The Day of Their Return df-4

by Poul Anderson

  “A sophont,” Mikkal said redundantly. He proceeded: “More bright and tough than most. Maybe more than us. Could be we’re stronger, we humans, simply because we outnumber them, and that simply because of having gotten the jump on them in space travel and, hm, needing less room per person to live in.”

  “A bird?”

  “No,” Ivar told her. “They’re feathered, yes, warmblooded, two sexes. However, you noticed he doesn’t have a beak, and females give live birth. No lactation—no milk, I mean; the lips’re for getting the blood out of prey.”

  “You bespoke an empire, Mikkal,” she said, “and, ye-ih, I do remember mentions aforetime. Talk on, will you?”

  “Let Rolf do that,” the man suggested. “He’s schooled. Besides, if he has to keep still much longer, he’ll make an awful mess when he explodes.”

  Ivar’s ears burned. True, he thought. But Fraina gave him such eager attention that he plunged happily forward.

  “Ythri’s planet rather like Aeneas, except for havin’ cooler sun,” he said. “It’s about a hundred light-years from here, roughly in direction of Beta Centauri.”

  “That’s the Angel’s Eye,” Mikkal interpolated.

  Don’t tinerans use our constellations? Ivar wondered. Well, we don’t use Terra’s; our sky is different. “After humans made contact, Ythrians rapidly acquired modem technology,” he went on. “Altogether variant civilization, of course, if you can call it civilization, they never havin’ had cities. Nonetheless, it lent itself to spacefarin’, same as Technic culture, and in tune Ythrians began to trade and colonize, on smaller scale than humans. When League fell apart and Troubles followed, they suffered too. Men restored order at last by establishin’ Terran Empire, Ythrians by their Domain. It isn’t really an empire, Mikkal. Loose alliance of worlds.

  “Still, it grew. So did Empire, Terra’s, that is, till they met and clashed. Couple centuries ago, they fought. Ythri lost war and had to give up good deal of border territory. But it’d fought too stiffly for Imperium to think of annexin’ entire Domain.

  “Since, relations have been … variable, let’s say. Some affrays, though never another real war; some treaties and joint undertaking, though often skulduggery on both sides; plenty of trade, individuals and organizations visitin’ back and forth. Terra’s not happy about how Domain of Ythri is growin’ in opposite direction from us, and in strength. But Merseia’s kept Imperium too busy to do much in these parts—except stamp out freedom among its own subjects.”

  “Nothing like that to make a person objective about his government,” Mikkal remarked aside.

  “I see,” Fraina said. “How clearly you explain … Didn’t I hear him tell he was, m-m, from Avalon?”

  “Yes,” Ivar replied. “Planet in Domain, colonized by humans and Ythrians together. Unique society. It’d be reasonable to send Avalonian to spy out Aeneas. He’d have more rapport with us, more insight, than ordinary Ythrians.”

  Her eyes widened. “He’s a spy?”

  “Intelligence agent, if you prefer. Not skulkin’ around burglarizin’ Navy bases or any such nonsense. Gatherin’ what bits of information he can, to become part of their picture of Terran Empire. I really can’t think what else he’d be. They must’ve landed him here while space-traffic control was broken down because of independence war. As Mikkal says, eventually he’ll leave—I’d guess when Ythrians again have consulate in Nova Roma, that can arrange to smuggle him out.”

  “You don’t care, Rolf?”

  “Why should I? In fact—”

  Ivar finished the thought in his head. We got no Ythrian help in our struggle. I’m sure Hugh McCormac tried, and was refused. They wouldn’t risk new war. But … if we could get clandestine aid—arms and equipment slipped to us, interstellar transport furnished, communications nets made available—we could build strength of freedom forces till—We failed because we weren’t rightly prepared. McCormac raised standard almost on impulse. And he wasn’t tryin’ to split Empire, he wanted to rule it himself. What would Ythri gain by that? Whereas if our purpose was to break Sector Alpha Crucis loose, make it independent or even bring it under Ythri’s easygoin’ suzerainty—wouldn’t that interest them? Perhaps be worth war, especially if we got Merseian help too—He looked up at Erannath and dreamed of wings which stormed hitherward in the cause of liberty.

  An exclamation drew him back to his body. They had topped a ridge. On the farther slope, mostly buried by a rockslide, were the remnants of great walls and of columns so slim and poised that it was as if they too were flying. Time had not dimmed their nacreous luster.

  “Why … Builder relic,” Ivar said. “Or do you call them Elders?”

  “La-Sarzen,” Fraina told him, very low. “The High Ones.” Upon her countenance and, yes, Mikkal’s, lay awe.

  “We’re off our usual route,” the man breathed. “I’d forgotten that this is where some of them lived.”

  He and his sister sprang from their saddles, knelt with uplifted arms, and chanted. Afterward they rose, crossed themselves, and spat: in this parched country, a deed of sacrifice. As they rode on, they gave the ruins a wide berth, and hailed them before dropping behind the next rise.

  Erannath had not descended to watch. Given his vision, he need not. He cruised through slow circles like a sign in heaven.

  After a kilometer, Ivar dared ask: “Is that … back yonder … part of your religion? I wouldn’t want to be profane.”

  Mikkal nodded. “I suppose you could call it sacred. Whatever the High Ones are, they’re as near godhood as makes no difference.”

  That doesn’t follow, Ivar thought, keeping silence. Why is it so nearly universal belief?

  “Some of their spirit must be left in what they made,” Fraina said raptly. “We need its help. And, when they come back, they’ll know we keep faith in them.”

  “Will they?” Ivar couldn’t help the question.

  “Yes,” Mikkal said. In him, sober quiet was twice powerful. “Quite likely during our own lifetimes, Rolf. Haven’t you heard the tale that’s abroad? Far south, where the dead men dwell, a prophet has arisen to prepare the way—”

  He shivered in the warmth. “I don’t know if that’s true, myself,” he finished in a matter-of-fact tone. “But we can hope, can’t we? C’mon, tingle up these lazy beasts and let’s get back to the Train.”

  IX

  The mail from Terra was in. Chunderban Desai settled back with a box of cigarettes, a samovar of tea, and resignation to the fact that he would eat lunch and dinner and a midnight snack off his desk. This did not mean he, his staff, or his equipment were inefficient. He would have no need to personally scan two-thirds of what was addressed to his office. But he did bear ultimate responsibility for a globe upon which dwelt 400 million human beings.

  Lord Advisor Petroff of the Policy Board was proposing a shakeup of organizational structure throughout the occupied zone, and needed reports and opinions from every commissioner. Lord Advisor Chardon passed on certain complaints from Sector Governor Muratori, about a seeming lack of zeal in the reconstruction of the Virgilian System, and asked for explanations. Naval Intelligence wanted various operations started which would attempt to learn how active Merseian agents were throughout the Alpha Crucis region. BuEc wanted a fresh survey made of mineral resources in the barren planets of each system in the sector, and studies of their exploitability as a method of industrial recovery. BuSci wanted increased support for research on Dido, adding that that should help win over the Aeneans. BuPsy wanted Dido evacuated, fearing that its cloud cover and vast wildernesses made it potentially too useful to guerrillas. The Throne wanted immediate in-depth information on local results should His Majesty make a contemplated tour of the subjugated rebel worlds …

  Night filled the wall transparency, and a chill tiny Creusa hurtled above a darkened city, when a thing Desai himself had requested finally crossed the screen. He surged out of sleepiness with a gasp. I’d better have that selector reprogrammed! His fingers s
hook almost too badly for him to insert a fresh cigarette in his holder and inhale it to ignition. He never noticed how tongue, palate, throat, and lungs protested.

  “—no planet named, nicknamed, or translated as Jean-Baptiste, assuredly not in any known language or dialect of the Empire, nor in any exterior space for which records are available. Saint John, Hagios Ioannes, and the continent of San Juan on Nuevo Mexico were all named after a co-author of the basic Christian canon, a person distinct from the one who figures as active in events described therein and is termed in Fransai Jean-Baptiste, in Anglic John the Baptist …

  “The origin of the individual self-denominated Aycharaych (v. note 3 on transcription of the voice print) has been identified, from measurement upon holographic material supplied (ref. 2), with a probability deemed high albeit nonquantifiable due to paucity of data.

  “When no good correlation was obtained with any species filed with the Imperial Xenological Register, application was made to Naval Intelligence. It was reported by this agency that as a result of a scan of special data banks, Aycharaych can be assumed to be from a planet subject to the Roidhun of Merseia. It was added that he should be considered an agent thereof, presumably dispatched on a mission inimical to the best interests of His Majesty.

  “Unfortunately, very little is known about the planet in question. A full account is attached, but will be found scarcely more informative than the summary which follows.

  “According to a few casual mentions made in the presence of Imperial personnel and duly reported by them, the planet is referred to as Chereion (v. note 3). It is recorded as having been called variously ‘cold, creepy,’ ‘a mummy dwarf,’ and ‘a silent ancient,’ albeit some favorable notice was taken of art and architecture. These remarks were made in conversation by Merseians (or, in one instance, a non-Merseian of the Roidhunate) by whom the planet had been visited briefly in the course of voyages directed elsewhere. From this it may perhaps be inferred that Chereion is terrestroid verging on subterrestroid, of low mean temperature, sufficiently small and/or old that a substantial loss of atmosphere and hydrosphere has been suffered. In short, it may be considered possibly not too dissimilar to Aeneas as the latter is described in the files. Nothing has been scanned which would make it possible for the sun to be located or spectrally classified. It must be emphasized that Chereion is obscure, seldom touched at, and never heard of by the average Merseian.

  “Some indications were noted, which owing to lack of planet. Identification of subject Aycharaych as of this Chereion may be more highly regarded than this by the top levels of the Roidhunate hierarchy, and that indeed the dearth of interest in it may have been deliberately instigated rather than straightforwardly caused by primitiveness, poverty, or other more usual factors. If so, presumably its entire populace has, effectively, been induced to cooperate, suggesting that some uniqueness may be found in their psychology.

  “The Chereionites are not absolutely confined to their planet. Indentification of subject Aycharaych as of this race was made from pictures taken with microcameras upon two different occasions, one a reception at the Terran Embassy on Merseia, one more recently during negotiations in re Jihannath. In either case, a large and mixed group being present, no more than brief queries were made, eliciting replies such as those listed above. But it should be pointed out that if a Chereionite was present at any affair of such importance (and presumably at others for which no data are on hand) then he must have been considered useful to the Roidhunate.

  “As an additional fragment, the following last-minute and essentially anecdotal material is here inserted. Naval Intelligence, upon receipt of the request from this office, was moved to instigate inquiries among such of its own personnel as happened to be readily available. In response, this declaration, here paraphrased, was made by one Cmdr. Dominic Flandry:

  “He had been on temporary assignment to Talwin, since he was originally concerned in events leading to the joint Terran-Merseian research effort upon that planet (v. note 27) and his special knowledge might conceivably help in gathering militarily useful data. While there, he cultivated the friendship of a young Merseian officer. The intimation is that he introduced the latter to various debaucheries; whatever the method was, he got him talking fairly freely. Having noticed a member of a species new to him in the Merseian group, Flandry asked what manner of sophont this might be. The officer, intoxicated at the time, gave the name of the planet, Chereion, then went on to mumble of a race of incredible antiquity, possessing powers his government keeps secret: a race which seemingly had once nurtured a high civilization, and which said officer suspected might now cherish ambitions wherein his own people are a mere means to an end. Flandry thinks the officer might well have said more; but abruptly the ranking Merseians present ended the occasion and left with all their personnel. Flandry would have pursued the matter further, but never saw his informant or the Chereionite again. He filed this story as part of his report, but Regional Data Processing did not evaluate it as more than a rumor, and thus did not forward it to the central banks.

  “The foregoing is presented only in the interest of completeness. Sensationalism is to be discouraged. It is recommended that a maximum feasible effort be instigated for the apprehension of the being Aycharaych, while every due allowance is made for other programs which have rightfully been given a higher priority than the possible presence of a lone foreign operative. Should such effort be rewarded with success, the subject is to be detained while HQNI is notified … ”

  Desai stared into darkness. But there is mention of Jean-Baptiste in the files on Llynathawr, he thought. Easy enough for an employee in Merseia’s pay to insert false data … probably during the chaos of the civil war … Uldwyr, you green devil, what have you or yours in mind for my planet?

  The Flone Valley is for the most part a gentler land than the edge of Ilion. Rolling on roads toward the great stream, Waybreak had no further need for the discipline of the desert. Exuberance kindled as spent energies returned.

  On a mild night, the Train camped in a pasture belonging to a yeoman family with which it had made an agreement generations ago. There was no curfew; wood for a bonfire was plentiful; celebration lasted late. But early on, when Fraina had danced for them, she went to where Ivar sat and murmured, “Want to take a walk? I’ll be back soon’s I’ve swapped clothes"—before she skipped off to Jubilee.

  His blood roared. It drowned the talk to which he had been listening while he watched a succession of performances. When he could hear again, the words felt dwindled and purposeless, like the hum of a midgeling swarm.

  “Yes, I was briefly with two other nomad groups,” Erannath was saying, “the Dark Stars north of Nova Roma, near the Julia River, and the Gurdy Men in the Fort Lunacy area. The differences in custom are interesting but, I judge, mere eddies in a single wind.”

  King Samlo, seated on his chair, the only one put out, tugged his beard. “You ought to visit the Magic Fathers, then, who I was apprenticed to,” he said. “And the Glorious make women the heads of their wagons. But they’re over in Tiberia, across the Antonine Seabed, so I don’t know them myself.”

  “Perhaps I will go see,” Erannath answered, “though I feel certain of finding the same basic pattern.”

  “Funny,” said the yeoman. “You, xeno—no offense meant; I had some damn fine nonhuman shipmates durin’ war of independence—you get around more on our planet than I ever have, or these professional travelers here.”

  He had come with his grown sons to join the fun. Minors and womenfolk stayed behind. Not only was the party sure to become licentious; brawls might explode. Fascinated by Erannath, he joined the king, Padro of Roadlord, the widow Mara of Tramper, and a few more in conversation on the fringes of the circle. They were older folk, their bodies dimmed; the feverish atmosphere touched them less.

  What am I doin’ here? Ivar wondered. Exultation: Waitin’ for Fraina, that’s what … Earlier, I thought I’d better not get too involved in things.
Well, chaos take caution!

  The bonfire flared and rumbled at the center of the wagons. Whenever a stick went crack, sparks geysered out of yellow and red flames. The light flew across those who were seated on the ground, snatched eyes, teeth, earrings, bracelets, bits of gaudy cloth out of shadow, cast them back and brought forth instead a dice game, a boy and girl embraced, a playful wrestling match, a boy and girl already stealing off into the farther meadow. Around the blaze, couples had begun a stamping ring-dance, to the music of a lame guitarist, a hunchbacked drummer, and a blind man who sang in plangent Haisun. It smelted of smoke and humanity.

  The flicker sheened off Erannath’s plumage, turned his eyes to molten gold and his crest to a crown. In its skyey accent his speech did not sound pedantic: “Outsiders often do explore more widely than dwellers, Yeoman Vasiliev, and see more, too. People tend to take themselves for granted.”

  “I dunno,” Samlo argued. “To you, don’t the big differences shadow out the little ones that matter to us? You have wings, we don’t; we have proper legs, you don’t. Doesn’t that make us seem pretty much alike to you? How can you say the Trains are all the same?”

  “I did not say that, King,” Erannath replied. “I said I have observed deep-going common factors. Perhaps you are blinkered by what you call the little differences that matter. Perhaps they matter more to you than they should.”

  Ivar laughed and tossed in: “Question is, whether we can’t see forest for trees, or can’t see trees for forest.”

  Then Fraina was back, and he sprang up. She had changed to a shimmerlyn gown, ragged from years but cut so as to be hardly less revealing than her dancer’s costume. Upon her shoulder, alongside a blueblack cataract of hair, sat the luck of Jubilee, muffled in its mantle apart from the imp head.

  “Coming?” she chirruped.