by James Gunn
“But it must be done. The framework of the Empire must not be destroyed; the Tubes are vital to the interstellar civilization that man must have if he is to be free and strong. Destroy Eron and the Tubes, and every world in the Empire will be isolated as Eron is now. Into this isolation, this power vacuum, will rush men greedy for power. If freedom survives at all, it will be an oddity, unstable and short-lived. Humanity will become not one race but many.
“That need not be. It must not be. Do not exchange one set of chains for many. You can have, instead, a loose union of free worlds held together by the Tubes. You can pass mutually agreeable regulations through elected representatives. You can trade freely with each other in what one world overproduces and another needs. You can exchange information, knowledge, and art, growing strong and wise together.
“It is a noble dream. We had it, in the Cluster— A dream? No. Its realization is before us. If only we are wise now, strong now. Now is the time to strike a blow for freedom and strike it well. You are not alone. All over the Empire men are fighting for the things you fight for now. But here, on Eron, the real decision will be made. Free men are counting on you.
“I call upon you then—all you who love freedom—to fight for it. But I call upon you, too, to fight wisely. Obey the commands of your leaders. If you have none, go where you can find them. Do not kill without reason; do not destroy wantonly. You have many blows to repay, but they are not the ones you should strike now. They are pointless; the future is yours. Eron is yours. Do not destroy what belongs to you.
“And you who still fight for the Empire—I call upon you to surrender. Lay down your arms. Your cause is lost. The Empire is dead. Your former allegiance will not be held against you. This is a new day. We are all born again, alike in heritage, alike in freedom. The galaxy is ours.
“For now—farewell. I will be with you soon.”
He had stepped into the cubicle an old man. He had stood in front of the cameras, his head lifted, ageless, a symbol of man, free and unconquerable. He stepped out of it rejuvenated, his stride brisk and purposeful.
“What did you mean by that last sentence?” Horn asked.
“I’m going into Eron now. I’m needed there.”
“How? Where? You—”
“How? By that private tubeway I saw below. Where? It doesn’t matter much. I’ll soon work myself to the place where I’m needed.”
Horn saw that the old man’s decision was unshakeable. “I’m going with you,” he said firmly.
“Your place is here,” Sair objected. “We can’t afford to lose the north cap.”
“You’ve forgotten one thing,” Horn said quietly. “We don’t know the secret of the Tubes. Without that—”
“We’ll struggle along,” Sair interrupted. “The Tubes won’t fail. We can still use them. The Directors of Eron used them for centuries without knowing the secret. You said so yourself.”
“I did,” Horn said, “but did they? I keep remembering things. Tubes were activated all the time. Someone had the secret. Someone had to have it.”
“SAIR!” The word thundered across the room.
Everyone turned. A screen had come to life on a distant panel. On it was the face of a middle-aged man, lined and worn but firm; over his head was a dark hood. Behind him was a scene of confusion: men shouting, running, talking, arguing, crossing the screen. It was familiar; it was a command center.
Beside the screen, a gold-uniformed technician was shocked. “I didn’t do anything!” he blurted out. “It just started coming in.”
The officer’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “Someone,” he said, “has some unorthodox equipment.”
Sair was already in front of the screen. “Turn down your volume,” he said wryly. “It’s a little loud.”
The man turned to someone out of view and said something. He turned back. “Sair?” His voice was normal. “Sorry. Had to be sure I broke in. This is Entropy Cult headquarters. We’ve been coordinating the rebellion from here.”
Sair did something with his fingers up close to his chest. On the screen, the man’s eyes widened momentarily.
“Good!” he said. “We’ve been doing what we could. With the preparations we’ve made, that’s been quite a bit. We’ve got duplicates of the controls over Eron that are in the control room you’ve captured. We’ve been closing fire doors, releasing extinguishers, cutting off water. The mobs have been the big problem, and they’ve calmed down since you spoke to them. I think we’re over the hump.”
“What’s Duchane been doing?” Sair asked.
“The last we heard, he had his men in spacesuits and was blasting holes in the skin. That’s effective only in the top few levels, but it slowed us down. We lost touch with him a while ago. How soon can you reach here with your staff to take over?”
“I’m leaving now,” Sair said. “How shall I come?”
“Directors’ tubeway. Sixth emergency stop. Count the flickers. Palm the red spot after the fifth flicker.”
Horn stepped in front of the screen. “Is Wendre Kohlnar there?”
“Yes,” said the man; “somewhere.”
“Where is she?”
The man in the hood glanced helplessly over his shoulder. “I don’t know. There isn’t time.” He stared at something far to the left. “What?” he shouted. “Who’s that—?”
The screen went blank.
“What’s happened?” Sair said, alarmed.
“Try to get that connection reestablished,” Horn told the officer. He turned to Sair. “I don’t like it. That could have been an attack. If Duchane should get hold of the controls in the area, he might swing the battle yet.”
“What can we do?” Sair asked.
“Act on the assumption that Duchane has captured it, get there as fast as we can with the best chance to retake it, and pray he didn’t use poison gas.” Horn turned to the officer. “What luck?”
“The screen was unlisted. If we’ve managed to trace it correctly, it’s dead.”
“Are there any air suits handy?” Horn asked.
The officer shook his head thoughtfully.
Horn turned to Redblade. “Get as many spacesuits as possible out of the nearest personnel locks. And find me men who have fought in them.”
As Redblade turned away quickly, Horn paused. Who could he leave in charge here? He looked toward Sair, but the old man shook his head, as if he had read Horn’s mind.
“I’m going along,” he said.
“We need fighters,” Horn pointed out.
“You’d be surprised what I’ve learned and done in a long lifetime. I’m going.”
There was no use arguing with him, and that left only one person to choose. “Redblade,” Horn said. “You’re in charge when I leave.”
“Oh, no!” the pirate protested, shaking his bearded head defiantly. “I’m not missing out on—”
“You’re the only one I can trust,” Horn said quietly. The giant subsided. “Pick a dispatcher. As soon as I’ve left by the tubeway below, have him signal another car and send another man off. The men will press the gold disk, then watch five flickers of the red disk and press it. There’ll be room for only one man at a time dressed in a suit. Understand?”
Redblade nodded. Horn turned and picked out a heavy suit from the growing pile on the floor. Redblade held it for him easily as he slipped into it. Just before Horn slipped on the left gauntlet, he slipped his unitron pistol into the slot provided in the right gauntlet. Horn wiggled his fingers to see if they worked easily. They did. The gun was ready. He was ready.
Five minutes later, the tube car slid to a stop. The door swung out. The corridor was stone and dimly lit. Horn stepped out quickly into the catacombs; he closed the stone door behind him. There was no one in sight.
To the right, the corridor darkened. Horn turned to the left. The corridor turned right within a few meters. There Horn found the first bodies; they were as ragged as the clothes they wore. Horn paused, held his breath, and
brushed the intercom control on the front of his suit.
“… and how long we wear these things—” someone was protesting.
“Silence!” The inside of Horn’s helmet roared. “Only orders and reports will be given. When the gas is dissipated—”
Horn cut it off and let out his breath. That was Duchane. Cautiously, he moved to another corner. Beyond it was the back of a spacesuit. Horn ducked back quickly, breathing hard. A sentry. But he hadn’t seen, and he couldn’t hear.
Horn walked around the corner. This time the sentry was looking toward him. Through the helmet, his face was surprised. His mouth started to open; his right hand started up. Horn’s hands were already against the suit’s breastplate. One hand brushed the intercom off; the other shot the gun.
There was no noise. The man collapsed, his face still surprised. Horn felt the distant vibration of his fall. He flicked on his own intercom again. It was silent. He flicked it off.
Something tapped him on the back. Horn swung around, his gun pointing like an elongated index finger, and restrained himself from pulling the trigger. Sair’s white hair gleamed through the helmet that faced him.
Horn looked to see if Sair’s intercom switch was off; it was. He leaned forward and pressed his helmet against Sair’s. “Stay here!” he ordered. “Wait until you’ve got a body of men. Then attack!”
“What are you going to do?”
“If the gas wasn’t poisonous, I might be able to stop a slaughter.”
“And Wendre is there, eh?”
“Yes,” Horn admitted. “Now wait!”
He moved forward toward where the light slowly brightened. There was another guard. Horn caught him from behind, but he died the same way, silently. There were more of the ragged men on the floor; some of them had no marks on them, and others had their heads caved in.
Horn looked down at the man he had killed. The foot of his right boot was covered with blood and brains. Horn was glad he had killed him.
There was a wide doorway now and no more guards. Horn turned on his intercom again. There was a sighing, background noise; it was the breathing of many men.
“Bring them out here,” Duchane was saying. “We’ll need some of them to show us the controls. Tie them up.…”
They would revive, Horn thought with vast relief as he slipped through the doorway into the large, rock-walled room. All around it, stone panels had opened outward. Behind them were indicators, gauges, switches, screens. Doors opened off the room into other lighted rooms. The room was filled with plastic and metal-clothed men. They were busy. He was one among many; he was unnoticed.
“Kill that one and that one,” Duchane said casually. “They won’t be useful.…”
Horn looked around trying to locate the man. He noticed that the unconscious men were being dragged toward a distant part of the room. Horn circled toward it, threading his way among overturned tables and chairs and Duchane’s own men. He located Duchane at last, saw the heavy, dominant face within the plastic bubble, and slipped closer.
Duchane glanced at him curiously as Horn approached and looked away as another man came up with a burden in his arms.
“Ah-h-h!” he breathed. “Wendre!” He looked down into the peaceful, golden face; the red-gold hair dripped like blood over the metal arm of the man who held her. “Treat her with care! I’ll have use…”
Horn was behind Duchane now. His gun was a metal finger in Duchane’s back, but the new General Manager of Eron could not feel it.
“You’ll have use for nothing,” Horn broke in. “I’m behind you, Duchane. Don’t move! Not if you want to live.”
“I knew that face,” Duchane said wonderingly.
“Put her down,” Horn said slowly. “Put her down carefully. If anyone moves, your master dies—and you know how long you will last then.”
They stood like metal statues, all but the man who held Wendre. He started to bend toward the floor.
“Kill her!” Duchane screamed, throwing himself forward and to one side. “Kill him! We can’t stop—”
He was twisting in the air, trying to bring his gun around, but the man who held Wendre was tilting his right hand under her body, bringing up the muzzle of the gun.
Horn’s left hand cut off Duchane’s screams by smashing the helmet. He was taking a breath; his face went blank and limp. The crash in the helmet was thunderous, but other thunder followed it so quickly that it was like a continuous roll. A hole appeared suddenly in the helmet of the man holding Wendre and was duplicated in his forehead, blackly. He kept on bending and fell slowly over the unconscious girl.
Horn never had time to watch the results. His gun was sweeping the room in an arc, spitting projectiles, and then he was diving through the air toward the protection of an overturned table, which was no protection at all, but concealment at least. And there was someone in the distant doorway, more than one, but the one in front was white-haired Sair, and his index finger was spraying bullets with incredible accuracy. Men were toppling, and the intercom was deafening.
And the room suddenly went black.
THE HISTORY
The unpredictable.…
There are always pebbles to make us stumble, sudden winds to chill our hopes or shred our fears, earthquakes to tumble our plans down around us.… Even the most careful analyses of the shrewdest historians go awry.
No one can predict the unpredictable.
Perhaps it is for the best. When life becomes predictable, it will be life no longer. Only the inanimate repeats itself. And even there, if one digs deep enough, one reaches a level where the principle of uncertainty makes prediction futile.
No one could have predicted longevity. No one, predicting it, could have calculated its effects. It was outside experience. Historians strive for the long view, but they ignore it in their extrapolations.
A man who could plan in terms of centuries and cultures and races—and live to see those plans reach fruition—would be an incalculable force.…
20
PRIME MOVER
Horn opened his eyes. The light was gentle and golden. It shifted. He felt something cool on his face, cool and wet. And then he realized that the light wasn’t golden; it was only a reflection. There was a face above him; the face was golden. He should know that face. Even tired and without makeup it was beautiful.
He sat up quickly. His head reeled. Pain stabbed through it. He leaned back against the rough wall and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she was still there.
“You’ll be all right in a moment,” Wendre said. “The pain goes away.”
“What happened?” Horn asked dully.
“Duchane’s forces were wiped out, but you had your helmet punctured by a stray bullet. You breathed some gas.”
Horn looked down the corridor. There were men lying along the walls, some dead, some wounded, some unconscious. “Sair?” he asked.
“He’s fine. They’re working now to clean up the last of the resistance. He’s a wonderful old man.”
Horn remembered him standing in the doorway, throwing bullets into the armored bodies of Duchane’s men, not missing a shot. “You don’t know the half of it,” he said wryly.
“There’ll still be sporadic fighting and rioting for days, he says, but he thinks the organized resistance will be finished shortly.”
“Duchane?” Horn asked.
“He’s alive. They’ve put him in a cell.” She nodded toward the far end of the corridor. It was straight until it faded in darkness.
“I was taken to Vantee,” Horn said.
Wendre seemed to understand that he was explaining his absence. “I know. Sair told me. He told me how you escaped, too. It was brilliant, daring—”
“A man does what he has to do,” Horn said, shrugging.
“Why did you have to do it?”
Horn looked up at her face, looked into her eyes staring at him curiously. This time he had no urge to look away. Whatever men mean by “love,” he felt for Wendre.
It wasn’t just the desire to possess, though that was part of it. It was a need to see that no sorrow ever touched her. “I thought you might need me,” he said steadily.
Her eyes fell away. “Do you expect me to believe that? When you killed my father?”
“I didn’t know you then.”
“Why did you do it?” she said suddenly.
“For money,” Horn said.
“I was afraid of that. It might have been different if you had done it for revenge or an ideal or any passion—”
She was turning away. Horn caught her hand impetuously. “Wait! I’m not asking for anything except understanding.” She stopped and turned back. “Your father was not a man except to the few people who knew him personally. To everyone else he was, at the most, a symbol, at the least, an institution. Symbols and institutions don’t bleed or suffer; they are things to be shaped, changed, shattered as the need arises. By becoming General Manager of Eron, your father gave up his humanity.
“That’s part of it,” Horn continued, “but only a small part. To understand the rest, you have to understand my past.” Slowly at first and then more rapidly as the words came to him, he told Wendre about the Cluster and his life there, about the way he had been hired to assassinate her father, about his difficulties in reaching Earth and then in reaching the mesa, about Wu and Lil, about his arrival on Eron and what had happened afterward. She listened attentively, soberly, her head turned away a little.
“But why I did it,” he finished, “I really can’t explain because I don’t understand it myself. There was the money, but that wasn’t important in itself. It was only a symbol of what a man can take from the universe if he is strong enough and clever enough. All my life I’d done that and now I had a chance to do something that would really prove to myself and everyone that I was stronger and smarter.… It wasn’t the shooting, you see, it was the getting there and outwitting the people who tried to stop me and overcoming the obstacles, and then when I had him, there in my sights, I had to shoot, because I’d taken money to do it.