No One Goes There Now, page 9
“Thank you, Pierce,” said Roberts. “Let us hope that I am worthy of counsel. Best perhaps to keep it quiet; the inexplicable is not for routine minds.”
“Quiet?” Holt was amazed. “It’s all over Sharax! How can we hush it up?”
“Offer neither confirmation nor denial,” suggested Roberts. “Leave it completely up in the air and, given several weeks, even the news media will shrug it off.” He folded long arms in thought. “What do you find most striking in this, Holt?”
The question put Morrow off balance. “I dunno; it was the first real brawl we’ve had, I guess—”
“Exactly,” said Roberts. “Who was he?”
“His name was Melas,” supplied Director Grey. “Aristocrat; third-stage sequestree. The woman from indoctrination said he gave her quite a performance. It seems he killed Mason in an illegal duel six Earth months ago. Revenge seems likely.”
Roberts’ face contorted. “The vermin bring their rottenness with them.” He stood, hollow eyes all but closed. “Pierce, what happened to that man?”
The Director quailed, making a helpless gesture. “I can’t—It’s ridiculous to even guess. Perhaps the Danii…”
“Yes, the Danii?”
“There has always, uh, been an air of mystery about them,” reasoned Grey. “They come and go like shadows themselves. They have shown no hint of belligerence, true, but perhaps they removed this Melas…” Grey stopped, dissatisfied with what he had been about to say.
Roberts pounced. “Removed? We have never seen a Danus holding a tool or implement of any sort, let alone something which will snatch evildoers from the midst of a crowd.”
“Hey, lay off,” put in Morrow. “Maybe he has a point.”
“Forgive me, Pierce.” Roberts smiled wanly. “You are perfectly correct in suspecting the Danii. After all, what other suspects are there?
“But we have lived among them some time now. I presume to know them as well as any stranger and say so in all modesty.” He paused. “I shall be blunt. Though they seldom make reference to the fact, the Danii show evidences of being a superstitious race, which is in itself unique. Class-sixteen-and-higher intellects usually outgrow a need for the metaphysical. Not the Danii.
“Officially they have been classed in the highest sept of the twenty-twos. I have always felt such pigeonholing silly and poorly motivated. In the present case, it is ridiculous. There can be small doubt—none in my own mind—as to their standing. I am certain they are beyond us.”
“Yet they believe in a supreme being?” frowned Grey.
“I did say they believe in a god, no.” Roberts phrased it baldly, unabashedly. “We simply do not know. But there is something which colors their entire thinking, or the portion we can follow at the moment.”
“You think the Danii are responsible,” accused Holt.
“Such conclusion-jumping does not become you,” placated Roberts.
“Don’t con me, old friend,” insisted Morrow.
“I have not the least notion with whom the responsibility lies,” said Roberts slowly. ‘What is more, I do not expect to know in the immediate future.” He waxed his hands in thought. “The Danii have immense regard for animate life. Unnecessary killing is, to them, simply unthinkable, beyond any form of punishment. They are not as we are, do not think as we think.
“But we have engaged ourselves as cryptologists, have we not? Is a puzzle solved at the beginning? Until now we have been virtually alone in the visited galaxy. We have encountered primitives, beings advanced to one stage of civilization or another, intelligent for the most part, though sometimes grotesque and often sheerly repulsive. None, however, could match the reasoning ability of a superior human being.
“The Danii wear no coverings, have no apparent dwellings, move freely albeit mysteriously over their beautiful world, but they have not retrogressed as is the popular belief among colonials. They are not savages, in any sense of the term. This I do know. The Danii may be benevolent, they may be malevolent. As of this hour, this period—right now—we cannot even presume to guess.”
Director Grey made a small sound of discomfort. “But…you bring out ramifications…What shall we do?”
“We fight for time,” snapped Holt.
“Time?”
“Holt is correct; time in which to leam, to study, to absorb philosophical wisdom canted in a direction foreign to our basic natures. We must think of this as the opportunity for which we have unconsciously waited millions of cycles; a chance to get outside ourselves, to gain a truly objective viewpoint for the first time in Human experience.”
“I will do as you advise,” said Pierce Grey humbly.
Roberts did not hesitate. “Send Van Maar to Earth immediately,” he suggested. “He was an eyewitness; intelligent, if a bit excitable. He’s never been to Sol, but we will coach him in the urbanities. The crux of it is this: he can be psyched to exhaustion and he will give the same answers. We will supply him with every shred of evidence that exists in support of our claim. After all, the Planners are not fools.”
The Director nodded. “We must stack the deck in our favor or—”
“—lose the game,” finished Roberts. “And, losing, it is conceivable that we may never be dealt such a hand again. Try everything reasonable! Your eldest son is still on Earth, is he not?”
“Elan will never leave Earth,” the Director told him.
“Perhaps he can be helpful. Send him a personal spool; have him intercede with Weldon. Everything must be attempted!”
Grey developed a faraway look. “I have my doubts, but it is worth trying.”
“The Old One is not only stubborn,” said Roberts, “but also amazingly acute. He must be forced into accepting the fact that Dan is incompatible with third-stage disposition—or any further colonization, really.”
Roberts placed a warning hand on the Director’s arm. ‘We must take care, however; if Weldon suspects his Empire in jeopardy—no matter how fanciful that may sound to you—he will destroy the Danii.”
“That is rather farfetched.”
“Listen to him,” directed Holt soberly.
“Never, never underestimate Weldon,” cautioned Roberts.
“I seldom speak against him; he has accomplished more in his enormously long lifetime than any man in history. But he is absolutely ruthless when his own are in danger.
“Heed me: genocidal destruction of the Danii is not a remote possibility. There are precedents; dark secrets locked within the archives of the Star Council which have never been allowed to see the light. Pierce, I would offer my own life to fend off such a happening.”
Pierce Grey scrutinized Roberts’ long, fine-boned face, seeing the absolute sincerity, the deep concern. “We’ll make, them believe it!” he promised, clasping the commander’s arm. “I’m going to take Gailen aside and set the machinery in motion.”
The Director hurried away.
Morrow trailed his old friend to the shrouded figure of the dead scientist. A glint of metal caught his eye. He bent to see what it was.
Dried blood made a ghastly, shining island of the scientist’s Congressional medallion. Holt noted the stylized figure of Humankind, arms greedily outstretched to the universe and, looking up at the brooding Roberts, read the circumscribed motto in a low monotone. “Ecce Homo Invictus.”
Roberts looked solemn. “I wonder how much longer we shall be able to say that?” he speculated.
VI
None love the messenger who brings bad news
Sophocles. Greek tragedian
the era 450 b.o. Colt (old style)
Limpid and clear in the shallows, gentle waves of the lagoon broke upon a long, curving beach of black volcanic sand fringed by thick stands of coconut palms undulating in the southeast trades. Ser Weldon Lovelock’s dais faced the sea, the ever changing sea, purple-dark where swift-scudding cloud masses shadowed the sun, emerald deep and flecked with spume-topped whitecaps out beyond the barrier reef to the distant, thrusting rock where shrieking sea birds nested.
He had finished lunch—the scanty, unpleasurable ingestion of nutriment dictated to the milligram by those confounded witch doctors—and was contemplating the seascape while he mulled the morning’s problems. Nueva Argentina was demanding attention again. Birth-control rioting had broken out afresh, and now showed signs of getting completely out of hand. Why was it that systems colonized predominantly by Latins always developed into problem areas where population control was concerned? Was some hyper-reproductive drive ingrained within the Latin chromosome pattern? He made a mental note to query the Genetics Board; perhaps it was one of those odd theories worthy of investigation.
And Errold; what course seemed provident with ser Corte Errold? Revolutionary plots, both major and minor, were an old, old story to the long line of Earth’s Directors. But it seemed a bother and a nuisance to be forced to perform surveillance upon a senior Planner of the Star Council.
Lovelock sighed. Why, Corte was less than a century younger than he himself. Would he never learn?
Then there was this untoward incident reported by Dan’s trusted Director, Pierce Grey. Weldon did not like the pungent smell of mystery; the combination of a quite advanced aboriginal species like these Danii and fantastic disappearances did not meld well.
He had done some quiet sleuthing of his own since receipt of Grey’s disturbing report. Melas, the aristocrat who had vanished after killing some scientist in an illegal duel, was the scion of ser Warren Melas, an old acquaintance. It seemed that Melas p£re, badgered by his worthless offspring into ferreting out the whereabouts of Mason, since the scientist had requested a deep-space assignment upon being revived, had pulled some awfully touchy strings within the Star Council in order to assure the younger Melas’ sequestration upon Dan. Revenge was a motive Weldon Lovelock understood rather well.
He had let it be known through intermediaries that he was mightily displeased, then dismissed it from his mind until now. Pierce Grey’s emissary had landed on Earth, and Weldon was looking forward to an enlightening session with the man.
He activated the cyborg by covering a glowing switch plaque on the padded armrest of his geriatric chair. “How much time remains until our next appointment?”
“You wished an hour free after lunch, ser Director,” answered the cyborg dutifully.
“Ah, yes. Has the emissary from Dan arrived?”
“He waits in the antechamber, ser Director.”
“Excellent. And sera Lovelock, ser Grey?”
After a short pause, “They have just entered, ser Director.”
“Bid them come in immediately.” He switched off the cyborg.
Lovelock heard Minor’s laughter even before he saw them coming hand-in-hand down the palm-lined walk from the entrance. Minor certainly looked happy, he noted; her face was flushed and vibrant. The way she looked at Elan as he clutched her hand was also quite revealing. A grudging half-smile flickered across ser Weldon’s wizened features as he called, “Good afternoon, my children.”
They bowed together, still clasping hands. “Good afternoon,” greeted Elan. “We came as quickly as we could, ser Director.”
‘We apologize for interrupting your holiday this way, but a matter of some urgency has cropped up.”
“Oh, we were just sailing,” said Minor with an airy wave, “out there on the briny. Elan’s teaching me.”
Lovelock nodded. “It sounds enjoyable,” he said, “if one exercises proper caution. Elan, we are to be visited by an envoy from your sire. He wished you to be here.”
Grey looked surprised. “Pierce has sent an envoy to Earth? Does it concern me, ser Lovelock?”
“Yes, in a roundabout way. We could explain it more fully, but we would like your reaction to the man’s tale—and to the man himself.
“You see, a duelist on Dan is purported to have vanished within sight and sound of a large crowd.”
Elan blinked. “Vanished, ser Weldon?”
“Vanished—zut!—disappeared!”
“That’s impossible,” scoffed Minor.
“Or at least very difficult to believe,” smiled Elan. “But, since Pierce isn’t addicted to strong waters, I assume there’s more involved than a simple matter of seeing double, mass hypnotism, or whatever.”
“One would assume so,” declared Lovelock pointedly. “You know your pater rather well, do you not, Elan?”
Grey looked at Minor uncomfortably. “I was raised by my parents from infancy to secondary development, ser Weldon.” We were aware of that. What are your immediate reactions upon hearing such an outlandish report from Pierce? Shall we accept it at face value, based upon our respect for his integrity, or look for subterranean motives? Remember, Pierce was quite unprepared for the several shiploads of third-stage sequestrees who were recently thrust upon him. We would imagine the current situation on Dan to be fraught with turmoil. Might he not go to extreme lengths to alleviate the problem posed by more undesirables?”
Elan frowned in concentration. “Never, ser Director,” he said. “Pierce would never fabricate such a report, whatever the cause. It would be inconsistent with his basic personality.”
“Just so,” agreed Lovelock. “You confirm our own evaluation, which should make for an even more interesting interview. Well, let us see what the gentleman has to say.”
He activated the cyborg. “Bid the emissary from Dan to enter.”
* * *
Gailen Van Maar came into the sanctum like a lost soul. He edged along the walk, unable to keep his attention from straying to the soughing surf beyond the palms. As a result, he was upon the trio before he was actually aware of their presence.
‘Welcome,” greeted the tall, suntanned aristocrat who came forward and bowed. “I am Elan Grey.”
Van Maar tried to make his bow low and graceful, but knew in his heart that no man bom and bred on a high-gee world like Channus could match the lithe grace of an Elan Grey. Gailen was too thickset, too large-boned, too accustomed to rough living in the field for courtliness.
But he bravely made the attempt. “It is highest pleasure to meet you, ser Grey. Gailen Van Maar, here.”
“Allow me to present sera Lovelock,” introduced Elan, “and ser Weldon Lovelock, planetary Director.”
Extremely self-conscious, Van Maar approached and bowed over the hand of the striking girl, then bowed toward the dais, tendering his credentials, Pierce Grey’s Congressional medallion, in the manner of a small boy. “Ser Lovelock, we are deeply honored at this opportunity to visit the homeworld. We should like to convey the best wishes of Director Grey and the peoples of Dan—”
Van Maar broke off in dismay. The medallion tinkled on the tiles, rolling around in a diminishing spiral to stop against his foot. He bent dumbly as if to retrieve it, then thought better of it and simply stood waiting for he knew not what.
“Our time is invaluable,” said Lovelock archly. “You will forgive our dispensing with protocol, Van Maar. Now then, what have you in that satchel, your lunch?”
Gailen’s lips worked in an agony of embarrassment. “I…no, ser Director…”
“Come! We have received an outrageous report from your Director. Baldly stated, it suggested the unaccountable disappearance of a citizen who was within view and earshot of a number of other citizens—yourself among them.
“Let us assure you that we brook little patience with fairy tales; none whatsoever with practical jokes! What we desire are the names of those responsible for this hoax—nothing more!” The hammering voice gave Van Maar a chance to recover a minimum of composure. Flushed, he considered what Roberts had confided to him about ser Weldon. “With every iota of respect for the Director’s wishes, I assure you there is no hoax. I pledge this to be the truth, ser Director.”
“You overstrain our credibility. Perhaps it would be best if you were to leave quickly.”
“If one might hope for the Director’s indulgence,” dared Van Maar, “I beg a thorough hearing. This incident deserves much more than a bald statement.”
The Old One stared at him blankly, then made an impatient gesture. “Say on, ser Van Maar, but please be concise.”
Gailen settled himself, standing tall before the dais. “First, may I say that I’m a scientist, an archaeologist, trained to accept only irrefutable data connected with my work. But, in describing the planet Dan you must excuse my straying from rigorous scientific description to terms less easy for me to use effectively. “Dan is a world of phenomenal quiet and dignity. It is an old world, geologically speaking, and its indigenes are an accomplished, ancient species…”
He tried to speak evenly and with conviction, striving for the inflection and timing Roberts had drilled into him. It was completely foreign to him, but his memory was excellent. “The Old One is an actor,” Roberts had repeated time and again. “First, last, and always—an actor. Nothing you say will impress him half so much as the manner in which it is said.”
He developed the mysteries surrounding the Danii, explaining how he personally had headed the team which discovered the crumbling city. He dwelt at length upon the chaos incurred by importing involuntary colonials prematurely, and worked into the uncertain demise of the vanished aristocrat with great care, choosing the appropriate word after just the proper, he hoped, hesitation.
He described the duel, announcing the disappearance quietly, then concluded on a note of gravity. “Nor has any hint of a due suggested itself. We have no idea what happened. We know nothing more than we did minutes after the incident.” Van Maar drew a deep breath and waited.
The Director of Earth, who had remained unmoved during his long recital, lifted weathered hands and beat them softly together in mock applause. “Bravo! A sterling performance for one who styles himself an amateur! For a scientist such feeling is extraordinary! We believe you could do quite well professionally, ser Van Maar.”
* * *
Elan had lost himself in the blond outworlder’s narrative, but took his cue in stride. “Might we review that last part, ser Van Maar? You stood bare meters from this Melas yet could not prevent his firing?”
