"They had ground-effect machines—GEMs, as we do today; flying carapets which ran on the broadcast power and didn't create smog.
"In those days a man didn't get a doctorate, he was made a Dominus or an Adonaios; strained through the Old Testament the term used becomes … Lord. Instead of being known as 'Doctor so-and-so,' he was known as 'Lord so-and-so' or the early version of the term. 'Baron' probably signified a doctorate in physics, but of that I'm not sure. I'm sure of the lordorate."
"Hold on," said the engineer. "Even if I granted your basic postulate, those are mighty finite details to be able to specify this much later." If he were going to go along with this, he told himself, at least he'd have some fun out of it.
"It comes through." The archaeologist smiled at his host's expression. "I've been re-reading history with a new eye. I never bothered to read the book carefully before, but now I find myself going to bed with the Bible."
"The Bible?"
"The Bible. The story of the Lord of Molecular Biology of the University at Crêta, who used the DNA patterns in his own cells to create Adam and Eve—and who created the domestic animals from the undomesticated ones he had in his laboratory, and from the cells of frozen meats he had on hand.
"And the various mythologies and histories—the stories of the different peoples that influenced eighty-six hundred years of history: the created men; the starship men; the colonies of the returning starships; the miners; and the mutations left from the avalanche—the trolls and dwarves and 'little people'; the fairies and their like.
"It's amazing the amount of detail that comes through, when you look. Even the numbering system, and the names to some extent." He paused. "Still willing to listen?" he asked finally.
"I'm listening," said the engineer.
The archaeologist leaned back in his camp chair, put his feet on a packing crate, and took a sip of beer.
"The story begins," he said, "in what would be about 6600 BC by our reckoning…"
The inaudible electronic whine of broadcast power from the great Siva generators was the pulse-beat of civilization—inaudible except at the sites of the generators themselves, where the thunderous, gulp-ended pulse of the ionospheric tap was controlled by man: the broadcast power that was the energy on which he fed.
"Shee-op. Shee-op." The double-pulse beat through the silencer tunnels of the granite pyramids that were the Sivas' insulators. "Shee-op. Shee-op. Shee-op."
It was early evening when that thunderous pulse at Siva Five suddenly became the crash of an unseen fist. A second crash—then silence.
The white-faced technicians in the control room centered within the pyramid looked to one another, counting their number. All had been inside.
In the telephone systems leading from Crêta to the outside world, the fuses smashed open, then closed again as the surge of power came and went. Auxiliary generators went into operation, replacing the broadcast power with local energy until repairs were made.
In the air, the hellish glow of avalanche lit the dusky skies with a glaring brilliance, then faded. The normal flow of carapet traffic slowed, stopped; the vehicles lighting where they were; the owners fuming, but recognizing the fact that they were stuck.
At the University of Crêta, Lord Dade Ellis felt his hair try to stand on end and knew that it meant a ruinous surge of electricity in the atmosphere. Frantically he reached for the switch to the breadboarded receiver, independent of the university power supply system, with which he was tapping a harmonic of the Siva's base frequency to test his newly-built instruments.
Even as he reached, the thin, reedy eee-op with which his receiver had been pulsing became a whap! and he knew he was too late. His work fronted towards the distant generator, and the glare that lit the skies seemed to his dazzled eyes to go on and on, though he knew it could have lasted only a fraction of a second.
He didn't have to glance at his instruments to know that they were ruined; the bleary vision of eyes still blinded by the glare would have made such a glance useless anyhow.
Cursing himself for an idiot that he had not fused his hand-made receiver for such a malfunction at the Siva, he felt his way towards the low-arched marble hallway beyond his lab. Only secondarily did he realize that the shock-wave would not follow for minutes, since the station was kilocubits from this spot.
As his vision cleared and he returned to the lab, a dark engorgement of anger suffused him; he stood staring at the months of work that had been terminated by the brief, self-extinguishing avalanche at the generator.
Dimly he heard the background babble of technicians and professors of the School of Advanced Study of the University—knowledgeable people, supposedly. Yet most of them were questioning what had occurred, without using their perceptions to arrive at the quick answer he knew to be correct, even as he had felt the surge in his fingertips.
But this time the slight feeling of his superiority over his fellows only increased his bitter anger at the frustration of his work in constructing the now-ruined instruments.
Knowledge that such disasters with the Siva generators were nearly always put down to "conditions beyond our control" by the technicians in charge displeased him even more. This particular "condition beyond control" he would bring to light, and the hapless technicians involved would not be allowed the saving grace of hiding behind such a stupid phrase.
Angrily he strode from the lab, intent on being among the first to investigate the malfunction. But in the parking lot he was brought to a second halt. Here were row upon row of the tiny, light-weight electronic carapets, interspersed occasionally by larger carajets—but, he suddenly realized, all absolutely useless as vehicles of transport until the Siva station was back on the air.
Other people were beginning to gather in the parking area. Some were attempting to start the ground-effect caras with no results. Without broadcast power, they were simply so much dead weight.
The shock wave caught the group—a mighty hand of wind, nearly irresistible in its outward sweep. As he leaned into it, he calculated its force—nearly 280 kilocubits per hour.
Behind him in the University buildings, windows swayed and shattered; some of the lighter-weight ornamentation was stripped from the upper levels. Even the majestic gouphra trees lining the driveway and spotting the campus had their great low limbs swept upward by the blast.
He glanced around at the scene as the wind brushed past—a scene of apparent disaster, with bodies sprawled about and the effluvia of ornamentation and branches scattered widely.
A minute was enough to convince him that no one was badly hurt, and he turned impatiently back towards his lab. Anger had betrayed him to danger as surely as the stupidity of those around him had betrayed them.
A streak of yellowish fur and green eyes, belonging to one of the biological animals—a big one, nearly 40 pounds, and with sharp, deadly teeth and claws—came past him, followed by the baying cry of another animal—110 pounds of great gray muscular fury. Behind this, a few of the biologist's assistants, calling on the animals to halt and calling on the people around them to help; though one voice, plainer than the rest, was warning people to stay out of the beasts' path.
Suddenly the cat turned in snarling fury and launched himself directly at his enemy, clearing the snapping jaws and coming down, claws-out, in a savage attack on the back. The cannus rolled and came back to the attack, but the cat was away again, in a new direction.
Without quite comprehending why, Dade emitted a sharp burst of whistle through his clenched teeth, and directed an automatic command towards the huge cannus. "Come here," he said, and was quite surprised to see the animal break off the pursuit and turn, tail between his legs as though apologizing for having caused so much trouble.
Still with his tail between his legs, the cannus came up to Dade and licked his hand. In reply the engineer reached down and patted the big head, wondering as he did so at his own daring, though the slashing jaws stayed closed, and the cannus stood quietly at his side, tre
mbling under the man's touch.
One of the biology assistants was approaching rather hesitantly, a collar and chain held out of sight of the animal; his other hand out. Dade felt the beast's muscles tense beneath his fingers; the fur at the back of its neck rose.
"Better not." He spoke quietly to the man. "Where does he belong? I think I can take him back there for you."
"Sir—if you would, sir. In the biology lab." The assistant didn't move as they spoke.
"Then move from between us and the lab." Dade smiled briefly. "Make it slow. No sudden motions."
When the path was clear, Dade took a slow step forward. "Come along, boy," he said to the beast at his side; it moved with him, still trembling but obedient.
The strange pair walked quietly towards the building entrance, people clearing the path before them. When Dade opened the door the beast still seemed quite content to accompany him. They turned at the right of the main door into a long, bench-lined room with scattered tables and equipment. Still the beast stayed at his side, and Dade looked around for a clue to where it should go.
"Lord Ellis. The door at the far end of the room, if you will be so good." Dade had not turned as his name was spoken; now he moved forward, still slowly, to the far door, and through it into a marble-floored room that was empty, save for quilts that might have been bedding in one corner, and a feeding trough.
The animal hesitated at the door, but entered on Dade's command; almost regretfully he closed the door upon it. "Goodbye," he said through a grill, as though to a person, and turned to leave.
A lean figure, almost aesthetic, of medium height and with raven black hair, was waiting for him.
"I'm David Lyon," the man said. "That was one of the animals I've developed in the lab, and a very valuable one. I congratulate you on your courage, and thank you for capturing him for me."
"Lord Lyon. A pleasure meeting you. But you know my name … ?"
"We all know the engineer who will be in charge of the Vahsaba."
"Not if we have many more of these generator avalanches!" Dade looked around at the unkempt lab, gloomy in the half-light of dusk. "Have you a minute to talk? I'd like to find out about this animal."
If you could make it another time … ? My babustin is still loose."
As he spoke, the laboratory door through which Dade had first entered opened and the yellowish-furred animal that had attacked the cannus entered as though coming into the throne-room of its palace. Immediately behind the babustin was a young woman in slacks who strode purposefully towards a door at the side of the lab and opened it.
"Into your quarters, Meig," she said, and the big cat stalked disdainfully in, to have the door shut upon her. The girl turned back to the two.
"Got Meig back for you, David. But this—whatever it was—has upset her, and she may be hard to handle for a bit. Do you know what happened, Lord Ellis?"
"Oh, Siva Five avalanched," Dade answered almost casually. "It's wrecked some of my instruments and probably done a deal of damage, but avalanches aren't actually a major catastrophe any more. They're self-extinguishing in these latitudes."
"Professor Zad Shara," Lyon introduced the girl.
"Lord Shara," Dade acknowledged.
"No. I don't have a lordorate. Just professor." She smiled.
"Zad's mentor for the sixth ship, the Vaheva," the biologist put in, "and quite a hand with our high-psi babustins. We've developed them from the bayabs of the province of Philesta. You know, of course, that we are attempting to develop companion animals for the interstellar ships—to act as decoys and guardians for you Vahnire when you reach a planet?" Dade nodded. "These two," the biologist continued, "seem to be among our most successful strains."
"I'd heard the work was going on." Dade looked thoughtfully at the aquiline-faced man before him, noting the coarseness of the hair that grew on his arms; the deep shadow of beard on his face, contrasting with the aesthetic features; the dark cast of the skin. "I had put off finding out about it in the press of other work."
"You really shouldn't have put it off," Zad said impatiently. "Some of the most exciting work at the School is going on here—and probably some of the most far-reaching research outside of interstellar exploration. Of course, I'm a Vahnire myself and prejudiced in favor of my own job," she said, turning to David Lyon and smiling. "No insult intended. Meig," she added, turning back to Dade, "is going with me. She's my own special guardian-companion."
"And what did you have planned for our ship, Lord Lyon?" Dade found himself intrigued. The animal I just met is magnificent, truly magnificent. And he comes under control at once. Obedient!"
"The cannus is developed from a wolf strain, of the desolately cold regions of Canna. It shows none of the psi characteristics that the babustins exhibit. I have decided to discard them in favor of the feline strain."
"Do you mean to tell me that that—babustin—can obey an unspoken command?"
"Oh, no!" The biologist seemed genuinely horrified. "Certainly not! Not on two counts. In the first place, the babustins are not obedient in the manner of the canines; and in the second place, I said they showed psi tendencies, which is a far, far different concept from that of psi-communication, or telepathy, which I am afraid exists only in the realm of the public imagination."
Zad put in quickly, "Meig can sense emotions. She can respond to an emotional environment. But she is a completely independent creature, and a very intelligent one. She also retains her full animal capabilities, and can hunt for herself and fend for herself. She doesn't need me, any more than I need her. But the two of us make a very good team, and can work together well when we want to."
"The cannus is quite the opposite," added David Lyon thoughtfully. "He exhibits the characteristics of a symbiote. He can be independent, but he seems to prefer a partnership with a member of the race of man. The canni that we have tested form a partnership with a man as complete as their ancestors form with their mates—a till-death-do-us-part attachment on the part of the cannus for its master; an obedient subservitude towards that one person and no other."
"Now that would be the animal for me." Dade could feel again the big head beneath his hand; the trembling of muscles in response to his touch. "I could never tolerate an animal that wasn't obedient. Will they train?"
"The indications are that the person to whom they attach can train them almost to his will. But they exhibit none of the psi qualities, and I am afraid we shall have to discard them."
"You shall not discard an animal of that caliber!" Dade's voice was that of a commander to an underling. I won't have it! That particular beast, in fact, shall be mine, and I shall take him with me on the Vahsaba." He glared at the biologist who looked back at him in perplexity.
"But Lord Ellis. You do not understand. I am a molecular biologist, charged with …"
"And I am the chief engineer of the ship on which a beast is to be placed."
The biologist turned to the girl nervously. "This is a little ridiculous," he said. "I am charged …"
On the far side of the door leading to the cannus' compartment there was a low growl: the sound of scratching could be heard against the door.
"I think," Zad said softly, eyeing the engineer, "that you may have found a man of the same violent temperament and the same loyalties—and perhaps, if you will forgive me, Lord Ellis, the same lack of psi—that your eannus exhibits. You may, David, have trouble unraveling the attachment, short of killing the one or the other. And I think," she continued softly, "that if you kill the one you will quite possibly make an implacable enemy of the other."
''Your mentor has analyzed the situation quite well, Lord Lyon," said Dade. "I shall be back to visit my animal. Quite frequently," he added, as he turned to the door.
Outside the laboratory he found himself at a loss. Now just why had he carried the thing that far? The beast didn't mean anything to him—although, he admitted to himself, it was a most magnificent beast, and obedient. Obedient to a master—and he was
its master!
He smiled to himself grimly, and started towards his lab. Then he hesitated, debating going on to Station Five to see what the damned technicians had discovered in the way of an excuse. He changed his mind again and leaned against the wall beside the laboratory door to wait.
He didn't have long. Zad was only minutes behind him, brushing through the door and down the hall without noticing his presence. He had to take several long strides to catch up to her. He fell in step and caught her arm. She looked up, and her glance was hesitant and then full.
"Dinner?" he asked. "We could discuss the relative merits of our companion-guardians."
"You were quite rude to a very sensitive scientist," she said severely, and then smiled. "At seven. I'll meet you— at your lab."
"Well …" He was nonplussed, then shrugged. "Very well. I'm working in room 170. Building Eda."
II
"Once you had the solar tap, of course, you had the stars." The archaeologist was speaking almost wistfully. "Not just the solar system; the stars! With that much power—three times ten to the twentieth watts of continuous energy is your estimate, you said?—you can put as much hardware in orbit as you need to. With real hardware in orbit, their technology—and ours—is quite capable of a star drive."
The engineer was enjoying the tale. He was relaxed. The sun was westering, and the heat of the day was near spent. The beer was cold, and it was a long time since he'd simply lounged and put his feet up. Star drive? Sure. With the power you'd get from the solar tap, you could get enough hardware into orbit. Easily. He could design the means himself.
"That's what I've dreamed," he commented. "That's what I hope."
"You don't have to dream. You'll have it. They had it with a technology similar to ours." Ignoring the engineer's obvious disbelief, the archaeologist went on. "By the time they'd had the tap for a few dozen years they'd managed to launch five interstellar ships. Later, two more made it seven in all."
The engineer leaned forward and knocked the dottle out of his pipe. "Now," he said, "even if I take your theme as gospel—just how could you know something like that? That's a rather far-fetched assumption, isn't it?"
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