The Beyond, page 6
Simon had returned to his shack.
As Selby moved ahead again, his thoughts were mixed. The boy Cromwell had seen was David Gant; the limp and the hair color proved that. And the dog.
Now David was dead. "Died in the season of orange heat," Simon had said. For all practical purposes, his job was finished. Then what drove him toward the village? Why the turmoil in his mind? Lora Gant, he thought. He was curious to see this girl who had sacrificed her freedom in an effort to protect her brother. Too, he recognized an urge to learn more about David, and about the power so feared that it would cause the government of three thousand planets to send an expedition across the galaxy to murder a ten-year-old boy.
Simon had balked when he'd asked where the girl lived.
"Over there somewhere," he said, gesturing toward the purple mountains.
Then the old man's eyes had frosted and Selby knew that further questioning was useless. His walk to the village was purely exploratory, yet he sensed an underlying hope.
He returned his thoughts to David.
Were there others like him? It seemed scarcely credible, yet it seemed equally unlikely that nature would take this single fling into the unknown.
Hallam Vogel had guessed that there might be one or two per generation, a figure that covered three thousand planets. How about Henry Fong? Anna LeMay?
Were they beyonds? Or had their paranormal reputations been conjured in the minds of people like Philip Wig to enhance their own power?
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What would Wig do now that David Gant was dead? The question jolted him.
Admission of the boy's death would cost the executor the victory he had gained in carrying his case over the director's head to Ewol Strang, for Selby had scant doubt but that Wig had done just that. It would cost him power, prestige, his chance to seize the director's chair. if he admitted David Gant was dead.
Selby pondered that. How would his own statement stand against Wig's denial? He'd need witnesses, he reflected. Lora Gant? How about the other boy, Johnny Sloan? Certainly two ten-year-olds trapped on a world like this would have been fast friends. But would Johnny talk?
Would anyone talk? Would anyone believe them if they did talk? That was the real problem, he thought.
He looked up as he came to the first cabin. The log siding was crude, chinked with mud or cement, heavy with wet, green slime that spoke of the torrential rains. He gazed around at the other cabins. No smoke came from the chimneys, nor did he detect any sign of life. Aside from a crude wheelbarrow leaning against one wall, he saw no tools or equipment.
Dead, the village was dead, he thought. But if so, where did the exiles live? There must be several hundred at least, judging from the amount and kind of equipment and supplies Cromwell delivered. Were they all scattered throughout the Kavu mountains? Perhaps he could put that question to old
Simon. Even as the thought occurred, he knew he couldn't. The blue eyes had grown too implacable at his last question.
Slogging along the village street, it occurred to him that some of the cabins might be occupied; perhaps his progress was being watched -- his mind read! If so, his disguise as a crew member was a hollow bit of deception.
Probably Simon had seen through it already and had alerted the others. That could account for the deserted village. How much information could he get? The question perturbed him.
He came to the end of the village and paused, realizing the roar from the river had grown louder. Now it masked the wind, filling the sky with thunder. Peering ahead, he discerned a meadow lush with bulla grass; the sound came from there. That's where Cromwell had seen the boy, he thought. His eyes swept it. Like the village, it was deserted.
Off to one side he glimpsed a whiteness through the trees and realized it must be the graveyard.
Casting a last glance at the meadow, he started toward it. Hallam Vogel had stated that the cemetery served as the basis for the census: the number exiled less the number of grave markers yielded the population figure -- a grim system, to Selby's mind.
He discovered a path through the forest and followed it, noting the mud was barren of footprints, both animal and human. And yet it was a trail; as such, it served a purpose. He drew his jacket closer, wishing he'd worn a hat to ward off the dripping water.
At the edge of the cemetery he halted, eyeing the rows of water-worn boulders used to mark the graves. They gleamed an odd pinkish-white under the sullen sky. He looked slowly around. What an incredibly lonely place. To be buried here, on the single planet of the most remote star in the galaxy...He shivered.
Drawing closer to the graves, he saw that each stone was crudely inscribed with a name and the dates of birth and death, and that was all. A
graveyard without flowers, with no hint of care...The dripping trees, the sullen overcast and muddy pools from which the bulla grass grew -- the sight depressed him.
Walking slowly along what seemed to be the newest row, he gazed at the names. Kondar Nord, GY 3138-3180; Alma Goleck, Joel Bromar...Name after name, each with its year of birth and death, each a mute record of a being exiled to a bleak world, dying unheralded save perhaps by his miserable fellow exiles.
Torn Ezbar, Marita White...
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He came to the end of the row and stopped abruptly, gazing down at a stone. David Gant, GY
3170-3180. So, David Gant was dead. It came to him as a surprise that he'd held doubts, and immediately realized it was because of the timing. Had David lived, the exiles would have come under intense scrutiny and persecution -- Wig would have seen to that.
He paused, thinking his logic faulty. Simon couldn't have known of Wig, at least not before their arrival. Or had David sensed Cromwell's presence in the meadow. If so, the exiles might have expected someone like Wig to appear.
No, that logic wasn't too strong either. David had simply died, just as the others here had died.
But now...? He wondered what the executor would do.
Wig couldn't admit defeat. At the same time, his warrant of execution named David specifically; the director had told him that. Now the warrant was just so much paper. But would Wig try to create a pk? Vogel had suggested he might. Selby gazed at the stone uneasily. David Gant, wherever you are you're better off, he thought.
The hair at the back of his neck prickled and he stiffened, aware that whatever had alerted him had come from neither eye nor ear. He waited, senses attuned. Somehow, in a way he did not understand, he felt a sense of presence, not danger exactly, but the feeling of being watched.
He'd experienced the feeling before, and related it to his telepathic sense, as he'd come to think of it. But he'd never felt it as strongly as now.
Turning slowly, he detected a slight movement out of the corner of his eye -- a figure watching him from the edge of the forest. Somehow he knew it was a young woman or girl, and he knew she was alone. That was the damnable thing: to know without knowing how he knew. Through what sensory cues did the knowledge come? It disturbed him that he didn't know.
It struck him that the other must be a telepath and he tried to mask his mind, at the same time turning slowly to avoid causing alarm. He shifted his
body around farther. It was a girl! She began to retreat.
"Don't go, please," he called.
She hesitated, then turned back, waiting as he approached her. Medium height, slender, with cool brown hair framing an oval face -- his eyes took in the details.
"I'm from the Cosmic Wind, my first visit," he explained. "I was just looking around."
"In the graveyard?" she asked scornfully.
"The white stones attracted my attention and I came to see them." Could she read the evasion?
The thought made him uncomfortable.
She said disdainfully, "They are records of the inhumanity of your government."
"I'll grant you that," he answered quietly.
"Does it satisfy you to see all our dead?"
"It grieves me," he replied. "You're not fair. You don't even know me."
"I know you well enough," she said coldly.
"Selby, Alek Selby is the name, and you're still not fair."
"No?" She tossed her head in a way that made her appear very feminine.
Her dark eyes flashed. "You represent a government mad with power, mad with fear, driven to destroy everyone and everything it doesn't understand.
Unthinking, unfeeling, cowardly." She stomped her foot.
He regarded her gravely. "I understand how you feel."
"Do you?" she demanded.
"I'll grant the injustice, but that doesn't hold for everyone," he said.
She looked coolly at him. "I suppose you're an exception?"
"I try to be."
"Next you're going to tell me you're just a crewman?"
"Well, I'm supposed to be." He grinned at her.
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"Why are you here?"
He studied her, pushing back the thought that she was lovely, seeking a suitable answer. Evasion was useless. In the end he told her the truth. "I'm with SocAd, checking on the rumor of a boy pk."
Her chin tilted upward. "Department 404?"
"General culture," he corrected, surprised that she should know of SocAd's secret police; the knowledge was restricted to upper levels.
"Are you satisfied?" she asked bitterly.
"I'm extremely sorry." He eyed her soberly. "You're Lora Gant, aren't you?"
"Yes." She returned his stare.
A swirl of rain came and he glanced at the angry clouds before bringing back his gaze. "I'm sorry to be intruding this way but I had no choice. I go where I'm sent."
"And do what they tell you?"
"Yes."
"What if my brother had been alive?"
"I would report the fact."
"And then?"
"I don't know," he replied uncomfortably. "It would be out of my hands."
She said icily, "You don't know? Do you believe they would have sent you here without some diabolical reason? They can't even let us alone on Engo."
Her voice rose. "What kind of people are you?"
"I'm trying to be fair," he protested.
"Fair? Here to persecute a ten-year-old boy and you call yourself fair?"
"I wasn't here to persecute him," he replied defensively. "I came to verify whether or not he was a beyond."
"What difference would it make unless you intended doing something about it?" she flared.
"Maybe not you personally, but someone, and you know it."
"Perhaps, but it makes no difference now." He stared over the graveyard, wishing there was something he could say, some way of letting her know that he wished the telepaths no ill will, and that he regretted the treatment given them. He wished he could warn her of Philip Wig. My God, when Wig found out that David Gant was dead...
"Who is Philip Wig?" Her question came tonelessly, bringing his eyes back with a start. Her face, white in the failing light, was turned up to him, her dark eyes searching his face. "Who is Philip Wig?" she repeated quietly.
"I forgot, you're a telepath."
"Of course."
"Philip Wig is the executor of Department 404," he said.
"And he's coming here?"
"Yes."
"What can he do with David dead?"
He said harshly, "That won't stop Philip Wig."
"He's that dangerous?"
"Yes," he answered simply.
She asked quietly, "When will he arrive?"
"Soon, I believe. I'm not certain."
"Thank you," she said. Turning, she drew her cape more tightly around her and hurried back into the shadow of the trees.
"Wait," he called. She gave no sign that she had heard and he started after her, then stopped, watching until she vanished from sight. She'd read his mind; then she must know how he felt, the Page 30
conflict inside him over the thing he was doing. The knowledge brought a glow of satisfaction.
Now she couldn't condemn him, not entirely. In time she might even be able to understand.
And he'd warned her of Philip Wig, or at least she'd plucked the warning from his mind, which amounted to the same thing. And she knew what kind of a man Philip Wig was. Now all the telepaths would know. He felt a deep sense of satisfaction, thinking that Wig might find his job more difficult than he'd anticipated.
He became conscious that the rain was swirling down, the sky darkening.
The tops of the agora trees swayed angrily against the clouds and from the Kavu mountains the howl of the wind grew louder. But he didn't mind. Looking in the direction the girl had gone, he started back toward the ship.
It felt good to walk in the rain.
Selby fretted as hurricane storms confined him to the ship. Driven by savage winds out of the Kavu mountains, the rains flooded the forest, and the sluggish-moving Dimbo river turned into a raging torrent that spilled over the meadows. The field where the Cosmic Wind lay became a lake. Between flurries he caught glimpses of Simon's shack, now knee-deep in water. But of the old man, he saw nothing.
He wondered what Simon did with his long days. Was he a hermit, or did he live in what Hallam Vogel called "the company of minds?" It was quite possible that the old man wasn't really alone, but was in constant communication with the other exiles -- somewhat like a radio network, he thought. But that was a question he couldn't ask.
Abruptly the winds died and the cold came; the water turned to ice on the trees, bending and snapping the branches. The field became a frozen lake.
Staring through the star window, he thought it inconceivable that human beings could live on such a planet. He fretted over the girl, although he realized it was foolish. She'd undoubtedly experienced a score of such storms. Still, people did die.
Finally he swung toward Cromwell, who was hunched over a chess game with Snorkel. "How can anyone survive?" he demanded.
Cromwell glanced up, his eyes filled with understanding. "Many of them don't."
"Is it often this bad?"
"Worse," declared Cromwell. "Wait till the moon gets closer to perigee and the quakes come."
"Just like this baby in retrofire," Snorkel commented.
Selby disregarded him. "How long does this usually last?"
"Who knows?" The captain shrugged. "Hours, days, weeks..."
"Weeks," he exclaimed dismally.
Cromwell smiled knowingly. "See the Gant girl?"
"Just before the storm," he answered reluctantly.
"Nice looking, eh?"
Selby flushed. "What makes you ask that?"
Cromwell chuckled. "You've been pacing the cabin like a caged gundal, young fellow. You can't wait to get outside. The same thing happened to Snorky near forty years ago. We'd put down on..."
"I just want to finish the job," he broke in defensively.
"I thought it was finished," Cromwell observed innocently. "The boy's dead. I was planning to lift off as soon as the weather lets up."
"Lift off?" he echoed hollowly. "I still have things to do."
"I thought you'd find something." The chuckle came again and Cromwell looked back at the board.
The storm lasted five days, followed by an intense heat which quickly melted the ice and added to the flooding. The field was a quagmire. Although the mud was ankle-deep, Selby hurriedly left Page 31
the ship.
Trudging toward the village, he realized it was as lifeless as ever, for no smoke rose from the crude chimneys. The scene held the stillness of death.
He went to the graveyard and then to the meadow, finding both deserted.
In desperation, he returned to the field and asked Simon, "Where is everybody?"
The keen blue eyes fixed him. "Can't rightly say."
"But they're all right?"
"They're all right," the old man assured him. The answer told Selby that Simon did, in fact, keep in touch with the others, a point he logged in his mental file.
"Where are they?" he asked.
Simon's eyes softened. "Most of them have spread out, moved into the hills. They're pretty much scattered."
"Then they don't live in the village?"
Simon shook his head. "Mostly they stay here just long enough to drop the pelts they've gathered."
"How about Lora Gant? When will she be back?"
"Can't rightly say."
"Then how can I find her?" he asked.
"You can't." Simon turned away and his voice floated back. "But she might find you."
She might find you. Simon's words rang in his mind as he watched the old man disappear into the shack. But would she want to find him? Or was he just another outsider, an agent of a brutal, tyrannical government which had cast her out? What did she think, now that she had glimpsed his mind? He wished he knew.
But at least he'd made some progress with Simon, he reflected. If the old man still evaded his questions, the answers he did give were more friendly. Because Simon had read his mind? Or had he talked with Lora? In either case, Selby felt that his status had changed. True, he was still the outsider, and yet there was a certain acceptance. He took that as a favorable token.
Returning from another fruitless search, he pondered the strangeness of this world. All other inhabited worlds had a past -- a history, traditions, customs built during long ages; all other worlds had a future -- common goals, aspirations, a knowledge of continuity. But not Engo. It was a world that held no heritage, showered no promises, offered nothing but the bleak nowness
--
wind, rain, snow, heat, fever. The giant agora trees wept perpetually, symbolic of its tragedy, and the tragedy of the people exiled there, he thought. He gazed at the sky, wondering when he would see Lora again.
Four days later he found the boy.
An orange quarter moon was rising in a clear sky when Selby reached the meadow at dusk. The wind, dying in the late afternoon, left the air still and moist. It reminded him of the tropic beaches of Amador.
He mopped his brow and removed his jacket, conscious of the dull roar of the river. It had fallen as rapidly as it had risen, now was a sluggish giant creeping through the forest and across open stretches of bulla grass. Here and there he caught glimpses of the dark water. An empty world, he thought, and felt a pang.
