“Uh uh,” he grinned, “we don’t have to, but we’re going to take you downtown again.” He grabbed the bag, throwing it into the car, then got into the front seat, chuckling. “First time they’ve lost a man in twenty years,” he laughed. He tapped his partner on the shoulder. “You should’ve seen those faces. Get in, Citizen. Where do you want to go?”
“You know Liro Clatir, of course?” The girl nodded toward the dance floor.
Varon nodded. “Yes,” he admitted, “I’ve met her a few times. Very clever artist, I believe.”
She laughed gayly. “Oh, yes. She’s awfully clever for a commoner. Oh, very—but did you hear about that cute little affair a few nights ago at Dora’s?”
Harl sighed inwardly. He made a non-committal reply and allowed his attention to wander over the room. A man was coming their way, making his path through the center of the crowd. The girl was contentedly relating the latest bit of malice, unaware that she had practically lost her audience. There was something about a party, “just loads of wine,” some inelegant behavior, a bawdy remark by some member of the party.
“. . . And what do you think she said?”
He laughed deprecatingly. “Why, I don’t know,” he guessed, “she could have said a lot of things.” He drew himself up in an overdrawn imitation of hauteur. “For example, she could have said, ‘I can’t understand your allusion, sir. You may leave now.’ ” Disdainfully, he waved a limp hand.
She giggled delightedly, and Varon shook a finger slightly. “Don’t steal it,” he cautioned. “It isn’t public domain yet.”
The man had finished his journey, and stood before them. “I’ve been looking for you, Clia,” he said. “Will you dance?”
“Why, I was just talking to Citizen . . . Have you met Harl Varon?” She turned a little. “This is Merol Garalath, my fiancee.”
The man took a small handkerchief from his lace sleeve. He looked disapprovingly at Varon. “Harl Varon,” he repeated. “That doesn’t sound like a name. It sounds like something from a protection charge sheet.”
Clia made an indignant sound, but Varon smiled. “As everyone knows,” he agreed, “that’s exactly where I got it.” He waved. “Of course you may dance with your fiancee.” He turned and went over to the refreshment table.
A large man turned as he approached. “Oh, hello there, Varon,” he greeted. A page approached, somehow managing to make a curtsy and hold the tray within easy reach at the same time. The large personage selected a glass. “Thank you, my boy.”
“Please, your lordship.” The page turned the tray toward Varon.
Lord Dornath raised his glass, looking at it critically. “Should be a little out of sorts with you, Varon,” he remarked. “Understand you took one of my people some time ago.”
Varon nodded. “I’m sorry your lordship feels annoyed.”
The other laughed a little. “No, no. Quite all right. We have lots of men out there. Spare you one, I guess. What do you plan to do with him?”
“Why, there’s quite a bit of work necessary on the cars. I really needed a good shop man.”
“Oh, yes. Made something of a hobby of turbos, I understand. They tell me you’ve won a few road races. Good advertising for the Establishment, that, since you always use Dornath cars.” The Lord Protector nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe I shouldn’t be too annoyed with you after all.” He paused. “One thing, though, about that man, Cenro.”
“Yes, your lordship?”
“Let’s not be trying to bond him to my protection. Afraid that’d be too much.” He looked sternly at the novelist.
“Yes, too much all together.” His lordship was judicial. “Not so bad when you put up bond. Valuable citizen, you know. Too bad to waste your ability, but this man’s just an ordinary worker. Different matter. Completely different matter.” He cleared his throat. “Most of these, um, independent citizens would be better off under sponsorship, anyway. We can’t be adding to an unruly mob, you know.” He turned away. “Well, I’ll have to find Lady Dornath.”
As he walked away, Harl Varon looked after him, then carefully set his glass on the table. “Thank you—Lord Dornath,” he said under his breath.
He paid his respects to the hostess, claimed his coat, and went out to stand under the portico, waiting for his car to come up the drive. It was a clear, cold night. Overhead, brilliant points of light dotted a black, limitless backdrop. Only near the horizon was there a suggestion of blue, just above the glow of city lights.
He stood, looking up. Familiar marker stars guided his gaze to a faint, blurred spot of light. It was insignificant in this sky, where many more brilliant points shone, but Harl Varan’s memory penetrated the light-years. There, he knew, was a great cluster of stars, more than halfway across the galaxy. Within that cluster, was the star which Klion Meinora always thought of as “The Sun,” and around it circled the home planet. The rest of the galaxy knew it as “Dorsil,” seventh planet of “Mernar,” but to Meinora and to the rest of his race, it was “The Earth,” the final destination to which they-always returned some day, somehow.
There was a metallic click—purposeful footsteps—another click. Harl Varan pulled himself across the light-years and back to the portico. The rear door of the car stood open, the erect figure of a uniformed man beside it. Varan stepped inside, then sat quietly for a few minutes as the car rolled through the drive and drew away from the estate. Presently, he leaned forward, opening the glass.
“Pull it over, Dorn,” he ordered. “I’m coming up front.”
“Well,” he commented as the car gathered speed again. “We got flagged down.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just like a three-car pile-up.” Varan stretched his feet out. “Dornath waved a big, yellow flag.”
“You talked to Lord Dornath tonight?”
“He talked. I listened. Can’t figure out how he guessed my plan, but—Watch that corner. Guy thinks he’s the only driver in town.”
Cenro looked bewildered, but obediently slowed, then swung to the side of the road and stopped. A car burst out of the side street, swayed perilously for an instant, headed directly toward them, then swung away and whined down the road, leaving a smoky trail. Cenro looked back after the receding lights.
“If you hadn’t warned me, that would’ve been a mess. But how—”
“I don’t know. Just knew he was coming.” Harl shrugged. Gradually he was discovering that the mental amplifier was just a convenience, not at all a necessary piece of equipment. In fact he thought, it was almost like an unneeded crutch. When he got back, he—When? He stared fixedly out at the lighted road, then shrugged again.
“As I was saying,” he continued, “if I try to put up a bond for you, there’s going to be a great big row. Fact is, the old boy’s still a little mad at your getting out of the Establishment.”
The driver cast a worried look sideways. “He’s not—”
“Oh, no. No, he’s holding still for it, but—”
Cenro grinned happily. “Well, then why should I worry?” He rapped a tattoo on the panel with his free hand. “I’d be asking you for a job if you did put up bond, so now I’ve got the job, so who cares?”
“You really feel that way?”
The car quivered a little as the control rod shook in Cenro’s hand. “Chief, look. I don’t know what it is, but it’s there. When I left the quarters, I could almost feel ’em envying me. Some of ’em are afraid of you. Yeah, scared to death. But there isn’t a man out there that wouldn’t go off the roof if you hollered ‘jump.’ ”
Varon stared at him. “Bad as that?”
His driver nodded. “I tried to fight it,” he confessed. “That’s why I was always pestering you. It was no use. Now, I just want to be around, that’s all.”
Harl Varon looked at the man for a moment, then sat staring ahead. He hadn’t thought of this before, but it followed as a matter of course. Most of the people of this planet were satisfied, even pleased with the existing order. To them,
it was right and proper. They looked for leadership, and felt lost when it was lacking. Cenro had been a rebel, but he, Varon realized, was a rare case. Swiftly, the possibilities ran through his mind. Why, he could—The city—The nation—The—Suddenly, he sat up. “No!” he cried aloud. Cenro jumped.
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. I was just thinking.”
This, then, was the reason for non-contact. Here was the hidden danger. He could have fallen into the trap so easily. It might even become more attractive as time went on. He had to get away. Somehow, he must leave and never come back. But how?
Images coalesced. He saw the Dornath Establishment, and other great factories. Of course, that was it. A whole planet’s efforts concentrated and guided would—
He slumped back into the seat again as the missing pieces of an ancient archaeological puzzle slid into place. It could have happened before. There may have been others, and some of them hadn’t said no. Now, he knew the reason for some of those unexplained, furious orgies of destruction. The machine had been set up—placed into operation—the operator had gone away. Or perhaps the machine had run wild, its operator helplessly carried in the rush. No, it wasn’t the temptation of power. That was childish. The real trap only closed when departure was attempted. He closed his eyes.
“Let’s get on home, Cenro,” he said. “I’m tired.” Then, he realized that the car had stopped. Cenro was watching him tensely.
“What’s wrong, chief? I never saw you like that before.”
“Pray you never do again, Dorn. Just pray you never do.”
Harl relaxed, watching the street flow by. As the turbo’s whine accompanied his thoughts, he considered the complexities of a small galactic cruiser, comparing it with the simple vehicle he now rode. The technology, the philosophy of this planet were nowhere near the answers to some of the minor problems that would have to be resolved. How would you explain the intricacies of a sharply tuned magneto-gravitic generator to a technician who was barely familiar with elementary electromagnetic theory, and who knew gravitation only as an undefined force? How would a civilization still based on direct application of force hope to understand the principles of a neutralization drive? Of course, he remembered, the principles of neutralization had been touched on here, but their phase-neutralized power was simply returned to the generator—zeroed out. There was a little generation of heat, perhaps, but they couldn’t yet pick up the secondary radiations, filter them out, and use them. They had no conception of sub-etheric phenomena, and they would be long in discovering secondary space.
He grinned to himself as he thought of an engineer, used to simple turbines, if that engineer were called upon to deal with the polyphase fields in a trans-light drive, then he seriously considered what would happen to a civilization with a long tradition of warfare if it were suddenly presented with truly destructive weapons. He shook, his head, as he thought of the results of a modulated tractor beam released against fortresses designed for defense against ballistic contact and physical explosions.
Generations of philosophers, he realized, would have to think out their socio-economic problems, then other generations would have to work out the ethical formulae, the aesthetic equations, and the whole calculus of humanics. Nor was this an exercise for an outside consultant. Of course, the outsider might suggest—possibly could intrude an occasional problem or trend—but the real operations would be for the native philosopher to propose, the native scientist to explain, and the native engineer to perform.
He glanced at Cenro, who was piloting the car through the evening traffic with accustomed ease. The man was an intelligent member of his civilization. He was the equal, Harl knew, of many citizens of the Galactic Federation—in latent brain power, at least. There were more like him, too. A good many of these people might be educated and brought into the Galactic society as individuals, and integrated without serious difficulty, but this simply was not true of their culture. In association with the highly developed civilizations of the galaxy, some individuals of this isolated planet might grow, but their planetary culture would be submerged, not absorbed—destroyed, not developed.
The car drew to a stop, and Cenro jumped out to hold the door open.
“Anything more tonight, chief?” he asked.
“No,” he was told, “better catch some sleep. We’ve got to start tuning up a car for the Dargfor loop.”
Harl let himself into his apartment, still thinking. There might be a possibility of expanding the shop, and building a small “hopper.” It wouldn’t have to be very elaborate—after all, it was only a matter of a few light-years. He would need a drive, of course, and the parts could be ordered from—Could they? A lot of them would have to be machined right here, and there was the question of machine tools. He could describe a molecular spray to an engineer from, for example, Storanath Engineering, but would the engineer be able to follow the explanation, and where would he get some of the specialized material he would need? What would be the repercussions on the civilization if he did understand, get the material, and produce the item?
Varon laid his pen aside. Even a communications set, he realized, would be out of the question. He could gather some parts. Others, he could make, but there were some essentials beyond the technology. And the power supply! New concepts would have to be introduced. A galactic communicator, even a simple one, would require components which would bewilder technicians and frustrate this culture’s scientists.
He leaned back in his chair, looking at the walls of his study. No, he decided, this would have to be home for a long time. Of course, he could amuse himself by setting up test equipment and introducing small improvements in the vehicles normal here. Possibly over a long period of time, he could propose problems which would prove constructive. Again, he leaned over the desk. There was work to be done, and the Dargfor race was due in a very few weeks.
A light haze of dust and smoke hung over the town of Dargfor. All available space outdoors was taken up by people and cars. Here and there, light bleachers had been set up. In every courtyard, mechanics were busily making their final adjustments on motor and running gear, watched from windows by children whose parents were busily selling refreshments, souvenirs, parking and sitting space. The burghers of Dargfor watched the annual race, and enjoyed it, but not to the exclusion of business.
In one court, close to the starting line, Dorn Cenro straightened and looked at the motor he had been working on.
“There,” he said, stretching, “now I’ll get the casing on, and she’ll be ready to roll.”
“Couldn’t you set the burners a little closer?”
Cenro looked critically at his work. “Don’t know about that,” he said slowly. “I’ve already cut the factory tolerance plenty. It’d give a little more punch, of course, but if he ever loaded her up too much, he’d have some burned tubes.” He looked around. “I’d rather leave it the way it is.”
Harl looked at the burners again. “Well, maybe you’re right at that,” he decided. “Go ahead and button it up.”
The mechanic nodded, reached for a wrench, then turned again. “Say, chief.”
“Yes?”
“I just happened to think. I never used to give you arguments before. Nothing ever went wrong, either. What goes?”
“Everything goes as it should.” Varon grinned. “When you stop arguing with me, Dorn, we’ll all have something to worry about.”
“I don’t know.” Cenro started bolting a plate. “Was a time we used to win ’em all.” He cinched up bolts, then leaned over into the driver’s compartment and snapped on the pre-heater switch. For a few minutes, he watched the gauge, then he opened the fuel valve and flipped the igniter switch. There was a minor blast and a puff of black smoke shot out of the exhaust stack. Cenro adjusted a knob, watched as the smoke cleared, then watched a gauge slowly climb. At last he stepped back.
“Hey, Val,” he called, “you can have her now.”
“You don’t have t
o shout,” a voice drawled. “I’ve been watching for five minutes.”
Cenro turned. “Oh,” he grinned, “might have known it. You’re the guy’s gotta risk your hide in this thing. I suppose you might be interested in the set-up.”
Val nodded. “Yeah, might be at that.” He slid behind the controls, checked the gauges critically, then nodded at Cenro and eased the throttle open. “Be back pretty quick,” he promised.
The car rolled out of the court to the square, joining the turbos at the starting line.
The starter looked over the line-up carefully, then watched an official who walked down the line of cars, looked at each one, then waved. The starter waggled his flag, then waved it in wide, vertical sweeps. Drivers pulled their control rods to them, punched fuel levers, and a cloud of smoke-filled dust arose, hung for awhile, then drifted slowly away.
As the cars wound through the town, one left a thick cloud of black smoke. An official waved a black flag at the driver as he passed. A short distance ahead, another official waited, flag in hand. The smoke faded to a faint line. The cars fled out of the town, climbed the long hill, went out of sight for a moment, then reappeared, climbing the ridge. At the top, they seemed to poise themselves for an instant, then swept down the multi-curved road, screamed around the right-angle turn into Blagor, flew over the bridge, and took the valley road, their blowers shrieking angrily as they passed through the narrow street between the houses of Morchfar. In the square, they turned sharply. One car went into a screaming slide, struck the fountain in the center of the plaza, bounced, and came to a stop. The driver crawled out, looked around quickly, and leaped to the shelter of the council hall doorway. An official, flag in hand, ran to warn other cars of the danger as men pushed the wreckage out of the course.
Cenro shook his head, lowering the glasses.
“Every year,” he growled, “the Association has to buy a new village pump for Morchfar.” He raised the glasses, scanned the road, and picked up the cars again.
“Monotonous, isn’t it,” Varon laughed. He was watching Val’s handling of the lead car. Number Twelve was not far ahead, but it was in front, its lead gradually increasing until it disappeared in Pilgroum.
Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks) Page 11