The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  "You're not wanted here," a clump of bamboo said hissingly, rubbing its fronds together. "If my backers had needed another Integration man, they'd have got in touch with you. I'm all they need."

  Harding laughed. "Thought of a way yet to kill me?"

  The bamboo did not reply. But presently a patch of gravel hissed underfoot and said, "Go down into the village. There'll be a door open in the Integration Building." And a lizard that looked curiously down at him from the top of a flat stone appeared to add in Mayall's voice, "Maybe I've found a way—"

  Harding pushed the heavy door wider and looked into the green-shadowed room. Sunlight filtering through leaves outside its broad windows made the dim air seem to flicker. Frond-shaped shadows moved restlessly upon banked controls which were the nerve-endings of the island.

  In the center of the web George Mayall sat, his sunken eyes glittering, grinning above his beard at the door.

  Harding stood still just inside the door and drew a long, deep breath. The smell of the room, oil and steel, the feel of it around him, the faint throb that traveled from the floor up his body and blended with the beating of his heart, made him a complete man again as he had not been for a long time now. He stood in the presence of the Integrator. He was the Integrator.

  He closed his eyes for a moment When he opened them again he saw that Mayall's sardonic grin had widened and drawn down at the corners.

  Harding nodded. "Alone?" he asked.

  "What do you think?" Mayall said, and his glance flickered once toward the inner door at his elbow—the door without a knob, but a flat plate inset where the lock should be. Harding could see through the steel panels as if they were glass, because he knew so well what the little black-walled room inside looked like, with its tri-di screen and its table and its chair.

  "You've been here all along?" Harding asked. "Are you here now?"

  Mayall only grinned. Harding took out a cigarette, lit it and inhaled smoke. He strolled forward casually toward the inner door, glancing around the big room as he crossed it. A control room is seldom as spectacular as the operational devices it controls. Most of the equipment looked familiar. It was what lay out of sight that interested Harding most. For this was only the antechamber to the Integrator.

  "That's far enough," Mayall said after a moment. Harding stood still, the smoke from his cigarette wreathing ahead of him toward the man behind the control desk. Mayall swung his hand edge-on, chopped through a swirl of smoke. His grin turned down farther at the corners.

  "I'm real," he said. "Don't bother with smoke tests. Clever, aren't you? Stand still, Harding. Don't come any farther. I've got one more question to ask you and then—well, we'll see."

  "Fire away," Harding said, looking at the door with the plate in it.

  "Second question, then," Mayall said. "Second and last. Just what did you hope to accomplish by coming here?"

  Harding blew smoke at him. "It could be almost anything, couldn't it?" he said. "Maybe I came to ask you a question. Could you guess what it is? Or would you rather I didn't speak at all?"

  Mayall regarded him with narrowed eyes, burning black in hollow sockets.

  "Go on," he said after a pause.

  Harding nodded. "I thought you'd say that. Maybe you've been expecting somebody with—a question. Put it like this. You say all Integration has to fail that doesn't figure Venus as the center of the social system. Right?"

  "I said that," Mayall agreed cautiously. "What's your question?"

  "Why Venus?" Harding inquired.

  "What?"

  "You're not stupid. You heard me. Why Venus?"

  Mayall licked his lips suddenly, with a quick, flickering motion, and glanced once at the big TV screen on the wall, nervously, as if the blank screen might be watching him.

  "There are other Thresholders," Harding went on. "You just pointed out that if your backers had needed another Integration man they'd have got in touch with me. Well, maybe somebody did. Not necessarily your boys, but—somebody." He blew more smoke. "Shall I go on?"

  Mayall did not speak a word, but after a second he nodded jerkily.

  "What you've got here is priceless," Harding said. "The group you back has a chance to win independence from Earth. So I just wondered … now, you take Ganymede, for instance. A flourishing little colony they've got up there. Doing a lot of exporting these days. A very rewarding business. Plenty of money in it. What would you say, George, to setting up a little problem in the Integrator to see if you could figure Ganymede as a social center?"

  Mayall did not move for a long moment. Then he drew a shaken breath.

  "I don't believe you," he said. "You're lying. You're trying to trick me."

  Harding shrugged.

  Mayall leaned forward over the control desk.

  "What proof have you got?" he demanded, his voice hoarse.

  Harding threw back his head and laughed. Then he took one final deep pull at his cigarette, threw it to the floor, ground it out under his toe.

  "All right, Mayall," he said crisply. "You can step down now. I'm taking over."

  Mayall jerked back in his chair, startled and incredulous. His tongue came out again and touched his lip lightly.

  "Like hell you are," he said. "You can't throw a scare into—"

  "Shut up!" Harding snapped. "Get on your feet, George. I mean it! Out of that chair and open the door for me. I've played it your way till now. But I know all I need to know. I'm a lot smarter than you ever were. I can take over, and I'm doing it. And you can't do a thing to stop me. You can't kill me! So I'm giving you one last chance—to join me."

  "You … you're insane!" Mayall said, in a stunned voice. "This is my island. I know every nerve-center on it. My men could—"

  "Could do everything but injure me," Harding said, and stepped forward briskly. "So you lose. Let's put it to the test now. I'm tired of talking. You had your fun, and you've told me enough so I know who'll win this little game."

  "You're crazy!" Mayall cried, scraping his chair back. "I'll have my boys kill you! I … I'll send you off the island. I—"

  "No you won't," Harding told him, rounding the corner of the desk. "Because you aren't sure. Maybe I've got that proof from Ganymede right here in my pocket. You want to bet I haven't? We'll call your Team together and see what—"

  "Oh no you don't!" Mayall shouted, his voice shaking. "You'll never see my Team!"

  "Afraid I'll get you kicked off this one, too?" Harding asked ironically. "Up! Out of that chair, George. You're going to work the trick lock on that door over there and open up your Round Table. Oh yes, you are. Then you'll call your Team together and we'll make a few trial runs. You needn't worry, George. You're perfectly safe. You and I couldn't hurt each other if our lives depended on it—and maybe they do. It doesn't make a bit of difference. Open the door."

  "You'll never get that door open," Mayall said, stepping backward.

  Harding snorted impatiently.

  "Here, get out of my way," he said. "What kind of a code have you set it for? I haven't time to argue about it."

  He ran his hand experimentally over the surface of the metal plate set where the lock should be. Between plate and palm he felt the varying pressures slide soft and rippling. There was something familiar about the pattern of the pressure. It could hardly be the old cipher, the original team-code that had opened the doors to seven Round Tables, far away in time and space. It could hardly be that, and yet—

  The door swung gently open under Harding's palm.

  Mayall jerked around, his breath rasping with surprise.

  "Who told you my code?"

  Harding frowned at him. "It's the old code. Didn't you realize that?"

  "You're crazy. It can't be. I made it up, arbitrarily. Why should I have used the old code?"

  "You've been fighting yourself all down the line, haven't you?" Harding said, and stepped through into the little black-steel room.

  Mayall stumbled after him, stammering protests. "It can't b
e! You're crazy! You found it out—somehow."

  Wearily Harding said over his shoulder: "You must have flunked basic psych, George. It's the old cipher, but it unlocks a different door now, no matter what your unconscious had on its mind when it set up Twelve-Wye-Lambda's key. That door will never open again for you. Or me. This one will have to do, and it's good enough for me. Now let's have a look at your Team. Who are they, George? Where are they?"

  Mayall laughed, a high whinny of mirthlessness.

  "You'll never know. I'll kill you first."

  Harding snorted. "Think so? You're welcome to try."

  "You can't get to my Team!" Mayall shouted. "They … they're all on Venus. They're—"

  Harding swung round and regarded the excited man with a sudden, quickened surprise. "Don't talk like a fool, George. Of course they're not on Venus. What's the matter with you?"

  "They are on Venus!" Mayall cried. "That's it! And if you call them together to talk about Ganymede—you know what they'll do, don't you? So you can't do it, Ed! You can't!"

  Harding turned around completely and looked at Mayall with a frown between his brows.

  "What's wrong with you, George? I think you really are a little crazy. Are you jealous, George? Is that it?" He laughed suddenly. "Maybe I've got something there. You think you are the Integrator, is that the trouble? Well, George, my friend, I may not be able to kill you even if my life depends on it, but—I can dismantle your Integrator! How would you like that?"

  Mayall drew a whistling between his teeth. He stepped backward into the open doorway, leaned to grope toward his desk, his sunken eyes not moving from Harding's. Then he let the breath out in a sigh and straightened. There was sweat on his face and he was breathing hard.

  "Stand back, Ed," he said grimly. "Get away from that table. Now I can do it! Now I know I can kill you!"

  Harding looked down into the black eye of the pistol trained upon his middle. He lifted his gaze to meet Mayall's murderous stare.

  "Go ahead," he said. "Try."

  Sweat trickled down Mayall's forehead. His beard jutted. Ridges of tendon began to stand out on the back of his gun hand. But the crooked finger inside the trigger guard didn't move at all. He lowered his head, staring at the gun. Then he brought his left hand forward to grip his right in reinforcement. Both hands were shaking badly.

  "Threshold reactions happen inside the body," Harding said. "What good will that do?"

  Mayall's breath whistled through his teeth more sharply than before. He looked up at Harding, a white, frantic glare. Suddenly he closed his eyes, squeezing the lids shut. Panting, he tried to pull the trigger.

  His gun hand quivered—quivered and began to swerve. Slowly it moved until the gun muzzle pointed beyond Harding, toward the wall.

  Now the gun cracked, six times, six sharp explosions that blended into one. Mayall's eyes stayed shut. His gun hand dropped.

  "I did it," he said in a whisper. "I've killed you. I—"

  Slowly he opened his eyes and looked into Harding's. Then his gaze went farther, resting upon the six silvery star-shaped holes in the black wall.

  Harding shook his head gently. He turned his back upon the man in the doorway, dismissing him. He pulled out the chair that faced the tri-di screen and sank into it.

  Then the chamber of memory slid softly over to superimpose upon this real chamber. The little square black-steel room was suddenly a part of Harding, as close and warm as the domed walls that shielded his living brain.

  He laid his palms flat on the metal plate.

  At first it was like wind under his hands, then water, then soft sand gently embedding his palms. Soundlessly he spoke. "Ready, boys" he said. "Come in."

  "You can't do it, Ed," Mayall said behind him. "You can't—"

  In the outer room a sudden crash sounded. A sudden voice shouted with a wheeze in it, "Mayall! Harding! Do you hear me? Turner speaking! Mayall, answer me!"

  Harding twisted in his chair, glancing up with a startled face to meet Mayall's eyes. Mayall swung up his empty gun and spun too, toward the door. The antechamber was empty, but Turner's harsh breathing filled it with sound. And on the wall-screen Turner's sweating, unstable face glared blankly at the unoccupied room.

  "Mayall!" the fat man shouted. "I know you're there! Step out where I can see you, or I'll blow the whole island sky-high!"

  Harding said softly, with derision in his whisper, "So Turner couldn't get away, eh? Just like a flea on a dog—you know where he is every minute. Oh, sure. Now what? Is he bluffing?"

  "Harding! Mayall!" Turner's voice made the antechamber echo. "I know you're there. I saw you both go into the Integration Building. I'll blow up Akassi and everything on it unless you do as I say! I mean it! I'll give you a ten-count, starting now. One. Two. Harding, do you hear me?"

  "All right, Turner," Harding called, not stirring from his chair. "This is Harding. What do you want?"

  The wheezing voice sighed with relief.

  "Step out where I can watch you, Harding. Mayall, too. I—"

  "Where are you?" Harding interrupted. "You're bluffing."

  "I'm at the relay station on the hill. There's a lake south of me and I can see the village. I can see the Integration Building from here, and the door to it, Harding. I'll blow you up! I mean it!"

  "You couldn't blow anybody up," Harding said, and moved his fingers urgently on the table. In a whisper he urged the tri-di screen, "Come in, boys! Come in!"

  "It's no good, Harding," Mayall said, also in a whisper. "I told you. You can't work it. Nobody can but me. And I won't. You'll never see my Team!"

  "Listen to me, Harding!" Turner's voice insisted from the antechamber. "Step out here and look. You'll see! I've got a UHF beam pinpointed and focused right in the middle of the fuel tanks of the spaceship. You know what ultrasonics can do, Harding?"

  "I know," Harding said flatly. "If that spaceship blows, you go with it. Or do you mind?"

  "How long would I live if I'm caught?" Turner asked logically. "Now do as I tell you, or—"

  "It's a bluff," Harding said laconically, aloud, and bent over the table, his palms molding the test-pattern with frantic speed. "Come in, come in, boys!" he cried in an urgent whisper.

  Mayall laughed sardonically and very softly at his shoulder.

  "It's not a bluff!" Turner shouted, his voice thick. "Look here! I broke into the relay station. I got the beam up fast through the hot frequency into UHF—so fast the fuel didn't have time to blow. Then I pinpointed it right in the middle of the tanks. I've got my hand on the lever. As long as I hold it there, O.K. But if I let go, or if I'm killed—what happens?" Triumph wheezed in the fat man's voice. "The beam runs down the scale. On the way it hits the hot frequency. In the fuel tank! I can drop it to hot as fast as I can move my hand. Now, am I bluffing?"

  "You'll never do it," Harding called. "I don't believe you."

  Turner was silent for a hard-breathing moment. Then he shouted suddenly:

  "I've got it! You'll have to do as I say! Harding, are you listening? You can take the chance with your own life if you want to—but can you take it with Mayall! He's in there—I saw him go in. Mayall, do you hear me? You've got to do as I say or Harding will die with everyone else on Akassi! Come out, Mayall! Harding, come out! I mean it. I'll finish the ten-count and then the whole island goes. Three … four—"

  Harding met Mayall's eyes. He shrugged reluctantly.

  "He's got us," he whispered. "Unless—" Suddenly he shoved back the chair and jumped to his feet, laughing in soft triumph. "Unless you call together the Team, George! Maybe I can't, but you can and you've got to … to save my life! Here, sit down and get at it, quick!"

  For an instant longer Mayall only stared at him, blank-faced. Then—

  "All right!" the bearded man snapped. "I will!" His manner changed abruptly and completely. Faced with a threat he could counter, his mental indecisiveness vanished in a breath. He flung himself into the chair and slapped both hands down hard on
the plate.

  "Seven … eight—" Turner called from the screen. "Harding, you've got about three seconds left to live. Step out here, or—"

  "Go on, step out," Mayall said softly over his shoulder, his voice crisp with new decision. "I've got an idea."

  "Oh, no," Harding whispered. "I want to see your Team. I'm going to—"

  "You're going to die if you don't! He isn't bluffing. Listen, now! Go out and keep him quiet while I figure out an answer with my Team. You haven't any choice, Ed! My life depends on it, too!" He flashed a sardonic glance upward. "Look, Ed—tell him I'm dead. Tell him you killed me. Otherwise he'll insist I come out too, and I can't. Go on, quick!"

  "Nine—" Turner called. "Harding, are you listening? On the count of ten the whole island blows. Mayall, do you hear? I'll—"

  "Hold on, Turner," Harding said laconically, and stepped out of the door into full view. "Mayall can't hear you. He can't hear anything. I … I've just killed him."

  Turner glared down at him from the wall. His fat face was scratched and trickling with blood from the underbrush he had run through. His clothing was torn and he had tied up his wounded wrist with a soaked rag. His good hand rested above his head on a poised lever. He was leaning heavily upon the face of the TV screen, so that he seemed to rest against empty air in the wall above Harding. Beyond him, through a window, a blue lake twinkled, and a road wound down through thickets, among trees and valley to reappear as the village street. Harding could see the image of the Integration Building clearly, with its open door. He had a moment's dreadful impulse to step to the door and wave at himself.

  "Dead?" Turner repeated, and sighed gustily. "I thought … I thought you couldn't kill him."

  "So did I," Harding said dryly, with a glance at Mayall through the inner door. "Up to the last minute. Then I had to. You can relax now, Turner. Mayall's dead. There's just two of us now, and we'd be fools not to work together."

  Turner laughed.

  "I trusted you once," he said, "Come out of the Integration Building and walk north. Head for the relay station. You'll spot it when you get to the top of the hill. We'll talk a lot better when I'm pointing a gun at your belly."