Travelers of Space - [Adventures in Science Fiction 03]

by Edited by Martin Greenburg

  “Could be,” said Alak. He didn’t inquire into the nature of the so quickly spreading rumors, or how they had got started. Someday the Patrol must investigate the evidence hinting at some race in the Galaxy which had not chosen to reveal its telepathic abilities but to use them instead for private advantage. At the moment there was more urgent business.

  “I might have a little trouble leaving this planet,” said Alak. “You might, too.”

  “I can always find a hiding place and go into hibernation for a few years till they forget about me,” said Slinh. “But a human at large might have difficulties even staying alive. I doubt if any Luanian crooks would help a”—he lowered his hissing voice— “Patrolman now that there’s a war on. In such times, the mob hysteria officially known as patriotism infects all classes of society.”

  “True. But illogical. Patrolmen are more tolerant toward lawbreakers than local police.”

  Slinh shook his scaly head in some bewilderment. “I never could figure out the Patrol,” he said. “Even its members of my own race I can’t understand. Officially it exists to co-ordinate the systems of the Galactic League and to enforce the laws of the central authority. But after a while I quit paying attention to the stories of fabulous raids and arrests by Patrolmen and began watching for myself and speaking to eyewitnesses. And y’know, I have not been able to verify one case of the Patrol acting directly against a crook. The best they ever do is give the local police some technical advice, and that’s rare. I’m beginning to suspect that the stories of the huge Patrol battle fleet are deliberate lies and the stereographs of it fakes—that though the Patrol makes big claims, it’s never yet really arrested a criminal. In fact”—Slinh’s claws tightened about his glass—”it seems one of the most corrupt organizations in the Galaxy. Voal’s speech today was—true! I know of more cases where it’s made alliance with crooks, or supported crooked governments, or engaged in crooked political deals, that I could easily count. Like in this case here—first the Patrol, on the feeblest ‘right of discovery’ excuse, awards Lhing to the Marhalian System—Lhing, that was a Luanian development from the first—and then it seeks to overthrow the democratically elected Luanian government and set up some kind of revolutionary junta that’s sure to empty the public coffers before running for a distant planet. I don’t blame Luan for seceding from the League!”

  “You could turn me in,” said Alak. “There must be a reward.”

  “Not I,” said Slinh. He grinned evilly. “The police don’t approve of siwa or those who sell it. Also, what’s Luan to me? They could blow up the planet for all I care—once I’m off it. And finally—it’s barely possible we could make a deal.”

  Alak ordered another beer and vurzin. “Pray continue,” he said. “You interest me strangely.”

  ~ * ~

  Despite his purpose, despite the knowledge he had and the implacable hostility which seethed within him, Sharr felt a stirring of awe as he entered the cathedral. The long nave loomed before him, a dusky immensity lit with the wonderful chromatic sunlight that streamed through the stained-glass windows; the vaulted ceiling was lost in a twilight of height through which fluttered white birds like living benedictions; the heavy languor of incense was in the cool dark air, and music breathed invisible beauty about him from—somewhere. Here, he thought, was peace and security, rest for the weary and hope for the grieving—

  Aye, the peace and security of death, the resting from duty, and a false cold-bloodedly manufactured hope which destroyed souls. The magnificent shell of the cathedral covered a cosmic rottenness that—

  The archbishop stood waiting for him near the great altar, resplendent in the dazzling robes of the new church. He was of this planet, Crios, but tall and impressive, with the cold wisdom of the Galaxy behind his eyes—the upper clergy of the new god were all Crians educated on League planets. Sharr was acutely conscious of his own shabby dress and his own ignorance of the cynical science that made miracles to order. No wonder all Crios was turning from the old faith to this lying devil who called himself a new god.

  “Greeting, my son,” said the archbishop sonorously. “I was told by my angel you were coming hither and—”

  “I am not your son,” said Sharr flatly, “and I happen to know that your ‘angel’ is a creature from the stars who has to live in a tank but has the unholy power to read men’s thoughts—”

  “That is blasphemy,” said the archbishop mildly, “but since you have been misled all your life, even to the extent of becoming a high priest of the false god, you will be forgiven this time.” “Oh, I know your artificial thunderbolts—you must have some, all your other miracles are artificial—could smite me where I stand,” said Sharr wearily. “No matter. My knowledge will not die with me.”

  The archbishop’s eyes narrowed. Sharr hurried on: “When the strangers first came from beyond the stars, they brought a great hope to Crios. They cured us of many ancient ills, they gave us machines which produced more abundantly than slaves ever could ... oh, yes, all the nations of Crios were glad to unify and join their Galactic League as a whole planet. But now I see all this was but the mask of the Evil Ones.”

  “In what way?” asked the other. “Before, there was only one faith on Crios. Now all gods can compete equally. If the stronger—that is, the truer—gods drive the weaker from the hearts of the people, what harm? Rather it is good. If your god is true, let him produce miracles such as ours.”

  “Let us not mince words,” said Sharr. “There is no one here but us. All Crios rejoiced at the possession of spaceships, for now we could bring the true faith to other worlds, saving countless souls from the Evil Ones. But no sooner had we begun organizing a great crusade than you appeared—and your sly words and your false miracles and your machine-made magnificence turn more and more Crian hearts to the god in which you yourselves do not believe.”

  “How do you know we don’t?”

  “Few Crians have been to space, and most of those who went have returned as traitors like yourself,” said Shan. “I went to see what power this Galactic lord of yours has elsewhere. I had my own ship and I used my own eyes. I saw that no other world had ever heard of him. I saw machines doing the same sort of things which you do here, seemingly by the power of your god, to impress the ignorant—building your churches overnight, scattering gold from nowhere, turning one metal into another; I saw creatures of horrible aspect which read minds— Oh, I began to see what your god really was. When I came back, I did a little investigation, I had my spies here and there—I know you for the cold-blooded liars you are.”

  “Why should we lie? What is the point in preaching a false religion?”

  “Power, glory— I can think of many reasons, but my personal belief is that you are agents of the Evil Ones, sent to destroy the great Crian crusade before it got started. Had all of this planet been pure in faith, the All-Father would have aided us and we would have swept the Galaxy before us into his fold—now we must first get rid of the false Galactic lord and then slowly, by prayer and repentance, win back our worthiness.”

  The archbishop smiled, a curiously chilling smile. “And how will you go about it?” he asked softly.

  “I have taken care that all priests of the true faith know what I do,” said Sharr. “It won’t help you to kill me. We will tell the truth to the people. We have prepared machines which will duplicate a number of your miracles.” Sharr lifted a clenched fist and his voice shook with triumph: “I came, really, to warn you —if you’re wise, you will leave this planet at once!”

  The expected dismay did not appear. The archbishop said calmly and implacably: “You might be better off doing that. Surely you don’t think we didn’t foresee this?”

  With a sense of dawning horror, Sharr stood in the singing gloom while the white birds circled far overhead. He heard the steady, relentless voice continue:

  “I doubt if your machines will work. You never heard of an inhibitor field, but we have our projectors ready to generate one o
ver the whole planet if need be. But it will not stop certain other devices we have had in preparation. If you blaspheme against the Galactic lord, major miracles will be in order. The lord himself might appear, ten kilometers tall with lightning blazing around him. Can your god do that?”

  “Then”—Sharr spoke out of a dry, constricted throat—”you admit it is true—?”

  “If you like,” said the archbishop cheerfully. “But try to get anyone to believe that.”

  ~ * ~

  Slinh had a room—more accurately, a den—in one of the old abandoned sewers under the city. The little stony niche was dank and slimy and vile-smelling, but it was at least fairly safe from the police who were rounding up all aliens. Wing Alak sat hunched on the floor and cursed the day he was born.

  “This hideout may be saving my life,” he grumbled, “but I wonder if life is worth saving on such terms.”

  The little reptile coiled before him leered complacently. “It’s all I can offer the great Patrolman,” he gibed. His eyes glistened in the dim glow of the radiant heater that was his sole article of furniture. “If you don’t like it—”

  “Never mind, never mind.” Alak tried to get down another mouthful of the fishy mess the Rassalan called food, but decided it involved too great a risk of losing what he already had eaten. “Now about this deal you offered to make—we have to act fast. Already we’re too late to prevent the war, but it’ll take the Luanian battle fleet a few days to get started for Marhal, or the Marhalians a few days to get to us. In that time we have to stop the war. Once battle is joined, it’ll be pretty hopeless before several million have been killed.”

  “Never mind the pious platitudes,” said Slinh coldly. “A being who makes deals with siwa peddlers can’t afford to moralize. The point is that I’m running a terrific risk in helping you and will expect a commensurate reward.”

  “Such as—?”

  “How about a million League credits? That’s a good round number.”

  “Done.” Alak reached for his checkbook. “Only I’ll give you my personal check. Then if I’m killed and you escape”—he grinned in the sullen red light—”it’ll do you no good, because I haven’t near that much in my account. But if we both survive, the Patrol will transfer a million to me and you’ll get ‘em.”

  “How do I know you won’t welsh?”

  “You don’t. But if you think back, you may recall that the Patrol has that much honor. Not that we have any notions about the sacredness of oaths—I’ve committed perjury often enough when the occasion called for it—but we don’t want to antagonize allies such as yourself. You, for instance, get around. You have contacts. We may have other jobs for you in the future.”

  “I may be a siwa runner,” said Slinh contemptuously, “but I haven’t yet sunk to being a Patrolman.” He took the check and laid it carefully in the purse worn about his neck. “Very well. Now I’ve given you a hideout, but you can’t stay here long. So I’ll help you along further in case you can find a way for us both to get off this planet.”

  “If I complete my job, we both will,” replied Alak “If I don’t, it’ll be too bad—for me at any rate.” He looked into the dripping gloom of the tunnel. The light was like blood on his thin pale face.

  Slinh shivered. “You’re crazy as well as a crook,” he said. “Two hunted, weaponless beings against an armed system— Starfire, even stereofilms don’t indulge in that kind of trash any more.” He huddled closer to the heater. “Why doesn’t your glorious Patrol just bring its great battle fleet over here and tell the Luanians there’ll be peace or else? What kind of policeman is it that makes deals with criminals and skulks in old sewers?”

  Alak ignored the complaint. Presently he stirred, holding cold hands over the red glow. “Voal is officially only premier of Luan and its colonies on other planets,” he said. “But he has influence enough to swing events as he wishes.”

  “Unfortunately, he believes in what he says. You can’t bribe him.”

  “No, maybe not. Unless the price was sufficiently high— Look, he’s married. He has two little children, and I don’t think those pictures of him playing with them are all posed.”

  “If you’re thinking what I’m thinking—” began Slinh. “Anyway, the secret service guards—”

  Alak took the vibrosphere out of his pocket. “I fooled them with this once,” he said. “It’s a secret Patrol weapon and it may fool them again. It has to!” Briefly, he explained its operation. Then he went on, his voice rising with excitement:

  “Voal has a private estate in the country, about fifty kilometers from here. His family should be there—and you can carry a three-year-old child—”

  They sneaked out of the tunnel after dark, emerging in a narrow alley of the Old City. Crouching back into the shadows, they strained their senses—no, no vigilance beyond routine patrols and the tension that lay like a shroud over the whole planet, the expectation of death from the skies. The whole capital huddled under its force dome, waiting for the hammer blows of hy-peratomic bombs and gravity snatchers, the silent murder of radiodust and biotoxin and all the synthetic hell which could lay waste a world in hours. Whether or not the enemy bombardments could penetrate that shield was an open question—it was the business of the navy to see that the matter was never decided, by going to Marhal and blowing the system open before the Marhalians took off for Luan.

  Alak and Slinh went along the darkened walks. Not many beings were abroad, though the taverns shooks with an unnatural hysterical merriment. It was no trick to find a parked ground-air car and appropriate it with the help of Alak’s key. The difficulty would lie in escaping from the city.

  The Patrolman sent the car whispering into the sky, toward the dimly glowing force-field. In moments, the call screen was buzzing and blinking an angry red. Alak switched over to the police band, keeping his face cowled and shadowed. An indignant helmeted head glared out of the screen at him.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” demanded the policeman.

  “Officer, I’ve got to get out of the city,” said Alak. “My wife and children—”

  “The screen isn’t lowered for any civilian in wartime. One second without protection and— Now get back on the ground where you belong.”

  “Be reasonable, officer. If the Marhalians were within ten light-years you’d be alerted. I ... I wasn’t expecting war. I left my family up at North Pole Resort—that’s no place for them to be in wartime. They’ll recall my wife anyway, she’s an electronician—”

  “How many times must I—”

  “Of course, I could take it up with my old friend Jeron Kovals,” said Alak, naming the city police chief, “but I didn’t think he’d want to be bothered—”

  “Well, there’s a lot of military and government traffic tonight. Wait till the next official car comes along, then you can go out with it.”

  “Thanks,” Alak snapped off the screen and let his body relax, muscle by muscle. It was as much as he’d dared hope for. But if his theft was discovered while he waited—

  It wasn’t. The stolen car slipped past the lowered force-dome together with a long sleek black flier bearing several stars. Alak took a direct north course until the city was behind the horizon, then opened the car up and swung in a screaming arc for the Premier’s estate.

  Nighted countryside slipped beneath him. The numbers representing position co-ordinates changed on the car’s dashboard. He let the autopilot take over, and studied the landscape below.

  “Mostly agricultural,” he said. “But . . . wait, there’s a pretty big region of forested hills. We’ll hide there.”

  “If we escape to hide,” said Slinh gloomily.

  When they were within a kilometer of Voal’s home, Alak halted the car and hung motionless on its gravity beams. “They’d detect a metal object coming any closer,” he said. “I’ll wait here for you, Slinh.”

  Wordlessly, the reptile opened the door. His leathery wings flapped and the night swallowed him.
<
br />   The servants were wakened by a shout and the sound of falling bodies. A blaster roared in the dark. Someone screamed, and there was heard a beating of wings out the nursery window.

  When order of a sort was restored, it was found that—something—had come into the room, rendering several guards unconscious on the way; one, who had had a brief glimpse at which he had fired, swore it was a devil complete with tail and bat wings. Be that as it may, Alia, youngest daughter of the Premier of Luan, was missing, and a note addressed to her father lay on the floor.

  He read it with his cheeks whitening:

  Bring ten thousand League credits in unmarked bills tomorrow night at 0100 hours to that island in the Mortha River lying one hundred and three kilometers due south-southwest of your country house. Do not tell police or make any attempt to use tracer beams or otherwise trail us, or you will not see your child again.

  The Zordoch of the Branna Kai was dead, and over the whole planet Cromman and such other planets of the system as had been colonized, there was mourning; for the hereditary chief of the most powerful of the clans had been well loved.