Margaret St. Clair

by The Dolphins of Altair

  We all listened. The splashing stopped; we felt a ripple in the water. And now we saw a darker outline against the dimly illuminated walls of the cavern, the silhouet te of a man. Somebody had got past the watchful submarine, and he did not need to speak for us to know who he was.

  Madelaine had jumped to her feet. “Sven!” she cried. Even in her excitement she rememb ered to speak softly. “Is it really you? And Djuna with you? Oh, how glad I am! What all’s been happening? How did you get past the submarine?”

  There was a note in her voice that was always absent when she spoke to the doctor, and I realized how ill at e ase she had been with him. Moonlight and Sven were two of the same kind. Lawrence was somebody on the outside.

  “Yes, it’s me,” the man in the water answered. His voice was a little deeper than it had been. “And Djuna’s with me, though she can’t swim quit e as well as she used to. About the sub, Djuna and I sent it away. It’s a new way of using Udra we learned when I was in the synthi-womb.

  “But we haven’t time now for talking. We’ve got to get out of here quick. The sub is sure to be back.”

  -

  Chapter 16

  Madelaine had fallen asleep beside the worktable, worn out. They had been living in the beach cottage in Descanso for three days now, working on the construction and regulation of the new ahln devices, and in all that time Madelaine had been unable to sleep. The sleeping pills Dr. Lawrence had dosed her with had only increased her fatigue, without giving her rest; but now that the three ahln devices were finished and lay ready in their aluminum casings for their journey to the poles, sleep had come over her irresistibly. Her arms were on the table and her head was pillowed on them. She had only meant to sit down for an instant.

  She was alone in the room. Sven had gone out for groceries, and the doctor was bathing and shaving in the little bath. At first she slept dreamlessly, but later—perhaps as the sound of the bath water running partly roused her— she began to relive, in confused and temporally anarchic fashion, the events of the last few days.

  Once again she struggled through the cavern’s underwater entrance, walked across the sand to the rented Mexican beach cottage, changed the color of her hair with the dye Sven had bought at Descanso’s one farmacia. Once more she wondered why the navy’s attacks had ceased. Sometimes she shared Sven’s adventures, too—she lay in the synthi-womb, or found Djuna, wounded but healed, faithfully waiting. But usually it was of what she had really experienced that she dreamed.

  The sub exploded behind her eyelids, the sun shone. She drank water thirstily. Water and guilt. The men in the sub had died. She saw their limbs floating slowly up through the turbulent green water, as if they still swam or tried to swim. But they were dead. The sub had killed itself.

  Neither she nor Sven had meant it to happen. They had been emerging from the cavern’s underwater entrance, almost at the surface, when the returning sub had poked its nose around the edge of the rock shelf. She and Sven had tried to project a phantom at a distance, a phantom of a man with dolphins, but the gunner in the sub had not been deceived. The muzzles of the sub’s antipersonnel guns had turned inexorably toward where the Splits and dolphins actually were.

  There had been no time for consideration. Madelaine and Sven had had to take control of the gunner’s body and make him turn his fire elsewhere. The heavy shells, designed to fragment powerfully even underwater, had exploded against the rocky shelf.

  This first strain the sub would have survived. The compressive force of the shock waves, though so close to it, would not have broken it. But the helmsman, amazed at the gunner’s incomprehensible action, had sent the sub into a wild turn just as the gunner had released his heaviest antipersonnel missile straight at the rock. The abrupt extra strain on the already maltreated hull had been as final as a hit by a depth bomb. Safe on the surface, at a good distance, Madelaine and the others had seen the signs of the submarine’s death.

  But the guilt for this was less than another guilt, the crushing guilt Lawrence had tried to persuade them to assume. Madelaine heard his arguments endlessly, and over and over she tried to answer him. Her mind, even in sleep, drew back from his rightness, and she clung desperately to the decision that had actually been made.

  The dream changed. She still heard Lawrence’s voice, but it receded to a distressing murmur. She knew that she had a problem to solve.

  It was important; it concerned the doctor. But she couldn’t remember what it was. And how could she solve it unless she knew what it was? It wasn’t fair to make her responsible for solving an unknown problem in her sleep.

  She told me later that her sleeping mind entangled itself here with an old problem in geometry, and she spent what seemed a long time trying to prove Euclid’s famous Pythagorean theorem. But the words, “the square of the hypotenuse of a right triangle equals the sum of the squares on the other sides,” seemed to provide a clue, and at last she decided that the square metal casings of the ahln devices held her problem. It was for her to contrive a means by which the devices, slowly turning the ice of the polar caps to water, might go undiscovered for a long, long time.

  (In fact, the liability of the devices to discovery during a protracted melting period had been one of Lawrence’s strongest arguments for trying to melt the caps with maximum speed. He had pointed out over and over again that the Splits would not remain quiet while the waters rose and their seaports were drowned. They would try to find out what was causing it. And it was all too probable that they would find and destroy the devices that were melting the polar ice.)

  Now that she knew what her problem was, Madelaine’s sleeping mind felt a certain relief. For a little while, she said, she dreamed of riding with us sea people to a green tropic island. The water was a deep royal blue, the soft air bathed her limbs deliciously.

  It must have been about this time that Dr. Lawrence came in the room. I think he was surprised to find her asleep. He had not counted on it, and I think he took it as an omen. At any rate, he picked her up, with some difficulty, and carried her over to the day bed. He laid her down on it gently and drew a blanket over her. I don’t know whether he moved her because she was in his way, or because he wanted to test the depth of her sleep, or merely because he was sorry for her to be sleeping so uncomfortably.

  She says she thinks she murmured something, but she didn’t really wake. He turned out the light.

  I am not quite sure what he did next. I think he stood looking down at Moonlight for an instant. He may have gone back to the table, where the finished ahln devices were lying. It is almost certain he went back to the bedroom he and Sven shared.

  Madelaine, on the couch in the darkened workroom, slept more quietly now. The trip to the tropic island gave place to a brief interval of dreamlessness. Then, as if the new darkness had suggested to her sleeping mind the obscurity which ought to hide the ahln devices, Madelaine began to concern herself with her problem again.

  They—Splits generally—mustn’t find the floating mechanisms until the polar caps were gone. The rising waters would certainly be noticed, but the cause of the rising must remain unknown. Years must pass, and the ahln devices must go on quietly melting the ice.

  Within her eyelids, the girl saw an enormous scheme of camouflage. The ice fields were dappled with faded yellows, dull browns, dead green. The brown-flecked polar bear hunted a spattered prey, and the blobbed waves broke in yellow dots on a green-striped shore. No one would suspect …

  The dappled ice gave place to a speckled hen, soft-feathered, covering her nestlings with dark, secure wings, and the darkness of the nest became a huge vase that poured out darkness over the melting ice.

  In vain, in vain. Light glittered from the polar world in ten thousand heartless sparkles. Steam rose to the sky in three towering columns. It was sure to be seen.

  Madelaine began to search through a toppling pile of documents for the single sheet of paper that held the answer. The pile leaned, and then broke over her in a cascade
of slipping sheets.

  It rose around her like a flood, to her waist, her armpits, her chin. But before it could close over her head, she rescued from it the unique sheet of paper that held the solution, the solution at which we had already arrived in our actual discussions when the ahln devices were being built: that Udra could be used to keep the navies of the world from finding and destroying what was melting the ice.

  (I suppose Madelaine would never have been so concerned with this problem, in sleep, if her waking mind had been quite satisfied with the waking solution to it; we knew that Udra, by itself and at a distance, would not be enough to ensure the safety of the thermal devices. We had had to accept the unwelcome corollary that some of us sea people would have to live permanently with Splits in the role of pets.

  (Close to them, accepted by them as amiable, hyperintelligent domesticated animals, we might be able to influence them subtly but constantly to make the decisions we wished. We did not think it would be too difficult to start a fashion, among wealthy and influential Splits, of keeping dolphins as pets. But we knew this meant a lifetime of semi-slavery for some of us.)

  In Madelaine’s dream, the very word “Udra” was imbued with vast powers. The magical syllables alone could keep the ahln devices undiscovered for a hundred years. She was still dreaming that she had solved all our problems when Dr. Lawrence came into the room once more.

  He must have come in very softly. Certainly he did not want to disturb or waken her. But his entrance started the girl to dreaming of a huge dim figure, veiled in gray sheets of water, from whose mountainous head torrents plunged to the ground. She could not see its features. It seemed the embodiment of raging water.

  She heard a roaring. The figure was speaking to her, in a voice as large as a continent. “Flood control?” it said. “Flood control? Of the Mississippi?”

  The words rang in her ears portentously. They filled her with mysterious dread. She must wake up, some irrevocable event was happening, she must wake up.

  She struggled toward consciousness, but succeeded only in dreaming that she was awake. Half a dozen times she rose from the couch and stood beside the worktable, only to realize, a moment later, that she was still asleep. She made heroic efforts; sleep held her leadenly. She was still struggling to waken when Sven came in.

  He turned on the light. Madelaine was tossing on the couch, moaning and grinding her teeth. He went over to her and touched her gently on the forehead. “What’s the matter, Maddy? Poor girl, are you having a bad dream?”

  She sat up after a moment. Her face was dewed with sweat. “No—yes, I guess so. I was dreaming something about water. I’m still confused. Where’s Dr. Lawrence, Sven?”

  “In the bathroom or the kitchen, I suppose.”

  “Is he? Let’s go look for him.”

  They went through the little cottage together. Lawrence was in none of the rooms. They came back to the living room, and their eyes, by a common impulse, went to the worktable. It was empty. The ahln devices were gone.

  A moment later Sosa came running out on the beach, calling us dolphins. It took only a few words to make us understand what had happened: Dr. Lawrence had betrayed us again.

  -

  Chapter 17

  “He must have taken the ahln devices in his medical bag,” Sven said. He was speaking partly to us and partly to Madelaine, who was standing beside him on the beach. “The drawing Kendry had Madelaine make is gone too. I noticed that Maddy, how long ago do y ou think he left?”

  “I’m not sure. It seems to me that I spent four or five hours dreaming that I was awake, and then realizing I was still asleep on the couch. What time is it now?”

  “A little after eight. I was gone a lot longer than I meant to be. The clerk at the grocery store and I got into a conversation about North Americans.”

  “Then—I think he left about six-thirty. It may have been earlier.”

  “Um. I don’t think there’s much use trying to catch up with him if he has an hour and a half head start . He’s probably well on his way to his rendezvous with the navy by now. But we might be able to contact his mind and use Udra in the new way to make him come back. We can try it, anyhow.”

  “All right. Amtor, you and Djuna will help us, won’t you?”

  “Of c ourse.”

  Sven and Madelaine sat down on the beach, and after a moment Madelaine put her head in Sven’s lap. Djuna was used to working with Sven, and I with Madelaine; in no time at all we had reached a close enough psychic union with each other to start o ur search for Dr. Lawrence’s mind.

  We couldn’t pick him up at all. The four of us working together should have had considerable “resolving power,” but, as far as finding him went, he might never have existed.

  I may say here that Dr. Lawrence had as little psychic endowment as any Split I have ever encountered. He was subnormal. Perhaps this lack in his makeup accounts for the fascination psychic phenomena had for him.

  At any rate, we failed. About nine-thirty it became plain there was no use in trying any more. Sven got up, dusting sand from his trouser legs. “That’s that,” he said. “About all we can do now is wait for the navy to attack us.” He put his hands under Madelaine’s armpits and swung her to her feet.

  “You think they will attack?” the girl said.

  “Yes. Probably within the next few hours. It was odd they let us alone before. Of course, we can separate. You and I can go on down the Mexican coast, or inland, and the dolphins can head for deep water. We don’t have to stay here in Descanso, waiting, like targets in a shooting gallery.”

  “I’d rather stay here with the dolphins,” she answered slowly. “I’m tired of running and trying to save myself. Amtor, what do you and the others say?”

  I consulted with them briefly, in our high-pitched speech. “We feel the way you do, Sosa,” I said. “We’d rather stay with our Split friends. So many of the sea people have already been killed that it doesn’t seem worthwhile for us to try to save our own lives.”

  So the decision was made. If our passivity in the face of coming attack seems strange, it should be considered that we were all in a state of emotional shock. We had overcome so many difficulties, we had succeeded, incredibly, in actually building thermal devices to melt the ice at the earth’s poles, that to be thrown back into a state of helplessness, a position worse than when Madelaine had first come to Noonday Rock, numbed us. If the danger had been immediate, we might have roused ourselves to meet it. But we did not know when the attack would come.

  Sven and Moonlight slept on the beach that night, to be near us. When morning came and we were all still safe, an intoxicating light-heartedness took possession of us. Madelaine and Sven spent the day in th e water with us, playing with us or riding on our backs; and if every noise in the sky made us start with alarm, the fear was soon gone. When I look back on that time, an interval of forty hours or so, it seems to have a magical quality. It was an enchant e d space of happiness in the midst of struggle and distress.

  By noon on the second day, Sven had begun to grow thoughtful. “It’s almost two days now since Lawrence went off with the ahln things,” he said, wiping his fingers on a paper napkin (he and Madel aine were eating a picnic lunch on the beach, about a mile from the cottage). “Nothing has happened. It looks as if he hadn’t gone to the navy with his prize, after all.”

  “Yes. I can’t explain their leaving us in peace otherwise.”

  “If he hasn’t gone to the navy, he must be holed up somewhere, trying to decide what to do.” (This was partly correct.) “He might even be considering coming back to us.”

  “Not that,” Madelaine said dryly.

  “I suppose not,” Sven said laughing. “But if he hasn’t gone to them yet, it might be possible for us to find him and make him give what he stole back to us.”

  “Find him?” Madelaine repeated. “We’re not detectives. And I don’t suppose he wants to be found. There are so many places where he could have gone!”

>   “Well, if the navy didn’t pick him up, say with a plane or a sub, he must have got out of Descanso somehow. Let’s go check at the bus station.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Madelaine answered. She was packin g the remains of the lunch back in the box. “The dolphins can take us back to the cottage, and we can walk into town from there.”

  Sven did not speak much Spanish, and the clerk at the ticket window did not speak much English. Nevertheless, after ten minu tes or so, the clerk assured Sven positively that no such “North American gentlemen” had taken the bus out of Descanso in the last two days. He hadn’t, he said, had any North American passengers at all.

  “No dice,” Sven reported to Madelaine, who was stan ding beside the pinball machine. “Let’s try the taxi company.”

  Here they had better luck. The manager, an elderly man with gallant manners, said he had himself driven just such a gentleman as Sven described over the border and up to San Diego two nights before. The gentleman had been carrying a black medical bag.

  “Do you know where he went after you left him in San Diego?” Sven asked.

  “No, se ñ or. He said nothing about his plans. I let him out downtown.”

  “So we know he’s back in the United States,” Sven said as they walked along the rutted road in the direction of the cottage. “That’s something.”

  “It’s a large area,” Madelaine answered. “He could be anywhere in it.”

  A plane passed overhead and Sven, who was holding her hand, felt her fingers tremb le within his. He glanced at her quickly, but she was smiling. “We were talking about Lawrence, Sven,” she said.

  “Yes. Well, actually, his range of action is pretty limited. For one thing, he hasn’t much money, and for another, he’ll want to be near his contacts in the navy, the people he already knows. He’s probably somewhere along the California coast.”

  Before she could answer, the postman turned out of the yard of the beach cottage and spoke to them. “Buenas dias s se ñ or, se ñ orita. Postal card for you . In box.”