contact with Almalik, we must return immediately to Wisdom Creek and report via the transflex station there.”
“It’s been reported already,” said Andy Quam.
“Impossible! How could it be? We just found out—”
“By Rufe’s parents. They knew about it, didn’t they?” The boy nodded, looking pleased and excited. “And they’ve gone to Nuevo York to pass the word along.”
The Reefer scratched his ribs cautiously, winced and groaned: “So that’s about it, right? Now how about taking me in to Wisdom Creek?”
“Not just yet,” said Andy Quam, deadly quiet. “One more question. What about Molly Zaldivar?”
“That witless little thing! She ruined Cliff Hawk. In love with her, he was; she tried to stop him and messed everything up.”
He gasped and leaned forward, clutching his chest. “But I don’t know where she is now, Quamodian,” he moaned. “Please! Isn’t that enough? Won’t you take me in before this thing kills me?”
On the way in to Wisdom Creek Andy Quam used the flyer’s circuits to contact the control dome for priorities. “Thirty-minute delay on all messages, Monitor Quamodian,” said the dome. “I will inform you when your circuits can be cleared.”
Grim-lipped, Andy Quam ordered the flyer to the Starchurch. Now that he knew what was wrong with the sun his responsibility was at an end. Almalik would cope with the problem—somehow—or Almalik would fail; Quamodian didn’t care. At that moment the only thing on his mind was Molly Zaldivar, stolen into space by the rogue and doomed to early death by the lethal rays of the old power source in the cavern. As for the Reefer, Quamodian didn’t care in the slightest whether he lived or died.
Yet there was a sort of grandeur in what happened at the Starchurch. They were greeted by the new robot inspector, his egg-shaped black body bobbing with excitement at the presence of so many illustrious visitors. Even though this was not a Starday, a circle of the saved were kneeling on that wide floor beneath the imaged suns of Almalik, and Quamodian and Monitor Clothilde Kwai Kwich led the procession that brought the limping, sullen figure of the Reefer to the Visitants. Behind him the carnivorous citizen, the green-spiral citizen and the cloud brought up the rear.
The kneeling worshippers chanted their praises of Almalik. Then Juan Zaldivar stood up to ask the Reefer the statutory questions—if he understood the nature of symbiotic life; if he had chosen of his own free will to accept the fusorian symbiotes in his body, blood, brain and bone; if he understood that this choice was made forever.
To each question, the Reefer croaked, “I do.”
He knelt, and the inhabited saved ones knelt with him, their golden brands glowing in the gloom. They chanted again, their voices rolling solemnly against the mighty dome that held the thirteen suns of Almalik.
The Reefer gasped a sudden protesting cry.
He rose half to his feet, turned with a sudden look of wild alarm, then pitched forward on his damaged arm.
Quamodian heard a sharp, hissing crackle. Fine golden sparks were dancing up from the glowing marks on the bodies and faces of the saved ones, floating delicately toward the prone body of the Reefer. They flew together, gathering into a tiny cloud of golden fire that hovered over him.
The yellow fireball sank hissing into his skin.
An arm of it darted around His body, touched his cheek, retreated to rejoin the rest. The air was suddenly heavy with the sweet reek of the Visitants.
The Reefer’s moans subsided. Then the chanting ended. He stirred, opened his eyes, stood up easily and came to shake Andreas Quamodian’s hand.
“Thanks, friend,” his great voice boomed. A serene and gentle smile had fallen over his scarred, ferocious face. The star of the Visitants now glowed faintly above his ragged beard. “All my pain is gone.”
Juan Zaldivar came to take his hand. “You are saved now. You’ll feel no pain again,” he said solemnly.
The control dome had been in touch with Almalik. But there were difficulties. Quamodian blazed: “What difficulties? I must communicate with Almalik at once—go there as soon as possible!”
“Regret,” sang the control dome sweetly. “It is a matter of priorities.”
“That’s what I demand, emergency priority!”
“But Monitor Quamodian,” sang the control dome, “when you arrived yesterday you stated the emergency was here.”
“It was here. Now I have new facts! I expect a most serious danger to the suns of Almalik!”
Clothilde Kwai Kwich whispered, “Andy, may I speak to him? Perhaps he will listen—” But Quamodian froze her with a glare. She subsided without comment. She had become a softer, more feminine person since the visit to the cave, the discovery that Andy Quam’s fears were not groundless.
“State these facts,” the monitor rapped out melodiously.
“They are already available to Almalik,” said Quamodian. “They exist in the mind of a man called the Reefer who has just received the Visitants. I wish to be on hand among the stars of Almalik, to assist with the interpretation and use of this new information.”
He did not add his more urgent private reason; it would have been of no use, since it was not the sort of thing that would influence the control dome’s transcience patterns. But he clung to a wild, despairing hope that Molly Zaldivar might appear with her captor, somewhere about the multiple suns of Almalik. If she did, Quamodian wanted to be there.
“Moment,” sang the monitor dome. Andy Quam shifted uneasily in the seat of the flyer.
Clothilde Kwai Kwich frowned thoughtfully. “We have priorities,” she stated, as if to no one.
“What about it?” Quam demanded.
“Nothing, Andy. Except that the rest of us can go to Almalik at once and plead your cause.”
“Agree,” chanted the chorus of the grass-green spirals. “Impatient. Urgent. Suggest no delay.”
And the cloud citizen sighed, “There exist great forces deployed against Almalik. It is necessary to prepare immediately.”
Quamodian said stubbornly, “Do what you like. I am going anyway.” Clothilde looked at him doubtfully, but said nothing. She was saved the need to, anyway; the control dome spoke in all their ears, through the very little communicator plugs: “Monitor Quamodian, your request is denied. Monitor Kwai Kwich, your priorities, and those of your party, are withdrawn. There can be no travel to that destination now.”
The news struck them all with consternation. The green spirals whirled furiously in their interlocking orbits, their collective thoughts a babble of whispered fear and excitement, just below the threshold of comprehensibility for the others. The predator citizen whined mournfully and edged closer to the boy, Rufe, who stared wide-eyed at Andy Quam. The pinkly glowing cloud citizen whispered somber statements about the disasters that lay ahead, and Clothilde Kwai Kwich’s hand crept out, unnoticed, to take the hand of Andy Quam.
“Why?” he demanded furiously. “We are monitors! We cannot be denied priority rights!”
“All priorities are withdrawn,” said the control dome somberly. “Our headquarters report anomalous astronomical phenomena among the planets and multiple suns of Almalik. Robot inspector, please clarify.” Unnoticed the black egg-shaped form of the robot had drifted across the square toward them. Its oval sensor was cool and bright and blank. Its high voice hummed: “That is correct, Monitor Quamodian. The outer planet of Almalik Thirteen has suddenly stopped in its orbit. It is moving toward collision toward its primary at many times the normal acceleration of gravity.”
Quamodian’s eyes narrowed. Inside his mind whirled with chaotic flashes of foreboding. Molly was there! He was certain of it now, and certain that he must get to her. “Not surprising!” he barked, surprising himself. “That is precisely what I hoped to prevent! I must get there at once to limit the damage, avoid it if I still can.”
“Impossible, Monitor Quamodian,” the robot whirred. “The collision of the anomalous planet with Almalik Thirteen is expected to occur within a few hours. All transflex facilities are in use for the evacuation of the threatened planets. Even so, they are inadequate. Only a fraction of the population can be saved. Under these circumstances, no incoming travel is permitted.”
The girl gasped, next to Andy Quam in the seat of the flyer. The predator citizen lifted his snout and emitted a long, mourning howl.
Quamodian stammered, “But—but I must go there! To help! It is still possible to do something . . .” The robot did not respond. Its bright black case hung motionless.
Rufe whispered fearfully, “Preacher, what’s the matter? Is it dead?” Quamodian shook his head, staring. The robot’s plasma sensor flickered, darkened, went out. Three thick black effector whips slid out of its body shell and dangled limply below it, brushing the dusty pavement of the square.
“Robot inspector?” Quamodian called querulously. Beside him the girl whispered:
“There’s something terribly wrong! It’s out of communication entirely . . .”
But abruptly the effectors snapped back into the case. The sensor glowed again.
“We have received a further instruction from headquarters,” it hummed. “The information states that a powerful rogue invader has destroyed the native intellects in two of the suns of Almalik. The invader has established its own transcience patterns in these suns, and it is now attacking the planets of Almalik Thirteen.” Quamodian caught a sudden, rasping breath.
“Call Cygnus!” he demanded. “Sacred Almalik, spokesman star of Cygnus, is calling here,” the robot’s high whine interrupted him. “Your transflex travel priority has been approved. You and your party may depart from the Wisdom Creek transflex station at once.”
XIX
Light-years away, the rogue’s consciousness grew and sharpened in the heat of a cosmic fury. The huge sentience of stripped electrons and plasma soliloquized to itself like a stellar Hamlet:
My seas boil dry . . . my magma bleeds from glowing wounds . . . my core itself is shattered by those savage plasma spears . . . still I hurl myself toward the great white sun ahead . . .
The inner planets of the sun spread wider in their orbits as it approached. They began flashing backward past It; it was only hours now until they, aid all the space about, would be dissolved in the blazing debris of the sun the rogue was about to destroy.
And still the sun did not resist.
Swelling vast ahead of the rogue, it lay serenely white, beautiful and quiet, undisturbed by the rogue’s attack.
