The Grand Wheel

by Barrington J. Bayley

  ‘Then why don’t we play for smaller stakes, to begin with?’ Pawarce demanded harshly.

  ‘They are not interested in playing for pennies,’ Dom said mildly. ‘Come, gentlemen! Life was a gamble since the first amoeba crawled up out of the slime. Besides, if you want a better reason for abandoning your caution, consider this: the stakes we are putting into the game may shortly be valueless. I have recently received information from the Legitimacy which makes clear the imminent possibility of total defeat at the hands of the Hadranics. Think of that, when you tremble to risk what we have.’

  But when the argument was over, minds remained unchanged. Attitudes had already been firmed up before the meeting took place. They took a vote. It was six to six.

  Dom felt a sudden impatience with the dissenters. ‘Go and join the Legitimacy, you creeping tortoises,’ he thought. ‘Build a shell round yourselves, like them’. He rose from his place and stepped to the other side of the chamber, laying his hand on the dust-encrusted casing of a machine standing there.

  ‘The matter must move forward,’ he said stonily.

  Everyone gazed at the machine in fascination. ‘Velikosk’s roulette?’ Pawarce rasped in a hushed tone. ‘But that thing hasn’t been used for fifty years.’

  ‘What matter? It is still in good order, and there is precedence. Unless someone wishes to change his vote.’

  They all sat as if paralysed. With a nervous smile Dom lifted a flap of metal and slapped a switch. When he returned to his wrought-iron chair, to which the machine was connected as it was to all the others, he was calm. Gracefully, he sat down.

  The Velikosk roulette machine hummed as it went into action. A flicker of light ran round the edge of the table, momentarily pausing at each man in turn. Hands gripped the table in unbearable nervous tension. Dom, however, was relaxed, facing whatever the future might bring with practised imperturbability.

  Faster and faster ran the ghostly nimbus. Then, abruptly, it ceased to be. And the chair over which it had last flickered was empty. Its occupant had disappeared, sucked into the gulf of pure randomness that underpinned the universe.

  This was the fifth time, Dom believed, that the Velikosk machine had been put to the purpose of resolving differences of opinion among the council of the Grand Wheel. Until recently no one had even remotely understood how it worked – Velikosk had never been able to explain it to anybody. Even now it was doubtful if it could be repaired should it break down, in which case a tradition would die.

  The empty chair had been Pawarce’s.

  ‘I believe the vote will now prove to be six to five, gentlemen,’ Dom intoned calmly. ‘Shall we formalize it, or would you prefer to leave it at that?’

  SEVEN

  At the end of its descent from the orbiting team ship the planetary lander, a long gondola with a lifter engine at each end, settled on to the crumbling terraces amid a skirl of dust. When the air had settled, the door opened. Hakandra, followed by his constant companion, Shane the cold-senser, stepped out.

  This planet was not unlike the one he had recently left, he thought as he looked about him. Dry and bleached-looking. The sky was a very pale blue, as though all the real colour had been seared out of it. Interesting how most of the planets that bore – or had borne – life in the Cave followed the same dehydrated pattern.

  In this case, some life still remained. Tough, fibrous tendrils a yard thick, looking like great white worms, snaked out across the desert, interspersed with occasional cactus-like growths. Intelligent life was gone, but the terraces characterizing this part of the desert were regular enough to betray their artificial origin. With a soft rumbling sound Caerman’s digging machines were biting into the terraces, vacuuming away the rubble to be sorted in a vibrating sieve system. Piles of skeletons and artifacts, the output of the sieves, littered the landscape. Team E-7 was archaeologizing the site, not gently, perhaps, but well.

  Caerman himself, a big-boned man who moved easily and energetically, stepped forward to meet them. He had abandoned the cloak usually worn by team leaders and wore a one-piece track suit.

  ‘Glad you decided to drop in,’ he welcomed cheerfully. ‘Care for some refreshment?’

  Hakandra replied curtly. ‘No thank you. I’d rather get down to work.’

  ‘Okay. Over here.’ He led the way to a nearby pavilion. As they walked he turned to Shane. ‘How do you read this place?’

  Shane glanced at the yellow sun and shrugged. ‘It’s all right. We’ll be okay here for a while. Everything feels calm.’

  ‘That’s good to know. I’ll pass the word around – it makes me nervous seeing my men watch the sun all the time.’

  ‘How long since this civilization fell?’ Hakandra asked.

  ‘Not long. I estimate this city had inhabitants not more than fifty thousand years ago, maybe much less.’

  ‘And the cause?’

  Caerman spread his hands, looked glum. ‘There’s nothing specific. I can only put it down to one thing: premature ecological ageing.’

  ‘A peculiar concept.’

  ‘It’s one I’ve learned to accept since working in the Cave. Here as in other places, the whole biota went, though there are still a few bits and pieces hanging on, mostly cactuses. The intelligent species lasted longer than any other animal life, which is unusual. We have reason to believe they planned to survive and were aware of the nova situation here in the Cave.’

  He ushered them into the pavilion. ‘Well, here it is.’

  The interior of the pavilion looked like a museum, or display, depicting the dead civilization. Adorning the walls were painted reconstructions of the natives, sad-looking creatures with lizard-like skulls and bony, scaly limbs.

  But team E-7 was less interested in their physical appearance than in their technology. Caerman led Hakandra to the find that had caused him to break off his itinerary and come here.

  The alien machine still showed signs of its long interment in the earth. The metal casing, though rustproof, was much corroded. It was shaped like a huge drum, the top surface of which consisted of a flat crystalline lens which sparkled vividly but was totally opaque.

  ‘You say it’s functional?’

  ‘All we know is that it responds to a power input. Until we can work out what power level and wave-form it uses we won’t really be in a position to say what sort of shape it’s in.’

  ‘But what about its purpose?’

  Caerman pointed to a thin, nervous-looking man who entered the pavilion at that moment and went to speak to the technicians working on a transformer. ‘Wishom here can tell you more about that. He’s in charge of the technical study.’

  Wishom joined them, nodding a greeting to Hakandra and listening carefully to his questions. ‘We know these people were interested in random phenomena,’ he said in a reedy voice. ‘It seems they were working on the problem of why stars in the Cave are apt to go nova. In my belief they had hoped to control the process so as to ensure their own survival.’

  ‘They planned to stop stars going nova?’

  ‘That’s what I think.’

  Shane cackled wildly. ‘They needn’t have bothered – they died anyway! They never stood a chance – nobody does in Caspar!’

  Caerman frowned in the sudden silence. ‘Quite right,’ he agreed quietly. ‘They needn’t have bothered.’

  ‘But they did bother, right up until they realized that, novae apart, they were going to become extinct biologically.’ Wishom tapped the casing of the alien machine. ‘This was found in a sealed preservation chamber – obviously they set considerable store by it. Its core is a globe of black solid material that’s opaque to everything we’ve beamed at it. We are fairly sure it’s a randomness machine of some sort, but we’re reluctant to take it apart in case we can’t put it back together again. Instead we’re giving it the black box treatment – giving it inputs and seeing what comes out.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s only a fermat,’ Hakandra conjectured.

  ‘In some
ways it reminds one of a fermat, but there’s clearly more to it than that.’

  Hakandra pondered briefly. ‘I’m here to decide whether this investigation should continue,’ he told Wishom in a brusque voice. ‘I can only do so if there is a significant possibility that it will be militarily useful.’

  Wishom blinked. ‘By controlling the nova process?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘It’s a tall order,’ Wishom said doubtfully. ‘As yet I don’t know of anything that would suggest the natives were close to their goal, or even that they knew something we don’t.’ The scientist’s gaze became vague. ‘How soon do you need to decide?’

  ‘Immediately.’

  Wishom snorted. Just then the technicians at the transformer signalled to him.

  ‘Better stand back,’ he advised, ‘we’re about to begin an experiment.’

  The transformer hummed as it fed into the alien drum a power wave-form Wishom had calculated the machine might use. The flat crystal table-top suddenly sparkled and blazed, throwing off spears of light.

  Wishom and his technicians scarcely seemed to notice the display. Wishom had returned to the transformer and was busy studying the recording instruments. ‘Interesting,’ he murmured, pointing out something to his helpers.

  Suddenly a yell of fear came from Shane. He cringed away from the glowing machine, his mouth sagging open and his face white.

  ‘Stop it!’ he keened. ‘Stop it!’

  Hakandra leaped to the boy. ‘What is it, Shane?’ he barked.

  ‘Uncontrollable –’ Shane whimpered.

  He began to drool.

  At a gesture from Caerman the transformer was switched off. Its hum died into a strained silence. Hakandra seized Shane by the shoulders, peering at him anxiously. ‘Is it all right now?’ he demanded.

  Shane nodded weakly. ‘Tension,’ he muttered. ‘Tension in the air, in the stars – but uncontrollable. Uncontrollable.’ His voice faded.

  Hakandra straightened, looking first at Shane and then at the machine, weighing the youth’s words.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘the project goes on.’

  EIGHT

  Looking around the crowded force network platform, Cheyne Scarne decided the time had come to make a break for it. He turned to one of his two escorts.

  ‘I have to go to the men’s room,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, we’ll wait here.’ The escorts seemed relaxed. Scarne was not on probation any more.

  The washroom was at the end of the platform, near the main concourse. Once inside the door Scarne went to the visionless phone on the wall and tapped out the number Magdan had given him.

  A woman’s voice answered. ‘Yes?’

  Pretending to stroke his cheek, Scarne cupped his hand round his mouth to muffle his words. ‘This is Professor Scarne,’ he murmured. ‘I’m at Sanfran force station. I have what you want. Will you pick me up?’

  Scarne heard a click, a buzz, then a hum. Another voice, which from its intonation he knew to be a computer voice, spoke. ‘Give me your exact location.’

  ‘I’m in the washroom on platform sixteen.’

  ‘Do you have company?’

  Scarne paused before answering. A citizen brushed by him and went out of the door. ‘Two Wheel heavies. They’re waiting for me further up the platform.’

  ‘Lock yourself in cubicle number nine and wait there until you are contacted.’

  The phone fell silent. Scarne went and did as he was told. Inside the cubicle he sat down on the pedestal, feeling at once excited and weary.

  After five minutes there came a sharp rap on the door. As he opened it a slim, conservatively dressed young man squeezed in quickly, closing the door behind him.

  The two of them so crowded the small space that Scarne was obliged to sit again, the Legitimacy man towering close above him. The agent opened the attache case he carried and spoke in a low voice.

  ‘Remove your outer clothes.’

  Scarne obeyed, clumsily. The agent was impatient. ‘Faster,’ he murmured, ‘our friends will be wondering about you.’ From the case he took fresh garments: a brown striped suit and a small flat hat, an item Scarne would normally never have worn.

  When Scarne had changed, transferring his belongings to the new suit, the agent stuffed his old garments into the case.

  ‘Now for the face,’ he said softly.

  Scarne was obliged to sit once more while the other man pulled something soft and squishy-feeling over his face and pressing it into his neck. The stuff seemed to melt into his skin with a faint burning sensation.

  Opening his eyes, Scarne found he was being studied intently. The agent tilted his face. ‘That’s good enough. Better than it need be, in fact. Okay, we leave now. Enter the main concourse by the other door, so the Wheel mugs don’t see you – get it? I’ll be right behind you.’

  Scarne nodded. He eased himself out of the closet. In the washroom he paused to examine himself in a mirror. His face was gone. In place of it was a different face altogether, with a different shape and a different texture. It was totally convincing. The hair was different, too. It was as if he had been given a new head.

  Coming out into the main concourse he came briefly in view of platform sixteen again and could not resist taking a glance. His Wheel escorts, thinking he had taken more than long enough, were heading for the toilets.

  ‘Keep going,’ said a gruff voice behind him. ‘Make for the travel cubicles, fast but easy. Those goons are about to discover you’ve given them the slip and they’re liable to do something drastic.’

  Scarne hurried on until they both entered a travel cubicle. The agent tapped out a destination, then turned to him with a knowing smile as the tiny room zipped on its way.

  ‘That wasn’t too hard, was it? You can take that face off now. Here, let me help you.’

  He placed his hands on Scarne’s neck and tugged. There was a faint ripping sound as the mask came away. Scarne touched his cheeks with his fingers. They were warm.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s all being taken care of.’

  There was a holset in the corner of the cubicle. Scarne pointed to it. ‘I want you to put me in touch with Magdan.’

  ‘Who’s Magdan?’

  ‘My controller – until recently. That’s the only name I have for him: Magdan.’ He spoke with flinty patience. ‘Get him for me.’

  Moving at speed through Sanfran’s conveyor system, the cubicle jerked and swayed. The agent stared at him. ‘Are you crazy or something? You ought to know there’s no way I could do that.’

  Scarne avoided his rescuer’s gaze. He’s probably right, he thought. The time to make his play, he decided, would be when he got to debriefing.

  Neither spoke further, and shortly the cubicle slowed. The agent tapped out another code on the address register, taking them through a secret routing gate, at which they speeded up again before sliding smoothly to a stop.

  As he left the cubicle and emerged into a long corridor Scarne immediately felt that he had been here before. This was where he had previously been briefed and addicted. The walls were the same shade of green. He was ushered down a passage and into a side room he also thought he remembered. The furniture, the layout, everything.

  A big, cadaverous-looking man sat behind the desk. He directed a bright, dazzling light on to Scarne’s face.

  ‘Sit down,’ he ordered.

  Scarne groped his way to the seat. ‘Would you mind turning the light off?’ he complained. ‘It stops me thinking properly.’

  The glare diminished a little in intensity, enabling him to make out the debriefing officer’s enormous head. ‘Been up on Luna, have you?’ The man’s voice was almost caressing. ‘Got something for us?’

  ‘I was at Marguerite Dom’s demesne. I met the Wheel’s top mathematicians there.’

  ‘And they gave you the equations? Just like that?’ The caress became menacing, scornful.

  Scarn
e licked his lips. ‘It wasn’t so hard, really. I saw some secret papers. I more or less have the run of the place – they think I have talent, they trust me.’ He raised his voice. ‘But I didn’t make a record of them. It’s all in my head. Before I tell what I know I want your part of the arrangement fulfilled. I want the antidote.’

  A short, explosive half-snarl, half-laugh came from the other side of the light. ‘What are you trying on, Scarne? I’ll get a randomatician in here and you can talk to him. Later – well, we’ll see.’

  ‘No. I won’t talk. I want the antidote.’

  ‘You fool, don’t you know we can get anything we want out of you?’

  ‘Easier to give me the antidote.’ He leaned forward. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, I’ve been in this building before. You have a laboratory here somewhere. Take me there and give me the antidote. Then I’ll talk.’ A whine came into his voice. ‘I haven’t had a dose for three days. I didn’t take my supply with me to Luna.’

  A door opened at the back of the room. A tall, slender figure stood there, hazy in Scarne’s dazzled vision, then moved to just behind the debriefing officer. ‘These equations are so easy to memorize? That sounds improbable.’

  ‘No, they’re not. I’ll probably have lost most of it in a few hours, if I don’t write it down. I don’t have all of it at that – just enough to make the case clear.’

  The newcomer sighed, turning to the seated man. ‘How tiresome he is. All right, have his releaser brought up here, and we need waste no more time.’

  Scarne shook his head vigorously, aware that he was winning. ‘Not good enough. You could give me anything – just water.’ His words came out in an eager rush. ‘I want to go down, myself, to the laboratory – the same one where I was given that foul stuff. I want to see the antidote in its bottle, I want to see it put in the hypo. Then I’ll know it’s the right one.’