A. E. Van Vogt - Novel 18 - Mission to the Stars

by Mission to the Stars

  Here was the reality. There would be tests, he thought, penetrating tests before they’d accept any orbit he planned. It wasn’t that he doubted the ability of his double mind to overcome anything like that, but it was well to remember that the frightful gap of years which separated the science of Earth from that of the Fifty Suns had already shown unpleasant surprises. Maltby shook himself grimly and gave his full attention to the street ahead.

  A fan-shaped pink fire spread skyward from two machines that stood in the center of the street. The flame was a very pale pink and completely transparent. It looked electronic, deadly. Beyond it were men in glittering uniforms. A steady trickle of them moved in and out of buildings. About three blocks down the avenue a second curtain of pink fire flared up.

  There seemed to be no attempt to guard the sides. The men he could see looked at ease, confident. There was murmured conversations, low laughter and—as he had observed when he was previously aboard the Star Cluster, they weren’t all men. As Maltby walked forward, two fine-looking women in uniform came down the steps of the nearest of the requisitioned buildings. One of the guards of the flame said something to them. There was a twin tinkle of silvery laughter. Still laughing, they strode off down the street.

  It was suddenly exciting. There was an air about these people of far places, of tremendous and wonderful lands beyond the farthest horizons of the staid Fifty Suns. He felt cold, then hot, then he glanced up at the fantastically big ship; and the chill came back. One ship, he thought, but so big, so mighty that the fleet of thirty billion people had been helpless against it. They—

  He grew aware that one of the brilliantly arrayed guards was staring at him. The man spoke into a wrist radio, and after a moment, a second man broke off his conversation with a third soldier and came over. He stared through the flame barrier at Maltby.

  “Is there anything you desire? Or are you just looking?” His manner was mild, almost gentle, cultured. The whole effect had a naturalness, an unalienness that was pleasing. After all, Maltby thought, he had no fear of these people. His very plan to defeat the ship was based upon his own fundamental belief that the robots were indestructible in the sense that no one could ever wipe them out completely.

  Quietly, Maltby explained his presence.

  “Oh yes,” the man nodded, “we’ve been expecting you. I’m to take you at once to the meteorological room of the ship. Just a moment—”

  The flame barrier went down and Maltby was led into one of the buildings. There was a long corridor, and the transmitter that projected him into the ship must have been focused somewhere along it. Because abruptly he was in a very large room. Maps floated in half a dozen antigravity pits. The walls shed light from millions of tiny point sources. And everywhere were tables with curved lines of very dim but sharply etched light on their surfaces.

  Maltby’s guide was nowhere to be seen. Coming toward him, however, was a tall, fine-looking old man. The oldster offered his hand.

  “My name is Cannons, senior ship meteorologist. If you will sit down here we can plan an orbit and the ship can get under way within the hour. The grand captain is very anxious that we get started.”

  Maltby nodded casually. But he was stiff, alert. He stood quite still, feeling around with that acute second mind of his, his Dellian mind, for energy pressures that would show secret attempts to watch or control his mind.

  But there was nothing like that. He smiled tautly. It was going to be as simple as this, was it? Like hell it was.

  Chapter

  Ten

  AS HE sat down, Maltby felt suddenly cozy and alive. The exhilaration of existence burned through him like a flame. He recognized the excitement for the battle thrill it was, and felt joy that he could do something about it.

  During his long service in the Fifty Suns navy he had faced hostility and suspicion because he was a Mixed Man. And always he felt helpless. Now, here was a far more basic hostility, however veiled, and a suspicion that must be like a burning fire. And this time he could fight. He could look this skillfully voluble, friendly old man squarely in the eye and—

  Friendly?

  “It makes me smile sometimes,” the old man was saying, “when I think of the unscientific aspects of the orbit we have to plan now. For instance, what is the time lag on storm reports out here?”

  Maltby could not repress a smile. So Lieutenant Cannons wanted to know things, did he? To give the man credit, it wasn’t really a lame opening. The truth was, the only way to ask a question was—well—to ask it.

  Maltby said: “Oh, three, four months. Nothing unusual. Each space meteorologist takes about that length of time to check the bounds of the particular storm in his area, and then reports, and we adjust our maps. Fortunately”—he pushed his second mind to the fore as he coolly spoke the great basic lie—“there are no major storms between the Kaidor and Cassidor suns.”

  He continued, sliding over the untruth like an eel breasting wet rock: “However, several suns prevent a straight line movement. So if you would show me some of your orbits for twenty-five hundred light years, I’ll make a selection of the best ones.”

  He wasn’t, he realized instantly, going to slip over his main point as easily as that.

  “No intervening storms?” the old man said. He pursed his lips. The fine lines in his long face seemed to deepen. He looked genuinely nonplused; and there was no doubt at all that he hadn’t expected such a straightforward statement. “Hm-m-m, no storms. That does make it simple, doesn’t it?”

  He broke off. “You know, the important thing about two”—he hesitated over the word, then went on—“two people, who have been brought up in different cultures, under different scientific standards, is that they make sure they are discussing a subject from a common viewpoint. Space is so big. Even this comparatively small system of stars, the Greater Magellanic Cloud, is so vast that it defies our reason. We on the battleship Star Cluster have spent ten years surveying it, and now we are able to say glibly that it comprises two hundred millions of suns. We located the magnetic center of the Cloud, fixed our zero line from center to the great brightest star, S Doradus; and now, I suppose, there are people who would be fools enough to think we’ve got the system stowed away in our brainpans.”

  Maltby was silent, because he himself was just such a fool. This was warning. He was being told in no uncertain terms that they were in a position to check any orbit he gave them with respect to all intervening suns.

  It meant much more. It showed that Earth was on the verge of extending her tremendous sway to the Greater Magellanic Cloud. Destroying this ship now would provide the Fifty Suns with precious years during which they would have to decide what they intended to do.

  But that would be all. Other ships would come; the inexorable pressure of the stupendous populations of the main galaxy would burst out even farther into space. Always under careful control, shepherded by mighty hosts of invincible battleships, the great transports would sweep into the Cloud, and every planet everywhere would acknowledge Earth suzerainty. Imperial Earth recognized no separate nations of any description anywhere. Dellian, non-Dellian and Mixed Men would need every extra day, every hour; and it was lucky for them all that he was not basing his hope of destroying this ship on an orbit that would end inside a sun.

  Their survey had magnetically placed all the suns for them. But they couldn’t know about the storms. Not in ten years or in a hundred was it possible for one ship to locate possible storms in an area that involved twenty-five hundred light years of length. Unless their psychologists could uncover the special qualities of his double brain, he might actually accomplish what the Fifty Suns’ government wanted. Maltby did not doubt the possibility. He grew aware that Lieutenant Cannons was manipulating the controls of the orbit table.

  The lines of light on the surface flickered and shifted. Then settled like the balls in a game of chance. Maltby selected six that ran deep into the great storm. Ten minutes after that he felt the faint jar as the ship
began to move. He stood up frowning. Odd that they should act without some verification of his—

  “This way,” said the old man.

  Maltby thought sharply; This couldn’t be all. Any minute now they’d start on him and—

  His thought ended.

  He was in space. Far, far below was the receding planet of Kaider III. To one side gleamed the vast dark hull of the battleship; and on every other side, and up, and down, were stars and the distances of dark space. In spite of all his will, the shock was inexpressibly violent.

  His active mind jerked. He staggered physically; and he would have fallen like a blindfolded creature except that, in the movement of trying to keep on his feet, he recognized that he was still on his feet.

  His whole being steadied. Instinctively, he—tilted—his second mind awake, and pushed it forward. Put its more mechanical and precise qualities, its Dellian strength, between his other self and whatever the human beings might be doing against him.

  Somewhere in the mist of darkness and blazing stars, a woman’s clear and resonant voice said: “Well, Lieutenant Neslor, did the surprise yield any psychological fruits?”

  The reply came from a second, an older-sounding woman’s voice:

  “After three seconds, noble lady, his resistance leaped to I.Q. 900. Which means they’ve sent us a Dellian. Your excellency, I thought you specifically asked that their representative be not a Dellian.”

  Maltby said swiftly into the night around him: “You’re quite mistaken. I am not a Dellian. And I assure you that I will lower my resistance to zero if you desire. I reacted instinctively to surprise, naturally enough.”

  There was a click. The illusion of space and stars snapped out of existence. Maltby saw what he had begun to suspect, that he was, had been all the time, in the meteorology room. Nearby stood the old man, a thin smile on his lined face. On a raised dais, partly hidden behind a long instrument board, sat a handsome young woman.

  The old man said in a stately voice, “You are in the presence of Grand Captain, the Right Honorable Gloria Cecily, the Lady Laurr of Noble Laurr. Conduct yourself accordingly.”

  Maltby bowed but said nothing. The grand captain frowned at him, impressed by his appearance. Tall, magnificent-looking body—strong, supremely intelligent face. In a single flash she noted all the characteristics common to the first-class human and—robot.

  These people might be more dangerous than she had thought. She said with unnatural sharpness for her: “As you know, we have to question you. We would prefer that you did not take offense. You have told us that Cassidor VII, the chief planet of the Fifty Suns, is twenty-five hundred light years from here. Normally, we would spend many years feeling our way across such an immense gap of uncharted star-filled space. But you have given us a choice of orbits. We must make sure those orbits are honest, offered without guile or harmful purpose. To that end we have to ask you to open your mind and answer our questions under the strictest psychological surveillance.”

  “I have orders,” said Maltby, “to cooperate with you in every way.”

  He had wondered how he would feel, now that the hour of decision was upon him. But there was nothing unnormal. His body was a little stiffer, but his minds—he withdrew his self into the background and left his Dellian mind to confront all the questions that came. His Dellian mind that he had deliberately kept apart from his thoughts. That curious mind, which had no will of its own, but which, by remote control, reacted with the full power of an I.Q. of 191.

  Sometimes he marveled himself at that second mind of his. It had no creative ability, but its memory was machinelike, and its resistance to outside pressure, as the woman psychologist had so swiftly analyzed, was over nine hundred. To be exact, the equivalent of I.Q. 917. “What is your name?”

  That was the way it began: His name, distinction—he answered everything quietly, positively, without hesitation. When he had finished, when he had sworn to the truth of every word about the storms, there was a long moment of dead silence. And then, a middle-aged woman stepped out of the nearby wall She motioned him to a chair and when he was seated she tilted his head and began to examine it. She did it gently; her fingers were caressing as a lover’s. But when she looked up she said sharply:

  “You’re not a Dellian or a non-Dellian. And the molecular structure of your brain and body is the most curious I have ever seen. All the molecules are twins. I saw a similar arrangement once in an artificial electronic structure where an attempt was being made to balance an unstable structure., The parallel isn’t exact, but mm-m-m, I must try to remember what the end result was of that experiment.” She stopped. “What is your explanation? What are you?”

  Maltby sighed. He had determined to tell only the one main lie. Not that it mattered so far as his double brain was concerned. But untruths effected slight variations in blood pressure, created neural spasms and disturbed muscular integration. He couldn’t take the risk of even one more than was absolutely necessary. “I’m a Mixed Man,” he explained. He described briefly how the cross between the Dellian and non-Dellian, so long impossible, had finally been brought about, a hundred years before. The use of cold and pressure—

  “Just a moment,” said the psychologist. She disappeared. When she stepped again out of the wall transmitter, she was thoughtful.

  “He seems to be telling the truth,” she confessed, almost reluctantly.

  “What is this?” snapped the grand captain. “Ever since we ran into the first citizen of the Fifty Suns, the psychology department has qualified every statement it issues. I thought Psychology was the only perfect science. Either he is telling the truth or he isn’t.”

  The older woman looked unhappy. She stared very hard at Maltby, seemed baffled by his cool gaze, and I finally faced her superior, said: “It’s that double molecule structure of his brain. Except for that, I see no reason why you shouldn’t order full acceleration.”

  To herself, Gloria was thinking: “This is it. This is what I’ve been looking for. There has actually been offspring of a marriage between Dellian and non-Dellian.” She had no clear idea what it might mean. She said aloud with a faint covering smile: “I shall have Captain Maltby to dinner. I’m sure he will co-operate then with any further studies you may be prepared to make at the time. Meanwhile, have someone take him to suitable quarters.”

  She turned, and spoke into a communicator: “Central Engines, step up to half a light year a minute on the following orbit—”

  Maltby listened, estimating. Half a light year a minute. It would take a while to attain that speed, but—in eight hours they’d strike the storm.

  In eight hours he’d be having dinner with the grand captain.

  Eight hours!

  After he had gone, Lady Laurr studied her companion humorlessly. “Well, what do you think?”

  “It’s hard to believe they would dare trick us at this stage.” The psychologist’s voice had baffled anger in it.

  The grand captain said slowly: “They have quite an intricate system here. The only worthwhile maps are all on planets. The men who know how to interpret the maps are on ships. By use of code words given by people who cannot interpret, the astrogators make their calculations. The only way we can know that Captain Maltby is telling us the truth is by psychological tests. As in the past I am gambling on your skill. Undoubtedly, something is being planned, but we cannot let ourselves be paralyzed by fear. We must assume that any trap we fall into we shall be able to get out by sheer mechanical power, if nothing else. Meanwhile, leave no stone unturned. Keep watching that man. We have still to discover how the Atmion escaped from us.”

  “I’ll do my best,” said the older woman harshly.

  Chapter

  Eleven

  THE full flood of a contraterrene Nova impinging upon terrene gases already infuriated by seetee gone insane— that was the new greater storm.

  The exploding giant sun added weight to the diffuse, maddened thing. And it added something far more deadly.
Speed! From peak to peak of velocity the tumult of ultrafire leaped. The swifter crags of the storm danced and burned with an absolutely hellish fury. The sequence of action was rapid almost beyond the bearance of matter. First raced the light of the Nova, blazing its warning at more than a hundred and eighty-six thousand miles a second to all who knew that it flashed from the edge of an interstellar storm.

  But the advance glare of warning was nullified by the colossal speed of the storm. For weeks and months it drove through the vast night at a velocity that was only a bare measure short of that of light itself.

  The dinner dishes had been cleared away. Maltby was thinking: In half an hour—half an hour!

  He was wondering shakily just what did happen to a battleship suddenly confronted with thousands of gravities of deceleration. Aloud he was saying: “My day? I spent it in the library. I was interested in the recent history of Earth’s interstellar colonization. I’m curious as to what is done with groups like the Mixed Men. I mentioned to you that, after the war in which they were defeated, largely because there were so few of them, the Mixed Men hid themselves from the Fifty Suns. I was one of the captured children who—”

  There was an interruption; a cry from the wall communicator: “Noble lady, I’ve solved it!

  A moment fled before Maltby recognized the strained voice of the woman psychologist. He had almost forgotten that she was supposed to be studying him. Her next words chilled him.

  “Two minds! I thought of it a little while ago and rigged up a twin watching device. Ask him—ask him the question about the storms. Meanwhile stop the ship. At once!”

  Maltby’s dark gaze clashed hard with the steely, narrowed eyes of the grand captain. Without hesitation he concentrated his two minds on her, forced her to say: “Don’t be silly, lieutenant. One person can’t have two brains. Explain yourself further.”