by Isaac Asimov
Gillbret showed no offense. His thin face merely creased further as his smile widened. He said, “You might satisfy my curiosity. You really came for Sanctuary? Here?”
“I’d rather discuss that with the Director, sir.”
“Oh, get off it, young man. You’ll find that very little business can be done with the Director. Why do you suppose you had to deal with his daughter just now? That’s an amusing thought, if you’ll consider it.”
“Do you find everything amusing?”
“Why not? As an attitude toward life, it’s an amusing one. It’s the only adjective that will fit. Observe the universe, young man. If you can’t force amusement out of it, you might as well cut your throat, since there’s damned little good in it. I haven’t introduced myself, by the way. I’m the Director’s cousin.”
Biron said coldly, “Congratulations!”
Gillbret shrugged. “You’re right. It’s not impressive. And I’m likely to remain just that indefinitely since there is no assassination to be expected after all.”
“Unless you whip one up for yourself.”
“My dear sir, your sense of humor! You’ll have to get used to the fact that nobody takes me seriously. My remark was only an expression of cynicism. You don’t suppose the Directorship is worth anything these days, do you? Surely you cannot believe that Hinrik was always like this? He was never a great brain, but with every year he becomes more impossible. I forget! You haven’t seen him yet. But you will! I hear him coming. When he speaks to you, remember that he is the ruler of the largest of the Trans-Nebular Kingdoms. It will be an amusing thought.”
Hinrik bore his dignity with the ease of experience. He acknowledged Biron’s painstakingly ceremonious bow with the proper degree of condescension. He said, with a trace of abruptness, “And your business with us, sir?”
Artemisia was standing at her father’s side, and Biron noticed, with some surprise, that she was quite pretty. He said, “Your Excellency, I have come on behalf of my father’s good name. You must know his execution was unjust.”
Hinrik looked away. “I knew your father slightly. He was in Rhodia once or twice.” He paused, and his voice quavered a bit. “You are very like him. Very. But he was tried, you know. At least I imagine he was. And according to law. Really, I don’t know the details.”
“Exactly, Your Excellency. But I would like to learn those details. I am sure that my father was no traitor.”
Hinrik broke in hurriedly. “As his son, of course, it is understandable that you should defend your father, but, really, it is difficult to discuss such matters of state now. Highly irregular, in fact. Why don’t you see Aratap?”
“I do not know him, Excellency.”
“Aratap! The Commissioner! The Tyrannian Commissioner” ‘
“I have seen him and he sent me here. Surely, you understand that I dare not let the Tyranni–”
But Hinrik had grown stiff. His hand had wandered to his lips, as though to keep them from trembling, and his words were consequently muffled. “Aratap sent you here, you say?”
“I found it necessary to tell him–”
“Don’t repeat what you told him. I know,” said Hinrik. “I can do nothing for you, Rancher–uh–Mr. Farrill. It is not in my jurisdiction alone. The Executive Council–stop pulling at me, Arta. How can I pay attention to matters when you distract me?–must be consulted. Gillbret! Will you see that Mr. Farrill is taken care of? I will see what can be done. Yes, I will consult the Executive Council. The forms of law, you know. Very important. Very important.”
He turned on his heel, mumbling.
Artemisia lingered for a moment and touched Biron’s sleeve. “A moment. Was it true, your statement that you could pilot a spaceship?”
“Quite true,” said Biron. He smiled at her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she dimpled briefly in return.
“Gillbret,” she said, “I want to speak to you later.”
She hurried off. Biron looked after her till Gillbret tweaked at his sleeve.
“I presume you are hungry, perhaps thirsty, would like a wash?” asked Gillbret. “The ordinary amenities of life continue, I take it?”
“Thank you, yes,” said Biron. The tension had almost entirely washed out of him. For a moment he was relaxed and felt wonderful. Shewas pretty. Very pretty.
But Hinrik was not relaxed; In his own chambers his thoughts whirled at a feverish pace. Try as he might, he could not wriggle out of the inevitable conclusion. It was a trap! Aratap had sent him and it was a trap!
He buried his head in his hands to quiet and deaden the pounding, and then he knew what he had to do.
Seven: Musician of the Mind
NIGHT SETTLES IN time on all habitable planets. Not always, perhaps, at respectable intervals, since recorded periods of rotation vary from fifteen to fifty-two hours. That fact requires the most strenuous psychological adjustment from those traveling from planet to planet.
On many planets such adjustments are made, and the waking-sleeping periods are tailored to fit. On many more the almost universal use of conditioned atmospheres and artificial lighting make the day-night question secondary except in so far as it modifies agriculture. On a few planets (those of the extremes) arbitrary divisions are made which ignore the trivial facts of light and dark.
But always, whatever the social conventions, the coming of night has a deep and abiding psychological significance, dating back to man’s pre-human arboreal existence. Night will always be a time of fear and insecurity, and the heart will sink with the sun.
Inside Palace Central there was no sensory mechanism by which one could tell the coming of night, yet Biron felt that coming through some indefinite instinct hidden in the unknown corridors of the human brain. He knew that outdoors the night’s blackness was scarcely relieved by the futile sparks of the stars. He knew that, if it were the right time of year, the jagged “hole in space” known as the Horsehead Nebula (so familiar to all the Trans-Nebular Kingdoms) inked out half the stars that might otherwise have been visible.
And he was depressed again. He had not seen Artemisia since the little talk with the Director, and he found himself resenting that. He had looked forward to dinner; he might have spoken to her. Instead, he had eaten alone, with two guards lounging discontentedly just outside the door. Even Gillbret had left him, presumably to eat a less lonely meal in the company one would expect in a palace of the Hinriads.
So that when Gillbret returned and said, “Artemisia and I have been discussing you,” he obtained a prompt and interested reaction.
It merely amused him and he said so. “First I want to show you my laboratory,” he had said then. He gestured and the two guards moved off.
“What kind of a laboratory?” asked Biron with a definite loss of interest.
“I build gadgets,” was the vague response.
It was not a laboratory to the eye. It was more nearly a library, with an ornate desk in the corner.
Biron looked it over slowly. “And you build gadgets here? What kind of gadgets?”
“Well, special sounding devices to spy out the Tyrannian spy beams in a brand-new way. Nothing they can detect. That’s how I found out about you, when the first word came through from Aratap. And I have other amusing trinkets. My visisonor, for instance. Do you like music?”
“Some kinds.”
“Good. I invented an instrument, only I don’t know if you can properly call it music.” A shelf of book films slid out and aside at a touch. “This is not really much of a hiding place, but nobody takes me seriously, so they don’t look. Amusing, don’t you think? But I forget, you’re the unamused one.”
It was a clumsy, boxlike affair, with that singular lack of gloss and polish that marks the homemade object. One side of it was studded with little gleaming knobs. He put it down with that side upward.
“It isn’t pretty,” Gillbret said, “but who in Time cares? Put the lights out. No, no! No switches or contacts. Just wish the lights were o
ut. Wish hard! Decide you want them out.”
And the lights dimmed, with the exception of the faint pearly luster of the ceiling that made them two ghostly faces in the dark. Gillbret laughed lightly at Biron’s exclamation.
“Just one of the tricks of my visisonor. It’s keyed to the mind like personal capsules are. Do you know what I mean?”
“No, I don’t, if you want a plain answer.”
“Well,” he said, “look at it this way. The electric field of your brain cells sets up an induced one in the instrument. Mathematically, it’s fairly simple, but as far as I know, no one has ever jammed all the necessary circuits into a box this size before. Usually, it takes a five-story generating plant to do it. It works the other way too. I can close circuits here and impress them directly upon your brain, so that you’ll see and hear without any intervention of eyes and ears. Watch!”
There was nothing to watch, at first. And then something fuzzy scratched faintly at the corner of Biron’s eyes. It became a faint blue-violet ball hovering in mid-air. It followed him as he turned away, remained unchanged when he closed his eyes. And a clear, musical tone accompanied it, was part of it, was it.
It was growing and expanding and Biron became disturbingly aware that it existed inside his skull. It wasn’t really a color, but rather a colored sound, though without noise. It was tactile, yet without feeling.
It spun and took on an iridescence while the musical tone rose in pitch till it hovered above him like falling silk. Then it exploded so that gouts of color splattered at him in touches that burned momentarily and left no pain.
Bubbles of rain-drenched green rose again with a quiet, soft moaning. Biron thrust at them in confusion and became aware that he could not see his hands nor feel them move. There was nothing, only the little bubbles filling his mind to the exclusion of all else.
He cried out soundlessly and the fantasy ceased. Gillbret was standing before him once again in a lighted room, laughing. Biron felt an acute dizziness and wiped shakily at a chilled, moist forehead. He sat down abruptly.
“What happened?” he demanded, in as stiff a tone as he could manage.
Gillbret said, “I don’t know. I stayed out of it. You don’t understand? It was something your brain had lacked previous experience with. Your brain was sensing directly and it had no method of interpretation for such a phenomenon. So as long as you concentrated Qn the sensation, your brain could only attempt, futilely, to force the effect into the old, familiar pathways. It attempts separately and simultaneously to interpret it as sight and sound and touch. Were you conscious of an odor, by the way? Sometimes it seemed to me that I smelled the stuff. With dogs I imagine the sensation would be forced almost entirely into odor. I’d like to try it on animals someday.
“On the other hand, if you ignore it, make no attack upon it, it fades away. It’s what I do, when I want to observe its effects on others, and it isn’t difficult.”
He placed a little veined hand upon the instrument, fingering the knobs aimlessly. “Sometimes I think that if one could really study this thing, one could compose symphonies in a new medium; do things one could never do with simple sound or sight. I lack the capacit, y for it, I’m afraid.”
Biron said abruptly, “I’d like to ask you a question.”
“By all means.”
“Why don’t you put your scientific ability to worth-while use instead of–”
“Wasting it on useless toys? I don’t know. It may not be entirely useless. This is against the law, you know.”
“What is?”
“The visisonor. Also my spy devices. If the Tyranni knew, it could easily mean a death sentence.”
“Surely, you’re joking.”
“Not at all. It is obvious that you were brought up on a cattle ranch. The young people cannot remember what it was like in the old days, I see.” Suddenly his head was to one side and his eyes were narrowed to slits. He asked, “Are you opposed to Tyrannian rule? Speak freely. I tell you frankly that I am. I tell you also that your father was.”
Biron said calmly, “Yes, I am.”
“Why?”
“They are strangers, outlanders. What right have they to rule in Nephelos or in Rhodia?”
“Have you always thought that?” Biron did not answer.
Gillbret sniffed. “In other words, you decided they were strangers and outlanders only after they executed your father, which, after all, was their simple right. Oh, look, don’t fire up. Consider it reasonably. Believe me, I’m on your side. But think! Your father was Rancher. What rights did his herdsmen have? If one of them had stolen cattle for his own use or to sell to others, what would have been his punishment? Imprisonment as a thief. If he had plotted the death of your father, for whatever reason, for perhaps a worthy reason in his own eyes, what would have been the result? Execution, undoubtedly. And what right has your father to make laws and visit punishment upon his fellow human beings? He was their Tyranni.
“Your father, in his own eyes and in mine, was a patriot. But what of that? To the Tyranni, he was a traitor, and they removed him. Can you ignore the necessity of self-defense? The Hinriads have been a bloody lot in their time. Read your history, young man. All governments kill as part of the nature of things.,
“So find a better reason to hate the Tyranni. Don’t think it is enough to replace one set of rulers by another; that the simple change brings freedom.”
Biron pounded a fist into his cupped palm. “All this objective philosophy is fine. It is very soothing to the man who lives apart. But what if it had been your father who was murdered?”
“Well, wasn’t it? My father was Director before Hinrik, and he was killed. Oh, not outright, but subtly. They broke his spirit, as they are breaking Hinrik’s now. They wouldn’t have me as Director when my father died; I was just a little too unpredictable. Hinrik was tall, handsome, and, above all, pliant. Yet not pliant enough, apparently. They hound him continuously, grind him into a pitiful puppet, make sure he cannot even itch without permission. You’ve seen him. He’s deteriorating by the month now. His continual state of fear is pathetically psychopathic. But that–all that–is not why I want to destroy Tyrannian rule.”
“No?” said Biron. “You have invented an entirely new reason?”
“An entirely old one, rather. The Tyranni are destroying the right of twenty billion human beings to take part in the development of the race. You’ve been to school. You’ve learned the economic cycle. A new planet is settled”–he was ticking the points off on his fingers–” and its first care is to feed itself. It becomes an agricultural world, a herding world. It begins to dig in the ground for crude ore to export, and sends its agricultural surplus abroad to buy luxuries and machinery. That is the second step. Then, as population increases and foreign investments grow, an industrial civilization begins to bud, which is the third step. Eventually, the world becomes mechanized, importing food, exporting machinery, investing in the development of more primitive worlds, and so on. The fourth step.
“Always the mechanized worlds are the most thickly populated, the most powerful, militarily–since war is a function of machines–and they are usually surrounded by a fringe of agricultural, dependent worlds.
“But what has happened to us? We were at the third step, with a growing industry. And now? That growth has been stopped, frozen, forced to recede. It would interfere with Tyrannian control of our industrial necessities. It is a short-term investment on their part, because eventually we’ll become unprofitable as we become impoverished. But meanwhile, they skim the cream.
“Besides, if we industrialized ourselves, we might develop weapons of war. So industrialization is stopped; scientific research is forbidden. And eventually the people become so used to that, they lack the realization even that anything is missing. So that you are surprised when 1 tell you that I could be executed for building a visisonor.
“Of course, someday we will beat the Tyranni. It is fairly inevitable. They can’t rule forever
. No one can. They’ll grow soft and lazy. They will intermarry and lose much of their separate traditions. They will become corrupt. But it may take centuries, because history doesn’t hurry. And when those centuries have passed, we will still all be agricultural worlds with no industrial or scientific heritage to speak of, while our neighbors on all sides, those not under Tyrannian control, will be strong and urbanized. The Kingdoms will be semicolonial areas forever. They will never catch up, and we will be merely observers in the great drama of human advance.”
Biron said, “What you say is not completely unfamiliar.”
“Naturally, if you were educated on Earth. Earth occupies a very peculiar position in social development.”
“Indeed?”
“Consider! All the Galaxy has been in a continuous state of expansion since the first discovery of interstellar travel. We have always been a growing society, therefore, an immature society. It is obvious that human society reached maturity in only one place and at only one time and that this was on Earth immediately prior to its catastrophe. There we had a society which had temporarily lost all possibility for geographical expansion and was therefore faced with such problems as over-population, depletion of resources, and so on; problems that have never faced any other portion of the Galaxy.
“They were forced to study the social sciences intensively. We have lost much or all of that and it is a pity. Now here’s an amusing thing. When Hinrik was a young man, he was a great Primitivist. He had a library on things Earthly that was unparalleled in the Galaxy. Since he became Director, that’s gone by the board along with everything else. But in a way, I’ve inherited it. Their literature, such scraps as survive, is fascinating. It has a peculiarly introspective flavor to it that we don’t have in our extraverted Galactic civilization. It is most amusing.”
Biron said, “You relieve me. You have been serious for so long that I began to wonder if you had lost your sense of humor.”