When the Five Moons Rise

by Jack Vance

  The paper torch was guttering; in darkness Shorn was as helpless as the others. Desperately he plunged his mind at the door; the door burst open, out into the night. Shorn caught it before it fluttered away into the dark air, brought it edgewise back through the door opening.

  The wind had blown out the torch; Shorn could only vaguely feel the black bulk of the door. He yelled, to be heard over the roar of the wind rushing past the door, “Stand back, stand back—” He could wait no longer; he felt reality slipping in the darkness; the door was only a vague blot. He concentrated on it, strained his eyes to see, hurled it against the metal hull, stove out a great rent. Air swept through the hold, whisked out any gas that might have entered.

  Shorn took himself out the door, rose above the cabin, looked through the sky dome. A dozen Black and Golds sat in the forward compartment looking uneasily back toward the cargo hold whence had come the rending jar. Adlari Dominion was not visible. Luby, the bronzehaired courier with the medallion face, sat statue-quiet in a comer. Luby was to be preserved, thought Shorn. Luby was the traitor.

  He had neither time nor inclination for half-measures. He tore a strip off the top of the ship; the troopers and Luby looked up in terror. If they saw him at all, he was a white-faced demon of the night, riding the wind above them. They were shucked out of the cabin like peas from a pod, flung out into the night, and their cries came thinly back to Shorn over the roar of the wind.

  He jumped down into the cabin, cut off the motors, jerked the cylinder of gas away from the ventilation system, then whisked the craft east, toward the Monaghill Mountains.

  Clouds fell away from the moon; he saw a field below. Here was as good a spot as any to land and reorganize.

  The aircraft settled to the field. Dazed, trembling, buffeted, fifty men and women crept from the hold.

  Shorn found Thursby leaning against the hull. Thursby looked at him through the moonlight as a child might watch a unicorn. Shorn grinned. “I know you must be puzzled; I’ll tell you all about it as soon as we’re settled. But now—.”

  Thursby squinted. “It’s hardly practical our going home, acting as if nothing had happened. The Black and Golds took photographs; and there’s a number of us that.. .are not unknown to them.”

  Circumbright appeared out of the darkness like a pink and brown owl. ‘There’ll be a great deal of excitement at the Black and Golds’ headquarters when there’s no news of this hulk.”

  “There’ll be a great deal of irritation at Glarietta Pavilion.”

  Shorn counted the days on his fingers. “Today is the twenty-third. Nine days to the first of the month.”

  “What happens on the first of the month?”

  “The First Annual Telekinetic Olympiad, at the new stadium in Swanscomb Valley. In the meantime—there’s an old mine back of Mount Mathias. The bunkhouses should hold two or three hundred.”

  “But there’s only fifty of us—.”

  “We’ll want others. Two hundred more. Two hundred good people. And to avoid any confusion”—he looked around to find the red-haired man who thought that sanity was no more than a function of individual outlook—“we will equate goodness to will to survive for self, the family group, human culture, and tradition.”

  “That’s broad enough,” said Thursby equably, “to suit almost any-

  one. As a practical standard—?” In the moonlight Shorn saw him cock his eyebrows humorously.

  “Practically,” said Shorn, “we’ll pick out people we like.”

  VIII

  Sunday morning, June 1, was dull and overcast. Mist hung along the banks of the Swanscomb River as it wound in its new looping course down the verdant valley; the trees dripped with clammy condensations.

  At eight o’clock a man in rich garments of purple, black, and white dropped from the sky to the rim of the stadium. He glanced up at the overcast, the cloud-wrack broke open like a scum, slid across the sky.

  Horizon to horizon the heavens showed pure and serene blue; the sun poured warmth into Swanscomb Valley.

  The man looked carefully around the stadium, his black eyes keen, restless. At the far end stood a man in a black and gold police uniform; the Telek brought the man through the air to the rim of the stadium beside him.

  “Good morning, Sergeant. Any disturbance?”

  “None at all, Mr. Dominion.”

  “How about below?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir. I’m only responsible for the interior, and I’ve had the lights on all night. Not a fly has showed itself.”

  “Good.” Dominion glanced around the great bowl. “If there are no trespassers now, there won’t be any, since there’s no ground level entrance.”

  He took himself and the trooper to the ground. Two other men in uniform appeared.

  “Good morning,” said Dominion.

  “Any disturbance?”

  “No sir. Not a sound.”

  “Curious.” Dominion rubbed his pale, peaked chin. “Nothing below the stadium?”

  “Nothing, sir. Not a nail. We’ve searched every nook and cranny, down to bedrock, inch by inch.”

  “Nothing on the detectors?”

  “No, sir. If a gopher had tunneled under the stadium, we’d have known it.”

  Dominion nodded. “Perhaps there won’t be any demonstration after all.” He stroked his chin. “My intuition is seldom at fault. But never mind. Take all your men, station them at the upper and lower ends of the valley. Allow no one to enter. No one, on any pretext whatever. Understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.”

  Dominion returned to the rim of the stadium, gazed around the sunny bowl. The grass was green and well cropped; the colored upholstery of the chairs made circular bands of pastel around the stadium.

  He took himself through the air to the director’s cupola, an enclosed booth hanging in a vantage point over the field on a long transparent spar. He entered, seated himself at the table.

  Other Teleks began to arrive, dropping little brilliant birds from the sky, settling to bask in the sunlight. Refreshment trays floated past; they sipped wine and ate spice cakes.

  Dominion presently left the high cupola, drifted low over the stadium. There was no expectation of filling it; thirty thousand seats would allow room for future increase. Thirty thousand Teleks was the theoretical limit that the economy of Earth could maintain at the present standard of living. And after thirty thousand? Dominion shrugged aside the question; the problem had no contemporary meaning. The solution should prove simple enough; there had been talk of swinging Venus out into a cooler orbit, moving in Neptune, and creating two habitable worlds by transferring half of Neptune’s mantle of ice to dusty Venus. A problem for tomorrow. Today’s concern was the creation of the Telek Earth State, the inculcation of religious awe into the common folk of Earth—the only means, as it had been decided, to protect Teleks from witless assassination.

  He dropped into a group of friends, seated himself. His work was done for the day; now, with security achieved, he could relax, enjoy himself.

  Teleks came in greater numbers. Here was a large group—fifty together. They settled into a section rather high up on the shady side, somewhat apart from the others. A few minutes later another group of fifty joined them, and later there were other similar groups.

  At nine o’clock the voice of Lemand De Troller, the program director, sounded from the speakers:

  “Sixty years ago, at the original Telekinetic Congress, our race was bom. Today is the first annual convention of the issue of these early giants, and I hope the custom will persist down the stream of history, down the million years that is our destined future, ten million times a million years....”

  Circumbright and Shorn listened with dissatisfaction as De Troller announced the program. He finished with “—the final valediction by Graycham Gray, our chairman for the year.”

  Circumbright said to Shorn, “There’s nothing there, no mass telekinesis in the entire program.”
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  Shorn said nothing. He leaned back in his seat, looked up to the director’s cupola.

  “Ample opportunity for mass exercise,” complained Circumbright, “and they overlook it entirely.”

  Shorn brought his attention back down from the cupola. “It’s an obvious stunt—perhaps too obvious for such a sophisticated people.”

  Circumbright scanned the 265 men and women in radiant Telek costumes that Shorn had brought into the stadium. He looked over his shoulder to Thursby, in the seat behind him. “Any ideas?”

  Thursby, in brown and yellow, said tentatively, “We can’t very well force them to indoctrinate us.”

  Laurie, beside Shorn, laughed nervously. “Let’s send Circumbright out to plead with them.”

  Shorn moved restlessly in his seat. Two hundred and sixty-five precious lives, dependent for continued existence on his skill and vigilance. “Maybe something will turn up.”

  A game of bumpball was underway. Five men lying prone in eight- foot red torpedoes competed against five men in blue torpedoes, each team trying to bump a floating three-foot ball into the opposition goal. The game was lightning swift, apparently dangerous. The ten little boats moved so fast as to be mere flickers; the ball slammed back and forth like a ping-pong ball.

  Shorn began to notice curious glances cast up toward his group. There was no suspicion, only interest, somehow they were attracting attention. He looked around and saw his group sitting straight and tense as vestrymen at a funeral—obviously uneasy and uncomfortable. He rose to his feet, spoke in an angry undertone, “Show a little life; act as if you’re enjoying yourselves! ”

  He turned back to the field, noticed a service wagon not in use, pulled it up, moved it past his charges. Gingerly they took tea, rum punch, cakes, fruit. Shorn set the case back on the turf.

  The bumpball game ended; now began the water sculpture. Columns of water reared into the air: glistening, soft forms, catching the sunlight glowing deep from within.

  There were other displays: the air over the stadium swam with colors, shapes, films, patterns, and so passed the morning. At noon buffet tables dropped from the sky to the stadium turf. And now Shorn found himself on the horns of a dilemma. By remaining aloof from the tables his group made themselves conspicuous; but they risked quick detection by mingling with the Teleks.

  Thursby resolved the problem. He leaned forward. “Don’t you think we’d better go down to lunch? Maybe a few at a time. We stick out like a sore thumb sitting up here hungry.”

  Shorn acquiesced. By ones and twos he set the members of his company down to the sward. Laurie nudged him. “Look. There’s Dominion. He’s talking to old Pool.”

  Circumbright in unusual agitation said, “I hope Poole keeps his wits about him.”

  Dominion turned away. A moment later Shorn brought Poole back to his seat. “What did Dominion want?”

  Poole was a scholarly-looking man of middle age, mild and myopic. “Dominion? Oh, the gentleman who spoke to me. He was very pleasant. Asked if I were enjoying the spectacles, and said that he didn’t think he recognized me.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said I didn’t get out very much, and that there were many here I hardly knew.”

  “And then?”

  “He just moved away.”

  Shorn sighed. “Dominion is very sharp.”

  Thursby wore a worried frown. “Things haven’t gone too well this morning.”

  “No. But there’s still the afternoon.”

  IX

  Three o’clock.

  “There’s not much more,” said Circumbright.

  Shorn sat hunched forward. “No.”

  Circumbright clenched the arms of his seat. “We’ve got to do something. Somehow, someway: mass telekinesis!”

  Shorn looked up at the director’s cupola. “It’s got to come from there. And I’ve got to arrange it.” He reached over, clasped Laurie’s hand, nodded to Thursby, rose to his feet, took himself by an inconspicuous route along the back wall, up to the transparent spar supporting the cupola. Inside he glimpsed the shapes of two men.

  He slid back the door, entered quietly, froze in his footprints. Adlari Dominion, lounging back in an elastic chair, smiled up at him, ominous as a cobra. “Come in. I’ve been expecting you.”

  Shorn looked quickly to Lemand De Troller, the program director, a bulky blond man with lines of self-indulgence clamping his mouth.

  “How so?”

  “I have a pretty fair idea of your intentions, and I admit their ingenuity. Unluckily for you, I inspected the body of Cluche Kurgill, assassinated a short time ago, and it occurred to me that this was not the man whom I entertained at Glarietta; I have since reprimanded myself for not scrutinizing the catch at Portinari Gate more carefully. In any event, today will be a complete debacle, from your standpoint. I have excised from the program any sort of business which might have helped you.”

  Shorn said thickly, “You showed a great deal of forbearance in allowing us to enjoy your program.”

  Dominion made a lazy gesture. “It’s just as well not to bring our problems too sharply to the attention of the spectators; it might lay a macabre overtone upon the festival for them to observe at close hand two hundred and sixty-five condemned anarchists and provocateurs.”

  “You would have been made very uncomfortable if I had not come up here to the cupola.”

  Dominion shook his head. “I asked myself, what would I do in your position? I answered, I would proceed to the cupola and myself direct an event such as to suit my purposes. So—I preceded you.” He smiled. “And now—the sorry rebellion is at its end. The entire nucleus of your gang is within reach, helpless; if you recall, there is no exit, they have no means to scale the walls.”

  Shorn felt the bile rising in his throat; his voice sounded strange to his ears. “It’s not necessary to revenge yourself on all these people; they’re merely decent individuals, trying to cope with—” He spoke on, pleading half-angrily for the 265. Meanwhile, his mind worked at a survival sublevel. Dominion, no matter how lazy-seeming and catlike, was keyed-up, on his guard, there would be no surprising him. In any struggle Lemand De Troller would supply the decisive force. Shorn might be able to parry the weapons of one man, but two cores of thought would be too much for him.

  Decision and action came to him simultaneously. He gave the cupola a great shake; startled, De Troller seized the desk. Shorn threw a coffee mug at his head. Instantly, before the mug had even struck, Shorn flung himself to the floor. Dominion, seizing the instant of Shorn’s distraction, aimed a gun at him, fired an explosive pellet. Shorn hit the floor, saw De Troller slump, snatched the weapon from Dominion’s hand—all at once.

  The gun clattered to the deck, and Shorn found himself looking into Dominion’s pale glowing eyes.

  Dominion spoke in a low voice, “You’re very quick. You’ve effectively reduced the odds against yourself.”

  Shorn smiled. “What odds do you give me now?”

  “Roughly, a thousand to one.”

  “Seems to me they’re even. You against me.”

  “No. I can hold you helpless, at the very least, until the program property man returns.”

  Shorn slowly rose to his feet. Careful. Let no movement escape his eye. Without moving his eyes from Dominion’s he lifted the coffee mug, hurled it at Dominion’s head. Dominion diverted it, accelerated it toward Shorn. Shorn bounced it back, into Dominion’s face. It stopped only an inch short, then sprang back at Shorn's head with tremendous speed. Shorn flicked it with a thought, he felt the breath of its passage and it shattered against the wall.

  “You’re fast,” said Dominion. “Very fast, indeed. In theory, your reactions should have missed that.”

  “I’ve got a theory of my own,” said Shorn.

  “I’d like to hear it.”

  “What happens when two minds try to teleport an object in opposing directions?”

  “An exhausting matter,” said Dominion
, “if carried to the limit. The mind with the greater certainty wins, the other mind...sometimes. . .lapses.”

  Shorn stared at Dominion. “I believe my mind to be stronger than yours.”

  “Suppose it is? What do I gain in proving otherwise?”

  Shorn said, “If you want to save your life—you’ll have to.” With his eyes still on Dominion, he took a knife from his pocket, flicked open the blade.

  It leaped from his hand at his eyes. He frantically diverted it, and in the instant his defense was distracted, the gun darted to Dominion’s hand. Shorn twisted up the muzzle by a hair’s-breath; the pellet sang past his ear.

  Fragments of the coffee mug pelted the back of his head, blinding him with pain. Dominion, smiling and easy, raised the gun. It was all over, Shorn thought. His mind, wilted and spent, stood naked and bare of defense—for the flash of an instant. Before Dominion could pull the trigger Shorn flung the knife at his throat. Dominion turned his attention away from the gun to divert the knife; Shorn reached out, grabbed the gun with his bare hands, tossed it under the table out of sight.

  Dominion and Shorn glared eye to eye. Both of them thought of the knife. It lay on the table, and now under the impulse of both minds, slowly trembled, rose quivering into the air, hilt up, blade down, swinging as if hung by a short string. Gradually it drifted to a position midway between their eyes.

  The issue was joined. Sweating, breathing hard, they glared at the knife, and it vibrated, sang to the induced quiver from the opposing efforts. Eye to eye stared Dominion and Shorn, faces red, mouths open, distorted. No opportunity now for diversionary tactics; relax an instant and the knife would stab; blunt force strained against force.

  Dominion said slowly, “You can’t win, you who have only known telekinesis a few days; your certainty is as nothing compared to mine. I’ve lived my lifetime in certainty; it’s part of my living will, and now see—your reality is weakening, the knife is aiming at you, to slash your neck.”

  Shorn watched the knife in fascination, and indeed it slowly turned toward him like the clock-hand of Fate. Sweat streamed into his eyes; he was aware of Dominion’s grimace of triumph.