To get away with that, he might have to give his word to act as one of the party, as before.
He never had broken his word… so he wouldn’t give it, this time, unless he had to… but if he had to? If it came to a choice — breaking his word or being Emperor Marc the First of a galaxy, founder of a dynasty the like of which no civilization had ever seen before?
Whatever happened, come hell or high water, Seaton and his crew must and would die.
He, DuQuesne, must and would come out on top!
As soon as DuQuesne’s lifeboat was inside the enormous hollow globe that was the Skylark of Valeron, Seaton brought it to a gentle landing in a dock behind his own home and walked out to the dock with a thought-helmet on his head and its mate in his hand.
DuQuesne opened his lifeboat’s locks and Seaton joined him in the tiny craft’s main compartment.
Face to face, neither man spoke in greeting or offered to shake hands; both knew that there was nothing of friendship between them or ever would be. Nor did DuQuesne wonder why Seaton was meeting him thus: outside and alone. He knew exactly what the women, especially Margaret, thought of him; but such trifles had no effect whatever upon the essence of Marc C. DuQuesne.
Seaton handed DuQuesne the spare headset. DuQuesne put it on and Seaton said in thought, “This, you’ll notice, is no ordinary mechanical educator; not by seven thousand rows of Christmas trees. I suppose you know you’re in the Skylark of Valeron. Study it, and take your time. I’ll give you her prints before you go — if we’re going to have to be allies again you ought to have something better than your Capital D to work with.”
Seaton thought that this surprise might make DuQuesne’s guard slip for an instant, but it didn’t. DuQuesne studied the worldlet intensively for over an hour, then took off his headset and said:
“Nice job, Seaton. Beautiful; especially that tank-chart of the First Universe and that super-computer brain — some parts of which, I see, this headset enables me to operate.
The rest of it, I suppose, is keyed to and in sync with your own mind? No others need apply?”
“That’s right. So, with the prints, you’ll have everything you need, I think. But before you go into detail, I may know a thing that you don’t and that many have a lot of bearing, one place or another. Have you ever heard of any way of getting into or through the fourth dimension except by rotation?”
“No. Not even in theory. How sure are you that there is or can be any other way of doing it?”
“Positive. One that not even the Norlaminians know anything about,” and Seaton gave DuQuesne the full picture and the full story and all the side-bands of thought of everything that had happened to Madlyn Mannis and Charles van der Gleiss.
At the sight of Mergon and Luloy — two of the three Jelmi whom the monstrous alien Klazmon had been comparing with the Fenachrone and with the chlorine-breathing amoeboid Chlorans and with DuQuesne himself — it took every iota of DuQuesne’s iron control to make no sign of the astounding burst of interest he felt; for in one blinding flash of revealment his entire course of action became pellucidly clear. He knew exactly where and what Galaxy DW-427-LU was. He knew how to get Seaton headed toward that galaxy. He knew how to kill Seaton and all his crew and take over the Skylark of Valeron. And, best of all, he knew how to cover his tracks!
Completely unsuspicious of any of these thoughts, Seaton went on, “Now we’re ready, I think, for the fine details of what you found out.”
After giving a precisely detailed report that lasted for twenty minutes, DuQuesne said, “Now as to location. I have a cylindrical chart — a plug-chart, you might call it, of all the galaxies lying close to the line between the point in space where your stasis-capsule whiffed out and the First Galaxy. Those four reels there.” He pointed. “But I have no idea whatever as to where that plug lies in the universe — its universal coordinates. But since you know where you are and I know how I got here, it can be computed — in time.”
“In practically nothing flat,” Seaton said. “As fast as you can run your tapes through your scanner there.” Seaton put his headset back on; DuQuesne followed suit. “They don’t even have to be in order. When the end of the last tape clears the scanner your plug will be in our tank.”
And it was: a long, narrow cylinder of yellowish-green haze.
“Nice; very nice indeed.” DuQuesne paid tribute to performance. “I started my trip right there.” He marked the spot with a tiny purple light. It was a weird sensation, this; working, with that gigantic brain, in that super-gigantic tank-chart, with only a headset and at a distance of miles!
“With my artificial gravity set to exact universal north as straight up,” DuQuesne went on, “I moved along a course as close as possible to the axis of that cylinder to this point here.” The purple point extended itself into a long line of purple light and stopped.
“Klazmon’s tight beam hit me at that point there, coming in from eighty-seven point four one eight degrees starboard and three point nine two six degrees universal south.”
DuQuesne’s mind, terrifically hard held for that particular statement, revealed not the faintest side-band or other indication of what a monstrous lie that was. The figures themselves were very nearly right; but the fact that the beam had actually come in from the port and the north made a tremendous difference. The purple line darted off at almost a right angle to itself and DuQuesne went on without a break:
“You’ll note that there are two galaxies on that line; one about half way out to the rim of the universe—” this galaxy actually was, in Klazmon’s nomenclature, Galaxy DW-427-LU — “the other one clear out; right on the rim itself. Under those conditions no reliable estimate of distance was possible, but if we assume that Klazmon’s power is of the same order of magnitude as ours it would have to be the first one. However, I’m making no attempt to defend that assumption.”
“Sure not; but it’s safe enough, I’d say, for a first approximation. So, making that assumption, that galaxy is where the Realm of the Llurdi is — where the Llurdi and the Jelmi are. Where the folks that built that big battlewagon on the moon came from.”
“While the data do not prove it, by any means, that would be my best-educated guess. But my next one — that that’s where they’re going back to — isn’t based on anything anywhere near that solid. Side-bands only. and not too many or too strong.”
“Yeah, I got some, too. But you’re having first cut at this; go ahead,” Seaton said.
“Okay. First, you have to dig up some kind of an answer to the question of why those Jelmi came such an ungodly long distance away from home to do what was, after all, a small job of work. We know that they didn’t do it just for fun. We know that the whole race of Jelmi is oppressed; we know that those eight hundred rebelled. We’re fairly sure that Earth alone is, right now, putting out more sixth-order emanation than all the rest of the First Universe put together.
“Okay. There were some indications that Tammon worked out the theory of that fourth-dimensional gizmo quite a while back; but they had to come this tremendous distance to find enough high-order emanation to mask their research and development work from His Nibs Llanzlan Klazmon the Fifteenth.
“Now. My argument gets pretty tenuous at this point, but isn’t it a fairly safe bet that, having reduced the theory of said gizmo to practice and having built a ship big enough to handle it like toothpicks, they’d beat it right back home as fast as they could leg it, knock the living hell out of the Llurdi — they could, you know, like shooting fish in a well — and issue a star-spangled Declaration of Independence? It does to me.”
“Check. While I didn’t get there by exactly the same route you did, I arrived at the same destination. So it’s not only got to be investigated; it’s got to be Number One on the agenda. Question; who operates? Your baby or mine?”
“You know the answer to that. I’ll have other fish to fry; quite possibly until after you have the Jelman angle solved.”
“My though
t exactly.” Seaton assumed that DuQuesne’s first, most urgent job would be to build a worldlet of his own; DuQuesne did not correct this thought. Seaton went on,
“The other question, then, is do we join forces again, or work independently… or maybe table the question temporarily, until you get yourself organized and we will have made at least a stab at evaluating what this Llurdan menace actually amounts to?”
“The last… I think.” DuQuesne scowled in thought, then his face cleared but at no time was there the slightest seepage of side-bands to the effect that he, DuQuesne, would see to it that Seaton would be dead long before that. Or that he, DuQuesne, did not give a tinker’s damn whether anything was ever done about the Llurdan menace or not.
The two men discussed less important details for perhaps ten minutes longer; then DuQuesne took his leave. And, out in deep space again, with his mighty Capital D again boring a hole through the protesting ether, DuQuesne allowed himself a contemptuous and highly satisfactory sneer.
Back in their own living room, Seaton asked his wife, “Dottie, did you smell anything the least bit fishy about that?”
“Not a thing, Dick. I gave it everything I had, and everything about it rang as true as a silver bell. Did you detect anything?”
“Not a thing — curse it! Even helmet to helmet — as deep as I could go without putting the screws on and blowing everything higher than up — it was flawless. But you’ve got to remember the guy’s case-hardened and diamond finished… But you’ve also got to remember that I came to exactly the same conclusions he did — and completely independently.”
“So every indication is that he is acting decently. He’s been known to, you know.”
“Yeah. It’s possible.” Seaton did not sound at all sold on the possibility. “But I wouldn’t trust that big black ape as far as I could drop-kick him… I’d like awfully well to know whether he’s pitching us a curve or not… and if he is, what the barb-tailed devil it can possibly be… so what we’ll have to do, pet, is keep our eyes peeled and look a little bit out all the time.”
And, still scowling and still scanning and re-scanning every tiniest bit of data for flaws, Seaton set course for Galaxy DW-427-LU, having every reason to believe it the galaxy in which the Realm of the Llurdi lay. Also, although he did not mention this fact even to Dorothy, that course “felt right” to some deeply buried, unknown, and impossible sense in which he did not, could not, and would not believe.
For Seaton did not know that Galaxy DW-427-LU was in fact going to be highly important to him in a way that he could not foresee; if he had known, would not have believed; if he had believed, would not have understood.
For at that moment in time, not even Richard Ballinger Seaton knew what forces he had unleashed with his “cosmic beacon.”
13. DUQUESNE AND SENNLLOY
IN the eyes of Blackie DuQuesne, Seaton was forever and helplessly trapped in the philosophy of the “good guy.” It was difficult for DuQuesne to comprehend why a mind of as high an order of excellence as Seaton’s — fully the equal of DuQuesne’s own in many respects, as DuQuesne himself was prepared to concede — should subscribe to the philosophy of lending a helping hand, accepting the defeat of an enemy without rancor, refraining from personal aggrandizement when the way was so easily and temptingly clear to take over the best part of a universe.
Nevertheless, DuQuesne knew that these traits were part of Seaton’s makeup. He had counted on them. He had not been disappointed. It would, have been child’s play for Seaton to have tricked and destroyed him as he entered that monster spaceship Seaton had somehow acquired. Instead of that, Seaton had made him a free gift of its equal!
That, however, was not good enough for Blackie DuQuesne. Seeing how far Seaton had progressed had changed things. He could not accept the status of co-belligerent.
He had to be the victor.
And the one portentous hint he had gleaned from Seaton of the existence of a true fourth-dimensional system could be the tool that would make him the victor; wherefore he set out at once to get it.
Since he had misdirected Seaton as to the vector of the course of the Jelmi, sending him off on what, DuQuesne congratulated himself, was the wildest of wild-goose chases, DuQuesne need only proceed in the right direction and somehow — anyhow; DuQuesne was superbly confident that he would find a means — get from them the secret of what he needed to know. His vessel had power to spare. Therefore he cut in everything his mighty drives could take, computed a tremendous asymptotic curve into the line that the Jelmi must have taken, and took out after the intergalactic flyer that had left Earth’s moon such a short time before.
DuQuesne was aware that force would be an improbably successful means of getting what he wanted. Guile was equally satisfactory. Accordingly he took off his clothes and examined himself, front and back and sides, in a full-length mirror.
He would do, he concluded. There would be nothing about his physical person which would cause him any trouble in his dealings with the Jelmi. Since he always took his sun-lamp treatments in the raw, his color gradation was right. He was too dark for a typical Caucasian Tellurian; but that was all right — he wasn’t going to be a Tellurian. He would, he decided, be a native of some planet whose people went naked… the planet Xylmny, in a galaxy ’way out on the Rim somewhere… yes, he had self-control enough not to give himself away.
But his cabin wouldn’t stand inspection on a usually naked basis, nor would any other private room of the ship. All had closets designed unmistakably for clothing and it wasn’t worth while to rebuild them.
Okay, he’d be a researcher who had visited dozens of planets, and everybody had to wear some kind of clothing or trappings at some time or other. Protectively at least. And probably for formality or for decoration.
Wherefore DuQuesne, with a helmet on his head and a half-smile, half-sneer on his face, let his imagination run riot in filling closet after closet with the utilitarian and the decorative garmenture of world after purely imaginative world. Then, after transferring his own Tellurian clothing to an empty closet, he devoted a couple of hours to designing and constructing the apparel of his equally imaginary native world Xylmny.
In due time a call came in from the spaceship up ahead. “You who are following us from the direction of the world Tellus: do you speak English?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you following us, Tellurian?”
“I am not a Tellurian. I am from the planet Xylmny; which, while very similar to Tellus, lies in a distant galaxy.” He told the caller, as well as he could in words, where Xylmny was. “I am a Seeker, Sevance by name. I have visited many planets very similar to yours and to Tellus and to my own in my Seeking. Tellus itself had nothing worthy of my time, but I learned there that you have a certain knowledge as yet unknown to me; that of operating through the fourth dimension of space instantaneously, without becoming lost hopelessly therein, as is practically always the case when rotation is employed. Therefore I of course followed you.”
“Naturally. I would have done the same. I am Savant Tammon of the planet Mallidax — Llurdiaxorb Three which is our destination. You, then, have had one or more successes in rotation? Our rotational tests all failed.”
“We had only one success. As a Seeker I will be glad to give you the specifications of the structures, computers, and forces required for any possibility of success — which is very slight at best.”
“This meeting is fortunate indeed. Have I your permission to come aboard your vessel, as such time as we approach each other nearly enough to make the fourth dimensional transfer feasible?”
“You certainly may, sir. I’ll be very glad indeed to greet you in the flesh. And until that hour, Savant Tammon, so long and thanks.”
Since Mergon braked the Mallidaxian down hard to help make the approach, and since the two vessels did not have to be close together even in astronomical terms, it was not long until Tammon stood facing DuQuesne in the Capital D’s control room.
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br /> The aged savant inhaled deeply, flexed his knees, and said, “As I expected, our environments are very similar. We greet new friends with a four-hand clasp. Is that form satisfactory?”
“Perfectly; it’s very much like our own,” DuQuesne said; and four hands clasped briefly.
“Would you like to come aboard our vessel now?” Tammon asked.
“The sooner the better,” and they were both in Tammon’s laboratory, where Mergon and Luloy looked DuQuesne over with interest.
“Seeker Sevance,” Tammon said then, “these are Savant Mergon, my first assistant, and Savant Luloy, his… well, ‘wife’ would be, I think, the closest possible English equivalent. You three are to become friends.”
The hand-clasp was six-fold this time, and the two Jelmi said in unison. “I’m happy that we are to become friends.”
“May our friendship ripen and deepen,” DuQuesne improvised the formula and bowed over the cluster of hands.
“But Seeker,” Luloy said, as the cluster fell apart, “must all Seekers do their Seeking alone? I’d go stark raving mad if I had to be alone as long as you must have been.”
“True Seekers, yes. While it is true that any normal man misses the companionship of his kind, especially that of the opposite sex—” DuQuesne gave Luloy a cool, contained smile as his glance traversed her superb figure — “even such a master of concentration as a true Seeker must be can concentrate better, more productively, when absolutely alone.”
Tammon nodded thoughtfully. “That may well be true. Perhaps I shall try it myself. Now — we have some little time before dinner. Is there any other matter you would like to discuss?”
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