Selections

by Theodore Sturgeon

  But there was one man who suffered. Elsewhere was anger and intellectual discourse, ethical delvings and even fear. But in one man, supremely, existed the struggle between ethics and expediency. Hereford alone had the power to undo his own work. His following would believe and accept when he asked them to make this exception. Having made it, they would follow no more, and there was no place for him on Earth.

  His speech had been simple, delivered without a single flickering of his torture on the fine old face. Once the thing was done, he left Earth in a way foreign to everything he had ever believed, or spoken, or recommended. He, the leader of Peace Amalgamated, who regarded with insistent disfavor the very existence of weapons, left Earth with Belter, and shared the officer’s quarters of a warship. Not only was it a warship, but it was the keying unit Delta, under the command of “Butcher” Osgood, trigger man of The Death.

  For months they tracked the Invader, using their own instruments and information relayed to them by various outposts. Under no circumstances did they use tracers. One observation post and seven warships had been crushed because of that. The Invader’s reaction to a tight beam was instant and terrible. Therefore, they were limited to light reflection—what there was of it, even from the bold, bright flanks of the marauder—and the detection of the four types of drive radiations used the ship at different accelerations.

  The body of descriptive matter on the Invader increased, and there were certain irrefutable conclusions. The crew of the Invader were colloidal life, like all known life, and would be subject to The Death. This was deduced by the fact that the ship was enclosed, pressurized and contained an atmosphere of some sort, which precluded the theoretically suggested “energy” and “crystalline” life-forms. The random nature of the enemy’s vicious and casual attacks caused more controversy than almost any other factor; but as time went on, it became obvious that what the ship was doing was calling forth any attack of which the System might be capable. It had been bombed, rayed, and attempts had been made to ram. It was impervious. How long would it stay? When would its commanders conclude that they had seen the worst, and laughing go back into the depths to bring reinforcements? And was there anything—anything at all—besides The Death that could reach the Invader, or stop him, or destroy him, or even let him know fear?

  Right up until D-day—Death-day—the billions who had followed Hereford hoped that some alternative could be found, so that at least their earlier resolutions would be followed in letter if not in spirit. Many of them worked like slaves to this end, and that was the greatest anomaly of all, for all the forces of Peace were engaged in devising deadly methods and engines for use as alternative to The Death. They failed. Of course they failed.

  There came a day when they had to strike. The Invader had all but vanished into the celestial north, only to come hurtling back in a great curve which would pass through the plane of the ecliptic just beyond the orbit of Jupiter. The Invader’s trajectory was predictable despite his almost unbelievable maneuverability—even for him there were limits of checking and turning, which was another fact indicating colloidal life. There was no way of knowing whether he was coming back to harass the planets, or whether he was making one last observation before swinging through the System and away from Sol, back to the unknown hell which had spawned him. But whether it was attack or withdrawal, he had to be smashed. There might never be another chance.

  The three Death ships moved out from the Belt, where they had lain quiet amongst the other masses floating in that great ring of detritus. Still keeping their formation, they blasted away with a crushing acceleration, their crews dopey with momentomine. Their courses were set to intersect that of the Invader, or close enough to bring them well within range of The Death—twelve to twenty thousand miles. Delicate, beamless scanners checked the enemy’s course moment by moment, making automatic corrections and maintaining the formation of the three ships.

  Delta was Earth-manned, Epsilon a Martian ship, and Sigma belonged to the Colonials. Originally, the plan had been to scatter Colonials through the three ships, and use a Jovian craft. But Leess, as the Jovian representative, had vetoed any Jovian participation, an action which had brought about a violent reawakening of antipathies toward the major planet. Public feeling was so loaded against the use of The Death that the responsibility must be shared. Jupiter’s stubborn and suicidal refusal to share it was inflexible; the Jovian solidarity was as thorough as ever.

  Four days out, the master controls dropped the acceleration to 1 G, and the air conditioners blasted out enough superoxygen to counteract the acceleration drug. Personnel came to full life again, and the command gathered on the bridge of Delta. Hereford was there too, standing well back, his face misleadingly calm, his eyes flicking from the forward screen to the tactical chart, from Belter’s absorbed face to the undershot countenance of Commander Osgood.

  Osgood looked over his shoulder at the Peace leader. His voice was gravel in a wire sieve as he said: “I still don’t like that guy hanging around here. You sure he won’t be better off in his quarters?”

  “We’ve been over that,” said Belter tiredly. “Commander, maybe I’m out of order, but would it be too much trouble for you to speak directly to him once in a while?”

  “I am satisfied,” smiled Hereford. “I quite understand his attitude. I have little to say to him, and much to say about him, which is essentially his position as far as I am concerned. It is no more remarkable that he is unfamiliar with politeness than that I should be ignorant of spatial ballistics.”

  Belter grinned. “O.K., O.K.—don’t mind me I’m just a poor military man trying to make peace. Ill shut up and let you and the Butcher have your inimical status quo.”

  “I’ll need a little quiet here for a while, if it’s all the same to you, Councilman,” said Osgood. He was watching the tactical chart. The red spot representing ‘Epsilon was at the far right, the blur of Sigma at the left, and down at the bottom was Delta’s green spark. A golden bar in the center of the chart showed the area on the ecliptical plane at which the Invader could be expected to pass through, and just above it was a white spot showing the Invader himself.

  Osgood touched a toggle which added a diagram to the chart—a positioning diagram showing the placement of the three Death ships in relation to the target. Sigma and Epsilon were exactly in the centers of their white positioning circles; Delta was at the lower edge of the third circle. Osgood made a slight adjustment in the drive circuit.

  “Positioning is everything,” Belter explained to Hereford. “The Death field is a resultant—a violent node of vibrations centering on the contiguous focal points of the opposed fields from Sigma and Epsilon. The beam from Delta—that’s us— kicks it off. There’s an enormous stress set up at that focal point, and our beam tears into it. The vibration changes frequency at random and with violence. It had been said that the fabric of space itself vibrates. That’s learned nonsense. But fluids do, and gases, of course, and colloids worst of all.”

  “What would happen if the positions were not taken exactly?”

  “Nothing. The two focal points of the concentrated fields from Epsilon and Sigma would not coincide, and Delta’s beam would be useless. And it might have the unhappy result of calling the Invader down on us. Not right away—he’s going too fast at right angles to our course—but I’m not crazy about the idea of being hunted down by that executioner.”

  Hereford listened gravely, watching Osgood, watching the chart. “Just how great is the danger of The Death’s spreading like ripples in a pool—out in every direction from the node?”

  “Very little, the way it’s set up. The node moves outward away from our three ships—again a resultant, strictly according to the parallelogram of force. How long it lasts, how intense it gets, how far it will go—we never know. It changes with what it encounters. Mass intensifies it and slows it down. Energy of almost any kind accelerates and gradually seems to dissipate it And it varies for other reasons we don’t under
stand yet. Setting it up is a very complicated business, as you have seen. We don’t dare kick it off in such a way that it might encounter any of the planets, if it should happen to last long enough. We have to clear space between us and Outside of all shipping.”

  Hereford shook his head slowly. “The final separation between death and destructtion,” he mused. “In ancient times, armies met on battlefields and used death alone to determine the winner. Then, gradually, destruction became the most important factor—how much of the enemy’s material could you destroy? And then, with the Atomic Wars, and the Dust, death alone became the end of combat again. Now it has come full circle, and we have found a way to kill, to punish and torture, to dissolve, slowly and insistently, colloidal cells, and still leave machines unharmed. This surpasses the barbarism of jellied gasoline. It takes longer, and—”

  “It’s complete,” Belter finished.

  “Stations!”

  Osgood’s voice sliced raggedly through the quiet bridge. The screen-studded bulkhead beside him winked and flickered with acknowledgments, as tacticians, technicians, astrogators, ballistics men, and crewmen reported in. All three ships were represented, and a master screen collected and summarized the information, automatically framing the laggards’ screen with luminous red. There was little of the red showing, and in seconds it disappeared. Osgood stepped back, glanced at the master screen and then at the chart

  On it, the ship symbols were centered in their tactical circles.

  The commander turned away and for the first time in these weary months he spoke directly to Hereford: “Would you like the honor of triggering?”

  Hereford’s nostrils dilated, but his voice was controlled. He put his hands behind his back. “Thank you, no.”

  “I thought not,” said the Butcher, and there was a world of insult in his scraping voice.

  Before him was a triangular housing from which projected three small levers with round grips. One was red, one blue. The third was set between and in front of the others, and was green. He pulled the two nearest him. Immediately a red line appeared on the chart, running from Epsilon’s symbol to the golden patch, and a blue line raced out from Sigma to meet it. Just above the gold hovered the white spot representing the Invader. Osgood watched it narrowly as it dipped toward the gold and the junction of the red and blue lines. He rested his hand on the green lever, made one last check of the screens, and snatched it back. Obediently, a thin, bright green line appeared on the chart. A purple haze clouded the gold.

  “That’s it!” breathed Belter. “The purple, there-The Death!”

  Hereford, shaking, leaned back against the bulkhead. He folded his arms, holding tightly to his elbows, obviously trying to get a grip on much more.

  “Scan him!” spat Osgood, “This I’ve got to see!”

  Belter leapt forward. “Commander! You don’t … you can’t beam him! Remember.what happened at Outpost?”

  Osgood swore. “We’ve got so much stuff between here and there already that a scanning beam isn’t going to make that much difference. He’s done, anyway!” he added exultantly.

  The large scanning screen flicked into colors which swirled and fused into the sharp image of the Invader. Since the beam tracked him exactly, there was no sign of motion. “Get me a diagrammatic!” bellowed Osgood. His small eyes were wide, his cheeks puffed out, his lips wet.

  The lower quarter of the screen faded, went black, then suddenly bore a reduced image of the Invader. Apparently creeping toward him was a faint, ever-brightening purple mist.

  “Right on the nose!” gritted Belter. “He’s sailing right into it!”

  Startlingly, the large actual image showed signs of life. A stream of blue white fire poured out of the ship side.

  “What do you know!” whistled Osgood. “He’s got jets after all! He knows there’s something ahead of him, doesn’t know what it is, and is going to duck it if he has to smear his crew all up and down the bulkheads!”

  “Look!” cried Belter, pointing at the chart. “Why, he’s pulling into a curve that … that— Man, oh man, he’s killing off all hands! He can’t turn like that!”

  “Maybe he wants to get it over with quickly. Maybe he’s run into The Death somewhere before,” crowed Osgood. “Afraid to face it. Hey, Belter, the inside of that ship’s going to be a pretty sight. The Death’ll make jelly of ‘em, and that high-G turn’ll lay the jelly like paint out of an airbrush!”

  “Ex … ex—” was as much as Hereford could say as he turned and tottered out. Belter took a step after him, hesitated, and then went back to stand before the chart.

  Purple and gold and white, red and green and blue coruscated together. Slowly, then, the white spot moved toward the edge of the puddle of color.

  “Commander! He’s still side-jetting!”

  “Why not?” said the Butcher gleefully. “That’s the way his controls were set when his command got emulsified. Hell blow off his fuel in a while, and we can board him.”

  There was a soft click from the master communications screen and a face appeared on it. “Epsilon,” the man said.

  “Good work, Hosier,” said Osgood, rubbing his hands.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the captain of the Martian vessel. “Commander, my astrogators report an extrapolation of the derelict’s change of course. If he keeps jetting, he’s going to come mighty close.”

  “Watch him then,” said Osgood. “If he comes too close, get out of his way. I’ll stake my shoulder boards on your safety.” He laughed. “He’s a dead duck. You’ll be able to clear him. I don’t care if it’s only by fifty meters.”

  The Martian saluted. Osgood checked him before he could fade. “Hoster!”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I know you Martians. Trigger happy. Whatever happens, Hoster, you are not to bomb or ray that derelict. Understand?”

  “Roger, sir,” said the Martian stiffly, and faded.

  “Those Martians,” said Osgood. “Bloodthirsty bunch.”

  Belter said: “Commander, sometimes I understand how Hereford feels about you.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” said the Butcher.

  They spent the next two hours watching the tactical chart. The Death generators had long ago been cut out, and The Death itself showed on the chart as a dwindling purple stain, headed straight Outside and already fading. But the derelict was still blasting from its side jets, and coming about in an impossible curve. The Martian astrogators had been uncomfortably right, and Captain Hoster had been instructed to take evasive action.

  Closer and closer came the white spot to the red one that was Epsilon. Viewers were clamped on both ships: the Martian had begun to decelerate powerfully to get out of that ratiocinated curve.

  “Doesn’t look so good,” said Belter, after a careful study of the derelict’s trajectory.

  “Nonsense,” said Osgood worriedly. “But it’d be more than a little silly to lose a ship after we’ve whipped the enemy. “He turned to the control bulkhead. “Get me Epsilon.”

  He had started his famous monotone of profanity before the screen finally lit up. Hosier’s face was flushed—blotched, really. “What’s the matter?” snapped Osgood. “You take your own sweet time answering. Why haven’t you taken any momentomine?”

  Captain Hoster clutched the rim of his communicator. “Lissen,” he said thickly. ” ‘Nvader out t’ get us, see. Nobody push Martian around. ‘S dirty Jovian trick.”

  “Acceleration disease,” said Belter quietly. “He must’ve had some crazy idea of keeping away from the drug so he’d be able to keep on the alert.”

  “Hoster! You’re hopped up. You can’t take momentomine for as many years as you have and stay sober under deceleration without it. You’re relieved. Take a dose and turn in. Put your second on.”

  “Lissen, Butch, ol’ horse,” mouthed the Martian. “I know what I’m doin’, see? I don’t want trouble with you. Busy, see? Now, you jus’ handle your boat an’ I’ll handle mine. I’m go
nna give that Jovian a case of Titanitis ‘f ‘e gets wise with me,” And the screen went blank.

  “Hoster!” the commander roared. “Sparks! Put that maniac on again!”

  A speaker answered promptly: “Sorry, sir. Can’t raise him.”

  In helpless fury Osgood turned to Belter. “If he so much as throws a dirty look at that derelict, I’ll break him to an ammo passer and put him on the sun side of Mercury. We need that derelict!”

  “What for?” asked Belter, and then wondered why he had asked, for he knew the answer. Hereford’s influence, probably. It would be Hereford’s question, if he were still here.

  “Four drives we don’t know anything about. A warp-camouflaged disrupter bomb. A chain-instigating ray, that blew up the asteroid last year. And probably lots more. Man, that’s a warship!”

  “It sure is,” said Belter. “It certainly is.” Peace Amalgamated, he thought. A great step forward.

  “Get ‘em both on a screen,” Osgood rapped. “They’re close enough— Hey, Belter, look at the way that ship is designed. See how it can check and turn that way?”

  “No, I— Oh! I see what you mean. Uses lateral jets—but what laterals!”

  “Functional stuff,” said Osgood. “We could’ve had that a hundred years ago, but for naval tradition. We put all our drive back aft. We get a good in-line thrust, sure. But look what he’s got! The equivalent of ten or twelve of our stern-tube assemblies. What kind of people were they, that could stand that kind of thing?”

  Belter shook his head. “If they built it that way, they could stand it.” He looked thoughtfully up at the derelict’s trajectory. “Commander, you don’t suppose—”

  Apparently struck by the same awful thought, Osgood said uneasily, “Certainly not. The Death. They went through The Death.”

  “Yes,” said Belter. He sounded relieved, but he did not feel relieved. He watched the screen, and then clutched Osgood’s arm.