He twisted hastily back—and there it was again. Maltby allowed himself a grim smile. It was as he had thought, a projection, pointing out of sub-space at his bed, and having no material existence in his room. Therefore it couldn’t be seen from the rear. His frown deepened with gathering puzzlement. If he didn’t know that they did not possess such a communicator, he’d guess that he was about to be advised that the time had come for action.
He hoped not, fervently. He was as far as ever from a decision. Yet who else would be trying to reach him? The impulse came to touch the button that would connect the control center of the big spaceship with what was going on in his room. It wouldn’t do to have Gloria think that he was in secret communication with outsiders. If she ever got suspicious, even the fact that he was married to her wouldn’t save his two minds from being investigated by the ship’s psychologist, Lieutenant Neslor.
However, he had other commitments than marriage. He sat down on the bed, scowled at the thing and said: “I’m going to make an assumption as to your identity. What do you want?”
A voice, a very strong, confident voice spoke through the globe. “You think you know who is calling in spite of the unusual means?”
Maltby recognized the voice. His eyes narrowed, he swallowed hard; then he had control of himself. He remembered that there might be other listeners, who would draw conclusions from his instant recognition of a voice. It was for them that he said, “The logic of it is comparatively simple. I am a Mixed Man aboard the Earth battleship Star Cluster, which is cruising in the Fifty Suns region of the Greater Magellanic Cloud. Who would be trying to get in touch with me but the Hidden Ones of my own race?”
“Knowing this,” said the voice pointedly, “you have nevertheless made no attempt to betray us?”
Maltby was silent. He wasn’t sure he liked that remark. Like his own words, he recognized that these were aimed at possible listeners. But it was not a friendly act to call the attention of those listeners to the fact that he was keeping this conversation to himself. More sharply than before it struck him that he had better remember his political situation, both here on the ship, and out there. And weigh every word as he uttered it. He stared at the light-thing and decided that he’d better bring the identity of the man beyond into the open. He said curtly: “Who are you?”
“Hunston!”
“Oh!” said Maltby. His surprise was not altogether simulated. There was a difference between an inward recognition of a voice, and having that recognition verbally verified. The implications of the identity somehow sank in deeper.
Hunston had been released after the Star Cluster had located the Fifty Suns. Since then, Maltby—because of his own situation—had had virtually no communication with the outside world. Softly, Maltby repeated an earlier question: “What do you want?”
“Your diplomatic support.”
Maltby said, “My what?”
The voice grew resonant and proud. “In accordance with our belief, which you must surely share, that the Mixed Men are entitled to an equal part in the government of the Fifty Suns, regardless of the smallness of their numbers, I have today ordered that control be seized of every planet in the system. At this moment, the armies of the Mixed Men, backed by the greatest assembly of super-weapons known in any galaxy, are carrying out landing operations, and will shortly attain control. You—” the voice paused; then quietly, “You are following me, Captain Maltby?”
The question was like the silence after a clap of thunder. Slowly, Maltby emerged from the hard shock of the news. He climbed to his feet, then sank back again. Consciousness came finally that, though the world had changed, the room was still there. The room, the light-globe and himself.
Anger came then like a leaping fire. Savagely he snapped: “You gave this order—” He caught himself. His brain geared to lightning comprehension, he examined the implications of the information. At last, with a bleak realization that in his position he could not argue the matter, he said, “You’re depending on acceptance of a fait accompli. What I know of the unalterable policies of Imperial Earth, convinces me your hope is vain.” “On the contrary,” came the quick reply. “Only Grand Captain, the Lady Laurr must be persuaded. She has full authority to act as she sees fit. And she is your wife.” Cooler now, Maltby hesitated. It was interesting that Hunston, having acted on his own, was now seeking his support. Not too interesting though. What really held Maltby silent was the sudden realization that he had known something like this would happen—had known it from the very instant the news had been flashed that an Earth battleship had discovered the civilization of the Fifty Suns, months ago now. Ten years, five years, even one year hence, the seal of Earth’s approval would be set forever on the Fifty Suns democratic system as it was. And the laws of that government expressly excluded the Mixed Men from any participation whatsoever. At this moment, this month, a change was still theoretically possible. After that—
It was clear that he personally had been too slow in making up his mind. The passions of other men had surged to thoughts of action, and finally to action itself. He would have to leave the ship somehow, and find out what was going on. For the moment, however, caution was the word.
Maltby said, “I’m not averse to presenting your arguments to my wife. But some of your statements do not impress me in the slightest. You have said ‘the greatest assembly of super-weapons in any galaxy.’ I admit that this method of using sub-space radio is new to me, but your statement as a whole must be nonsense. You cannot possibly know the weapons possessed by even this one battleship because, in spite of all my opportunity, I don’t know. It is a safe assumption, furthermore, that no one ship can carry some of the larger weapons that Earth could muster at short notice anywhere in the charted universe. You cannot, isolated as we have all been, so much as guess what these weapons are, let alone declare with certainty that yours are better. Therefore, my question in that connection is this: why do you even mention such an implied threat? Of all your arguments, it is the least likely to rouse any enthusiasm for your cause. Well?”
On the main bridge of the big ship, the Right Honorable Gloria Cecily turned from the viewing plate, which showed Maltby’s room. Her fine face was crinkled with thought. She said slowly to the other woman: “What do you make of it, Lieutenant Neslor?”
The ship’s psychologist replied steadily: “I think, noble lady, this is the moment we discussed when you first asked me what would be the psychological effects of your marriage to Peter Maltby.”
The grand captain stared at her subordinate in astonishment. “Are you mad? His reaction has been correct in every detail. He has told me at great length his opinions of the situation in the Fifty Suns; and every word fits—” There was a soft buzz from the intership radio. A man’s head and shoulders came onto the plate.
“Draydon,” he said, “Commander of Communications speaking. In reference to your question about the ultrawave radio now focused in your husband’s bedroom, a similar device was invented in the main galaxy about a hundred and ninety years ago. The intention was to install it in all new warships, and in all the older ships above cruiser class, but we were on our way before mass production began.
“In this field at least, therefore, the Mixed Men have equaled the inventions of human creative genius, though it is difficult to know how so few could accomplish so much. The very smallness of their numbers make it highly probable that they are not aware that our finders would instantly report the presence of their energy manifestation. They cannot possibly have discovered all the byproducts of their invention. Any questions, noble lady?” “Yes, how does it work?”
“Power. Sheer, unadulterated power. The ultra-waves are directed in a great cone toward a wide sector of space in which the receiver ship is believed to be. Every engine in the sending ship is geared to the ray. I believe that experimentally, contact was established over distances as great as thirty-five hundred light-years.”
“Yes,” the Lady Laurr was impatient, “but w
hat is the principle? How, for instance, would they pick out the Star Cluster from a hundred other ships?”
“As you know,” came the reply, “our ship constantly emits identification rays on a special wave length. The ultra rays are tuned to that wave length, and when they contact, react literally instantaneously. Immediately, all the rays focus on the center of the source of the identification waves, and remain focused regardless of speed or change of direction. Naturally, once the carrier wave is focused, sending picture and voice beams over it is simple.”
“I see.” She looked thoughtful. “Thank you.”
She clicked off the connection and turned again to the image of the scene in Maltby’s room.
“Very well,” her husband said, “I shall present your arguments to my wife.”
The answer of the light-globe was: it vanished. She sat cold. The whole interview had been registered on a beam, so the part she’d missed could be run off again later. She turned slowly to Lieutenant Neslor, and expressed the thought that hadn’t left her mind for an instant: “What are your reasons for what you said just before we were interrupted?”
“What has happened here is basic to the entire Fifty Suns’ problem,” the older woman said coolly. “It is too important to allow any interference. Your husband must be removed from the ship, and you must allow yourself to be conditioned out of love with him until this affair is finally settled. You see that, don’t you?”
“No!” the Lady Laurr said stubbornly. “I do not. On what do you base your opinion?”
“There are several notable points,” said the psychologist. “One of them is the fact that you married him. Madam, you would never have married an ordinary person.”
“Naturally,” the grand captain spoke proudly. “You yourself have stated that his I.Q.’s, both of them, are greater than mine.”
Lieutenant Neslor laughed scathingly. “Since when has I.Q. mattered to you? If that were a reason for recognizing equality, then the royal and noble families of the galaxy would long ago have become saturated with professors and scholars. No, no my captain, there is in a person born to high estate an instinctive sense of greatness which has nothing to do with intelligence or ability. We less fortunate mortals may feel that that is unfair, but there is nothing we can do about it. When his lordship walks into the room, we may dislike him, hate him, ignore him or kowtow to him. But we are never indifferent to him. Captain Maltby has that air. You may not have been consciously aware of it when you married him, but you were, subconsciously.”
“But he’s only a captain in the Fifty Suns navy,” the grand captain protested, “and he was an orphan, raised by the state.”
Lieutenant Neslor was cool. “He knows who he is, make no mistake. My only regret is that you married him so swiftly, thus barring me from making a detailed examination of his two minds. I am very curious about his history.”
“He has told me everything.”
“Noble lady,” said the psychologist sharply. “Examine what you are saying. We are dealing with a man whose lowest I.Q. is more than 170. Every word you have spoken about him shows the bias of a woman for her lover. I am not,” the older woman continued, “questioning your basic faith in him. As far as I have been able to determine, he is an able and honest man. But your final decisions about the Fifty Suns must be made without reference to your emotional life. Do you see now?”
There was a long pause, and then an almost imperceptible nod. “Put him off,” she said in a drab voice, “at Atmion. We must turn back to Cassidor.”
Chapter
Seventeen
MALTBY stood on the ground, and watched the Star Cluster fade into the blue mist of the upper sky. Then he turned, and caught a ground car to the nearest hotel. From there he made his first call. In an hour a young woman arrived, who saluted him stiffly as she came into his presence. But as he stood watching her, some of the hostility went out of her. She came forward, knelt gingerly, and kissed his hand.
“You may rise,” Maltby said.
She stood up, and retreated, watching him with alert, faintly amused, faintly defiant gaze.
Maltby felt sardonic about it himself. The decision of generations of Mixed Men that hereditary rulership was the only practical solution to leadership among so many immensely able men had backfired somewhat when Peter Maltby, the son of the last active hereditary leader, had been captured by the Dellians in the same battle that had killed his father. After long consideration, the lesser leaders had decided to reaffirm his rights. They had even begun to believe that it would be of benefit to the Mixed Men to have their leader grow up among the people of the Fifty Suns. Particularly since good behavior on his part and by the other captured, now grown-up children, might be a way of winning back the good opinion of the Fifty Suns people. Some of the older leaders actually considered that the one hope of the race. It was interesting to know that, in spite of Hunston’s action, one woman partially recognized his status.
“My situation is this,” Maltby said, “I’m wearing a suit which, I am convinced, is tuned to a finder on the
Star Cluster. I want someone to wear it while I go to the hidden city.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” she said. “The ship will come at midnight tomorrow to the rendezvous. Can you make it?”
“I’ll be there.”
She hesitated. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes,” said Maltby, “who’s backing Hunston?”
“The young men.” She spoke without hesitation. “What about the young women?”
She smiled at that. “I’m here, am I not?”
“Yes, but only with half your heart.”
“The other half,” she said, unsmiling now, “is with a young man who is fighting in one of Hunston’s armies.” “Why isn’t your whole heart there?”
“Because I don’t believe in deserting a system of government at the first crisis. We chose hereditary leadership for a definite period. We women do not altogether approve of these impulsive adventures, led by adventurers like Hunston, though we recognize that this is a crisis.” “There will be many dead men before this is over,” Maltby said gravely, “I hope your young man is not among them.”
“Thank you,” she said, and went out.
There were nine nameless planets, nine hidden cities where the Mixed Men lived. Like the planets, the cities had no names. They were referred to with a very subtle accent on the article in the phrase “the city.” The! In every case the cities were located underground, three of them beneath great, restless seas, two under mountain ranges, the other four—no one knew.
Maltby had discovered, in his one journey, that no one knew. The outlets were far from the cities, the tunnels that led to them wound so tortuously that the biggest spaceships had to proceed at very low speeds around the curves. The ship that came for Maltby was only ten minutes late. It was operated mostly by women, but there were some older men along, including three of his long-dead father’s chief advisers, Johnson, Saunders, and Collings. The last named acted as spokesman.
“I’m not sure, sir,” he said, “that you should come to the city. There is a certain hostility, even among the women. They are afraid for their sons, husbands and sweethearts, but loyal to them. All the actions of Hunston and the others have been secret. We have had no idea what is going on. There is no information to be had at the hidden city.”
“I didn’t expect there would be,” Maltby replied. “I want to give a speech, outlining the general situation as I see it.”
Later—when Maltby faced his audience, there was no applause. The twenty thousand people in the massive auditorium heard his words in silence that seemed to grow more intense as he described some of the weapons on the Star Cluster.
When he outlined the policies of Imperial Earth with respect to lost colonies like the Fifty Suns, their disapproval was even more evident, but he finished with grim determination: “Unless the Mixed Men can arrive at some agreement with Earth, or discover some means of nullifyin
g the power of Earth, then all the preliminary victories are futile, meaningless and certain to end in disaster. There is no power on the Fifty Suns strong enough to defeat the battleship Star Cluster, let alone all the other ships that Earth could send here in an emergency. Therefore—”
He was cut off. All over the great hall, mechanical speakers shouted in unison. “He’s a spy for his Earth wife. He never was one of us.”
Maltby smiled darkly. So Hunston’s friends had decided his sobering arguments might get results, and this was their answer. He waited for the mechanized interruptions to end. But the minutes flew by and the bedlam grew, rather than lessened. The audience was not the kind that approved of noise as a logical form of argument. As Maltby watched, several angry women tore down loud speakers they could reach, but as many of them were in the ceiling, it was not a general solution. The confusion increased.
Hunston and his men must know, Maltby thought tensely, that they were irritating their followers here. How did they dare take the risk? Only one answer seemed reasonable: They were playing for time. They had something up their collective sleeve, something big, that would overwhelm all irritation and all opposition.
A hand was tugging at his arm. He turned and saw that it was Collings. The old man looked anxious.
“I don’t like this,” he said, above the uproar. “If they’ll go this far, then they might even dare to assassinate you. Perhaps you had better return at once to Atmion, or Cassidor, wherever you wish to go.”
Maltby looked thoughtful. “It has to be Atmion,” he said finally. “I don’t want the people on the Star Cluster to suspect that I have been wandering. In one sense, I no longer have any commitments there, but I think the contact might still be valuable.”
He smiled wryly, for that was an understatement if there ever was one. It was true that Gloria had been conditioned out of love with him, but he had been left conditioned in love with her. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t dismiss the reality of that. “You know how to get in touch with me,” he said, “if anything turns up.”
A. E. Van Vogt - Novel 18 - Mission to the Stars Page 12