The Paradox Men

by Charles L. Harness

Alar looked up quizzically at Shey’s gorged and popeyed face, then at the two Kades. “He’ll be back,” he murmured, folding his arms.

  And yet, when he heard the footsteps returning considerably faster than they had departed, this confirmation of his surmise concerning Andrews’s crew threw him into a deep gloom. However, it had been inevitable. Nothing could have saved them after he threw the seven.

  Thurmond walked quickly into the room. “You were right,” he said. “Where have they hidden themselves?”

  “They’re in hiding,” replied Alar without expression, “but not in the way you think. All ten of them were certain they were going to die on this shift. They had a fatalistic faith in their destiny. To return safely with you would have meant giving up that faith, with consequent mental and moral disintegration. They preferred to die. You’ll probably find their bodies in the muirium holds.”

  Thurmond’s mouth tightened. “You’re lying.”

  “Having no historical background, you would naturally assume so. But regardless of what happened to Miles and his crew, you’ll have to come to some decision about me within the next minute or two. We’ve been adrift in the Evershed zone ever since I entered the room. You can release me in order to let me have a try at the lateral jets, or you can leave me here—and die with me.”

  He watched the inward struggle in the police minister. Would the man’s personal loyalty to Haze-Gaunt, or perhaps a chill adamantine sense of duty, require him to keep Alar immobilized at the cost of his own life?

  Thurmond toyed thoughtfully with the pommel of his breast dagger. “All right,” he said finally. Passing behind the Kades, he snapped the switches on each. “You’d better hurry. It’s safe now.”

  “Shey’s scabbard and blade are on the table beside you,” said the Thief. “Give them to me.”

  Thurmond permitted himself a smile as he handed over the saber. Alar knew the man planned to kill him as soon as the station was safe again and that it mattered little to the greatest swordsman in the Imperium whether the Thief was armed.

  “A question,” the Thief said as he buckled the scabbard to his belt. “Were you on the Phobos along with Shey?”

  “I was on the Phobos. But not with Shey. I let him try his own plan first.”

  “And when he failed—”

  “I acted.”

  “One other question,” insisted the Thief imperturbably. “How did you and Shey know where to find me?”

  “The Meganet Mind.”

  It was incomprehensible. The Mind alternately condemned him and delivered him. Why? Why? Would he never know?

  “All right,” he said shortly. “Come along.” Together they hurried toward the control room.

  An hour later they emerged, perspiring freely.

  Alar turned and studied his arch-enemy briefly. He said: “Obviously, I can’t permit you to signal the Phobos until my own status has been clarified to my satisfaction. I see no particular advantage in delaying what has been inevitable since our first meeting.” He drew his saber with cold deliberation, hoping that his measured certainty would create an impression on Thurmond.

  The police minister whipped out his own blade. “You are quite right. You had to die in either event. To save my life I justifiably relied on your desire to prolong your own. Die!”

  As in many occasions in the past when death faced him, time began to creep by the Thief, and he observed Thurmond’s cry of doom and simultaneous lunge as part of a leisurely acted play. Thurmond’s move was an actor’s part to be studied, analyzed and constructively criticized by responsive words and gestures of his own, well organized and harmoniously knit.

  He knew, without reflecting on the quality of mind that permitted and required him to know, that Thurmond’s shout and lunge were not meant to kill him. Thurmond’s fleche was apparently, “high line right,” which, if successful, would thrust through Alar’s heart and right lung. Experts conventionally parried such a thrust with an ordinary tierce, or perhaps a quinte, and followed with a riposte toward the opponent’s groin.

  Yet there had been a speculative, questioning element in Thurmond’s cry. The man had evidently expected the Thief to perceive his deceit, to realize that he had planned a highly intricate composite attack based on Alar’s almost reflexive response to the high line thrust, and the skilled Thief would be expected to upset a possible trap by the simple expedient of locking blades and starting anew.

  This analysis of the attack was plausible except for one thing: Thurmond, never one to take unavoidable risks, instead of unlocking blades, would very likely seize his breast dagger and drive it into his opponent’s throat.

  Yet the Thief could not simultaneously cut the dagger scabbard away and avoid the lunge.

  Then suddenly everything was past. Thurmond had sprung back, spitting malevolently, and the dagger scabbard was spinning crazily through the air behind him. A streak of red was growing rapidly along the Thief’s chest. The police minister laughed lightly.

  Alar’s heart was beating very fast—just how fast he did not know—pumping its vital substance through the deceptively simple cut in his lung. It couldn’t have been helped. Now, if he could maim or disarm Thurmond fairly quickly, he might still summon the Phobos and escape under the protection of Captain Andrews before he died of loss of blood.

  His skilled opponent would play for time, of course, observing him closely, watching for the first sign of genuine faltering, which might be merely a shift of the thumb along the foil-grip, a thrust parried a fraction of an inch in excess, a slight tensing of the fingers of the curved left hand.

  Thurmond would know. Perhaps this was the enlightening death which the recondite sphinx, the Meganet Mind, had predicted for him.

  Thurmond waited, smiling, alert, supremely confident. He would expect Alar to burst forward, every nerve straining to make the most of the few minutes of strong, capable fencing remaining to him before he fainted from loss of blood.

  The Thief moved in and his sword leapt arrow-like in an incredibly complex body feint. But his quasi-thrust was parried by a noncommittal quasi-riposte, almost philosophical in its ambiguity. Its studied indefiniteness of statement showed that Thurmond realized to the uttermost his paramount position—that a perfect defense would win without risk.

  Alar had not really expected his attack to draw blood. He merely wanted to confirm in his own mind that Thurmond realized his advantage. Most evidently he did. Simultaneously with this realization the Thief, instead of improvising a continuation of the attack, as Thurmond must expect, retreated precipitously, coughed and spat out a mouthful of hot salty fluid.

  His right lung had been filling slowly. The only question was, when should he cough and void the blood? He had chosen this moment. His opponent must now take the initiative and he must be lured into overextending himself.

  Thurmond laughed soundlessly and closed in with a tricky leg thrust, followed immediately with a cut across the face, both of which the Thief barely parried. But it was clear that Thurmond was not exerting himself to the fullest. He was taking no chances, because he need take none.

  He could accomplish his goal in good time simply by doing nothing, or quickly if he liked, by forcing the Thief to continuous exertions. Thurmond’s only necessity was to stay alive, where Alar must not only do that, but must disable his opponent as well. He could not attempt more. His oath as a Thief forbade his killing an officer of the Imperium, even in self-defense.

  Without feeling despair he felt the symptoms of despair—the tightening of the throat, the vague trembling of his facial nerves, an overpowering weariness.

  “‘To avoid capture or death in a situation of known factors,’” mocked Thurmond, “‘the Thief will introduce one or more new variables, generally by the conversion of a factor of relative safety into a factor of relative uncertainty.’”

  At that moment Alar plumbed to the depths this extraordinary character who commanded the security forces of a hemisphere. It was a blazing, calculating intellige
nce that crushed opposition because it understood its opponents better than they did themselves, could silently anticipate their moves and be ready—to their short-lived astonishment—with a fatal answer.

  Thurmond could quote the Thief Combat Manual verbatim.

  Alar lowered his blade slowly. “Then it is useless to proffer my weapon in surrender, expecting you to reach for it with your left hand—”

  “—and find myself sailing over your shoulder. No thanks.”

  “Or ‘slip’ in my own blood—”

  “—and impale me as I rush in to finish you.”

  “And yet,” returned the Thief, “the philosophy of safety-conversion is not limited to the obvious, rather sophomoric devices that we have just discussed, as I shall shortly demonstrate.” His mouth twisted sardonically.

  But only the wildest, most preposterous demand on his unearthly body would save him now. Furthermore, the thing he had in mind required that he be rid of his saber, yet safe from Thurmond for at least a moment or two.

  His blade skidded across the plastic tiles toward Thurmond, who stepped back in unfeigned amazement, then tightened the grip on his own weapon and moved forward.

  “The sacrifice of safety is my means of defense,” continued Alar unhurriedly. “I have converted it into a variable unknown, for you are suspicious of what I shall do next. Your steps are slowing.

  “You see no good reason why you can’t kill me now, very quickly, but you have—shall we say, buck fever? You are curious as to what I could accomplish without my weapon that I could not accomplish with it. You wonder why I am repeatedly flexing my arms and why I do these knee bends.

  “You are certain you can kill me, that all you need to do is approach and thrust your blade home. And yet you have stopped to watch, consumed with curiosity. And you are just a little afraid.”

  Stifling a cough, the Thief stood erect and closed his fists tightly. There was a dry crackling sound about his clothing as he crossed the brief intervening space toward Thurmond. (Time! Time! He could make this final demand on his body, but he needed a few seconds more. It was building, building…)

  The police minister was breathing with nervous rapidity, but stood firm.

  “Don’t you realize, Thurmond, that a man capable of reversing the visual process by supplying his retinal web with energy quanta can, under stress, reverse that process? That instead of furnishing electrical potential differences along afferent nerves for normal muscle activation, he can reverse the process and cause the muscles to store considerable wattage for discharge through the nerves and out the fingertips?

  “Did you know that certain Brazilian eels can discharge several hundred volts—enough to electrocute frogs and fish? At my present potential I could easily kill you, but I intend to simply stun you. Since electrostatic charges escape easily from metal points, you will understand why I had to throw away my saber, even at the risk of your running me through before I could build up the necessary charge.” (Enough! He now felt like a bottled bolt of lightning.)

  Thurmond’s blade flew up. “Come no closer!” he cried hoarsely.

  The Thief paused, his bare breast six inches in front of the wavering point. “Metal is an excellent conductor,” he smiled, and moved in.

  The police minister jumped back, gripped his saber like a lance, took split-second aim at Alar’s heart and—

  Fell screaming to the floor, his writhing body wrapped in a pale blue glow. He managed to pull his pistol from his holster and to fire two shots that bounced harmlessly from Alar’s Thief armor.

  Then there was a brief panting pause while he glared insanely upward at his extraordinary conqueror.

  Throughout his adult life he had killed, idly, nonchalantly, with no more thought or feeling than he had when he ate his breakfast or combed his hair. Some had needed killing; some hadn’t. A few had been a challenge, but they died anyhow. None of that had mattered in the slightest. It had been required of those creatures only that they die. This they had done, and it was all very right, correct, and proper, for he was the master swordsman of the Imperium. But now, very suddenly, something had changed. Something had gone wrong in the ordered scheme of things. Horribly wrong. Was he, the great Giles Thurmond, about to be slain by this incompetent unknown? By this rank amateur, this contemptible tyro? Unthinkable! By the Fates, never! Only the equal of Thurmond could ever kill Thurmond. And there was only one equal. Which is to say… He raised his pistol to his head. The third shot went into his own brain.

  Alar had bounded into the control room before the echo of the final shot died away. Their fight had lasted nearly forty minutes. How far had the solarion drifted?

  The pyrometric gauge read 4,500 K. The temperature drop from the 5,700 degrees K of the photosphere definitely placed the solarion position in the coldest part of the sun-spot—its center.

  Which meant that the station must have been falling for several minutes, straight toward the sun’s core.

  19

  Death Impending

  ONE HOUR AGO,” said the Meganet Mind, “their excellencies the Imperial ministers propounded a remarkable interrogatory, with the unusual requirement that I give satisfactory answers before the night is out, or die.”

  From where she sat with manacled ankles, Keiris examined the faces in the semicircle about her. Some were grim, some nervous, some unperturbed. With the exception of Shey and Thurmond, the whole inner council was here. In the center of them all, Haze-Gaunt, his tarsioid pet peeping fearfully over his shoulder, studied with sunken eyes the man in the transparent dome.

  Even Juana-Maria was present, following the proceedings with languid curiosity from her motorchair. The Ministers of War, of Airways, of Nuclear Energy were bunched together at one end of the circle. They had been arguing in heated whispers, but sat up quickly when the Mind began to speak.

  “These questions are as follows,” droned the Mind. “First, were Shey and Thurmond successful in killing Alar, the Thief? If so, why have they not been heard from? Second, can Operation Finis be initiated with reasonable hope of success, even though the Alar question remains unsettled? These two questions were submitted by every member of the Council, I believe. The third question—‘Is Kennicot Muir alive?’—was asked by the chancellor alone.”

  An icy tingle began to crawl up Keiris’s spine. Did the Mind really know about Kim—and Alar?

  The man in the pit paused briefly, lowered his disfigured leonine head, then looked up again at the circle of faces above him. “I am able to answer your questions as follows. First—Shey and Thurmond are dead as a result of their respective attempts to destroy Alar.

  “Second—the success or failure of Operation Finis is no longer dependent on the life or death of Alar, but upon an extraneous factor that will be revealed to us all within a few minutes. Thus the first two questions are answerable categorically. However, the queries concerning the existence or nonexistence of Alar and Muir can be answered only in terms of non-Aristotelian probabilities. Superficially it would appear that if Shey and Thurmond were unsuccessful, then, by definition, Alar still lives. Such a conclusion would be fallacious.”

  He paused for a moment and studied the intent, puzzled faces. “With the exception of her imperial majesty, all of you have spent your Aristotelian lives under the impression that ‘x’ is either ‘A’ or ‘not-A.’ Your conventional education has limited you to bidimensional, planar Aristotelian syllogistic classification.”

  “I don’t follow,” said Eldridge, War Minister, bluntly. “What is a planar definition and what has it to do with the existence of—of—well, say, Muir or Alar?”

  “Get out your notebook and we’ll draw pictures.” It was Juana-Maria’s dry, mocking voice. She rolled her motorchair over to him. The man pulled a leather-bound pad from his pocket somewhat hesitantly.

  “Draw a circle in the middle of the sheet,” directed Juana-Maria.

  The mystified militarist did so. The ministers nearby craned their necks toward the pad.


  “Now consider the question. Is Alar alive? As an Aristotelian you would consider only two possibilities. He’s either alive or he’s dead. Thus you may write ‘alive’ in the circle, and ‘dead’ in the space outside the circle. ‘Alive’ plus ‘dead’ then totals what the Aristotelians call a ‘universe class.’ Go ahead—write them in.”

  Eldridge, looking a little foolish, did so.

  The ironic voice continued. “But the ‘dead’ portion of the card, you must remember, is defined only negatively. We know what it is not, rather than what it is. If there are other conditions of existence than those we are accustomed to, that portion of the card will include them. The uncertainties are infinite.

  “And further, the sheet of notebook paper may be considered as a mere cross section of a sphere encompassed by infinity. Above, below, and at angles through it are similar cross sections in the same sphere—an infinity of them. That is to say, by your very attempt to reduce a problem to only two alternatives, you endow it with an infinity of solutions.”

  Eldridge’s face had set stubbornly. “Intending no disrespect, your majesty, may I submit that such considerations are mere academic theorizing? I maintain that these two enemies of the Imperium are either alive or dead. If alive, they must be captured and destroyed. With your permission, your majesty, I will restate the question which was heretofore before the Mind only by implication.” He addressed the man under the dome coldly. “Is Alar, the Thief, alive?”

  “Tell him if you can, then, Mind,” said Juana-Maria with a bored wave of her wrinkled hand.

  “In null-Aristotelian terms,” replied the Mind, “Alar is alive. However, he has no existence in a planar Aristotelian hypothesis, as understood by Marshal Eldridge. That is to say, there is no person in the solar system today fitting the fingerprints and eyeball capillary patterns in Alar’s police file.”

  “The same, I presume, is true for Kennicot Muir?” asked Haze-Gaunt.

  “Not precisely. Muir’s identity is more diffuse. If viewed in Eldridge’s classic logic, Muir would have to be considered as more than one man. In null-Aristotelian terms, Muir seems to have developed a certain mobility along the time axis.”