The milk-white water heaved around them under the milky sky. On shore the great festooned hulk of a ruined fort seemed to stagger under the weight of jungle rioting over it. There was a constant murmur from the jungle, punctuated by a pattern of screams, flutings, hisses, roars from invisible beasts. The sea lapped noisily at the boat’s sides. The wind made meaningless noises in Sam’s ears. Landside was strangely confusing to the Keep-bred.
He put his forehead in the head rest and looked down.
Another world sprang into being, a world of wavering light and wavering weed, threaded by the wavering shapes of underwater things, fish with shivering fins, siphonophores trailing their frostlike streamers, jellyfish throbbing to a rhythm of their own. Anemones clenched into brilliantly striped fists with a dreamlike slowness. Great fans of dazzling colored sponge swayed to the random currents.
And buried in this bright, wavering world, visible only in rough outlines beneath the weeds, lay the hulk of a sunken ship.
It was the third they had found which Hale seemed to think worth salvaging. “And they’re in better shape than you think,” he assured Sam. “Those alloys are tough. I’ve seen worse wrecks than this rehabilitated in the old days.” His voice trailed off and he looked out over the empty water, remembering.
You could almost see it peopled by the fleets of the Free Companions as Hale must be seeing it, very clearly over the generations already gone. The Keeps had been sacrosanct then as now, for only under their impervium domes did civilization survive. But the token wars had raged between them, on the surface of the gray seas, between fleets of hired mercenaries. The Keep that backed the loser paid its korium ransom, sometimes only after token depth bombs had been dropped to remind the undersea people of their vulnerability.
It all passed. The jungle ate up the great forts and the sea giants sank at their moorings. But they did not crumble. That much was apparent now. The weeds grew over and through them and the lichens nibbled at their fabric, but the strong basic structure remained.
Hale and Sam had searched the coasts of Venus where the old forts stood. Hale had known the forts when they were alive. He knew the harbors and could still quote the battle strength of the Companies. The first two hulks they had salvaged were already nearly seaworthy again. And there was a new enthusiasm in Hale’s voice and in his eyes.
“This time they won’t pin us down under impervium,” he told Sam, gripping the rail and grimacing as spray blew in his face. “This time we’ll stay mobile no matter what it costs us.”
“It’ll cost plenty,” Sam reminded him. “More than we’ve got. More than we’re going to get, unless we do something very drastic.”
“What?”
Sam looked at him thoughtfully, wondering if the time had yet come to take Hale into his confidence. He had been building toward the revelation for weeks now, leading Hale step by step toward a solution he would have rejected flatly at their first interview.
Sam was applying to his current problem exactly the same methods he had applied—almost by instinct—when he woke in the alley with dream-dust still fragrant in his nostrils. In the weeks since that wakening he had retraced in swift strides the full course of a career that paralleled the career of his earlier life, condensing forty years’ achievements into a few brief weeks. Twice now he had come into the world penniless, helpless, every man’s hand against him. Twice he had lifted himself to precarious success. This time his foot was only on the first rung of a ladder that leaned against the very stars. He assured himself of that. Failure was inconceivable to him.
By misdirection and cunning he had tricked Doc Mallard into a catspaw play and seized the korium he needed to start him on his upward climb. It was korium he wanted again now, but the Harkers were his adversaries this time and they were a much more difficult problem.
Remembering his method with Doc Mallard, he had searched in vain for some lure he could dangle to tempt them out on a limb. He could think of nothing. The Harkers already had everything they could desire; their position was almost impregnable. There was, of course, Sari. Sam knew that if he could plan some subtle but strong irritation for her, and make sure she had narco-dust at the time, she was almost certain to kill either Zachariah or herself—or both. That was one weapon. But it was terrifyingly uncertain, and it was too strong. He meant to kill Zachariah, eventually. But death was no solution to this current problem.
There was a parallel here between the weapons at Sam’s command and the weapons men had with which to attack the Venusian landside. In both cases the only available weapons were either too weak or too strong. Utter destruction was no answer, but the only alternative would leave the adversary essentially untouched.
Sam knew he must either give up entirely or take a step so bold it would mean total success or total ruin.
“Hale,” he said abruptly, “if we want enough korium to colonize the land, we’ve got to do something that’s never been done before. We’ve got to bomb the Keeps.”
Hale squinted at him and then laughed. “You’re joking.”
“Maybe.” Sam hunched his shoulders and glanced at the smothered fort across the water. “You know anything better?”
“I don’t know anything worse.” Hale’s voice was sharp. “I’m not a murderer, Reed.”
“You were a Free Companion.”
“That’s a different matter altogether. We—”
“You fought the Keeps’ battles, at the Keeps’ orders. That was necessary, under the circumstances. You did what you had to in the way of killing, plundering—piracy, really. The losing Keep paid up in korium or faced bombing. It was a bluff, I suppose. None of them were ever really bombed. Well, what I’m suggesting is a bluff, too. The Families will know it. We’ll know it. But we’ve got to outbluff them.”
“How can we?”
“What have we got to lose? They’re at that much of a disadvantage—they have everything to lose. We have everything to gain.”
“But they’ll know we don’t dare do it. People won’t even take the threat seriously. You know the Keep people. They’re—inert. They’ve never known a menace. It won’t be conceivable that we could bomb them. They’ll laugh at us. The race has outlived the fear of danger. We’d have to bomb one Keep and kill thousands of people before we could convince them we meant business. I—”
Sam’s laugh interrupted him. “I’m not so sure. We’re still human beings. It’s true there’s been no war or danger for a good many generations—but men still wake up with a dream of falling as old as the first arborean who lost his grip on a tree limb. Men’s nostrils still dilate when they’re angry, because when the pattern was first set they had to … to breathe—because the mouth was full of the enemy! I don’t think we’ve shed our fears quite so easily as you think.”
“Well, I won’t do it,” Hale said firmly. “That’s going too far. It’s out of the question—”
The threat, when it first sounded over the news screens, was as shattering as a bomb itself. There was dead silence in every Keep for a long moment after the words had rung out from the big screens. Then tumult. Then laughter.
Hale had been right—in part. No one believed in the threat of the rehabilitated fleet The colonies depended for their very existence on the support of the Keeps. They would not dare bomb their sources of supply. And if they were mad enough to do it, every man reasoned in those first few minutes, the chances were strong that it would be some other Keep that got the depth charges—not his own.
Then Sam on the public screens named the Keep-Delaware. He named the time—now. He named his price—korium.
And the battle of wills was on.
But Sam had a weapon before he launched his bluff that gave him confidence. It was not a very strong weapon, but that simply meant he must use more skill in wielding it. It had to succeed. This was a point from which no turning back was possible.
The weapon, like all the most effective weapons man can use against man, was personal.
He had
found Blaze Harker.
In the final analysis the whole struggle was a conflict between two men—Sam and Zachariah. The Families of the Immortals ruled the Keeps, the Harkers set the pattern for all other Families, and Zachariah was the head of the Harker clan. Zachariah may or may not have realized himself just where the point of greatest stress lay, but Sam knew. He was gambling everything on the hope that with this lever, and a plan he had made very carefully, he could outbluff Zachariah Harker.
He realized, of course, that the Families must be laying plans of their own. Last time they had worked quietly away in secret until the moment for action came, and in the resulting explosion Sam and all his schemes had been swept away in unimportant fragments. This time it would be different.
It was the Slider who found Blaze for Sam. When the message reached him, Sam went as quickly as the Ways would carry him to the small, foul-smelling den in the slums of Delaware Keep. The Slider was sunk in an Orange-Devil dream when he came in, and for a few minutes addressed Sam hazily as Klano and spoke of ancient crimes that not even Sam remembered.
He gave the Slider a drink, and presently the mists faded and the vast bulk heaved itself up in bed, chuckling and sniffling.
“On that Harker deal, son—I got an address for you.” He gave it, grunting.
Sam whirled toward the door.
“Wait a minute, son—hold on there! Where you think you’re going?”
“To find Blaze.”
“You’ll never get in. That place is guarded.”
“I’ll make a way!”
“Son, you’d need six weeks buildup. You’ll have to ferret out somebody who’ll take bribes before you could get within a city block of that place. You’ll need at least one ringer. You’ll need a fast getaway organization afterward. You’ll—”
“All right, all right! Let’s get started, then. Could you work it?”
“Maybe. I could try.”
“Then begin! How long will it take? I can’t wait six weeks. Can you do it in three?” He paused, interrupted by the vast, increasing chuckles that sent earthquake waves over the bulk beneath the blankets.
“Forget it, kid. It’s already done.” Sam stared. The Slider choked on his own laughter. “The old hand hasn’t lost its cunning, my boy. Don’t think the jog wasn’t hard—but it’s done. Raise that shutter over there—turn off the light. Now watch.”
A square of dim illumination appeared on the far wall. Shadows moved across it, blurred by the wall’s irregularities. They were looking at the product of a tiny spy camera, apparently carried about waist-high at the belt of someone who progressed at uneven speed. Sometimes he walked, and the film went along in smooth, rhythmic rocking motion; sometimes he ran and then the pictures flashed by jerkily. When he stopped the eye seemed to stop with him. It resulted in an irregular but very convincing motion picture.
The first seconds of the film showed the little camera apparently staring at an iron grille, very close to the lens. White trousered legs appeared, the grille swung open, a vista unfolded briefly of garden paths and fountains playing. One of the Immortal strongholds, obviously.
There was a feeling of quick, furtive alertness to the pace of the film, the way it kept swinging right and left in tiny arcs as the man who carried it scanned his surroundings. Twice it was apparent that the carrier had ducked into hiding; the film went dark for several seconds when a door or a curtain closed to conceal him. There was a dizzing amount of corridor-walking, all of it quick and giving the impression of stealth.
Then the speed of the carrier increased suddenly—the man was running. Walls bobbed up and down, swung sharply as he whipped around a corner. The film went almost totally dark and walls slid downward before it. A glass-walled lift was rising. More corridors, at a run.
A pause before another grilled door, this substantial looking—bars with adornment. The bars grew enormous, blurred, apparently melted. The lens was pressed close against the door, looking through into the room beyond.
And this, the key scene, ran very fast. There was only a flash of a richly furnished room and a man in it with two others bending over him. The man appeared to be struggling with his companions.
Abruptly the picture swung sidewise, jarred so that everything vibrated. There was a sweeping glance upward, along soaring walls, a flash of ceiling, a flash of scowling face swooping toward the lens and an arm uplifted with something that flashed.
The picture went white and clicked noisily to a halt.
Then it began again. Time retraced itself. The lens was floating toward the melting bars again, very slowly. Very slowly indeed the room inside came into focus. In nightmarish slow motion, which gave watchers the opportunity to study every detail, the struggling man and his two companions moved upon the wall.
The room was cushioned everywhere. The carpeting looked soft and sank under the pressure of the three men’s feet; the walls were paneled head-high with beautifully quilted patterns of velvet. The furniture was thick and soft, no edges showing.
The man who struggled was tall, slender, fine-boned. He had a beautifully shaped head and even in this convulsive activity his motions were curiously smooth and graceful. It was at first impossible to guess what sort of features he had, they were so contorted in a rapid series of violent grimaces. Blood flecked his face from bitten lips and his eyes were rolled back until no iris showed.
His two adversaries were trying to pull a strait-jacket over his flailing arms.
Little by little they were succeeding. It all happened in that strange slow motion that gave the whole performance a look of calculated rhythm, like a ballet, robbing the struggle of any spontaneity because it happened so slowly. The tall man beat his prisoned arms against his sides, threw back his head and laughed wildly and soundlessly, blood running down his chin. The laughter changed without a break into sheer rage and he hurled himself sidewise with a cunning lurch and carried one of his attendants with him to the floor. The other bent over them, and then the whole scene jigged furiously and swept upward, and the film clicked to a halt.
“That was Blaze Harker,” the Slider said in the brief silence that followed. “Give me a drink, son. Have a shot yourself—you look like you need one.”
“—and so it’s come down to this,” Sam said over the seawide newscast, to the listening thousands. “Give us the korium we have a right to, or take the consequences. The time’s past for bargains and promises. This is the showdown. What’s your answer, Harker?”
Under all the seas, under all the impervium domes, a breathless silence held as the multitudes watched Sam’s magnified face, multiplied many times upon many screens, turn and wait for his reply. And in nineteen of the Keeps as the waiting lengthened a murmur began to grow. To them it was at the moment an academic problem.
But in Delaware Keep the problem was a vital one. There was not a sound in the streets, and for the first time, perhaps, since a Keep had been reared beneath its bubble dome you could hear the deep, soft humming of the Ways as they glided on their endless rounds.
Zachariah kept them waiting exactly long enough. Then with a perfect sense of timing, just as the delay grew unbearable, he gave his signal in his distant study. Sam’s face grew indistinct upon the screens of all the Keeps; it hovered in the background like a shadow. Superimposed upon it the serenely handsome Harker face grew clear.
“Reed, you’re a fool.” Zachariah’s voice was calm and leisurely. “We all know this is a childish bluff.”
The shadow that was Sam flashed into clarity; Zachariah’s face went translucent. Sam said, “I expected you to say that. I suppose you believe it. My first job’s to convince you all. There isn’t much time, so—look.”
Sam and Zachariah alike blurred and vanished from the screen. In their stead a shining seascape grew. Sunlight shafted down through clouds, touching gray water to blue dazzle. And ploughing through the dazzle, tossing glittering spray over their mailed snouts, a fleet of five ships moved head-on toward the observer.
From beyond the screen Sam’s disembodied voice said, “Watch!” and a moment later, at a distance behind the last ship, the sea boiled suddenly into white tumult, erupted high, rained down in diamond showers.
Then the ships grew dim. The screen went briefly blank, and another scene took shape upon it. This time it was a water-world, full of wavering light, greenish-yellow because it was near the surface. Looking up, you could see the water-ceiling as a perfectly tangible thing, quilted and puckered all over with the foreshortened shadows of the waves. Breaking it, the long, sharp bellies of the ships came gliding—one, two, three, four, five—mailed and darkly shining.
The illumination darkened, the ship keels rose and vanished as the scene plunged downward, following the course of a dark, cylindrical something which shot from the last ship in the line. The telefocus stayed constant on the bomb as it slipped silently down through the Venusian sea. Every watcher in the Keeps felt his skin crawl coldly with the question: What target?
The sea was deep here. The depth-bomb dropped eternally. Very few watched the missile itself; most eyes were intent on the lower edges of the screens, avid for the first sight of the bottom…. It was sand.
As it came into view, the bomb struck, and instantly the telefocus changed so that the results of the explosion could be visible. Yet not much could be seen. Perhaps that was most terrifying—the swirling, inchoate undersea chaos, the blinding blur on the screen, and the deep, thundering boom of the explosion that carried clearly over the sound beam.
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