Alien Earth and Other Stories

by Roger Elwood (ed. )

  "Haste!" She clawed at Garin. "Kepta takes Thrala!"

  She ran wildly back the way she had come, with the American pounding at her heels. They burst into the Hall of Thrones and saw a struggling group before the dais.

  Garin heard someone howl like an animal, became aware the sound came from his own throat. For the second time his fist found its mark on Kepta's face. With a shriek of rage the Black One threw Thrala from him and sprang at Garin, his nails tearing gashes in the flyer's face. Twice the American twisted free and sent bone-crushing blows into the other's ribs. Then he got the grip he wanted, and his fingers closed around Kepta's throat. In spite of the Black

  One's struggles he held on until a limp body rolled beneath him.

  Panting, the American pulled himself up from the bloodstained floor and grabbed the arm of the Jade Throne for support.

  "Garin!" Thrala's arms were about him, her pitying fingers on his wounds. And in that moment he forgot Dandtan, forgot everything he had steeled himself to remember. She was in his arms and his mouth sought hers possessively. Nor was she unresponsive, but yielded, as a flower yields to the wind.

  "Garin!" she whispered softly. Then, almost shyly, she broke from his hold.

  Beyond her stood Dandtan, his face white, his mouth tight. Garin remembered. And, a little mad with pain and longing, he dropped his eyes, trying not to see the loveliness which was Thrala.

  "So, Outlander, Thrala flies to your arms------------ "

  Garin whirled about. Kepta was hunched on the broad seat of the jet throne.

  "No, I am not dead, Outlander—nor shall you kill me, as you think to do. I go now, but I shall return. We have met and hated, fought and died before—you and I. You were a certain Garan, Marshal of the air fleet of Yu-Lac on a vanished world, and I was Lord of Koom. That was in the days before the Ancient Ones pioneered space. You and I and Thrala, we are bound together and even fate can not break those bonds. Farewell, Garin. And do you, Thrala, remember the ending of that other Garan. It was not an easy one."

  With a last malicious chuckle, he leaned back in the throne. His battered body slumped. Then the sharp lines of the throne blurred; it shimmered in the light. Abrupdy then both it and its occupant were gone. They were staring at empty space, above which loomed the rose throne of the Ancient Ones.

  "He spoke true," murmured Thrala. "We have had other lives, other meetings—so will we meet again. But for the present he returns to the darkness which sent him forth. It

  is finished."

  Without warning, a low rumbling filled the Cavern; the walls rocked and swayed. Lizard and human, they huddled together until the swaying stopped. Finally a runner appeared with news that one of the Gibi had ventured forth and discovered that the Caves of Darkness had been sealed by an underground quake. The menace of the Black Ones Was definitely at an end.

  Chapter Eleven—Thrala's Mate

  Although there were falls of rock within the Caverns and some of the passages were closed, few of the Folk suffered injury. Gibi scouts reported that the land about the entrance to the Caves had sunk, and that the River of Gold, thrown out of its bed, was fast filling this basin to form a lake.

  As far as they could discover, none of the Black Ones had survived the battle and the sealing of the Caves. But they could not be sure that there was not a handful of outlaws somewhere within the confines of Tav.

  The Crater itself was changed. A series of raw hills had appeared in the central plain. The pool of boiling mud had vanished and trees in the forest lay flat, as if cut by a giant scythe.

  Upon their return to the cliff city, the Gibi found most of their wax skyscrappers in ruins, but they set about rebuilding without complaint. The squirrel-farmers emerged from their burrows and were again busy in the fields.

  Garin felt out of place in all the activity that filled the Caverns. More than ever he was the outlander with no true roots in Tav. Restlessly, he explored the Caverns, spending many hours in the Place of Ancestors, where he studied those men of the outer world who had preceded him into this weird land.

  One night when he came back to his chamber he found Dandtan and Trar awaiting him there. There was a curious hardness in Dandtan's attitude, a somber sobriety in Trar's carriage.

  "Have you sought the Hall of Women since the battle?" demanded the son of the Ancient One abruptly.

  "No," retorted Garin shortly. Did Dandtan accuse him of double dealing?

  "Have you sent a message to Thrala?"

  Garin held back his rising temper. "I have not ventured where I can not."

  Dandtan nodded to Trar as if his suspicions had been confirmed. "You see how it stands, Trar."

  Trar shook his head slowly. "But never has the summoning

  been at fault------- "

  "You forget," Dandtan reminded him sharply. "It was once—and the penalty was exacted. So shall it be again."

  Garin looked from one to the other, confused. Dandtan seemed possessed of a certain ruthless anger, but Trar was manifestly unhappy.

  "It must come after council, the Daughter willing," the Lord of the Folk said.

  Dandtan strode toward the door. "Thrala is not to know. Assemble the Council tonight. Meanwhile, see that he," he jerked his thumb toward Garin, "does not leave this room."

  Thus Garin became a prisoner under the guard of the Folk, unable to discover of what Dandtan accused him, or how he had aroused the hatred of the Cavern ruler. Unless Dandtan's jealousy had been aroused and he was determined to rid himself of a rival.

  Believing this, the flyer went willingly to the chamber where the judges waited. Dandtan sat at the head of a long table, Trar at his right hand and lesser nobles of the Folk beyond.

  "You know the charge," Dandtan's words were tipped with venom as Garin came to stand before him. "Out of his own mouth has this outlander condemned himself. Therefore I ask that you decree for him the fate of that outlander of the second calling who rebelled against the summoning."

  "The outlander has admitted his fault?" questioned one of the Folk.

  Trar inclined his head sadly. "He did." As Garin opened his mouth to demand a stating of the charge against him, Dandtan spoke again: "What say you, Lords?"

  For a long moment they sat in silence and then they bobbed their lizard heads in assent "Do as you desire, Dweller in the Light."

  Dandtan smiled without mirth. "Look, outlander." He

  passed his hand over the glass of the seeing mirror set in

  the table top. "This is the fate of him who rebels---------------- "

  In the shining surface Garin saw pictured a break in Tav's wall. At its foot stood a group of men of the Ancient Ones, and in their midst struggled a prisoner. They were forcing him to climb the crater wall. Garin watched him reach the lip and crawl over, to stagger across the steaming rock, dodging the scalding vapor of hot springs, until he pitched face down in the slimy mud.

  "Such was his ending, and so will you end------------ "

  The calm brutality of that statement aroused Garin's anger.

  "Rather would I die that way than linger in this den," he cried hotly. "You, who owe your life to me, would send me to such a death without even telling me of what I am accused. Little is there to choose between you and Kepta, after all—except that he was an open enemy!"

  Dandtan sprang to his feet, but Trar caught his arm.

  "He speaks fairly. Ask him why he will not fulfill the summoning."

  While Dandtan hesitated, Garin leaned across the table, flinging his words, weapon-like, straight into that cold face.

  "I'll admit that I love Thrala—have loved her since that moment when I saw her on the steps of the morgel pit in the caves. Since when has it become a crime to love that which may not be yours—if you do not try to take it?"

  Trar released Dandtan, his golden eyes gleaming.

  "If you love her, claim her. It is your right."

  "Do I not know," Garin turned to him, "that she is Dandtan's. Thran had no idea of Dandtan's
survival when he laid his will upon her. Shall I stoop to holding her to an unwelcome bargain? Let her go to the one she loves . . ."

  Dandtan's face was livid, and his hands, resting on the table, trembled. One by one the lords of the Folk slipped away, leaving the two face to face.

  "And I thought to order you to your death." Dandtan's whisper was husky as it emerged between dry lips. "Garin, we thought you knew—and, knowing, had refused her."

  "Knew what?"

  "That I am Thran's son—and Thrala's brother."

  The floor swung beneath Garin's unsteady feet. Dandtan's hands were warm on his shoulders.

  "I am a fool," said the American slowly.

  Dandtan smiled. "A very honorable fool! Now get you to Thrala, who deserves to hear the full of this tangle."

  So it was that, with Dandtan by his side, Garin walked for the' second time down that hallway, to pass the golden curtains and stand in the presence of the Daughter. She came straight from her cushions into his arms when she read what was in his face. They needed no words.

  And in that hour began Garin's life in Tav.

  FRANCHISE

  Isaac Asimov

  Linda, aged 10, was the only one of the family who seemed to enjoy being awake.

  Norman Muller could hear her now through his own drugged, unhealthy coma. (He had finally managed to fall asleep an hour earlier but even then it was more like exhaustion than sleep.)

  She was at his bedside now, shaking him. "Daddy, Daddy, wake up. Wake up!"

  He suppressed a groan. "All right, Linda."

  "But, Daddy, there's more policemen around than any time! Police cars and everything!"

  Norman Muller gave up and rose blearily to his elbows. The day was beginning. It was faintly stirring toward dawn outside, the germ of a miserable gray that looked about as miserably gray as he felt. He could hear Sarah, his wife, shuffling about breakfast duties in the kitchen. His father-in-law, Matthew, was hawking strenuously in the bathroom. No doubt Agent Handley was ready and waiting for him.

  This was the day.

  Election day!

  To begin with, it had been like every other year. Maybe a little worse, because it was a Presidential year, but no worse than other Presidential years if it came to that.

  The politicians spoke about the guh-reat electorate and the vast electuh-ronic intelligence that was its servant. The press analyzed the situation with industrial computers (the New York Times and the St. Louis Post-Dispatch had their own computers) and were full of little hints as to what would be forthcoming. Commentators and columnists pin-pointed the crucial state and county in happy contradiction to one another.

  The first hint that it would not be like every other year, was when Sarah Mul'er said to her husband on the evening of October 4 (with Election Day exactly a month off), "Cant-

  well Johnson says that Indiana will be the state this year. He's the fourth one. Just think, our state this time."

  Matthew Hortenweiler took his fleshy face from behind the paper, stared dourly at his daughter and growled, "Those fellows are paid to tell lies. Don't listen to them."

  "Four of them, Father," said Sarah, mildly. "They all say Indiana."

  "Indiana is a key state, Matthew," said Norman, just as mildly, "on account of the Hawkins-Smith Act and this mess in Indianapolis. It—"

  Matthew twisted his old face alarmingly and rasped out, "No one says Bloomington or Monroe County, do they?"

  "Well—" said Norman.

  Linda, whose little point-chin face had been shifting from one speaker to the next, said pipingly, "You going to be voting this year, Daddy?"

  Norman smiled gently and said, "I don't think so, dear."

  But this was in the gradually growing excitement of an October in a Presidential Election Year and Sarah had led a quiet life with dreams for her companions. She said, longingly, "Wouldn't that be wonderful, though?"

  "If I voted?" Norman Muller had a small, blonde mustache that had given him a debonair quality in the young Sarah's eyes, but which, with gradual graying, had declined merely to lack of distinction. His forehead bore deepening lines born of uncertainty and, in general, he had never seduced his clerkly soul with the thought that he was either born great or would under any circumstances achieve greatness. He had a wife, a job and a little girl and except under extraordinary conditions of elation or depression was inclined to consider that to be an adequate bargain struck with life.

  So he was a little embarrassed and more than a little uneasy at the direction his wife's thoughts were taking. "Actually, my dear," he said, "there are two hundred million people in the country, and with odds like that, I don't think we ought to waste our time wondering about it."

  His wife said, "Why, Norman, it's no such thing like two hundred million and you know it. In the first place, only people between 20 and 60 are eligible and it's always men, so that puts it down to maybe fifty million to one. Then, if it's really Indiana—"

  "Then it's about one and a quarter million to one. You wouldn't want me to bet in a horse race against those odds, now, would you? Let's have supper."

  Matthew muttered from behind his newspaper, "Damned foolishness."

  Linda asked again, "You going to be voting this year, Daddy?"

  Norman shook his head and they all adjourned to the dining room.

  By October 20, Sarah's excitement was rising rapidly. Over the coffee, she announced that Mrs. Schultz, having a cousin who was the secretary of an Assemblyman, said that all the "smart money" was on Indiana.

  "She says President Villers is even going to make a speech at Indianapolis."

  Norman Muller, who had had a hard day at the store, nudged the statement with a raising of eyebrows and let it go at that.

  Matthew Hortenweiler, who was chronically dissatisfied with Washington, said, "If Villers makes a speech in Indiana, that means he thinks Multivac will pick Arizona. He wouldn't have the guts to go closer, the mushhead."

  Sarah, whs ignored her father whenever she could decently do so, said, "I don't know why they don't announce the state as soon as they can, and then the county and so on. Then the people who were eliminated could relax."

  "If they did anything like that," pointed out Norman, "the politicians would follow the announcements like vultures. By the time it was narrowed down to a township, you'd have a Congressman or two at every street-corner."

  Matthew narrowed his eyes and brushed angrily at his sparse, gray hair, "They're vultures, anyhow. Listen—"

  Sarah murmured, "Now, Father—"

  Matthew's voice rumbled over her protest without as much as a stumble or hitch. "Listen, I was around when they set up Multivac. It would end partisan politics, they said. No more voter's money wasted on campaigns. No more grinning nobodies high-pressured and advertising-campaigned into Congress or the White House. So what happens? More campaigning than ever, only now they do it blind. They'll send guys to Indiana on account of the Hawkins-Smith Act and other guys to California in case it's the Joe Hammer situation that turns crucial. I say, wipe out all that nonsense. Back to the good, old—"

  Linda asked, suddenly, "Don't you want Daddy to vote this year, Grandpa?"

  Matthew glared at the young girl. "Never you mind now."

  He turned back to Norman and Sarah. "There was a time I voted. Marched right up to the polling booth, stuck my fist on the levers and voted. There was nothing to it. I just said: This fellow's my man and I'm voting for him. That's the way it should be."

  Linda said excitedly, "You voted, Grandpa? You really did?"

  Sarah leaned forward quickly to quiet what might easily become an incongruous story drifting about the neighborhood. "It's nothing, Linda. Grandpa doesn't really mean voted. When he was a littie boy, they had something they called voting. Everyone did that kind of voting, Grandpa, too, but it wasn't really voting."

  Matthew roared, "It wasn't when I was a little boy. I was 22 and I voted for Langley and it was real voting. My vote didn't count for mu
ch, maybe, but it was as good as anyone else's. Anyone else's. And no Multivac to—"

  Norman interposed. "All right, Linda, time for bed. And stop asking questions about voting. When you grow up, you'll understand all about it."

  He kissed her with antiseptic gentleness and she moved reluctantly out of range under maternal prodding and a promise that she might watch the bedside video till 9:15, if she was prompt about the bathing ritual.

  Linda said, "Grandpa," and stood with her chin down and her hands behind her back until his newspaper lowered itself to the point where shaggy eyebrows and eyes, nested in fine wrinkles, showed themselves. It was Friday, October 31.

  He said, "Yes?"

  Linda came closer and put both her forearms on one of the old man's knees so that he had to discard his newspaper altogether.

  She said, "Grandpa, did you really once vote?" He said. "You heard me say I did, didn't you? Do you think I tell fibs?"

  "N—no, but Mamma says everybody voted then." "So they did."

  "But how could they? How could everybody vote?"

  Matthew stared at her solemnly, then lifted her and put her on his knee.

  He even moderated the tonal qualities of his voice. He said, "You see, Linda, till about forty years ago. everybody always voted. Say we wanted to decide who was to be the new President of the United States. The Democrats and Republicans would both nominate someone and everybody would say who they wanted. When Election Day was over, they would count how many people wanted the Democrat and how many wanted the Republican. Whoever had more votes was elected. You see?"

  Linda nodded and said, "How did all the people know who to vote for? Did Multivac tell them?"

  Matthew's eyebrows hunched down and he looked severe. "They just used their own judgment, girl."

  She edged away from him and he lowered his voice again, "I'm not angry at you, Linda. But, you see, sometimes it took all night to count what everyone said and people were impatient. So they invented special machines which could look at the first few votes and compare them with the votes from the same places in previous years. That way the machine could compute how the total vote would be and who would be elected. You see?"