She shuddered, and murmured, "Some day—they'll be a civilized race again, won't they?"
He sobered, and stared thoughtfully at the star-lanced cosmos. "Theirs is the past, Daleth. Theirs is the glory of having founded the race of man. They sent us into space. They gave the galaxy to man—in the beginning. We would do well to let them alone."
He watched her for a moment. She had lost cockiness, temporarily.
"Stop grinning at me like that!" she snapped. Roki went to feed the Solarian captives: canned cabbage.
Editor's Introduction To:
Here, There Be Witches
Everett B. Cole
The Philosophical Corps has the task of guarding young cultures and allowing them to develop without killing themselves.
Arthur C. Clarke's Law states: "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." Commander A-Riman of the Philosophical Corps has good reason to know this.
Here, There Be Witches
Everett B. Cole
Commander Kar Walzen looked up from his desk as Hal Carlsen came in.
"I'm told you had some trouble with my Operations Officer."
Carlsen shook his head. "No real trouble, sir. He wanted to schedule us for a C.A. assignment. I explained to him that I had an assignment that would take some time. Suggested that he pick one of the regular Criminal Apprehension teams to handle it."
The Sector Criminal Apprehension Officer frowned. "You refused an assignment, then. Right?"
"No, sir. I simply explained to Captain Koren that my detachment would be tied up for a while. His assignment would be delayed if he waited for us to get back."
"That constitutes a refusal in my book. Now, let's get this clear right at the start. You and your people are not a bunch of prima donnas. You've turned in some good assignments, but you were sent to C.A. to work, not to go haring off any time you happened to feel like it. Is that clear?"
"Sir, we have a Philosophical Corps assignment. It came in through Sector this morning. According to our orders, it takes priority."
"Nonsense! You're assigned to me." Walzen exhaled loudly and regarded the junior officer angrily.
Carlsen reached into his tunic and took out a folded sheaf of papers. He pulled one off and extended it. "You should have received a copy of this, sir. I gave one to the captain."
Walzen grabbed the sheet, scanning it. Finally, he threw it down and reached for his communicator switch.
"I'll get this rescinded and set those people straight once and for all. Now you get back to Operations. Get your instructions from Captain Koren. I want to see a completed operational plan on this desk not later than tomorrow morning." He rapped at the communicator switch.
"You may go."
Carlsen hesitated for a few seconds, then went out to the outer office and sat down. The clerk looked at him curiously.
"You need something, sir?"
Carlsen shook his head. "No. The commander'll be wanting to see me in a few minutes. No point in making him wait."
The clerk looked doubtful. "Yes, sir."
Carlsen sat back and relaxed. A low murmur came from the inner office. Walzen's voice raised almost to a shout.
"I tell you, I can't perform my mission if my people are going to be constantly pulled out of service for some errand." The murmur went on. Carlsen waited.
There was a harsh, grating sound and Walzen's door slammed open. The commander strode out, glaring at his clerk.
"Get Mr. Carlsen back in here on the double."
He turned, then saw Carlsen.
"Oh. You're still here, eh? Come inside."
The commander slammed down in his chair and looked up angrily.
"Headquarters tells me that assignment of yours has priority. Now I won't go against definite orders. Never have, and never will. So you can go ahead this time. But let me tell you this: Next time you sneak over my head to the front office, I'm going to see to it that your career in the Stellar Guard is short, brutal, and nasty. Is that clear?"
Carlsen nodded, waiting.
"How long is this little junket of yours going to take?"
"It's hard to say, sir. We've got the Exploratory team's field notes, but we've no idea what sort of detailed situations we may run into."
Walzen snorted. "Bunch of amateurs! I'll give you a week. Then I'll expect you to report back for duty. And I'm going to tell you once again. Don't you ever again try going over my head so you can take one of these little vacations. Understand?"
Hal Carlsen looked into the viewsphere as his scouter floated toward distant foothills. He examined the valley below, occasionally changing magnification as features of interest caught his attention.
In the remote past, water running from newly formed mountains had raged across the land, cutting a path for itself as it raced toward the sea. Now, it had cut its channel, shifted course time after time, and at last had come to be a peaceful, elderly stream, meandering lazily at the center of a wide valley.
Occasional cliffs along the ancient river course marked water lines of old. But in most places, erosion had caused the cliffs to become sloping bluffs which rose to a tableland above.
Even the mountains had weathered, to become tree-clad hills, and their sediment had paved the water-carved valley. Hedgerows divided the fertile land into fields and pastures. Tall trees grew on the river bank, their roots holding the soil to inhibit the river from further changes in course. Clusters of buildings dotted the valley floor and narrow roads connected them to one another and to a main highway which roughly bisected the valley's width.
Carlsen examined a craggy cliff speculatively, then shrugged. Could have been times when the sea came up here. Might be what's left of a gulf, at that, he told himself. But right now, it's people I'm interested in, not historical geology.
A winding road led up the face of the cliff to a castle gate. Carlsen looked at it thoughtfully, then glanced at his range markers. It was just about at his own altitude and fairly close. He reached for the manual override, then shook his head. Just ahead was a large town at the head of the valley. He could look into the castle later.
Beast-drawn carts were making their jolting way along the road below and as the ship passed over one of them, Carlsen tapped the controls, slowing to the speed of the cart. He increased magnification and studied the man and his draft animal.
The driver was a youngish man, dressed in a sort of faded yellow smock and wide, short pantaloons. Thongs wrapped around his ankles supported a boardlike sole and gave his feet some protection. He was obviously humanoid and Carlsen could see no significant difference between him and the basic homo sapiens type. He nodded.
Just about have to be, he told himself. It's a geomorphic planet. Who else would you expect to find? He turned his attention to the draft beast.
The creature was a slate gray. Carlsen estimated its mass at nearly a thousand kilograms. The body was relatively short and fat, supported on blocky legs. The neck was long, the muzzle shovel-like. Carlsen tilted his head. Might be a herbivorous reptile? He increased magnification, then shook his head. No, there was scanty, coarse body hair. Lines ran from the cart to a system of straps at the animal's shoulders. The beast plodded gracelessly, occasionally stretching its long neck aside to tear a bit of herbage from the growth at the roadside.
Carlsen turned his attention back to the driver, then reached out and focused his psionic amplifier. For a few seconds, he sat in concentration, then he abruptly snapped a switch.
Gloch! None of my business. That's no kind of research.
The driver moved uneasily, then looked upward. He searched the sky then shook his head uncertainly and returned his attention to his beast and the rutted road before him.
Carlsen's hand darted out, bringing the ship down until it hovered close over the cart.
Interesting, he murmured. This guy knows there's something up here. He glanced at a cluster of meters and shook his head.
No trace of radiation shield leak
age and at this speed there's not a chance of concussion. He examined the man curiously. He's got to be a sensitive, he decided. I think I'll just record this guy for a while.
Again, the driver squirmed uneasily and looked up and behind him. For a moment, he faced directly at Carlsen, who flipped a casual salute.
Hi, chum, he laughed. If you can see anything here, you've got something new in the way of eyesight. But how about looking the other way for a while? I don't want you to get curious about insects that pop out of nowhere. And I don't want to use a full shielded spyeye. Haven't got an oversupply of those. His hand poised over a switch.
The driver shook his head again, rubbed a hand over his eyes, and finally faced forward, muttering to himself.
Carlsen flicked up the psionic amplification.
Wysrin Kanlor, the man was saying, you're as crazy as that Mord claims. There's got to be something up there. Something big. But all I can see is sky.
Carlsen took his hand from the switch and looked thoughtfully at the man. At last, he opened a wall cabinet, took out a stubby cylinder, and opened its access port. For a few minutes, he busied himself in making adjustments, then he snapped the port shut. The cylinder faded from view, and he opened a drawer under the console and shoved the invisible object inside. He swung around and watched a small viewscreen as the instrument approached, hovered before the driver, then focused.
Locked on, Carlsen said. I'd say it's worth it. If I don't get anything else, I'll get a good line on language and dialect from the way he talks to himself. He lifted ship, pointed its nose toward the town, and switched to the auto pilot.
For a while, he studied the details of narrow, winding streets as the ship slowly circled. Then he eased down over the central plaza and set the auto pilot to hold position.
At one side of the open space, a blackened area surrounded a thick, charred post. Several short lengths of chain, terminated by heavy cuffs, dangled from ringbolts. Nearby, a cart bearing a new post had pulled up and men were unloading tools. Carlsen frowned.
Now just what have we here? he muttered. He snapped on the psionics and focused on one of the workmen.
For an instant, there was a picture of flames rising about the post. A human figure twisted and moved frantically. There was a mixed sense of vicious pleasure, deep guilt, and suppressed skepticism. Then the man's thoughts became crisply businesslike. Vocalized thought came through clearly.
"All right, you two," he ordered. "Let's be at it. This stick's got to be set sometime today. Man says they're going to be needing it."
The workers went about their duties mechanically, paying no attention to their surroundings and showing no suspicion of awareness of the watcher above them. Carlsen frowned in distaste.
Public executions, he decided. Pretty savage about it, too. He examined the buildings surrounding the plaza, then flicked at a series of switches. A swarm of beetlelike objects appeared, then swung about the plaza, dispersed, and disappeared through openings in the various buildings. Carlsen rotated a selector, examining the viewsphere. Finally, he stopped to study an interior view. The telltale was high on the wall.
The high-ceilinged room was almost square. Rough stone walls were partly hidden by draperies. Overhead, rough rafters formed a grid in the plaster of the ceiling. At one end of the room, on a raised part of the stone flooring, a group of men sat behind a heavy table. Carlsen looked at them curiously.
Two were enveloped in drab, gray robes whose texture belied their apparent austerity. Both wore ornate rings and one had a heavily jeweled amulet.
Bet there's some mighty nice tailoring under those robes, Carlsen told himself. He looked at the other three men.
They were richly dressed, their clothing bearing small resemblance in either cut or material to the coarse cloth worn by the farmer and the workmen. They were leaning forward, listening attentively to the robed man with the jeweled amulet.
The telltale was too small to handle psionic overtones. For a time, Carlsen listened to the man's harangue, then he turned and got out another stubby cylinder.
I need to know what this fellow's thinking about, he told himself. What he's saying may make sense to those people, but it's so far from reality, I can't get much out of it.
He locked the spyeye to the telltale, launched it, and waited till it was in position. The beetle was clinging to a fold in one of the drapes.
Better anchor this thing to the ceiling, I'd say. No one'll stumble over it there. He snapped switches and sat watching the presentation.
"I get it," he finally said aloud, "but I don't get the sense. Demons! Sorcery, yet! And this bum's actually more than half convincing these guys, even though he doesn't really believe much of it himself." He leaned back.
"Well, maybe I'll get something to collate with this from the rest of the team."
He grabbed a lever switch and held it back.
"Cisner?"
"Here, Chief." A tanned face appeared in one of the screens.
"Got anything yet?"
"Yes, sir. I've bugged a sort of palace down this way. Got a spyeye or two around town, too." The man shrugged. "Chief, some of these people are nothing but psycho. And the local archduke is the worst of the bunch. He's been so badly suckered, he eats . . . Chief, you'll have to see the whole run to believe it."
Carlsen nodded. "I think I know what you mean. Demons. Sorcery. Witches who prey on their neighbors?"
"That's it, sir. Couple of these vultures don't believe the guff they're selling, but a couple more do. They're all pushing it, though. People? Some of 'em swallow it whole, some of 'em aren't so sure and a few of them think it's a bunch of bunk. But no one's got the nerve to ask foolish questions."
"Well, get full coverage. I think we'll have to do something about this. Out." Carlsen hesitated, then pushed the switch again.
"Waler?"
Another face appeared.
"I've caught a kind of university, Chief. Lecturer was giving them the lowdown on demonology." Waler grinned lopsidedly. "This guy's really sold. He's even had wild dreams of his own. He's got some sort of intestinal parasite. Pretty toxic and he's subject to delirious nightmares." He frowned.
"He's a good talker, but some of his students still aren't sure. They're just wondering how they can learn all the patter and get by their examinations."
"Oh, me! Every culture needs leaders like that! Any of them psionically sensitive?"
"Yeah. Several of'em. They're the skeptics."
"Makes sense. Look, Waler, see if you can get spyeyes in some of the other lecture rooms. Try to psi bug a few student hangouts, too."
"Will do, sir. Oh, they don't have lecture rooms. These profs do their teaching at their homes, most of them. Few use rooms in some tavern."
"So bug their homes and the taverns. Got enough eyes?"
"Couple dozen."
"Should do it. Incidentally, I've picked up some of that same stuff here in Varsana. There's a theocratic Chief Examiner named pen Qatorn. He hasn't been here too long, but he's got the locals scared to death and he's holding trials. Well, we'll see what else we get. Then we can figure out what we have to do, if anything. Out."
Wysrin Kanlor abruptly reined up his mount and sat staring at a patch of wide leaves, sickly yellow against the deep green of the field.
Lizard weed, he growled. I knew I should have checked up here before. He looked at the patch, estimating its size, then headed his beast back to the barn.
It'll take a while to burn that patch out, he mused. It'll be no town fair for me today, or maybe tomorrow, either. He gathered tools, hitched the garn to a water wagon, and drove back.
The weeds burned furiously at first, then became a mass of smoldering embers. A thick, yellow column of smoke rose into the still air, spread, then drifted lazily away. Kanlor leaned on his shovel, watching. There had been a few bad moments when the drenching he had given the grass had failed and the blaze had threatened to leap out into the pasture, but fast work with the shovel had
prevented disaster. Fortunately, the weeds hadn't reached maturity, so no flaming seeds had sprung out. And he'd seen no trace of the vicious yarlnu lizards. He looked back at his herd, which had drifted away from the blaze.
Well, none of them are on the ground. I guess the patch wasn't ripe enough for 'em to try eating it. He moved his shoulders uneasily, then waved a hand by his face. For a few days past, something had been nearby—something that kept watching him closely. But he had never been able to see— He looked about, then up into the clear sky. There was nothing. He shrugged, then looked across the fields at another column of smoke. Black mixed with the yellow.
Imperial Stars 3-The Crash of Empire Page 31