No World of Their Own

by Poul Anderson

  “Nothing,” he said. “Not one damned sterile thing. They didn’t know. They had no idea where the creature might be. Their memories were probed down to the cellular level, and nothing turned up we could use.”

  “Has Chanthavar any clue?” asked the flat mechanical voice.

  “No. My Mesko agent’s last report said that a warehouse was broken into the night that flyer was stolen, and several cases of space rations removed. So all the being had to do was hide these in whatever den he’s got, release the flyer on automatic and settle down to wait. Which he’s apparently been doing ever since.”

  “It would be strange if human food would sustain him indefinitely,” said Thrymka. “The probabilities all favor his dietary requirements being at least slightly different from yours. There will be some small cumulative deficiency or poisoning. Eventually he will sicken and die.”

  “That may take weeks,” snarled Brannoch, “and meanwhile he may find some way of getting what he needs. It may only be some trace element, titanium or—anything. Or he may make a deal with one of the parties looking for him. I tell you, there’s no time to lose!”

  “We are well aware of that,” answered Thrymka. “Have you punished your agents for their failure to get Langley too?”

  “No. They tried, but luck was against them. They almost had him, down in the Old City, but then armed members of the Society took him away. Could he have been bribed by Valti? It might be a good idea to knock that fat slug off.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “No. Council policy forbids murder of a Society member.”

  Brannoch shrugged bitterly. “For fear they’ll stop trading with Centauri? We should be building our own merchant ships. We should be independent of everybody. There’ll come a day when the Council will see—”

  “After you have founded a new dynasty to rule over a Centaurian interstellar hegemony? Perhaps!” There was the faintest lilt of sardonicism in the artificial voice. “But continue your report; you know we prefer verbal communication. Did not Blaustein and Matsumoto have any useful information at all?”

  “Well … yes. They said that if anyone could predict where Saris is and what he’ll do, it’s Langley. Just our luck that he was the one man we did not succeed in grabbing. Now Chanthavar has mounted such a guard over him that it’d be impossible.” Brannoch ran a hand through his yellow mane. “I’ve put an equal number of my men to watching him, of course. They’d at least make it difficult for Chanthavar to spirit him away. For the time being, it’s deadlock.”

  “What disposition has been made of the two prisoners?”

  “Why … they’re still in the Old City hideout. Anesthetized. I thought I’d have memory of the incident wiped from them and let them go. They’re not important.”

  “They may be,” said the monster—or the monsters. “If returned to Chanthavar, they will be two hostages by which he may be able to compel Langley’s cooperation. But it is dangerous and troublesome for us to keep them. Have them killed and the bodies disintegrated.”

  Brannoch stopped dead. After a long time, during which the beat of rain against the window seemed very loud, he shook his head. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Assassination in the line of business is one thing. But we don’t kill helpless prisoners on Thor.”

  “Your reason is logically insufficient. Give the orders.”

  Brannoch stood quiet. The concealing wall pattern swirled slowly before his eyes; opposite it, rain was liquid silver running down the single big pane.

  It struck him suddenly, that he had never seen a Thryman. There were stereographs, but under the monstrous weight of their atmosphere, dragged down by a planet of 50,000 miles diameter and three Earth gravities, no man could live. Theirs was a world in which ice was like rock to form mountains, where rivers and seas of liquid ammonia raged through storms which could swallow Earth whole, where life based its chemistry on hydrogen and ammonia instead of oxygen and water, where explosions of gas burned red through a galing darkness. The population of the dominant species was estimated at fifty billions, and a million years of recorded history had united them in one unhuman civilization. It was not a world for men, and he wished sometimes that men had never sent robots down to contact the Thrymans.

  He considered what was going on inside that tank: four thick discs, six feet in diameter, slaty blue, each stood on six short legs with wide, clawed feet; between each pair of legs was an arm ending in a three-fingered hand of fantastic strength. A bulge in the center of the disc was the head, rigidly fixed, with four eyes arranged around a trunk-like feeler on top and tympana for ears. Underneath was the mouth and another trunk which was nose and feeder. You could not tell one from another, not by appearance or acts. It made no difference whether Thrymka-1 or Thrymka-2 spoke.

  “You are debating whether or not to refuse,” said the microphonic voice. “You are not especially fond of us.”

  That was the damnable part of it. At short range, a Thryman could read your mind. You could have no thought and make no plan which he didn’t know. It was one reason they were valuable advisors. The other reason was tied in with the first: by joining feelers, they could discard spoken language, communicate directly by thought—nerve to nerve, a linkage in which individuality was lost and several intelligent, highly specialized entities became one brain of unimaginable power. The advice of such multi-brains had done much to give the League of Alpha Centauri its present strength.

  But they weren’t human. They weren’t remotely human. They had almost nothing in common with man. They traded within the League, a swapping of mutually unavailable materials; they sat on the Council, held high executive positions. But the hookup ability made their minds quasi-immortal and altogether alien. Nothing was known of their culture, their art, their ambitions. Whatever emotions they had were so foreign that the only possible communication with humankind was on the level of cold logic.

  And curse it all, a man was more than a logic machine.

  “Your thinking is muddy,” said Thrymka. “You may clarify it by formulating your objections verbally.”

  “I won’t have those men murdered,” said Brannoch flatly. “It’s an ethical question. I’d never forget what I had done.”

  “Your society has conditioned you along arbitrary lines,” said Thrymka. “Like most of your relationship-concepts, it is senseless, contra-survival. Within a unified civilization, which man does not possess, such an ethic could be justified, but not in the face of existing conditions. You are ordered to have those men killed.”

  “Suppose I don’t?” asked Brannoch softly.

  “When the Council hears of your insubordination, you will be removed and all your chances for attaining your own ambitions vanish.”

  “The Council needn’t hear. I could crack that tank of yours. You’d explode like deep-sea fish. A very sad accident.”

  “You will not do that. You cannot dispense with us. Also, the fact of your guilt would be known to all Thrymans on the Council as soon as you appeared before it.”

  Brannoch’s shoulders slumped. They had him and they knew it. According to his own orders from home, they had the final say—always.

  He poured himself a stiff drink and gulped it down. Then he thumbed a special communicator. “Yantri speaking. Get rid of those two motors. Dismantle the parts. Immediately. That’s all.”

  The rain poured in an endless heavy stream. Brannoch stared emptily out into it. Well … that was that. I tried.”

  The glow of alcohol warmed him. It had gone against the grain, but he had killed many men before, no few of them with his own hand. Did the manner of their death make such a difference?

  He shook himself, driving out the last cold which lay in his blood. Much to do yet. “I suppose,” he said, “that you know Langley is coming here today.”

  “We have read that much in your brain. We are not sure why Chanthavar permits it.”

  “To get a lead on me, of course, a
n idea of my procedures. Also, he would have to set himself against higher authorities, some of whom are in my pay, who have decreed that Langley shall have maximum freedom for the time being. There’s a good deal of sentimentality about this man from the past. Chanthavar would defy them if he thought there was something to gain, but right now he wants to use Langley as bait for me. Give me enough voltage to electrocute myself.”

  Brannoch grinned, suddenly feeling almost cheerful. “And I’ll play along. I’ve no objections at all to his knowing my game at present, because there isn’t much he can do about it. I’ve invited Langley to drop over for a talk. If he knows where Saris is, you can read it in his mind. I’ll direct the conversation that way. If he doesn’t, then I have a scheme for finding out exactly when he’s figured out the problem and what the answer is.”

  “The balance is very delicate,” said Thrymka. “The moment Chanthavar suspects we have a lead, he will take measures.”

  “I know. But I’m going to activate the whole organization: spying, sabotage, sedition, all over the Solar System. That will keep him busy, make him postpone his arrest and interrogation of Langley till he’s sure the fellow knows. Meanwhile, we can—” A bell chimed. “That must be him now, downshaft. Here we go!”

  Langley entered with a slow step, hesitating in the doorway. He looked very tired. His conventional clothes were no disguise for him—even if he had not been of fairly unmixed race, you would have known him for an outsider by his gait, his gestures, a thousand subtle hints. Brannoch thought in a mood of sympathy how lonesome the man must be. Then, with a secret laughter: We’ll fix that!

  Stepping forward, his flame-red cloak swirling from his shoulders, the Centaurian smiled. “Good day, Captain. It’s very kind of you to come. I’ve been looking forward to a talk with you.”

  “I can’t stay long,” said Langley.

  Brannoch flashed a glance at the window. A fighting ship hovered just outside, rain sluicing off its flanks. There would be men posted everywhere, spy-beams, weapons in readiness. No use to try kidnapping this time. “Well, please sit down. Have a drink.” Flopping his own huge form into a chair, he said: “You’re probably bored with silly questions about your period and how you like it here. I won’t bother you that way. But I did want to ask you something about the planets you stopped at.”

  Langley’s gaunt face tightened. “Look here,” he said slowly, “the only reason I came was to try and get my friends away from you.”

  Brannoch shrugged. “I’m very sorry about that.” His tone was gentle. “But you see, I haven’t got them. I’ll admit I wanted to, but somebody else got there first.”

  “If that isn’t a lie, it’ll do till one comes along,” said the spaceman coldly.

  Brannoch sipped his drink. “Look here, I can’t prove it to you. I don’t blame you for being suspicious. But why fasten the guilt on me particularly? There are others who were just as anxious. The Commercial Society, for instance.”

  “They—” Langley hesitated.

  “I know. They picked you up a couple nights ago. News gets around. They must have sweet-talked you. How do you know they were telling the truth? Goltam Valti likes the devious approach. He likes to think of himself as a web-weaver, and he’s not bad at it either.”

  Langley fixed him with tormented eyes. “Did you or did you not take those men?” he asked harshly.

  “On my honor, I did not.” Brannoch had no scruples when it came to diplomacy. “I had nothing to do with what happened that night.”

  “There were two groups involved. One was the Society. What was the other?”

  “Possibly Valti’s agents too. It’d be helpful if you thought of him as a rescuer. Or … here’s a possibility. Chanthavar himself staged that kidnapping. He wanted to try interrogation but keep you in reserve. When you escaped him, Valti’s gang may have seized the chance. Or Valti himself may be in Chanthavar’s pay—or even, fantastic as it sounds, Chanthavar in Valti’s. The permutations of bribery—” Brannoch smiled. “I imagine you got a good scolding when you returned to friend Channy.”

  “Yeah. I told him what to do with it too. I’ve been pushed around long enough.” Langley took a deep gulp of his drink.

  “I’m looking into the affair,” said Brannoch. “I have to know myself. So far, I’ve not been able to discover anything.”

  Langley’s fingers twisted together. “Think I’ll ever see those boys again?” he asked.

  “It’s hard to say. But don’t set your hopes up, and don’t accept any offers to trade their lives for your information.”

  “I won’t—or wouldn’t have—I think. There’s too much at stake.”

  “No,” murmured Brannoch. “I don’t think you would.”

  He relaxed still further and drawled out the key question: “Do you know where Saris Hronna is?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Haven’t you any ideas? Isn’t there some probable place?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I promised I wouldn’t pester you. Relax, Captain. You look like outworn applesauce. Have another drink.”

  The talk strayed for an hour, wandering over stars and planets. Brannoch exerted himself to charm, and thought he was succeeding.

  “I’ve got to go,” said Langley at last. “My nursemaids must be getting fretful.”

  “As you say. Come in again any time.” Brannoch saw him to the door. “Oh, by the way. There’ll be a present for you when you get back. I think you’ll like it.”

  “Huh?” Langley stared at him.

  “Not a bribe. No obligation. If you don’t keep it, I won’t be offended. But it occurred to me that all the people trying to use you as a tool never stopped to think that you are a man.” Brannoch clapped his shoulder. “So long. Good luck.”

  When he was gone, the Thorian whirled back toward his listeners. There was a flame in him. “Did you get it?” he snapped. “Did you catch any thoughts?”

  “No,” said the voice. “We could not read his mind at all.”

  “What?”

  “It was gibberish. There was nothing recognizable. Now we must depend on your scheme.”

  Brannoch slumped into a chair. Briefly, he felt dismayed. Why? Had a slow accumulation of mutations altered the human brain that much? He didn’t know. The Thrymans had never told anyone how their telepathy worked.

  But—well, Langley was still a man. There was still a chance. A very good chance, if I know men. Brannoch sighed gustily and tried to ease the tautness within himself.

  IX

  The police escort dogged him all the way back. And there would be others in the throngs on the bridgeways, hidden behind the blurring rain which runneled off the transparent coverings. No more peace, no more privacy … unless he gave in, told what he really thought.

  He’d have to, or before long his mind would be wrenched open and its knowledge pried out. So far, reflected Langley, he’d done a good job of dissimulation, of acting baffled. It wasn’t too hard. He came from another civilization, and his nuances of tone and gesture and voice could not be interpreted by the most skilled psychologist today. Also, he’d always been a good poker player.

  But who? Chanthavar, Brannoch, Valti? Didn’t Saris have any rights in the matter? They could all have been lying to him; there might not be a word of truth in any of their arguments. Maybe no one should have the new power, maybe it was best to burn Saris to ash with an energy beam and forget him. But how could even that be done?

  Langley shook his head. He had to decide, and fast. If he read a few of those oddly difficult books, learned something—just a little, just enough for a guess as to who could most be trusted. Or maybe he should cut cards. It wouldn’t be any more senseless than the blind blundering fate which seemed to rule human destiny.

  No … he had to live with himself, all the rest of his days.

  He came out on the flange of the palace tower which held his apartment. The hall bore him to the shaft, and he sped upward toward his own
level. Four guards, unhuman-looking in the stiff black fabric of combat armor, followed; but at least they’d stay outside his door.

  Langley stopped to let it scan him. “Open, sesame,” he said in a tired voice, and walked through. It closed behind him.

  Then, for a little while, there was an explosion in his head, and he stood in a stinging darkness.

  It lifted. He swayed on his feet, not moving, feeling the tears that ran down his face. “Peggy,” he whispered.

  She came toward him with the same long-legged, awkward grace he remembered. The plain white dress was belted to a slender waist, and ruddy hair fell to her shoulders. The eyes were big and green, there was gentleness on the wide mouth, her nose was tilted and there was a dusting of freckles across its bridge. When she was close, she stopped and bent the knee to him. He saw how the light slid over her burnished hair.

  He reached out as if to touch her, but his hand wouldn’t go all the way. Suddenly his teeth were clapping in his jaws, and there was a chill in his flesh. Blindly, he turned from her.

  He beat his fists against the wall, hardly touching it, letting the forces that shuddered within him expend themselves in controlling muscles that wanted to batter down a world. It seemed like forever before he could face her again. She was still waiting.

  “You’re not Peggy,” he said through his tears. “It isn’t you.”

  She did not understand the English, but must have caught his meaning. The voice was low, as hers had been, but not quite the same. “Sir, I am called Marin. I was sent as a gift by the Lord Brannoch dhu Crombar. It will be my pleasure to serve you.”

  At least, thought Langley, that son of a bitch had enough brains to give her another name.

  His heart, racing in its cage of ribs, began skipping beats, and he snapped after air. Slowly, he fumbled over to the service robot. “Give me a sedative,” he said. “I want to remain conscious but calm.” The voice was strange in his ears.

  When he had gulped the liquid down, he felt a darkness rising. His hands tingled as warmth returned. The heart slowed, the lungs expanded, the sweating skin shivered and eased. There was a balance within him, as if his grief had aged many years.