No One Goes There Now, page 22
Your kindness overwhelms one, but neither are appropriate to our needs. Is this unaccustomed mental activity too tiring? We can rest whenever you desire.
“No, no.” The Director waxed enthusiastic. “We are getting a slight headache, but…You mentioned urgency in regard to your mission.”
It is most urgent, O elder. Higher Ones have become concerned. A short time past one of our kind—a youngling in full flower of growth—was inadvertently destroyed by a human. We have grieved for him.
“Desolating! That is most regrettable,” clucked Lovelock. “We shall order extreme care taken to ensure that such a tragedy never occurs again.”
It will be of inestimable value. Higher Ones may be ‘persuaded to overlook this heinous transgression in view of the youth of your species and your obvious good intentions. It was assuredly accidental.
“There can be no doubt of that,” said Weldon, wondering what had happened. He made a mental note to query Elan Grey for details. “While we are on the subject,” he put in, “can you assure us that Humans will be accorded the same care and protection? Many, many of our citizens have vanished mysteriously since we first landed on Dan.”
Unfortunately, we are powerless to grant such assurances. But harbor no misgivings for their safety, O elder. Higher Ones have taken them. They abide in Their gentle care.
“That is comforting,” said the Old One thinly. “Yet, why have some of them been returned practically mindless?”
You ask the unanswerable. The motives of Higher Ones cannot be questioned.
Weldon Lovelock frowned. ‘We strongly object to that, of course. We are not vegetables, but men. These Higher Ones, my friends; exactly who are they? Where are they from? What do they mean to you?”
Tanis and Joste remained motionless, but the Director had the impression that his questions startled them nonetheless.
You presume too much!
Lovelock shifted uneasily in his geriatric chair. The voice inside his head had spoken with a deeper timbre. He was sure the other, silent Danus had at last been heard from, and with mild overtones of anger.
“It is only just to expect answers,” he said. “After all, we have given our—”
Some questions cannot be answered.
“By the Danii?”
By any save Higher Ones themselves.
Lovelock made an impatient gesture. Enough of this Joste and his talking riddles. The one on the left seemed far more polite. He tried to direct his questions toward Tanis. “How can one ask these Higher Ones anything if their whereabouts—”
They are accessible, O elder. They stand ever ready to assuage our anxieties, to guide our steps. We would be happy to conduct you to them.
“Really?” Weldon’s lips compressed into a thin line. “That might prove quite interesting. Time, however, is not presently obtainable. We could not break free for a long journey just now.”
The journey would be a matter of milliseconds, O elder.
Weldon started, gripping the arms of his chair. “Oh, you mean by, er…1 see!”
This creature is unfit to be taken before Higher Ones!
It was Joste, Weldon knew. His anger was now unconcealed, unmistakable. Before he could think of something which might draw Tanis back into conversation, Joste continued in the same acidulous vein.
While you were speaking, elder of Earth, 1 delved your subconscious. What l found was far from pleasant—a sinkhole of phobias, repressions, monstrous crimes. Why do you so awfully fear passing from this phase of existence? Higher Ones would not approve your artificially protracted stay, I am certain.
Ser Weldon Lovelock was speechless.
Your species evolved during a warming trend in the latter part of the most recent interglacial epoch of this planet Earth. Naturally your remote ancestors were savage, cruel, or you would not be here now.
But the later, intrinsic direction of your kind has always been toward rationality, toward uplifting one’s fellow being and growing together toward new heights. I observe that Higher Ones have passed among you from time to time. Why have you not heeded?
What l, a novice, can visualize is truly appalling. You have evolved from this—
The Alps were gone. Weldon Lovelock sucked in a deep breath of panic.
A nebulous scene congealed around them. Long grass waved in a stiff breeze and, from somewhere close by, came the sound of swiftly flowing water. Something squat and powerful parted the grass and peered out with wary pig eyes surmounted by enormous, tufted brow ridges. It shambled forward on all fours, then stood semi-erect. It was hairy, filthy; it was almost a man.
—to this—
The roar of a screaming crowd beat down on them. Sand covering the floor of the arena gave off thermal haze as forty sweating swordsmen wearing peculiar, shovel-shaped helmets danced a deadly dance to avoid the passes of forty graceful retiarii equipped with nets and long-handled tridents.
As they watched, a weighted net was cast, entangling a gladiator about the knees and felling him. Before he could rise a trident was at his throat, a foot was on his swordarm. The retiarius waited for some unseen signal, then brought his weight down solidly on the trident.
The crowd noise became unbearable.
—to this—
Trembling uncontrollably, Lovelock was forced to wait until his eyes adjusted to the sudden dark. Dimly, against the star-shot blackness of space, he saw the limb of Earth shouldering into view. Most of North America lay in cloudless darkness, with the terminator running through the Atlantic.
The night was abruptly shattered; six dozen brilliants winked into being across the unlighted continent, then more, and more, and yet more. Ser Weldon felt his throat constrict. He was watching something legendary, something almost no one had lived through—the Holocaust.
The ruined Earth faded and became once again a calm vista of the Alps. The Director of that troubled planet found himself white and shaken, emotions boiling.
I am deeply saddened. Tanis’ thought held a note of sympathy.
Lovelock worked his lips but could say nothing.
Tanis, I would be gone from this cesspool1. These creatures have raped and gutted their natural place of existence. I see little point in examining spoiled clay. Come, let us prepare.
Farewell, O elder of this planet Earth.
Weldon Lovelock, eyes glazed and visibly trembling, was too enwrapped in his own emotions to even notice them disappear.
* * *
They materialized simultaneously within a sleek gray egg of force floating in space perhaps five astronomical units from Earth, just outside the primary perturbing influences of Sol.
That should precipitate conclusive action-decision, offered Joste.
Aye, and one is grateful for your taking time to assist me, replied Tanis. Your timing and manner were letter-perfect, my comrade. He was greatly moved in the seat of his emotions.
Thanks are unnecessary, O Tanis. It would seem a quite difficult and time-consuming task you have been given. Many times have you assisted me in a like assignment.
A difficult assignment, concurred Tanis, yet rewarding, most rewarding. Think you he was sufficiently angered?
Joste’s reply was tinged with dark humor. In my humble judgment, a pitiful, frightened creature for the moment. But not for long. It is an interesting species, all in all. One senses toughness, a fiber in him that is enduring, unquenchable. It makes for facile predictability.
Force?
Force! What else does he know?
Tanis sighed. One hopes so, Joste. I tire of these endeavors. It becomes wearying.
Exactly. Let us depart. Will you address them?
Tanis wrung his mind free of the distracting residue of the interview with Earth’s elder and formed a concentrated cone of mental energy within his second forebrain.
O my Peers, we humbly beseech your aid in journeying to
Dan.
Art thy labors then ended, O Joste and Tanis? asked the Higher Ones.
They are ended for the nonce, O my Peers.
Then it is well; thou shalt both come to Dan with speed.
The gray egg was gone. Space was empty as before.
* * *
The Director of Earth deferred all appointments next period, isolating himself within his sanctum, barring sycophants, lobbyists, and lifelong friends, insulting the physicians who came to solicitously inquire after his well-being.
Toward evening he ordered all tapes used in projecting the Alpine sequence destroyed.
Had it been a dream? He was no longer certain that it was not. It had been vivid, quite convincing, quite authentic. But there was no shred of evidence to substantiate their visit. None, except for the blinding headache which was only now leaving him, and the recording tapes which, of course, contained only his words. He had played them back several times, remembering the crisp thoughts of the Danii which had filled the vacant places.
Then he had erased them angrily.
Was it some tremendous bluff?
It was this possibility which gave ser Weldon serious pause. He pondered it for hours, taking neither food nor drink, knowing he could not rest until it was resolved to his complete satisfaction.
His second period of withdrawal brought representatives from various committees within the Star Council and the Congress of Man. He drove them away without explanation. What explanation was possible?
What had been their real purpose? To overtax his will to resist with that absurd display of illusive tricks? The longer he considered it, the more he became convinced that it was some magnificent hoax to which he—and all of Human civilization— was gullibly falling victim. The idea frightened ser Weldon as he had seldom been frightened.
What did they want him—expect him—to do now? Pull back from Dan in panic? Not likely; or was it…?
Their performance had been good theater, he was forced to admit. But there were any number of ways it could have been accomplished. Resolution and meticulous care could have seen a tiny vehicle in through the space defenses. Enough credit in the correct pockets could have even gotten them into his sanctum.
But, telepathy…
Yes, he would have to give them telepathy. The crackling voices inside his mind had been real, and Weldon was completely convinced that for as long as his fragile organism survived he would remain in sane command of his own thought processes.
On the evening of his third period of solitude, Weldon Lovelock still sat in his nulled sanctum, foundering in a morass of indecision. Indecision angered him at the best of times. Now it infuriated him!
He spent the night thinking of the Empire—two hundred globular light-years of swelling Humanity—and of the words of the wise ones who had schooled him in its building, for he had built well these three and one-half centuries since the scepter had been handed on. They were words of pride, words of moral fiber and sustenance to him, words to be wrought in imperishable metal through the ages. Ecce Homo Invictus!
He thought of the great ones he’d known, of their strengths. He thought of the thousands of starships capable of delivering unthinkable teratons of destruction anywhere within this part of their island universe. He thought with rancor of the tiny mote called Dan which had been impertinent enough to question the majesty and might of Earth and her children.
On the morning of the fourth period following his visitation, a great calm descended over Weldon Lovelock. He activated the cyborg and ordered breakfast in glowing tones.
Then he covered a radiant switch plaque, activating the cyborg, and began drafting a message to Elan Grey which would end this romantic nonsense once and for all time.
XIV
Know then thyself, -presume not God to scan;
The proper study of mankind is man.
Alexander Pope. Ante Bellum Briton
of the so-called Rational era.
Circa a.d. 1714 (old style).
Garvey Sance floated weightless in his cubicle aboard Relentless, dreaming of a girl he had once known, a girl with shining auburn hair and a way of smiling that couldn’t help pleasing a man. Sance always slept better in free fall than anywhere else. He was doing very well at it until Weapons Systems Chief Sugimoto burst in and snapped on the light, waking him rudely.
“Up and at ’em, Garvey!”
“Smatter w’you, Sugi?” demanded Sance, yawning.
“Cryptogram from Earth—hot stuff! Better hop it; the Pirate’s been awful touchy since the ground-pounders let him and Stennius out of the brig.”
Sance yawned again, cursing, and scratched his bare stomach. “Earth, huh? Bet the ol’ Pirate arranged it so’s he could wake me up. He just loves to wake me up, you know. Where are they?”
“In the ‘A’ deck wardroom.”
Sance reached out lazily and gave an easy shove against the bulkhead. He drifted across to the closet, checked himself, and selected a jumpsuit. “Sugi, do me a favor?”
“Name it, shipmate.”
“Round up a messman and have him bring some coffee to the crypto booth. I can’t decipher nothin’ without no coffee.”
“Will do, Garvey.”
Sance slicked down what was left of his hair, dabbed a very meager amount of water around his eyes, and left the cubicle with a groan. He hooked a belt ring to the aft-going line per regulations and shoved himself off down the companionway.
“A” deck is wardroom crawled with officers. Sance saluted Commander Garrigues, wishing he had spent more effort on his appearance. He received a curt, “Decode this, Sance. Be quick about it!”
“Aye, ser Garrigues.” He took the sealed packet down the companionway to the crypto booth, opening the tear strip after he had locked the door. He had to open it again a minute later; Chief Sugimoto had been as good as his word. He took the steaming tube of black coffee from the messman and thanked him, then belted himself down and got to work.
He decoded three paragraphs while he sucked down coffee. Sweat broke out on his forehead after the fourth paragraph; he forgot the coffee completely.
Grim and nervous, Sance’s hands were shaking when he put the hyper-secret flimsies into an opaque envelope and sealed it.
“Be hell to pay over this,” he muttered to himself.
He left the booth, returned to the wardroom, and presented the envelope to Garrigues, not forgetting his salute.
The commander dismissed him with a brusque wave. “That will be all for now. Return to duty; stand by for a call at any time.”
“Aye, ser Garrigues.”
Garvey Sance did not return to his cubicle and resume his interrupted sack time. He drifted outboard to the communications center just abaft the bridge on the conning deck where a lone, bored rating stood watch.
“Grab a smoke, Harmon,” said Sance. “Got to make a call.”
“Sure, Chief,” said the spaceman, looking up. “If you got secrets…?”
“Don’t be nosey. I’m going to call my girl, is all.”
The sailor snickered and floated away. “Be back in ten minutes.”
Sance waited until the hatch rang shut, then punched the code of Holt Morrow’s suite groundside in Sharax. The vidicom buzzed four times before Holt’s grizzled features condensed in the tank. “Morrow.”
“Holt; it’s me.”
“Sance, you old space rat! Where you been? You promised to come groundside and get drunk with me—”
“No time to palaver,” broke in Sance. “Listen and listen real good: a coded sizzler just came in from the Old Man. Bad, bad news!”
“I’m listening.”
“He wants ten regiments of Imperial Marines dirtside within twelve hours, and all our heavy equipment—armor, energy weapons, the works. Looks like the blowoff’s coming, Holt.”
“Ten regiments!”
“Aye. They’re most likely thawing ’em right now.”
Morrow looked drawn, but said nothing for a moment. “It doesn’t sound good,” he managed at last. “What primary objectives?”
“It didn’t say. Something I don’t savvy there; the Pirate’s to take orders from ser Grey, it said. I thought Your Friend got hisself lifted some time ago.”
“That’d be Elan Grey, not Pierce,” enlightened Holt. “He’s Pierce’s pup. The Old Man sent him out here to—Hey, reverse thrust! You aren’t calling from orbit, are you?”
“Yep. Inboard Relentless.”
Morrow cursed freely. “Better sign off, chum. You’re probably being monitored.”
“No sweat,” confided Sance. “I figured I’d erase the tapes when we’re through. But, you’re right. I’ll quit before somebody catches me.”
“Okay, and thanks, Garvey. I’ve got the ball,” assured Holt. “Talk to you later.”
“Luck, shipmate.”
“Yeah. I may need it.”
* * *
Morrow was dressed and in the lift less than seven minutes after Sance’s call. He used the privacy of the lift to check the potential of his Casches pistol and seat the charge firmly. He screwed home the arming pin and replaced the ugly weapon in the scabby holster under his kilt.
The door dilated. Holt looked grim as he emerged across from Elans suite.
“Got a minute, Elan?” he asked the portal. “It’s important.”
There was no answer, but the door slid upward. He went into the lavish apartment with impatient haste. The suite seemed deserted.
“Out here,” called Minor from the terrace.
It was lovely outdoors. The soft summer sun peeped around the edge of the Directoral Seat and washed the terrace shrubbery in dewy greens against a cloudless sky. Elan Grey was seated at a crystal table littered with breakfast dishes. Minor stood beside him, an uncertain light in her brown eyes.
“So, it’s true,” announced Holt, hands on hips.
“True?” Elan refused to meet his eyes.
“Don’t flimflam me, sonny,” Morrow snorted. “Never try to con an old con artist.”
