As suddenly as the outburst had begun, it was over. The Ulphian wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and salt scowling quietly at the floor.
“I think,” said Pagadan, “you could start the destroyers out after them now, Hallerock!”
“I just did,” Hallerock said. “I clocked the end of ‘minimum effective period right in the middle of that little speech.”
“So did I,” she replied. “And I hope it won’t be too long now. I’ve got work to do here, and it shouldn’t wait.”
There were sufficiently deadly gadgets of various types installed throughout the fugitive ship, which they could have operated through the PT-cells. But since all of them involved some degree of risk to the ship’s personnel they were intended for emergency use only—in case Moyuscane attempted to vent his annoyance with the change in his worldly fortunes on one of his new subjects. Pagadan, however, had not believed that the recent lord of all Ulphi would be capable of wasting any part of his reduced human resources for any motive so impractical as spite.
Convinced by now that she was right in that, she waited, more patiently on the whole than Hallerock, for something safer than gun or gas to conclude Moyuscane’s career.
It caught up with him some twenty minutes later—something that touched him and went through him in a hardly perceptible fashion, like the twitching of a minor electric shock.
The reaction of the two watchers was so nearly simultaneous that neither knew afterwards which of them actually tripped the thought-operated mechanism which filled the H-Ship briefly with a flicker Of cold radiation near the upper limit of visibility for that particular crew.
To that signal, the ship’s personnel reacted in turn, though in a far more leisurely manner. They blinked about doubtfully for a few seconds as if trying to remember something; and then—wherever they were and whatever they happened to be doing—they settled down deliberately on chairs, bunks, beds, and the floor, stretched out, and went to sleep.
Moyuscane alone remained active, since his nerve centers had not been drenched several days before with a catalyst held there in suspense until I that flare of radiance should touch it off. Almost within seconds though, he was plucked out of his appalled comprehension of the fact that there was no longer a single mind within his reach that would respond to control. For Kynoleen gave complete immunity to space-fear within the time limit determined by the size of the dose and the type of organism affected, but none at all thereafter. And whatever the nature of the shattering terrors the hidden mechanisms of the mind flung, up when gripped in mid-space by that dreaded psychosis, their secondary effects on body and brain were utterly devastating.
Swiftly and violently, then, Moyuscane the Immortal died, some four centuries after his time, bones and muscles snapping in the mounting fury of the Fear’s paroxysms. Hallerock, still conscientiously observing and recording for G.Z. Lab’s omnivorous files, felt somewhat sick.
But Pagadan appeared undisturbed.
“I’d have let him out an easier way if it could have been done safely,” her thought came indifferently. “But he would, after all, have considered this barely up to his own standards of dispatch. Turn the ship back now and let the destroyers pick it up, will you, Hallerock? I’ll be along to see you after a while—”
The Viper came slamming up behind the Observation Ship some five hours later, kicked it negligently out of its orbit around Ulphi, slapped on a set of tractors fore and aft, and hauled it in, lock to lock.
“Just thirty-five seconds ago,” Hallerock informed Pagadan coldly as she trotted into the O-Ship’s control room, “every highly-condemned instrument on this unusually-condemned crate got knocked dean out of alignment! Any suggestions as to what might have caused it?”
“Your language, my pet!” Pagadan admonished, for his actual phrasing had been more crisp. She flipped a small package across his desk into his hands. “To be studied with care immediately after my departure! But you might open it now.”
A five-inch cube of translucence made up half the package. It contained the full-length image of a slender girl with shining black hair, who carried a javelin in one hand and wore the short golden skirt of a contestant in the planetary games of Jeltad.
“Cute kid!” Hallerock acknowledged. “Vegan, eh? The rest of it’s a stack of her equation-plates? Who is she and what do I do about it?”
“That’s our Department of Cultures investigator,” Pagadan explained.
“The System Chief?” Hallerock said surprised. lie glanced at the image again, which was a copy of one of Snoops’ three-dimensionals, and looked curiously up at the Lannai. “Didn’t you just finish doing a mental job on her?”
“In a way. Mostly a little hypno-information to bring her up to date on what’s been going on around Ulphi—including her part in it. She was asleep in that D.C. perambulator she’s camping in here when I left her.”
“As I understand it,” Hallerock remarked thoughtfully, “the recent events on Ulphi would be classified as information very much restricted to Galactic Zones! So you wouldn’t have spotted the makings of a G.Z. parapsychic mind in a D.C. System Chief, would you?”
“Bright boy! I’ll admit it’s an unlikely place to look for one, but she is a type we can use. I’m releasing her now for G.Z. information, on Agent authority. Her equation-plates will tell you how to handle her in case she runs into emotional snags while absorbing it. You’re to be stationed on Ulphi another four months anyway, and you’re to consider that a high-priority part of your job.”
“I will? Another four months?” Hallerock repeated incredulously. “I was winding up things on the O-Ship to start back to Jeltad. You don’t need me around here any more, do you?”
“I don’t, no!” Pagadan appeared to he quietly enjoying herself. “The point is though, I’m the one who’s leaving. Got word from Central two hours ago to report back at speed, just as soon as we’d mopped up Old Man Moyuscane.”
“What for?” Hallerock began to look bewildered. “The Agent work isn’t finished here.”
She shook her head. “Don’t know myself yet! But it’s got to do with the recordings on those pickled Bjantas you homed back to Lab. Central sounded rather excited.” The silver eyes were sparkling with unconcealed delight now. “It’s to be a Five-Agent Mission, Hallerock!” she fairly sang. “Beyond Galactic Rim!”
“Beyond the Rim? For Bjanta? They’ve got something really new on them then!” Hallerock had come to his feet.
Pagadan nodded and smacked her lips lightly. “Sounds like it, doesn’t it? New and conclusive—and we delivered it to them! But now look what face it’s making,” she added maliciously, “just because it doesn’t get to go along!”
Hallerock scowled and laughed. “Well, I’ve been wondering all this time about those Bjantas. Now you take out after them—and I can hang around Ulphi dishing out a little therapy to a D.C. neurotic.”
“We all start out small,” said the Lannai. “Look at me—would you believe that a few short years ago I was nothing but the High Queen of Lar-Sancaya? Not,” she added loyally, “that there’s a sweeter planet anywhere, from the Center to the Clouds or beyond!”
“And that stretch distinctly includes Ulphi!” Hallerock stated, unreconciled to his fate. “When’s the new Agent coming put to this hive of morons?”
Pagadan slid to her feet off the edge of the desk and surveyed him pityingly. “You poor chump! What I gave you just, now was Advance Mission Information, wasn’t it? Ever hear of a time that wasn’t restricted to Zone Agent levels? Or do I have to tell you officially that you’ve just finished putting in a week as a Z. A. under orders?”
Hallerock stared at her. His mouth opened and shut and opened again. “Here, wait a—” he began.
She waved him into silence with both fists.
“Close it kindly, and listen to the last instructions I’m giving you! Ulphi’s being taken, in, as a Class 18 System—outpost garrison. I imagine even you don’t have to be told that the on
ly thing, pot, strictly, routine about the procedure will be the elimination of every traceable connection between its, present, culture and, Moyuscane’s personal influence on it—and our recent corrective operation?”
“Well, of course!” Hallerock said hoarsely. “But look here, Pag—”
“Considerable amount of detail work in that, naturally—it’s why the monitors at Central have assigned you four whole months for the job! When you’re done here, report back to Jeltad. They’ve already started roughing out your robot, but they’ll need you around to transfer basic impulse patterns and so on. A couple of months more, and you’ll be equipped for any dirty work they can think up—and I gather the Chief’s already thought up some sweet ones especially for you! So God help you—and now I’m off. Unless you’ve got some more questions?”
Hallerock looked at her, his face impassive now. If she had been human he couldn’t have told her. But, unlike most of the men of Pagadan’s acquaintance, Hallerock never, forgot that the Lannai were of another kind. It was one of the things she liked about him.
“No, I haven’t any questions just now,” he said. “But if I’m put to work by myself on even a job like this, I’m going to feel lost and alone. I just don’t have the feeling that I can be trusted with Z.A. responsibility.”
Pagadan waved him off again, impatiently.
“The feeling will grow on you,” she assured him.
And then she was gone.
As motion and velocity were normally understood, the Viper’s method of homeward progress was something else again. But since the only exact definition of it was to be found in a highly complex grouping of mathematical concepts, such terms would have to do.
She was going home, then, at approximately half her normal speed, her automatic receptors full out. Pagadan sat at her desk, blinking reflectively into the big vision-tank, while she waited for a call that had to be coming along any moment now.
She felt no particular concern about it. In fact, she could have stated to the minute how long it would take Hallerock to recover far enough from the state of slight shock she’d left him in to reach out for the set of dossier-plates lying on his desk. A brief section of System Chief Jasse’s recent behavior-history, with the motivation patterns underlying it, was revealed in those plates, in the telepathic shorthand which turned any normally active hour of an individual’s life into as Complete a basis for analysis as ordinary understanding required.
She’d stressed that job just enough to make sure he’d attend to it before turning to any other duties. And Hallerock was a quick worker. It should take him only three or four minutes to go through the plates, the first time.
But then he’d just sit there for about a minute, frowning down at them, looking a little baffled and more than a little worried. Poor old Hallerock! Now he couldn’t even handle a simple character-analysis any more unaided!
Grimly he’d rearrange the dossier-plates, tap them together into a neat little pile, and start all over again. He’d go through each One very slowly and carefully now, determined to catch the mistake that had to be there!
Pagadan grinned faintly.
Almost to the calculated second, his search-thought came flickering after her down the curving line to Jeltad. As the Viper’s receptors caught it and brought it in, she flipped over the transmitter switch: “Linked, Hallerock—nice reach you’ve got! What gives, my friend?” There was a short pause; then: “Pag, what’s wrong with her—the D.C., I mean?”
“Wrong with her?” Pagadan returned, on a note of mild surprise.
“In the plates,” Hallerock explained carefully. “She’s an undeveloped parapsychic, all right—a Telep-Three, at the least. But she’s also under a master-delusion—thinks she’s a physical monster of some kind! Which she obviously isn’t.” The Lannai hesitated, letting a trickle of uncertainty through to him to indicate a doubtful mental search. There wasn’t, after all, anything that took quite such ticklish, sensitive handling as a parapsychic mind that had gone thoroughly off the beam.
“Oh, that!” she said, suddenly and obviously relieved. “That’s no delusion, Hallerock—just one of those typical sublevel exaggerations. No doubt I overemphasized it a little. There’s nothing wrong with her really—she’s A-Class plus. Very considerably plus, as you say! But she’s not a Vegan.”
“Not a Vegan? Well, why should—”
“And, of course, she’s always been quite sensitive about that physical peculiarity!” Pagadan resumed, with an air of happy discovery. “Even as a child. But with the Traditionalist training she was getting, she couldn’t consciously admit any awareness of isolation from other human beings. It’s just that our D.C.’s a foundling, Hallerock. I should have mentioned it, I suppose. They picked her up in space, and she’s of some unidentified human breed that grows around eight foot tall—”
Back in the study of her mobile-unit, System Chief Jasse wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and pocketed her handkerchief decisively.
She’d blubbered for an hour after she first woke up. The Universe of the Traditionalists had been such a nice, tidy, easy-to-understand place to live in, even if she’d never felt completely at her ease there! It had its problems to be met and solved, of course; and there were the lesser, nonhuman races, to be coolly pitied for their imperfections and kept under control for their own good, and everybody else’s. But A-Class humanity could work itself into such a dismally gruesome mess as it had done on Ulphi—that just wasn’t any part of the Traditionalist picture! They didn’t want any such information there. They could live, more happily without it.
Well, let them live happily then! She was still Jasse, the space-born, and in return for knocking down the mental house of cards she’d been living in, the tricky little humanoid at any rate had made her aware of some unsuspected possibilities of her Own which she could now develop!
She began to re-examine those discoveries about herself with a sort of new, cool, speculating interest. There were two chains of possibilities really—that silent, cold, whitely enchanted world of her childhood dreams came floating up in her mind again, clear and distinct under its glittering night-sky now that the barriers that had blurred it in her memory had been dissolved. The home-world of her distant race! She could go to it if she chose, straight and unerringly, and find the warm human strength and companionship that waited there. That knowledge had been returned to her, too.
But was that what she wanted most?
There was another sort of companionship, the Lannai had implied, and a different sort of satisfaction she could gain, beyond that of placidly living out her life among her own kind on even the most beautiful of frozen worlds. They were constructing a civilized galaxy just now, and they would welcome her on the job.
She’d bathed, put on a fresh uniform and was pensively waiting for her breakfast to present itself from the wall-butler in the study, when the unit’s automatic announcer addressed her:
“Galactic Zones Agent Hallerock requesting an interview.”
Jasse started and half turned in her chair to look at the closed door. Now what did that mean? She didn’t want to see any of them just yet! She intended to make up her own mind on the matter.
She said, a little resentfully:
“Well . . . let him right in, please!”
The study door opened as she flipped the lock-switch on her desk. A moment later, Hallerock was bowing to her from the entrance hall just beyond it.
Jasse began to rise, glanced up at him; and then sat back suddenly and gave him another look.
“Hello, Jasse!” Hallerock said, in a voice that sounded amiable but remarkably self-assured.
Even when not set off as now by his immaculate blue and white G.Z. dress uniform, Zone Agent Hallerock undoubtedly was something almost any young woman would look at twice. However, it wasn’t so much that he was strikingly handsome with his short-cropped dark-red hair and the clear, black-green eyes with their suggestion of some icy midnight ocean. The immediate point was that you
didn’t have to look twice to know that he came from no ordinary planet of civilization.
Jasse got up slowly from behind her desk and came around it and stood before Hallerock.
Basically, that was it perhaps—the world he came from! Mark Wieri VI, a frontier-type planet, so infernally deserving of its classification that only hair-brained first-stage Terrans would have settled there in the first place. Where the equatorial belt was a riot of throbbing colors, a maddened rainbow flowering and ripening, for two months of a thirty-eight month year—and then, like the rest of that bleak world forever, sheet-ice and darkness and the soundless, star-glittering cold.
Even back on Terra, two paths had been open to life that faced the Great Cold as its chosen environment. To grow squalidly tough, devoted to survival in merciless single-mindedness—or to flourish into a triumphant excess of strength that no future challenge could more than half engage.
On Mark Wieri’s world, human life had adapted, inevitably, to its relentlessly crushing environment. In the two hundred and eighty-odd generations between the last centuries of the First Stellar Migrations and the day an exploring Giant-Ranger of the Confederacy turned in that direction, it had become as much a part of its background as the trout is of its pool. And no more than the trout could it see any purpose then in leaving so good a place again.
But it had not, in any sense, grown squalid.
So Jasse stood before Hallerock, and she was still looking up at him. There were nine foot three inches of him to look up to, shaped into four hundred and sixty-five lean pounds of tigerish symmetry.
The dress uniform on a duty call was a clue she didn’t miss or need. The ice of his home-planet was in Hallerock’s eyes; but so was the warm, loyal human strength that had triumphed over it and carelessly paid in then the full, final price of con-, quest. This son of the conquerors alone had been able to sense that the galaxy itself was now just wide and deep and long enough for man; and so he’d joined the civilization that was of a like spirit.
Complete Short Fiction (Jerry eBooks) Page 30