The screen cleared as he looked for the marks of his pursuers; the gray screen was empty, revealing only the cavernous unreality of jumpspace, with its black suns and shifting perspectives. As he watched, the continuum turned ash-white, throwing a glare into the control room; passing through this space of skeletal reality was still a slow dying.
Gorgias tried to look forward to his arrival at the base. There he would add more memory units to the ship’s intelligences; he would continue his exploration of the arsenal; perhaps this time he would find the weapon that would give him superiority over the Earthborn. The arsenal contained thousands of weapons which he had not yet mastered; one day he would be called upon to teach others their use; he would have to be ready.
He thought again of the Herculean army, wondering what life was like for it in the Lesser Magellanic Cloud. Someday he would go in search of that army, and it would become part of his offensive strategy.…
“If it still exists,” his father’s voice said within him.
The army was probably in stasis, waiting, battle-ready; with all of its equipment and twenty divisions of fighting men, it had probably settled an entire planet.…
Gorgias got up and went aft to his quarters, where he ate a meal from the mess dispenser and went to bed, setting the controls for zero-g.
For a time his sleep was unbroken, but later troublesome images appeared. He was poised above a great abyss, with a large weight on his back, crushing him, pushing him into the black space below; he was frozen in his dream, unable to wake up.…
An age passed. He was looking across the plane of the galaxy to the glowing hub. Huge fireflies clustered around it, the globular clusters in their orbits; one of those jeweled groupings contained the cinder which had once been his home.…
Thoughts crossed the void and struggled to enter him; he reached out, but failed to embody them completely.…
Myraa’s eyes opened and he looked out from within her, sensing her presence around him, distinct from his mental space. Suddenly he was thrown back from her eyes, to fall endlessly toward a floor of ice.…
Julian Poincaré, now Earth’s highest-ranking intelligence officer, appeared on Kurbi’s screen. The subspace link blinked and remained steady.
“Well — has he escaped again?” he asked in a voice lower than usual. There was no hint of the stocky man’s unsettling sense of humor.
Kurbi told him about Gorgias’s new maneuver. “There’s almost no chance of there being a recognizable trail. He might have gone off in any direction.”
The subspace image wavered again, as if Poincaré’s impatience had suddenly disturbed the link with Earth.
“He’ll turn up again,” Kurbi said, knowing that it would mean more loss of life. “We were lucky to have confirmed his presence at all.”
“Where next?”
“Myraa’s World — I don’t know when, but I’m certain we can catch him there sooner or later.”
Julian shook his head. “You’ve been saying that for decades.”
“We have pursued the Whisper Ship from there.”
“Only once — unsuccessfully. I may believe you, but I have trouble communicating my faith to the big thumbs around me.…”
The sense of urgency quickened again in Kurbi. He had to find the Herculean, talk to him face-to-face, make him understand the sense of retrieving what was still valuable in his civilization. If Gorgias died, a key to the past would perish with him. It would be difficult to understand Federation history fully without absorbing the evidence in his control; and with him would also die all the stimulating differences of culture which all civilizations needed to renew their vitality. Three centuries ago, the Federation had destroyed a proud enemy, and had turned its back on the survivors. It was this loss of Carthage that haunted Kurbi, making him feel personally cheated. The conflict had revealed only one side of Herculean culture. What about the philosophers, scientists, musicians and poets? Where was the record of their work? Gorgias might not be aware of what had survived into his keeping.
“Couldn’t you have followed him through the star?” Julian asked.
“Perhaps — but by the time we would have passed through, the Whisper Ship would have been out and gone, leaving us no direction to follow. The star will have erased any of the usual signs of his passing. There might be a trace farther out, but he will be far away and covering his tracks by the time we find it.”
“He’s certainly put a lot of space between his tricks in the past,” Julian said.
“You want to see him dead. Admit it.”
“Yes — if he goes on killing. You think that yourself. There won’t be any choice.”
Kurbi thought of the Herculean survivors on Myraa’s World. Gorgias was the kind of vigorous and intelligent leader who might pull them out of their stoicism of defeat.
“Maybe you need a rest,” Julian said. “When was the last time I saw you bodily?”
“I’ve got to see this through to the end.”
“Yours or his?”
“I’m going to Myraa’s World.”
“I won’t stand in your way, up to a point — but if you lose a ship, or if he strikes and there is a greater loss of life, someone will have me for breakfast.”
“They’ll spit you out,” Kurbi answered. “You’d taste too bitter.”
Poincaré snorted, threw up his hands and broke the link.
Kurbi stared at his own face in the shiny gray surface of the screen. The lines were just beginning to come into his face at the age of seventy-five, but his hair was still black; his appearance would not change significantly until he was well past two hundred, if he did nothing; with rejuvenation he would stay as he was indefinitely.
He tried to imagine his life as it might be after the hunting of young Gorgias was over — the Herculean was young only by Herculean standards, yet Kurbi always thought of him as younger than himself. He thought of Grazia, dead these three long decades … frail, transparently skinned Grazia with her long black hair and large sad eyes, an exotic flower torn suddenly from the garden of Earth. He pictured her swimming gently in the pool, climbing out to lie naked on the grass; and he remembered the distant fear that had crossed his mind then, the future casting its shadow backward into a happier past —
—The glider sank suddenly toward the cliff face.
He was grateful that he had been unable to see its shape crumple up against the rock. Looking back, the chain of events leading to her death seemed inevitable, bound with an iron determinacy because there was nothing he could ever do, even in an infinity of time, to change them.
He recalled his time of wandering as he had searched for peace in the worlds of Earth’s ring, moving from one habitat to another; he might have removed the terrible memory, but that would have meant losing too much else, becoming another person.
The hunting of Gorgias had given him something useful to do, enlisting his intellect and feelings in the solving of a problem that might have no solution. The sense of urgency was always there — Gorgias was killing Federation citizens, and it was possible, though unlikely, that he might in time persuade enough outworlds to revolt against Federation authority.
The best solution would be for Gorgias to surrender, hand over his ship and base and retire to Myraa’s World, where he would help revive his people’s will to increase their numbers, so that one day they could return to the Hercules Cluster and rebuild their civilization along peaceful lines.
Suddenly Kurbi realized that the future he wanted for Gorgias was the sort of thing a man might want for his children, but the reality threatened to be different; Gorgias seemed as unreachable as Grazia.
Kurbi could not abandon the hunt. It would have to end in a constructive way, or with Gorgias’s imprisonment, or death. That final alternative filled Kurbi with dread and sorrow. The Herculean’s hatred was a natural force, self-reliant, moving by sudden inspiration, by impulses surer than intellect — admirable in its own way; but Kurbi knew that he would not shrink
from killing the Herculean if it became necessary; he would kill him for what he had done to New Mars; he would kill him because he could not change him.
They would hail the act on Earth, and lament the loss of the Herculean base; the collective shoulders of the Federation would shrug at the death of a rival.It will be my failure if we kill him , Kurbi thought. Surely Gorgias could not forever resist capture by a starflung civilization?He might commit suicide . The only chance to save him would come as the result of a long personal confrontation.…
The screen lit up. “Still no trail,” Milut said. “It’s a dead end.…”
|Go to Contents |
V. Impromptu
“O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering!”
— Keats
THE WOODED HILLS were a green blur; rain-covered leaves reflected yellow sunlight in a chain of sunbursts running before the Whisper Ship.
Three thousand light-years along the winding corridor from Earth, Izar’s only navigational link with the Federation was an old-fashioned beacon — a lighthouse radiating into otherspace, guiding infrequent jumpships to what was clearly a fledgling settlement. Gorgias had noticed the signals while still in whisper drive — three concentrated beams penetrating toward the galactic perimeter; they were stationary, unlike the sweeping beams usually used for otherspace navigation; and they came from a planet, rather than from a relay in space.
Izar’s possible vulnerability had caught his interest, giving him an excuse to linger. The deserted levels of his father’s base could wait. Izar was inhabited by enemies — more than enough reason to scout and strike; no one would expect him here, especially if he had not planned it himself.
He felt the burden of isolation lift as the ship landed near the edge of a large clearing. He sat back and dreamed of people coming across the grass to welcome him, involving him with their looks, words and feelings.
Warm air circulated through the ship. He got up and went aft to the open side lock.
He stepped out and looked at the huge waxy leaves on the trees. The air was filled with the smell of growing things; sunlight was a veil on the greenery; wind stirred the trees with a soft rustling sound.
He looked up and saw the antiquated beacon tower standing on the mountain. There was no sign of people. He took a deep breath of the fresh, moist air. Storm clouds were moving toward the yellow sun from the south. The settlement was probably nearby, but so small that he had passed over it in a second.
He began walking across the clearing toward the wooded mountain, stretching his muscles, enjoying the feel of softness under his boots, looking at the irregularities of dirt and growing things, so new after confinement within the ship’s familiar geometry.
Rain fell as he reached the trees, and he ran under the protection of the huge leaves. He looked around. Here the very shadows were green-tinted; the air’s sweetness mingled with the odor of rotting things. Soon the moisture was running in rivulets from the trunks and branches, in giant drops from the overburdened leaves, accenting the smell of wet bark and minty leaf. Some of the leaves caught the water like goblets, overflowing their fill onto the path in front of him.
Quickening his pace on the well-worn trail, he came to a fork in the path. The left way led up to the tower; the right probably continued around the mountain.
He took the upward path, climbing steadily until he emerged on a flattened summit of dirt and rock. The tower stood above him, about one hundred meters of metal frame and spiral stairway with a cage at the top.
Gorgias turned and looked out over the forest. The ship sat in the clearing, its polished hull looking dull in the rain.
He turned back to the tower and noticed the wooden shelter under the spidery stairs. He hurried between the legs of the tripod and into the hut. The smell of soil was very strong inside. He saw a table, a chair and an old cot. The only window was behind him by the door. The dirt-floor hovel was probably used by maintenance people when they visited the beacon.
He sat down and wiped the wetness from his face. The chair creaked under him as he wondered whether he could readjust the beacon so that it would lead ships into Izar’s sun. That would be much more enterprising than simply destroying the tower; they might replace the beacon as soon as jumpships noticed that the system was missing from their scanners.
He got up, went outside and started up the spiral, reaching the top in a few minutes. He paused and let the sun warm his face. The ship’s hull glinted across the downward slope of trees.
Gorgias stepped through the entrance into a small shelter. The instrument package stood on an anchored tripod. He grasped the clear plastic covering and lifted the hemisphere back on its hinges.
After a few minutes of study, he was certain about how to make adjustments. The entire mechanism was made so that it could be taken apart easily. First he set the standard Federation coordinates for Izar’s sun; then he removed the faceplate and set it to read as it had before, so that the dial would not show the change. He replaced the cover, turned and went down the spiral, his boots clattering on the rungs. It had been easy, but then what kind of security would this kind of installation ever need? Who would think that it might come into danger? Not much could go wrong with its simple design. A few ships would be lost before the beacon was repaired, but that would be enough to make his stopover worthwhile.
He reached the base of the tower and started toward the path. The sound of a snapping twig startled him, and he stopped. Someone was coming up the trail. Standing perfectly still, he listened to the gentle footsteps; then he turned, went into the hut and peered out through the rag hanging over the window.
A figure in green came up the path, grasping a tall walking stick in its hand; a wide-brimmed hat hid the face from view.
Gorgias stepped back from the window, realizing that it was too late to avoid the encounter. The figure came inside, dripping water from the hat. The person was not very tall, but thin enough to appear taller from a distance.
The girl took off her hat in a sweeping motion, throwing drops into Gorgias’s face. Then she saw him and stared back in surprise, but without fear.
She looked upward, as if thinking about the beacon. He noticed her long brown hair, tied up in a bun on the back of her head. She took a step toward him and stopped, unsure of herself; then she shrugged and sat down in the chair. Gorgias relaxed, half-sure that she had not guessed the meaning of his presence.
She said something, but he did not understand the language. Her voice was musical; he could tell that she was making an effort to be friendly.
“Id-della,” she said, pointing to herself.
Gorgias nodded, unused to standing for so long in another’s gaze; he could almost sense her heartbeat, feel the warmth of her skin. If she became suspicious about the beacon, he would have to destroy it. It was inevitable, he realized, that the colony would become suspicious about the beacon, whether he killed her or not, now that she had seen him.
He rushed through the door and ran down the trail. In a moment he heard her behind him, padding noisily on the packed dirt; he turned his head and saw that she was gaining, stick in hand. Suddenly he was uncertain about whether he could defend himself in hand-to-hand combat; he had never gone into a fight without weapons or the ship. His pursuer was armed with a heavy stick, and might easily crush his skull.
She was still on the slope when he reached level woodland; he heard her voice echoing from the trees when he ran out into the clearing. The sun came out, blinding him for a moment; he stumbled forward and stopped in the tall grass.
He turned around and saw her standing near the edge of the clearing, watching him as if he were a wild beast that she was hunting. She called to him, and it sounded like a question.
“She’s no enemy,” his father’s voice said within him.
He turned away and sprinted for the ship.
The lock was warm around him as he staggered inside. He looked back and saw her running through the
clearing. Voices called to her, and he saw two figures among the trees on the mountainside. She drew closer as he watched, carrying her stick like a spear, rushing through the grass with the beauty of a wild animal. She was only curious about him and the ship.Coward, he said to himself, hating his own fear.
“Close the lock,” he said, then went forward when the door had closed, trying to ignore the absurdity of the situation. A single, powerless individual had ruined his plan.
“Lift,” he said as he sat down in the control room.
In moments he was moving slowly above snow-white clouds.
The ship circled and came in over the tower.
“Destroy it,” he said.
Beams reached out and burned the structure. The wet trees began to smoke. The ship circled and came in again. Beams reached out again, hastening the melting; the tower seemed to sink as its metal liquified; a rain of white-hot droplets hit the trees. Gorgias regretted the loss of his jumpship trap.
“Find the town.”
The ship moved away from the ruined tower, widening the circle, searching.
“On the other side of the mountain.”
Gorgias leaned forward as the town came into view — one street with a dozen buildings.
“Burn it.”
The ship came in low and touched fire to the roofs. Gorgias realized that the people would have time to escape if they were quick about it; he had no time for hunting individuals with a ship.
In a few moments he was over the clearing again. The girl and the two men stood in the grass, staring at the smoking mountain. One of them pointed to the smoke rising from the other side of the mountain, where their town was burning. The girl turned and looked up at the ship.
Then the clearing was behind him, and the ship was climbing starward. The drive cut in and the ship slipped into gray ashes.
There was no beacon on the screen — a small thing, but it would inconvenience his enemies; if only the girl had not come to the tower, he might have caused more damage.
George Zebrowski Page 13