“Metazoon. Multi-celled. Differentiated into various organs and special tissues.”
“And we haven’t seen the final stages?”
“God, no,” Trillby said emphatically. “Nothing like it. The organism uses the planet as a womb; the most we’ve observed is the embryo and what might correspond to the fetal stage. At that point, it bursts off the planet. The atmosphere, the gravitational field, are a medium for early development; after that it’s through with us. I suppose the final organism is nonplanetary.”
“It lives between systems?” Jones inquired, frowning. His face was wrinkled and preoccupied; he only half-heard the man. “It breeds on planets . . . sheltered places.”
Trillby said: “We have reason to believe that all the so-called drifters are pollen grains from a single adult plant—if those terms have any meaning. Maybe it’s neither plant nor animal. A combination of both . . . a plant’s immobility and using a plant’s method of pollination.”
“Plants,” Jones said. “They don’t fight. They’re helpless.”
“Generally speaking. But we shouldn’t assume that these—”
Jones nodded absently. “Of course . . . it’s absurd. We can’t really know anything about them.” Wearily, he rubbed his forehead. “I’ll keep your report here. Thanks.”
He left them standing there, surrounding their report like a cluster of anxious hens. Offices danced past him, and then he was out in the barren, drafty corridor that connected the administrative wing with the police wing. Glancing at his pocket watch he saw that it was almost time. Time. Infuriated, he stuffed the watch away, hating to see its placid, contemptuous face.
For one year, he had mulled the report over in his mind. He had memorized it word for word—and then sent out the team to collect it. They had done a good job: it was an exhaustive study.
From outside the building came sounds. Shuddering, Jones halted, aware of them in a vague way, conscious that the unending murmur was still there. Shakily, he ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back as best he could. Putting himself in some semblance of order.
He was a plain little man with steel-rimmed glasses and thinning hair. He wore a simple gray uniform, with a single medal on his sunken chest, plus the regulation crossed-flasks armband. His life was an endless procession of work. He had a duodenal ulcer from tension and worry. He was conscientious.
He was licked.
But the crowd outside didn’t know that. Outside the building, it had grown to monumental size. Thousands of people, collected together in an excited clot, yelling and waving their arms, cheering, holding up banners and signs. The noise drifted and eddied, a distant booming that had been going on—with few respites—for over a year. There was always somebody outside the building, screeching his head off. Idly, Jones considered the various slogans; in an automatic, almost bureaucratic way, he checked them against the program he had laid out.
WE HAVE FAITH
NOT YET BUT NOT LONG
JONES KNOWS—JONES DOES
Jones knew, all right. Grimly, he paced around in a circle, arms folded, impatient and restless. Eventually, after tramping down the hedges around the police building, the crowd would disperse. Still cheering, still shouting slogans at one another, they would drift off. The organization die-hards would go take ice-cold showers, would return to their various posts to plot the next stage of the grand strategy. None of them realized it yet: the Crusade was over. In a few days the ships would be coming back.
At the far end of the corridor a door was pushed aside; two men appeared, Pearson and an armed, gray-uniformed guard. Pearson came toward him, a tall, thin man, pale, with tight-set lips. He showed no surprise at the sight of Jones; coming almost up to him, he halted, scrutinized the smaller man, glanced around at the armed guard behind him, and shrugged.
“It’s been a long time,” Pearson said. He moistened his lips. “I haven’t seen you since that day we first picked you up.”
“A lot has changed,” Jones said. “Have you been well-treated?”
“I’ve been in a cell for just about a year,” Pearson answered mildly, without rancor, “if you call that being well-treated.”
“Bring in two chairs,” Jones ordered the guard. “So we can sit down.” When the guard hesitated, Jones flushed and shouted: “Do as I say—everything’s under control.”
The chairs were lugged back; without preamble, Jones seated himself. Pearson did the same.
“What do you want?” Pearson demanded bluntly.
“You’ve heard about the Crusade?”
Pearson nodded. “I’ve heard.”
“What are your feelings?”
“I think it’s a waste of time.”
Jones considered. “Yes,” he agreed. “It is a waste of time.”
Astonished, Pearson started to speak, then changed his mind.
“The Crusade is over,” Jones stated. “It failed. I’m informed that what we call drifters are the pollen of immensely complicated plant-like beings, so remote and advanced that we’ll never have anything more than a dim picture of them.”
Pearson sat staring at him. “You mean that?”
“I certainly do.”
“Then we’re a—” He gestured. “What are we? Nothing!”
“That’s a good way of putting it.”
“Maybe they think we’re a chemical.”
“Or a virus. Something on that order. On that scale.”
“But—” Haltingly, Pearson demanded: “What are they going to do? If we’ve been attacking their pollen, destroying their spores—”
“The final adult forms have a direct, rational solution. Very shortly they’ll move to protect themselves. I can’t blame them.”
“They’re going to—eliminate us?”
“No, they’re going to seal us off. A ring will presently be set up around us. We’ll have Earth, the Sol System, the stars we’ve already reached. And that’s all. Beyond that—” Jones snapped his fingers. “The warships will simply disappear. The blight or virus or chemical is contained. Bottled up inside a sanitary barrier. An effective solution: no wasted motions. A clean, straight-to-the point answer. Characteristic of their plant-like form.”
Pearson pulled himself upright. “How long have you known this?”
“Not long enough. The war had already begun. If there had been spectacular interstellar battles”—Jones’ voice died to a baffled, almost inaudible whisper—“people might have been satisfied. Even if we had lost, at least there would be glory, struggle, an adversary to hate. But there’s nothing. In a few days the ring will be installed and the ships will have to turn back. Not even defeat. Just emptiness.”
“What about them?” Pearson pointed toward the window, beyond which the noisy crowd cheered on. “Can they stand hearing it?”
“I did my best,” Jones said levelly. “I bluffed and I lost. I had no idea what we were attacking. I was in the dark.”
“We should have been able to guess,” Pearson said.
“I don’t see why. You find it easy to imagine?”
“No,” Pearson admitted. “No, it’s difficult.”
“You used to be Director of the Secpol,” Jones said. “When I came into power I had the Security setup disbanded and atomized. The structure is gone—the camps are closed. Enthusiasm has kept us unified. But there won’t be any more enthusiasm.”
Sick fear settled over Pearson. “What the hell is this?”
“I’m offering you your job back. You can have your badge and desk again. And your title: Security Director. Your secret police, your weapons-police. Everything the way you had it . . . with only one change. The Fedgov Supreme Council will stay dissolved.”
“And you’ll have ultimate authority?”
“Naturally.”
“Go jump in the creek.”
Jones signaled the guard. “Send in Doctor Manion.”
Doctor Manion was a bald, heavy-set individual in a spanking white uniform, nails manicured, hair
faintly perfumed, lips thick and moist. He clutched a heavy metal box, which he laid gingerly on the table.
“Doctor Manion,” Jones said, “this is Mr. Pearson.”
Reflexively, the two men shook hands; Pearson stood rigid as Manion rolled up his sleeves, glanced at Jones, and then began opening the steel box. “I have it here,” he confided. “It’s in perfect shape; survived the trip beautifully.” With pride, he added: “It’s the finest specimen obtained, so far.”
“Doctor Manion,” Jones said, “is a research parasitologist.”
“Yes,” Manion quickly agreed, moon-like face flushed with professional eagerness. “You see, Mr.—Pearson? Yes, you see, Pearson, as you probably realize, one of our big problems was screening returning ships to make sure they didn’t pick up parasitic organisms of a non-Terran nature. We didn’t want to admit new forms of pathogenic”—he snapped open the box—“Organisms.”
In the box lay a curled-up intestine of spongy gray organic material. The coil of living tissue was surrounded by a transparent capsule of gelatine. Very slightly, the creature stirred; its blind, eyeless tip moved, felt about, pressed itself to the surface with a damp sucker. It might have been a worm; its segmented sections undulated in a wave of sluggish activity.
“It’s hungry,” Manion explained. “Now, this isn’t a direct parasite; it won’t destroy its host. There’ll be a symbiotic relationship until it’s laid its eggs. Then the larvae will use the host as a source of nourishment.” Almost fondly, he continued: “It resembles some of our own wasps. The full course of growth and egg-laying takes about four months. Now, our problem is this: we know how it lives on its own world—it’s a native of the fifth Alphan planet, by the way. We’ve seen it operate within its customary host. And we’ve been able to introduce it into large-bodied Terran mammals, such as the cow, the horse, with varying results.”
“What Manion wants to find out,” Jones said, “is whether this parasite will stay alive in a human body.”
“Growth is slow,” Manion bubbled excitedly. “We only have to observe it once a week. By the time the eggs are laid, we’ll know if it can adapt itself to a human. But as yet, we haven’t been able to obtain a volunteer.”
There was silence.
“Do you feel like volunteering?” Jones asked Pearson. “You have your choice; take one job or the other. If I were you, I’d prefer the one I was used to. You were an excellent cop.”
“How can you do this?” Pearson said weakly.
“I have to,” Jones answered. “I’ve got to have the police back. The secret-service has to be re-created, by people who are experts.”
“No,” Pearson said hoarsely. “I’m not interested. I won’t have anything to do with it.”
Doctor Manion was delighted. Trying to contain himself, he began fussing with the gelatine capsule. “Then we can go ahead?” To Pearson he revealed: “We can use the surgical labs here in this building. I’ve had opportunity to inspect them, and they’re superb. I’m anxious to introduce this organism before the poor thing starves.”
“That would be a shame,” Jones acknowledged. “All the way from Alpha for nothing.” He stood toying with the sleeve of his coat, while he pondered. Both Pearson and Manion watched him fixedly. Suddenly Jones said to the doctor: “You have a cigarette lighter?”
Mystified, Manion dug out a heavy gold lighter and passed it to him. Jones removed the plug and drizzled fluid onto the gelatine capsule. At that, Manion’s face lost its smug optimism. “Good God—” he began, agitated. “What the hell—”
Jones ignited the fluid. Stunned, helpless, Manion had to stand there as the fluid, the capsule, and the organism within, blazed up in an acrid flicker of orange fire. Gradually the contents cooled to a black, bubbling slime.
“Why?” Manion protested weakly, not comprehending.
“I’m a provincial,” Jones explained briefly. “Strange things, foreign things, make me sick.”
“But—”
He handed Manion back his lighter. “You make me sicker. Take your box and get out of here.”
Dazed, overwhelmed by the catastrophe, Manion gathered up the cooling metal box and stumbled off. The guard stepped aside, and he vanished through the door.
Breathing more easily, Pearson said: “You wouldn’t cooperate with us. Kaminski wanted you to help Reconstruction.”
“All right.” Jones nodded curtly to the guard. “Take this man back to his cell. Keep him there.”
“How long?” the guard inquired.
“As long as you can,” Jones answered, with bitterness.
On the trip back to organizational headquarters, Jones sat bleakly meditating.
Well, he had expected to fail, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he known that Pearson would refuse? Hadn’t he previewed the whole miserable episode, known he couldn’t go through with the torture? He could—and would—say he had done it; but that didn’t change the facts.
He was on his way out. There was a terrible, brutal time left to him, and nothing more. What he did now was desperate; it was ruthless and it was final. It was something people were going to discuss for centuries to come. But, frantic as it was, it was still basically and undeniably his death.
He had no certain knowledge of what was to become of society because he would not be around to see it. Very shortly, he would die. He had been contemplating it for almost a year; it could be ignored temporarily, but always it returned, each time more terrible and imminent.
After death, his body and brain would erode. And that was the hideous part: not the sudden instant of torment that would come in the moment of execution. That, he could bear. But not the slow, gradual disintegration.
A spark of identity would linger in the brain for months. A dim flicker of consciousness would persist: that was his future memory; that was what the wave showed him. Darkness, the emptiness of death. And, hanging in the void, the still-living personality.
Deterioration would begin at the uppermost levels. First, the highest faculties, the most cognizant, the most alert processes, would fade. An hour after death the personality would be animal. A week after, it would be stripped to a vegetable layer. The personality would devolve back the way it had come; as it had struggled up through the billions of years, so it would go back, step by step, from man to ape to early primate to lizard to frog to fish to crustacean to trilobite to protozoon. And after that: to mineral extinction. Final merciful end. But it would take time.
Normally, the devolving personality would not be aware, would not be conscious of the process. But Jones was unique. Now, at this moment, with his full faculties intact, he was experiencing it. Simultaneously, he was fully conscious, totally in possession of his senses—and at the same time he was undergoing ultimate psychic degeneration.
It was bearing. But he had to bear it. And every day, every week, it grew worse—until finally he would in actuality die. And then, thank God, the ordeal would end.
The suffering he had caused others did not compare with that which he had to undergo. But it was right; he deserved it. This was his punishment. He had sinned, and retribution had come.
The final, somber phase of Jones’ existence had begun.
17
CUSSICK WAS DEEP in conversation with two members of the police resistance when the long black organization car pulled to a stop in front of the apartment building.
“Holy cow,” one of the cops said softly, as he groped inside his coat. “What are they doing here?”
Cussick clicked off the lights; the living room dropped into instant darkness. There were two figures in the organization car. It was an official car: the crossed-flasks emblem was neatly stenciled on the doors and hood. For a moment the figures sat, not moving, not stirring. They were obviously talking.
“We can handle them,” one of the cops said nervously, from behind Cussick. “There’re three of us.”
Disgusted, his companion said: “This is only their front block. They’re probably on the roof and up the
stairs.”
Rigid and apprehensive, Cussick continued to watch. In the faint light of the midnight street, one of the two seated figures looked familiar. A car spun past, and, momentarily, the figures were outlined. An aching tautness crept through his heart: he was right. For what seemed like hours the two figures remained in the car. Then the door slid open. The familiar figure stepped to the sidewalk.
“A woman,” one of the cops said wonderingly.
The figure slammed the car door, turned on her heel, and started at a brisk trot toward the entrance of the apartment house.
In a hoarse, unsteady voice, Cussick said: “You two clear out. I’ll take care of this alone.”
They gaped at him foolishly. Then the sight of their surprised faces was cut off: Cussick had pulled open the hall door and was racing down the thick-carpeted corridor to meet her.
She was on the stairs when she saw him coming. There she halted, gazing up, breathing rapidly, holding onto the banister. She wore the severe gray suit of the organization, the little cap on her heavy blonde hair. But it was she; it was Nina. For an interval the two of them stood, Cussick at the top of the stairs, Nina below him, eyes bright, lips apart, nostrils dilated. Then she let go of the banister and scampered up the rest of the way. A brief instant as her arms reached up for him hungrily, and then he had descended his own two steps to meet her. After that an indefinite time of holding her tight, feeling her against him, smelling the warm scent of her hair; taking in, after so many months, the smooth pressure of her body, the yearning, fervent need of her.
“Oof,” she gasped finally. “You’re going to break me.”
He led her upstairs, still holding tightly onto her, not letting her go until they were inside the deserted apartment and the door had been locked behind them.
Glancing breathlessly around, Nina stood stripping off her gloves. He could see how nervous she was; her hands shook as she mechanically pushed the gloves into her purse. “Well?” she asked huskily. “How’ve you been?”
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