The Chalice of Death

by Robert Silverberg

  And I came sixteen parsecs across the galaxy to ask for help, Ewing thought.

  He stood up. “It’s been very interesting talking to you. And thanks for the drink.”

  “Good luck to you,” the Sirian said in parting. It was not meant in a spirit of cheer. It sounded openly derisive, Ewing thought.

  He made his way through the crowded room to the long shining-walled corridor of the spaceport arcade. A ship was blasting off outside on the ferroconcrete apron; Ewing watched it a moment as it thundered out of sight. He realized that if any truth lay in the Sirian’s words, he might just as well return to Corwin now and report failure.

  But it was hard to accept the concept of a decadent, spineless Earth. True, they had had no contact with the mother world for five centuries; but the legend still gleamed on Corwin and the other colony worlds of its immediate galactic area—the legend of the mother planet where human life first began, hundreds of centuries before.

  He remembered the stories of the pioneers of space, the first bold venturers to the other planets, then the brave colonists who had extended Earth’s sway to half a thousand worlds. Through a natural process, contact with the homeland had withered in the span of years; there was little reason for self-sufficient worlds a sky apart to maintain anything as fantastically expensive as interstellar communication systems simply for reasons of sentiment. A colony world has economic problems as it is.

  There had always been the legend of Earth, though, to guide the Corwinites. When trouble arose, Earth would be there to help.

  Now there was trouble on the horizon. And Earth, Ewing thought? Can we count on her help?

  He watched the throngs of bejeweled dandies glumly, and wondered.

  He paused by a railing that looked out over the wide sweep of the spacefield. A plaque, copper-hued, proclaimed the fact that this particular section of the arcade had been erected A.D. 2716. Ewing, a newcomer in an ancient world, felt a tingle of awe. The building in which he stood had been constructed more than a century before the first ships from Earth blasted down on Corwin, which then had been only a nameless world on the star charts. And the men who had built this building, eleven hundred years ago, were as remote in space-time from the present-day Terrans as were the people of Corwin at this moment.

  It was a bitter thought, that he had wasted his trip. There was his wife, and his son—for more than two years Laira would have no husband, Blade no father. And for what? All for a wasted trip to a planet whose glories lay far in its past?

  Somewhere on Earth, he thought, there will be someone who can help. This planet produced us all. A shred of vitality must remain in it somewhere. I won’t leave without trying to find it.

  Some painstaking questioning of one of the stationary robot guards finally got him the information he wanted: there was a place where incoming outworlders could register if they chose. He made provisions for the care and storage of his ship until his departure, and signed himself in at the Hall of Records as Baird Ewing, Ambassador from the Free World of Corwin. There was a hotel affiliated with the spaceport terminal; Ewing requested and was assigned a room in it. He signed a slip granting the robot spaceport attendants permission to enter his ship and transfer his personal belongings to his hotel room.

  The room was attractive, if a little cramped. Ewing was accustomed to the spaciousness of his home on Corwin, a planet on which only eighteen million people lived in an area greater than the habitable landmass of Earth. He had helped to build the home himself, twelve years ago when he married Laira. It sprawled over nearly eleven acres of land. To be confined to a room only about fifteen feet on a side was a novel experience for him.

  The lighting was subdued and indirect; he searched for the source unsuccessfully. His fingers probed the walls, but no electroluminescent panels were in evidence. The Earthers had evidently developed some new technique for diffused multi-source lighting.

  An outlet covered with a speaking grid served as his connection with the office downstairs. He switched the communicator panel on, after some inward deliberation. A robot voice said immediately, “How may we serve you, Mr. Ewing?”

  “Is there such a thing as a library on the premises?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Would you have someone select a volume of Terran history covering the last thousand years, and have it sent up to me. Also any recent newspapers, magazines, or things like that.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  It seemed that hardly five minutes passed before the chime on his room door bleeped discreetly.

  “Come in,” he said.

  The door had been attuned to the sound of his voice; as he spoke, there was the whispering sound of relays closing, and the door whistled open. A robot stood just outside. His flat metal arms were stacked high with microreels.

  “You ordered reading matter, sir.”

  “Thanks. Would you leave them over there, near the viewer?”

  When the robot had gone, he lifted the most massive reel from the stack and scanned its title. Earth and the Galaxy was the title. In smaller letters it said, A Study in Colonial Relationships.

  Ewing nodded approvingly. This was the way to begin, he told himself: fill in the background before embarking on any specific course of action. The mocking Sirian had perhaps underestimated Earth’s strength deliberately, for obscure reasons of his own. He did not seem like a trustworthy sort.

  He opened the reel and slid it into the viewer, twisting it until he heard the familiar click! The viewer was of the same model in use on Corwin, and he had no difficulties with it. He switched on the screen; the title page appeared, and a moment’s work with the focusing switches rendered the image brightly sharp.

  Chapter One, he read. The earliest period of expansion.

  The Age of Interstellar Colonization may rightly be said to have opened in the year 2560, when the development of the Haley Subwarp Drive made possible—

  The door chimed again. Irritated, Ewing looked up from his book. He was not expecting visitors, nor had he asked the hotel service staff for anything.

  “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Ewing?” said a familiar voice. “Might I come in? I’d like to talk to you again. We met briefly at the terminal this afternoon.”

  Ewing recognized the voice. It belonged to the earless Earther in turquoise robes who had been so little help to him earlier. What can he want with me? Ewing wondered.

  “All right,” he said. “Come in.”

  The door responded to the command. It slid back obediently. The slim Terrestrial smiled apologetically at Ewing, murmured a soft greeting, and entered.

  Chapter Three

  He was slim, delicate, fragile-looking. It seemed to Ewing that a good gust of wind would smash him to splinters. He was no more than five feet tall, pale, waxy skinned, with large serious eyes and thin, indecisive lips. His domed skull was naked and faintly glossy. At regular intervals on its skin, jeweled pendants had been surgically attached; they jiggled as he moved.

  With prim fastidiousness he made his way across the room toward Ewing.

  “I hope I’m not intruding on your privacy,” he said in a hesitant half-whisper.

  “No. Not at all. Won’t you be seated?”

  “I would prefer to stand,” the Earther replied. “It is our custom.”

  “Very well.”

  Ewing felt a curious inner revulsion as he stared at the grotesque little Earther. On Corwin, anyone dressed in such clownish garb would meet with derision.

  The Earther smiled timidly. “I am called Scholar Myreck,” he said finally. “And you are Baird Ewing, of the colony-world Corwin.”

  “That’s right.”

  “It was my great fortune to meet you at the spaceport terminal building earlier today. Apparently I created a bad first impression—one of frivolity, perhaps, or even of oppressive irresponsibility. For this I wish to beg your pardon, Colonist Ewing. I would have had the opportunity then, but for that Sirian ape who seized your atten
tion before I could speak.”

  Somewhat to his surprise Ewing noticed that the little Earther was speaking with barely a trace of what he had come to regard as the Earther accent. He frowned; what did the foppish little man want?

  “On the contrary, Scholar Myreck, no apologies should be needed. I don’t judge a man by my first impression of him—especially on a world where I’m a stranger to the customs and way of life.”

  “An excellent philosophy!” Sadness crossed Myreck’s mild face for a moment. “But you look tense, Colonist Ewing. Might I have the privilege of relaxing you?”

  “Relaxing me?”

  “Minor neural adjustments; a technique we practice with some skill here. May I?”

  Doubtfully Ewing said, “Just what does it involve, actually?”

  “A moment’s physical contact, nothing more.” Myreck smiled imploringly. “It pains me to see a man so tense. It causes me actual physical pain.”

  “You’ve aroused my curiosity,” Ewing said. “Go ahead—relax me.”

  Myreck glided forward and put his hands gently round Ewing’s neck. The Corwinite stiffened in immediate alarm. “Gently,” Myreck sang. “Let the muscles relax. Don’t fight me. Relax.”

  His thin, childlike fingers dug in without warning, pinching sharply at the base of Ewing’s skull. Ewing felt a quick, fierce burst of light, a jarring disruption of sense-perception, for no more than a fifteenth of a second. Then, suddenly, he felt the tension drain away from him. His deltoids and trapezoids eased so abruptly that he thought his back and shoulders had been removed. His neck, chronically stiff, loosened. The stress patterns developed during a year in stasis-sleep were shaken off.

  “That’s quite a trick,” he said finally.

  “We manipulate the neural nexus at the point where the medulla and the spinal column become one. In the hands of an amateur it can be fatal.” Myreck smiled. “In the hands of a professional such as myself it can also be fatal—but only when the operator so intends.”

  Ewing moistened his lips. He said, “May I ask a personal question, Scholar Myreck?”

  “Of course.”

  “The clothes you wear—the ornamentation—are these things widespread on Earth, or is it just some fad that you’re following?”

  Myreck knotted his waxy fingers together thoughtfully. “They are, shall we say, cultural manifestations. I find it hard to explain. People of my personality type and inclinations dress this way; others dress differently, as the mood strikes them. My appearance indicates that I am a Collegiate Fellow.”

  “Scholar is your title, then?”

  “Yes. And also my given name. I am a member of the College of Abstract Science of the City of Valloin.”

  “I’ll have to plead ignorance,” Ewing said. “I don’t know anything about your College.”

  “Understandable. We do not seek publicity.” Myreck’s eyes fastened doggedly on Ewing’s for a moment. “That Sirian who took you away from us—may I ask his name?”

  “Rollun Firnik,” Ewing said.

  “A particularly dangerous one; I know him by reputation. Well, to the point at last, Colonist Ewing. Would you care to address a convocation of the College of Abstract Science some time early next week?”

  “I? I’m no academician, Scholar. I wouldn’t know what to talk about.”

  “You come from a colony, one that none of us knows anything about. You offer an invaluable fund of experience and information.”

  “But I’m a stranger in the city,” Ewing objected. “I wouldn’t know how to get to you.”

  “We will arrange for your transportation. The meeting is Fournight of next week. Will you come?”

  Ewing considered it for a moment. It was as good an opportunity as any to begin studying the Terrestrial culture at close range. He would need as broad and as deep a fund of knowledge as possible in order to apply the leverage that would ultimately preserve his home world from destruction by the alien marauders.

  He looked up. “All right. Fournight of next week it is, then.”

  “We will be very grateful, Colonist Ewing.”

  Myreck bowed. He backed toward the door, smiling and nodding, and paused just before pushing the opener stud. “Stay well,” he said. “You have our extreme gratitude. We will see you on Fournight.”

  The door slid closed behind him.

  Ewing shrugged; then, remembering the reels he had requested from the hotel library, he returned his attention to the viewer.

  He read for nearly an hour, skimming; his reading pace was an accelerated one, thanks to his mnemonic training at the great University of Corwin. His mind efficiently organized the material as fast as his eyes scanned it, marshaling the facts into near, well-drilled columns. By the end of the hour, he had more than a fair idea of the shape of Terrestrial history in the thirteen hundred years since the first successful interstellar flight.

  There had been an immediate explosive outward push to the stars. Sirius had been the first to be colonized, in 2,573: sixty-two brave men and women. The other colonies had followed fast, frantically. The overcrowded Earth was shipping her sons and daughters to the stars in wholesale batches.

  All through the second half of the Third Millennium the prevailing historical tone was one of frenzied excitement. The annals listed colony after colony.

  The sky was full of worlds. The seventeen-planet system of Aldebaran yielded eight Earth-type planets suitable for Colonization. The double system of Albireo had four. Ewing passed hastily over the name-weighted pages, seeing with a little quiver of recognition the name of Blade Corwin, who seeded a colony on Epsilon Ursae Majoris XII in the year 2856.

  Outward. By the opening of the thirtieth century, said the book, human life had been planted on more than a thousand worlds of the universe.

  The great outward push was over. On Earth, the long-over-due establishment of population controls had ended forever the threat of overexpansion, and with it some of the impetus for colonization died. Earth’s population stabilized itself at an unvarying five and a half billion; three centuries before, nearly eleven billion had jostled for room on the crowded little planet.

  With population stabilization came cultural stabilization, the end of the flamboyant pioneer personality, the development of a new kind of Earthman who lacked the drive and intense ambition of his ancestors. The colonies had skimmed off the men with outward drive; the ones who remained on Earth gave rise to a culture of esthetes, of debaters and musicians and mathematicians. A subclass of menials at first sprang up to insure the continued maintenance of the machinery of civilization, but even these became unnecessary with the development of ambulatory robots.

  The history of the Fourth Millennium was a predictable one; Ewing had already extrapolated it from the data given him, and it was little surprise to come across confirmation. There had been retrenchment. The robot-served culture of Earth became self-sufficient, a closed system. Births and deaths were carefully equalized.

  With stability came isolation. The wild men on the colony worlds no longer had need for the mother world, nor Earth for them. Contacts withered.

  In the year 3800, said the text, only Sirius IV of all Earth’s colonies still retained regular communication with the parent planet. Representatives of the thousand other colonies were so rare on Earth as to be virtually nonexistent there.

  Only Sirius IV. It was odd, thought Ewing, that of all the colonies the harsh people of Sirius IV should alone be solicitous of the mother world. There was little in common between Rollun Firnik and the Scholar.

  The more Ewing read, the less confident he became that he would find any aid for Corwin here. Earth had become a planet of gentle scholiasts, it seemed; was there anything here that could serve in the struggle against the advancing Klodni?

  Possibly not. But Ewing did not intend to abandon his quest at its very beginning.

  He read on, well into the afternoon, until he felt hunger. Rising, he disconnected the viewer and rewound the reels, slipping
them back into their containers. His eyes were tired. Some of the physical fatigue Myreck had taken from him had begun to steal back into his body.

  There was a restaurant on the sixty-third level of the hotel, according to the printed information sheet enameled on the inside of his door. He showered and dressed formally, in his second-best doublet and lace. He checked the chambers of his ceremonial blaster, found them all functioning, and strapped the weapon to his hip. Satisfied at last, he reached for the house-phone, and when the subservient roboperator answered said, “I’m going to eat dinner now. Will you notify the hotel dining room to reserve a table for one for me?”

  “Of course, Mr. Ewing.”

  He broke the contact and glanced once again in the mirror above his dresser to make sure his lace was in order. He felt in his pocket for his wallet; it bulged with Terrestrial paper money, enough to last him the length of his stay.

  He opened the door. Just outside the door was an opaque plastic receptacle which was used for depositing messages and to Ewing’s surprise the red light atop it was glowing, indicating the presence of a message within.

  Pressing his thumb to the identiplate, he lifted the top of the box and drew out the note. It was neatly typed in blue capital letters. It said:

  COLONIST EWING: IF YOU WANT TO STAY IN GOOD HEALTH, KEEP AWAY FROM MYRECK AND HIS FRIENDS.

  It was unsigned. Ewing smiled coldly; the intrigue was beginning already, the jockeying back and forth. He had expected it. The arrival of a strange colonial on Earth was a novel enough event; it was sure to have its consequences and repercussions as his presence became more widely known.

  “Open,” he said shortly to his door.

  The door slid back. He reentered his room and snatched up the house phone.

  The desk robot said, “How may we serve you, Mr. Ewing?”

  “There seems to be a spy vent in my room some place,” Ewing said. “Send someone up to check the room over, will you?”

  “I assure you, sir that no such thing could—”