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These Savage Futurians

Page 12

by Philip E. High


  Skeld half rose from behind his desk. “But that presupposes an advanced technology.”

  “It presupposes nothing, Mr. Skeld, it confirms an advanced technology.”

  Skeld lowered himself slowly into his chair, his mind racing. The Maidstone boys, massed cross-bows, unarmed combat, things that gave them an edge over local tribes without arousing undue suspicion. It could be—was—a ‘front’, a disguise, an ingenious masquerade.

  He said, in a calm voice, “Thank you, Mr. Kerenski. I will draw the attention of the Committee to your excellent work in this matter.” He made a gesture of dismissal. “You may leave this with me.”

  When Kerenski had gone, however, Skeld was aware of an uneasy fluttering in his stomach. Hadn’t they enough trouble? One hundred and sixty-three probes sent to the South American trouble spot and every one blown to pieces in the sky. Now this I Skeld shivered—an impossible situation of limitless danger which could be laid directly at the door of his department. Slackness! Incompetence! The words seemed to dance slowly and heavily in his mind.

  No, he had to handle this himself—fast, and with the minimum of publicity.

  He made a call. “Send Mr. Hobart to my office immediately.”

  His instructions to Hobart, when he arrived, were amiable in tone but contained a kernel of threat. “You will appreciate that had I phrased your report in less favourable terms, you would have found yourself in trouble—this South American business is bad you know.”

  When he had finished, Hobart was not only pale but anxious to ingratiate himself. Skeld threw in the department’s good name and Hobart’s precarious position in it as added weight before he gave his instructions.

  “Seems simple enough, sir.”

  “Good, good— Oh, and yes, Hobart, take Matheson with you. After all. this entire situation could be due to his small but vital delay. Give him the chance to make amends, as it were. Not a satisfying character, our Mr. Matheson— weakly sentimental, lacks the scientific approach—don’t you agree?”

  Hobart said he agreed entirely.

  An hour later he and Matheson were on their way, the Island falling away below them.

  Hobart looked down at it. “Still gives me a kick,” he said.

  “When I stop and think that man built that. An island as big as a continent—the peak of civilization.”

  Matheson shook his head tiredly. “Civilization is hooped together, brought under a semblance of peace by manifold illusion.”

  “Eh?” Hobart looked puzzled, then frowned. “You’re quoting at me again,” he accused.

  “Not at you, just quoting. There was a great deal of wisdom in the past.”

  “Wisdom or whimsy?”

  “A matter of opinion. Care to hear the rest?”

  “Not in the least, we have a job to do, clearing up some unfinished business—your unfinished business.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Hobart told him.

  “So he may have got away. Good luck to him.”

  Hobart scowled at him. As Skeld had observed, Matheson was not a satisfying character—not that he had anything against him personally. He was amiable, too amiable, perhaps, but quite useful in minor ways, like changing shifts and things like that. On the other hand, as Skeld said, he was weak, sentimental, a born do-gooder. All those books he read, philosophy, verse, took no interest at all in competitive sport or the true scientific approach. If the Island was ever in danger and Matheson came face to face with a fight, he’d fold up before a shot was fired.

  “Where are we going anyway?” Matheson sounded disinterested.

  Hobart smiled. This was going to be the test, this was going to show just how weak Matheson was. “I told you, we’re going to clear up some of your unfinished business —we’re going to get the specimen once and for all. Mr. Skeld is of the opinion, as I believe I mentioned, that he was picked up by the Maidstone boys and is probably still with them.”

  “You did! What about it?”

  “I’m afraid, to get him, well have to get the lot.”

  “How do you propose to do that?”

  Hobart pointed a freckled finger at the release stud. “With that. In the bomb bay is a little cylinder all ready for me to press that button—only I’m not going to press it—you are.” He smiled unpleasantly. “I’m not attached to the Department Of Bacteriological Warfare so I can’t tell you the exact contents of the cylinder. All I know is that it contains a virus, highly contagious but with a restricted life of only forty-eight hours. There is no danger, therefore, of it spreading to other tribes. This lot, however, and to quote an ancient cliché, will go down like com before a scythe.”

  He paused, smiling at the other’s stricken face. “Something the matter, old chap.”

  Matheson shook his head. “I thought you said these people had technology. If they have”—his voice rose suddenly—“there is only one conclusion. Their ancestors stayed behind to keep civilization going when ours were running like rats for the Island.”

  Hobart flushed angrily. “Any damn thing to bolster your cloying sentimentality.”

  “I’m not pressing that damn button for you, Skeld, or the entire Committee.”

  “Let us not become hysterical, eh? I never thought you would. I shall press it, of course.”

  “If you move your finger one centimeter towards that button I shall blow off your entire hand without a second thought.”

  Hobart stiffened and turned slowly. “Really, Matheson, there are limits even to your—” His mouth fell open idiotically. “P—p—put that gun away, you damn fool.”

  “When you move away from that stud.”

  “Now look, use your head, I’m flying this kite.”

  “Not any more—switch in the auto-pilot.”

  “Matheson, they’ll shoot you for this.” He pulled the appropriate switch. “You must have gone mad.” He half rose.

  “I wouldn’t!” Matheson took a step forward and swung the gun, butt first.

  Hobart sat suddenly back, swayed uncertainly, then rolled out of it onto the floor.

  Matheson leaned over and removed the regulation side-arm from the .other’s holster, then he waited.

  After a short time Hobart opened his eyes and blinked at the floor. Then he struggled to a sitting position and held his head. There was a deep cut and an ugly spreading bruise on his temple. He put his hand to it and winced.

  Matheson! Matheson had done this—hit him, hit him hard—namby-pamby Matheson!

  “You could have killed me,” he said thickly.

  “One false move, one single attempt to drop that cylinder, and I shall.”

  Hobart staggered unsteadily to his feet and leaned against the wall. “You—you mean it.” The gun pointing at his stomach was frighteningly steady. “You actually mean it.”

  “You don’t know how much I mean it. You don’t know what it means to live your life in a mental vacuum and suddenly come up against a clear decision which you know is right.”

  Hobart smiled uneasily. “Take it easy, old chap, you’re not thinking. You’re only postponing the inevitable. Furthermore you’ll never get away with it. In the first place, you must either stay here or you must go back. If you go back, they’ll execute you; if you stay here you’ll either starve to death or they’ll blow us both to bits.”

  He smiled again, this time with almost convincing friendliness. “Now be reasonable, give me the gun and no one will be any the wiser. This is an incident which is best forgotten and you can rely on me never to say a word about it. Come on now, give me the gun.”

  Matheson showed his teeth. It was not a smile. “I get the strong impression that you think you’re humoring a lunatic. For God’s sake, grow up, Hobart.”

  “Grow up? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I didn’t think you did despite your constant reminders of the ‘scientific approach’ and your pathetic adulation of Island civilization.”

  Despite the gun, Hobart flushed angrily. “
Watch what you’re saying.”

  “I intend to, irrespective of the fact that it doesn’t matter now. Item—and I have checked the figures—at the time of the collapse, the Island was producing a considerable surplus of synthetic foodstuffs. It was producing enough—and could have produced more—to provide salvation rations for the entire world. Not enough to provide four meals a day it is true but enough to ward off starvation.”

  He paused and jerked the gun meaningly. “Did it? Give the scientific answer, Hobart, did it?”

  “Now look, there were a lot of considerations—”

  “Yes or no, Hobart?”

  The other scowled, looked at the gun and said: “No,” sullenly.

  “Quite, it sat on its collective backside and let the world slide to ruin—is that what you’re so damn proud of?”

  “We’re trying to found a stable and sane society now,” said Hobart defensively.

  “By playing God? Don’t make me laugh. Two hundred and seventy-five million guinea pigs genetically manipulated and psychologically coerced into what you hope will one day be a stable society. You, and a large number of Islanders like you, think you’re omnipotent. You justify murder, semi-literacy, false premises and barefaced oppression on the grounds of scientific necessity. You’re paranoiacs to a man, self-appointed demi-gods, inbred smug-uglies.”

  “Now watch it I” Hobart took an angry step forward.

  The barrel of the gun jerked suddenly into his belly and he folded over with a gasp.

  “I warned you, my friend. I must remind you also that I am being merciful, far more merciful than you have ever been to your innocent specimens or the tribes you keep alive for comparison purposes.”

  He stood back as the other straightened, wheezing. “Get your breath, my friend. I am even prepared to grant you some limited justice. If you can prove to me by science, logic, data or proven fact that anything I have said is untrue, I will not only return the gun but I will go back with you as your prisoner.”

  Hobart’s mouth opened, the muscles of his face twitched but he only said: “Very slick, I suppose you think you have all the answers.”

  “No answers, only questions.”

  Hobart made an angry frustrated gesture. “All right, all right, you’re a smart talker with a neat argument. If it’s any satisfaction I’ll concede defeat, but where does it get us?”

  “It gets you nowhere but it gets me out from under my conscience.”

  “What do- you intend to do—kill me and ran?”

  “And sink to your level of expedience? No, my friend. I propose switching on the audio-beam, calling down there to let them know what goes on and putting the ship down to meet them.”

  “You’re mad. They’ll kill us out of hand.”

  “Have you any proof of that? If these people are the descendants of those who remained behind, their ethics are probably superior to the sewer-level of Island morality.”

  “I’m remembering all this,” said Hobart, thickly. “One day I hope I get the chance of beating in your damned head for all you’ve said.”

  “Of course. Beating in my head would be a far simpler solution to the problem than disproving my words—that is the scientific approach?”

  Hobart shouted: “Blast you!” and turned his back on him.

  “Stay that way.” Matheson, still pointing the gun, switched on the audio-beam. “Hello, down there….”

  Those below were not surprised by the call. The ship had been tracked from the Island and, as soon as its course became apparent, linked for sound.

  The entire conversation had been received by a increasing and frankly delighted audience of listeners far below the ground.

  12

  The disappearance of the flyer was not reported to Skeld for nearly eight hours.

  “You took your damn time, didn’t you?”

  “Sorry, sir, we had to be certain. There have been occasions in which communications have failed.”

  “And this is not one of them?”

  “Unfortunately, no. We have special equipment for getting a fix on a power-unit, even a dead one. As far as we are concerned, the ship and the two men in it have ceased to exist to normal methods of detection.”

  “I see. Thank you.” Skeld broke contact, conscious of a dampness on his forehead. He’d have to report this, the whole sorry business in complete detail. This was going to be big and very unpleasant for himself and the entire department.

  Five hours later he was facing the highest court on the Island.

  They heard him tell the entire story without comment which infused the entire proceedings with a detached and frightening coldness.

  Finally, Loom, the President, leaned back in his chair and seemed to see Skeld for the first time. He did not, however, address him directly.

  “We could describe this sorry story as ‘the insolence of office’, gentlemen. A fifth-rate executive acting ill-advisedly on his limited initiative and, in so doing, creating a unique niche for himself in the realms of general incompetence. Not content with this, he sacrifices two lives and an aircraft in desperate attempt to cover his mistakes.”

  There were nods and murmurs of agreement and Skeld had the uncomfortable feeling he was shrinking visibly. The President in his black robes in the high ornate chair seemed to glower down at him like some huge avenging eagle.

  Skeld thought, in a brief inconsequential moment, that the simile was true. Loom had huge, slightly bowed shoulders, bushy white eyebrows and a large hooked nose.

  “Gentlemen”—the President folded the fingers of his huge white hands one within another like a slowly closing trap— “despite the urgent need of bringing this incompetent before an examining board, the story he has told us must be our first consideration. Clearly we are faced with an advanced technology which, with singular insolence, has not only seen fit to conceal itself on our very doorstep but has had the temerity to intrude on our vital work.

  “There can be no doubt in our minds as to procedure— this band of uncontrolled and dangerous Gadgeteers must be found and eliminated to a man.”

  It was then that the air seemed to crackle curiously and a pleasant, slightly amused voice said: “Which band— ours or the seven thousand five hundred other bands dotted all over the world?”

  There was a pause and the committee members looked at each other disbelieving and almost accusingly. All their faces asked the same question—who the hell said that?

  The voice answered obligingly. “One of the “bands’ said it. If you are interested, gentlemen, we can not only hear every word you say but see you as well—not bad for a Gadgeteer, would you say? However, to get down to basics, hadn’t you better think again. You go gunning for that band on your doorstep and the rest of us will come gunning for you—clear?”

  Again the voice paused. “We don’t want war, gentlemen, but we’ll fight if you force it on us. What we are seeking is the co-operation of all humanity to reclaim and rebuild the world, not two warring factions making it worse than it is already. Of course, being what you are, you may decide to fight, but if you do you’ll go down in history as the greatest military incompetents the world has ever seen. A war on two fronts with the technical accomplishments and the potential strength of both factions a complete enigma-yes, we know about the South American business.”

  There was an amused laugh. “We have a comedian in our band now, joined us quite recently. He referred to you as an Island of smug-uglies—are you going to prove him right?”

  There was a crackling sound again and the voice stopped. Within an hour, however, it was back but this time it spoke to the entire Island.

  “Do you wish for a war on two fronts? Do you wish to cross swords with a sub-microscopic life-form more intelligent than yourselves? Do you, at the same time, hope to launch a punitive assault on your own land? Are you strong enough for this land of lunacy? Have you, for example, a clue to the potential of your human opponents, numerically, industrially or technically?”

&n
bsp; The voice paused. “In all communities, there are the good and the bad, the sane and the insane, the reasoning and the unreasoning. Our appeal is to the sane, the good, the reasoning. It is an appeal to unite with us to rebuild the world, to reclaim the heritage of all humanity.”

  By this time, nearly the entire electronic resources and technical wizardry of the Island were concentrated on tracing the source of the broadcast.

  Harassed technicians and experts with angry executives breathing down their necks labored desperately to obtain a fix with infuriatingly abortive results.

  The first three words came from Central Germany, the next three on a different frequency, came from the United States, the next three from Australia and so on. Yet there was no pause in continuity and no lessening of power.

  Every ninety minutes, with infuriating regularity, the voice posed its unanswerable questions. There was no escaping it. In allegedly sound-proof rooms it came with the same clearness as in the open streets. Attempts to jam the broadcasts proved hopeless and, in a vain attempt to blot out the sound, the authorities resorted to the public address system. Garish music, military marches and the classics were poured forth at full volume. This too proved worthless; the frequency appeared to be tuned to the exact resonance of the normal ear drum and the voice could be heard clearly above the music.

  “Is work easier for you to music or have you come to the reluctant conclusion that your technology is inferior to ours? Are your weapons and defensive equipment inferior? You do not know, your Supreme Committee does not know, yet, with your intelligence service provided only with a question mark, you are prepared to undertake an act of war. Do you, the individual citizen want war? It is your decision, not ours. Do you wish to co-operate with us to reclaim our heritage or do you wish the ultimate destruction which war will bring?”

  As the voice had remarked earlier, all communities contained the good, the bad, the sane, the insane, the reasoning and the unreasoning. The good, the sane and the reasoning were already listening carefully and coming to conclusions.

 

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