Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by Everett B. Cole

  “Yes,” he added aloud, “our tests’ll take some time, but we’re trying out a new arrangement on the neutralizing bars in this race. If it works out as we expect it to, we’ll be ready to announce it. Then, no one’ll have to replace a set of rods.”

  “Funny,” mused the official, “at one time, we thought nothing of listening to a howling blower while we were driving. Now, a silencer bar breaks, and everyone’s teeth stand on edge. I’ve seen cars stop almost instantly. The driver’ll get out, grab a spare set of rods, bolt ’em in place, and then go, just as though the car wouldn’t run without ’em. Everyone seems to carry a spare set.” He paused. “I don’t know, though,” he added, “somehow, I wish they’d drop the rods off during a race. There’s something about the howl of a blower and the roar of an exhaust that makes the run seem more real. That start seemed somewhat ghostly to me.”

  There was some sound. Tires complained bitterly as the cars took the curves and the right angle into Blagor. The bridge rattled its annoyance, and the wind of passage caused audible concussions as the cars tore into Morchfar, The leaders slowed at the town square, took the sharp turn for Pilgroum, and seemed to fly as they passed between the trees of the valley road. There was a sudden wail as tires fought a losing battle for traction. Then a crash sounded.

  As the driver crawled out of his car, Varon turned with a grin.

  “Morchfar,” he commented, “doesn’t keep its town pumps much better than the cars keep their silencer rods.”

  The Association man nodded. “It’s a fixed expense,” he laughed. “That pump is assessed at two hundred crowns a year. Take a look at your annual statement.”

  Varon watched the lead cars disappear on the Pilgroum streets, then glanced over at Cenro. He grinned to himself as he thought of the change in his former mechanic’s status. “Cenro” was almost a household word now, with a major percentage of all cars using the Cenro-Varon motors, and practically all cars using Varon-Cenro silencing rods. Citizen Dorn Cenro was an honored member of the Menosian Turbo-car Association, drove in some of the meets for owner drivers, attended most of the balls, and was even acquainted with the Lord Protector of Bardon. Varon could still remember the growling acceptance of the revolutionary royalty proposal.

  “Well, all right,” the old nobleman had grunted. “Since you insist, a payment per vehicle sold isn’t actually illegal, of course. Never heard of it, though. Of course, we’d have exclusive use?”

  “Certainly, your lordship,” he had been assured. “To all intents and purposes, the patent is yours, subject to the royalty payments. You can license other manufacturers to use it, to be sure, but that, as well as the matter of fees, is entirely your own affair.”

  The Lord Protector had brightened a little. “Mean we could use this royalty business with other firms, eh?” He had stopped to stroke his chin. “Suppose we pick up two or three crowns per vehicle over and above your payment?”

  “It would be entirely up to you.”

  “Yes, yes, I see. Yes, possibly an ordinance could be passed prohibiting noise—Do you know, Varon, I rather like the idea after all.”

  The shriek of tires heralded the approach of the leaders, and Varon turned to watch them come through the S turn. The tavern sign swung wildly as the suction from the cars dragged at it. Number Twelve crossed the finish line, killed its speed, and spun into the side road. Cenro solemnly shook hands with himself.

  “Third in a row,” he exulted. “We can hang up a permanent trophy.”

  “That we can,” agreed Varon. “Guess that extra bit of power paid off.”

  “Yes, that extra push.” Dorn looked at his partner. “Where did it come from, chief?”

  Harl shook his head. “It’s just the power we were throwing away in the original silencer set-up,” he said. “I can’t say where it was going, but we’re using it now.” He turned toward the areaway. “Well, let’s get on back to the shop. I want to check that test job of mine.

  Cenro grinned. “That combustion servo you’ve been working on?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got plans for that.” Varon nodded. He had plans. The throb of the undamped combustion servo would be distinctive, and with a fair share of the motor output going into the reinforced neutralizing bars, it should act like a beacon to anyone with the proper equipment. Someone should be investigating by this time, and he wanted to meet them.

  And someone was investigating. As the car turned into the driveway, Chief Observer Kmolar turned his attention from the motor on the test stand. Quickly, he checked his body shield to be sure visibility was properly cut out, then he directed a questing thought at the occupants of the car. He recoiled a little in surprise at the power of the answering thought.

  “Guardsman?” It was a sharp, controlled beam, carrying a tiny overtone of longing.

  Kmolar identified himself, then started interrogation. Now, he identified the being before him. A humanoid. To be expected—this was a humanoid world. The small creature before him shielded its mind for a time as it spoke to its companion, who nodded, and left. Kmolar checked him for a few minutes as he walked away. A native, he knew little of the galaxy, nothing of Kmolar’s race, nothing of life outside his own planet. For the moment, the observer dismissed him, concentrating on the other.

  Klion Meinora relaxed in-the seat of the car, answering the questions and reveling in direct mind-to-mind contact, even thought Kmolar was of totally different species, and somewhat critical of Klion’s actions, at that. He explained his presence and activities, outlined his method of communication, and his steps toward elimination of the interference now that it had served its purpose. Finally, Kmolar radiated comprehension.

  “So,” he thought amusedly, “you were after a graduate thesis, with no criminal intent, and you ended up by cutting out communication over an entire band. How long did you say you’d been here?”

  Meinora sighed. “Twenty-five or thirty cycles.”

  “Quite a while,” the other told him. “I suppose you realize you’ll have to spend some more time clearing up?”

  “Yes. I knew that long ago.”

  “Well, it could be worse. You’ll have a couple of cycles back at base, training. Then, say five or six here, to be sure no permanent harm’s done. Then, there’s the compensation service. It shouldn’t take you more than twenty more cycles.” Kmolar’s thought trailed off, and for a time there was a vision of a blue misted, sandy plain. “Well, let’s get started on the arrangements for your temporary departure. We’ll have to leave the way open for you to come back. Any suggestions?”

  The small patrol ship came out of trans-light just outside of the system. It stopped, spun slowly around in a full roll, hesitated, then headed sunward, feeling its way at half a light. Guardsman investigator Klion Meinora checked over his instruments, then shook his head. The proof of a theorem can sometimes lead to strange bypaths.

  Apparently, someone was castaway here.

  And, someone was trying to get away.

  So, someone was building a technology.

  And, someone was working hurriedly and recklessly.

  So, something would have to be done about it.

  That was what he was here for.

  THE END

  “. . . And this, gentlemen, is what we saw from the Rilno.”

  The three-dimensional screen glowed as a dozen suns sprang into being within it. Light glanced fitfully from a multitude of spheres grouped about their primaries. These were the suns and planets of the Empire of Findur. Near the center of the screen, a number of small sparks dodged swiftly about in the emptiness of interstellar space. One of these seemed to be surrounded. Tiny lines of light swept from the others, causing the central spark to pulsate with a vivid glow.

  “Captain Tero called me at this Lime,” announced the voice from the darkness beside the screen. “He requested permission to cut a ten-degree, four-microsecond void, since he was englobed and his screens were in danger of overloading under the Finduran fire.” The speaker pa
used, then continued. “I granted permission, since I could see no other feasible means of pulling him out of the globe. We could have opened fleet fire, but Tero’s screens might have gone down before we could control the situation. The Kleeros acknowledged, then Tero cut in his space warp.”

  On the screen, a narrow fan of darkness spread from the englobed spark. The attacking sparks vanished before it. Suddenly, the dark fan widened, vibrated, then swung over a wide angle. As it swung, the brilliant suns went out like candles in a high wind. A black, impenetrable curtain spread over most of the scene. Abruptly, the spark at the origin of the darkness faded and was gone. The scene remained, showing an irregularly shaped, black pocket amongst the stars. It hung there, an empty, opaque, black spot in space, where a few moments before had been suns and planets and embattled ships.

  “As you gentlemen know,” the voice added tiredly, “before a space warp can be cut in, all screens must be lowered to prevent random secondary effects and permanent damage to the ship. The cut is so phased as to make it virtually impossible for a shear beam or any other force beam to penetrate, but there is one chance in several million of shear-beam penetration while the warp is being set up. The only assumption we could make aboard the Rilno was that a beam must have struck Tero’s controls while his screens were being phased. He apparently swung out of control for a moment, then disrupted his ship to prevent total destruction of the Sector. Before he could act, however, he had destroyed his attackers and virtually all of the Finduran Empire. Of course, the warp remained on long enough to allow permanent establishment. We have nothing further to base opinions on, since Tero did not take the time to report before disrupting.” The scene on the viewer faded and the room lights went on.

  The speaker stood revealed as a slender, tall humanoid. His narrow face with its high brows and sharply outlined features gave the impression of continual amusement with the universe and all that was in it, but the slight narrowing of the eyes—the barely perceptible tightening of the mouth—evidenced a certain anxiety. Fine lines on his face indicated that this man had known cares and serious thoughts in the past. Now, he stood at attention, his hands aligned at the sides of his light-gray trousers. Fleet Commander Dalthos A-Riman, of the Seventeenth Border Sector, awaited the pleasure of the Board.

  In front of him, the being at the desk nodded at the other members of the Board. “Are there any questions, gentlemen?”

  A small, lithe member raised a hand slightly. A-Riman looked toward him. He had met Sector Chief Sesnir before, and knew his sharp, incisive questions.

  “You said that Captain Tero was at point, commander,” stated Sesnir. “How did he happen to get so far in advance of the rest of the fleet that he could be englobed?”

  “You remember, sir,” replied A-Riman, “the Findurans had developed a form of polyphase screen which made their ships nearly undetectable when at rest. We could only detect them when they were in action, or when they were within a half parsec. This encounter took place several parsecs outside their normal area of operation.” The fleet commander brought a hand to his face, then dropped it. “I was just about to call Tero in to form a slightly more compact grouping when he ran into the middle of their formation.”

  “You mean they had maneuvered a fleet well inside Federation borders, and had it resting in ambush?” persisted the questioner. “What was wrong with your light scouts?”

  “That, sir,” A-Riman told him, “was the reason I approached in fleet strength. I had received no scout reports for three days. I knew there was enemy action in the region, but had no intelligence reports.”

  “You mean,” another Board member broke in, “you went charging into an unknown situation in open fleet formation?”

  “I felt I had to, sir. I regarded open formation as precautionary, since damage to one ship would be far less serious than involvement of the entire fleet in an ambush. I was sure I had lost several scouts, and was not inclined to lose more. Tero volunteered to draw fire, then planned to take evasive action while the rest of the fleet moved in.” A-Riman paused. “Except for superb planning by the Finduran admiral and a million-to-one accident, Tero would have extricated himself easily, and we could have moved in to take police action in accordance with the councils orders.”

  “I see,” commented the questioning member. “Probably would’ve done the same thing myself.”

  “Why,” demanded Sesnir impatiently, “didn’t you simply open up from a safe distance with a ten-microsecond, forty-degree space warp? You’d still have been within your orders, we’d have saved a ship, the Findurans would’ve given us no more trouble—ever—and we wouldn’t have a permanent space fold to worry about in Sector Seventeen.”

  A-Riman looked at the sector chief. “That, sir,” he announced firmly, “is just what I wanted to avoid doing. I felt, and still feel, that complete destruction of suns, planets and youthful cultures, however inimical they may seem to be at the time, is wasteful, dangerous, and in direct violation of the first law of Galactic Ethics.”

  The president of the Board looked up, “The Ethic refers to Federation members, commander,” he said. “Remember?”

  “I believe it should be extended to include all intelligent life, sir,” A-Riman answered.

  “You will find, ‘Treat all others as you would wish yourself to be treated in like circumstances’ a very poor defense against a well directed shear beam,” commented Sesnir.

  A-Riman smiled. “True,” be admitted, “but there are possibilities. Why—”

  Vandor ka Bensir, Chief of Stellar Guard Operations, rapped on his desk. “Gentlemen,” he said dryly, “a discussion of the Galactic Ethics is always very interesting, but I believe it is out of order here. Unless there are more questions or comments pertinent to this inquiry, I will close the Board.” He looked about the room. “No comments? Then, as president of this Board of Inquiry, I order the Board closed for deliberation.” Again, he rapped on the desk. “Will you please retire, Commander A-Riman? We will notify you when we have reached our findings and recommendations.”

  As the door closed, Bensir turned to the other Board members. “The floor is open for discussion,” he said. “You’re the junior member, Commander Dal Klar. Do you have any comments?”

  “Admiral, I have what almost amounts to a short speech.” Dal Klar glanced at the chief of operations, then looked slowly about at the rest of his colleagues. “But I hesitate to take up too much of the Board’s time.”

  Ka Bensir smiled gently. “You mean that juniors should be seen and not heard?” he queried.

  “Something like that, sir.”

  “This Board,” ruled its president, “has all the time in the Universe. You can think out loud; you can bring up any points you wish; you can come to whatever conclusions you want to. The floor is yours.”

  Dal Klar took a deep breath. “Well, in that case, here I go: In the first place, I feel that A-Riman acted properly and in accordance with his ethics and those of his civilization. If you gentlemen will remember, A-Riman is from the Celstor Republic, which is one of the older members of the Federation. The Celstorians have been responsible for many of the scientific advances and for a large share of the philosophy of our civilization. A-Riman, himself, has written two notable commentaries on philosophy and ethics, both of which have been well received in the Federation.”

  Dal Klar glanced toward Sector Chief Sesnir, then continued. “Had the commander destroyed without warning, inflicting utter and complete destruction upon a young and comparatively helpless civilization, he would have been acting in direct contravention to his own stated ethical code. In that case, he would have been deserving of all the censure we could give. As it is, I feel that he acted in accordance with the best traditions of the Guard, and simply met with an unforeseen and unfortunate accident which could have happened to any fleet commander who went on that mission.”

  Dal Klar paused, cleared his throat, then concluded. “We have heard definite testimony that there was
no laxity in drill or maintenance in A-Riman’s fleet. On the contrary, some of his officers feel that he is extremely strict about both action drill and maintenance. Certainly, then, we can’t say he was negligent.”

  As Dal Klar stopped, ka Bensir looked at another Board member, who shook his head.

  “I might have phrased it a little differently, sir,” he commented, “but the commander expressed my views quite well. I have nothing to add.” Two more members declined to comment, then Sector Chief Sesnir wagged his head.

  “I seem to be in the minority,” he remarked, “but I feel that the coddling of these young, semibarbaric and aggressive cultures is suicidal. Before we could teach them our ways of thinking, they would inflict tremendous damage upon us. They might even subvert some of our own younger members, and set up a rival Federation. Then, we would have real trouble. I have read A-Riman’s commentaries on ethics, and I know the history of the ‘Fighting Philosopher.’ Frankly, I feel that a man with his views should not be in the Combat Arm of the Guard. He is simply too soft.”

  The Board president nodded. “I’ll reserve comment,” he decided. “Will you gentlemen please record your findings?”

  A few minutes later, the clerk inserted a small file of recordings into the machine in front of him. The viewscreen lit up.

  Findings: The Kleeros, a Class A Guard ship, was lost, and a permanent space-fold was set up in Sector Seventeen due to the ill-advised tactics of Fleet Commander Dalthos A-Riman, who risked his fleet against an unscouted force rather than destroy a criminal civilization by means at his hand.