by Damon Knight
“Now the Zug will certainly come,” Rab muttered. “That was a scout.”
“A man?” Naismith asked incredulously. “There are human beings serving them?”
“I told you,” Rab began, then stopped abruptly. From the opening ahead, something else had emerged into view.
Naismith’s hand slapped his chest instinctively, came up with the cool metal of the gun, even as his mind registered the incongruity of what he was seeing. The thing that was now hurtling toward him with incredible speed, winged, glittering, was no Zug—it was an angel.
Naismith had an impression of blazing eyes, a manlike face of inhuman beauty, powerful arms outstretched.
In that frozen moment, he was aware of the passengers in the bubbles, all facing around, bright-eyed, intent, like spectators at a boxing match. He saw the gnome’s bubble begin to move.
Then his jaws clenched, and the view-disk sprang into being in front of his face. The angel disappeared; in its place was a many-legged monster, red-eyed, clawed and hideous.
“Zug!” shouted the voices around him. Then the beast was upon him.
Naismith fired. A spear of flame shot out of the pistol, blue-bright, twenty feet long. The monster wheeled in mid-air, seemed to vanish.
Naismith whirled desperately, knowing as he brought his gun around that he had no chance. He saw the gnome hanging close behind him in his blue bubble, almost close enough to touch.
There was no time for conscious thought: he simply knew.
The gun fired in his hand: the lance of flame shot out, straight through the gnome’s insubstantial body.
A wailing chorus went up. The gnome, unharmed, whirled to look behind him. Then he began to howl with fury.
Drifting in the air, its huge body still writhing, armored tail lashing, the Zug lay with its massive head cut half from its body, and a trail of violet-red blood streaming from the wound.
The spectators in their bubbles began to close in, shouting with excitement. Rab and Liss-Yani were hugging each other.
Naismith felt himself begin to tremble. It was over; he was still alive.
“How did you do it?” How did you ever do it?” shouted one of the candy-striped fat men, edging nearer, cheeks shining with pleasure.
“Pendell was too close,” Naismith said with an effort. “He came up behind me, knowing the Zug would use him for cover.” He took a deep breath, and smiled at the gnome.
“Thank you,” he said.
Pendell flinched as if he had been struck; his face writhed.
As laughter burst out around him, he turned and darted away.
The view-disk in front of Naismith’s helmet had winked out again. Curious, he turned to look at the Zug: and where the monster had been a moment before, an angel lay slain.
The pale head, half severed, was noble and beautiful; the eyes stared blindly. The great limbs tensed spasmodically; the sharp tail curled up and then was still.
Chapter Fifteen
Naismith was dreaming. Part of his mind knew that his body was afloat, curled up in mid-air in the green-walled cubicle; another part was drifting through dream images, memories, distorted and menacing—the pale Zug, more horrible than in life, with fangs and gleaming eyes, looming toward him, while he hung paralysed, unable to reach for the gun…
Naismith groaned, trying to awaken. The image faded. Now he was wandering through the deserted corridors of the Old City, somehow confused and blurred together with the corridors of the spaceship. The greenish faces of Lall and Churan floated into view; they were dead, their dull eyes turned up.
And a part of his mind, separate from the other two, was watching in fascinated horror as a door trembled, about to open.
The crack widened. In the darkness, something stirred, came into view…
Naismith awoke, with his own hoarse cry echoing in his ears.
His clothing was sweat-sodden; his head ached, and he was trembling all over. A shout echoed in the distance, outside the cubicle. For a moment he wondered if he were still dreaming: then the sound came again. It was a shout of alarm, or fear.
Other voices answered it; then came a rolling, rumbling avalanche of sound—an explosion!
Naismith gathered himself and shot to the doorway, looked put. A man of the Entertainer caste, armed and helmeted, face intent, went by down the corridor.
“What is happening?” Naismith called after him, but the man was gone.
On the way to the social room, he passed two groups of hurrying automatic guns, their red lenses aglow; the second was accompanied by a robot, which did not respond to his questions. Somewhere, very distant, sounded the rumble of another explosion.
The huge globular hall was filled with motion: People were rushing in all directions, interfering with each other, often colliding. Robots and automatic guns were everywhere. There were a few greenskinned servants, all with the metal collars around their necks, all with wild, stunned expressions. He passed one male greenskin who was arguing or pleading with a stout man in white. The man, who was carrying a viewscreen on which a tiny picture was visible, shifted a few yards away from the servant, not looking at him; the servant followed, still talking, and so they moved jerkily across the hall. Naismith drifted after them and listened.
“… to kill me like this,” the greenskin was saying in a hoarse, indistinct voice. “Tell them not to do it, please tell them—”
“Leave me alone,” muttered the man, gazing into his viewscreen. He moved away again. Again the servant followed.
“Don’t let them kill me, that’s all I ask,” he said thickly. “I’ll do anything, I’ll be good, I’ll never be slow when you call again—just please tell them—”
Without speaking or looking up, the man moved away. The servant fell silent and gazed after him. His heavy face turned blank; then he shuddered, his face darkened, his muddy eyes bulged. With an inarticulate sound, he launched himself through the air, arms outstretched.
He never reached the man in white. In mid-air, his head suddenly dropped, his body went limp. He floated, turning slowly, past the man in white, who did not even glance up.
From the back of the metal collar around the dead greenskin’s neck, a thin trickle of blood crept into sight.
Naismith turned, went on his way. Here and there in the huge space, he saw other drifting, greenskinned bodies. One or two were being towed away by sarcophagus robots; the rest were being ignored.
He noticed, too, that the man in white was not the only one with a viewscreen. Almost every member of the ruling caste had one; and where the people clustered thickly, he discovered, they were watching larger screens that hung in the air.
Naismith moved on. Movement flowed around him, voices called in excitement; once he saw an Entertainer with a bloody face being carried past by a robot. But it was all dreamlike, distant.
What was wrong with him? He felt a tension in himself that was slowly, steadily increasing, and it seemed to him that it had been building continuously all this while, ever since that first day in the multiple classroom in Los Angeles. Every step, from the death of Ramsdell, his imprisonment, then Wells’ murder
… traveling forward with the two aliens, the buried spaceship, all the way to the City… that tension had been remorselessly growing inside him. He felt as if his body were being physically distended by it, till he must burst if he could not find relief. His forehead was sweating; there was a tremor in his arms. Something inside him… that buried mystery, the thing that had taken over in the psychiatrist’s office, and again in Prell’s laboratory… the black secret of his being….
He felt as if the door were about to open, and as if its opening would destroy him.
“Shefth, what’s the matter with you?”
He looked up. It was a fat little man in brown and green stripes, gazing at him with anxious eyes. The shrill voice went on, “Don’t you know the Highborn has been asking for you?
Where have you been? Come along, hurry!”
Naismith f
ollowed toward the center of the hall, where the largest cluster was located. As they made their way slowly through the close-packed, moving bodies, the little man panted back at him, “Hurry, hurry—she wants you there before it happens!”
“Before what happens?” Naismith asked dully. The pressure inside him was so great that he could scarcely breathe. His head ached, his hands were cold.
“The Barrier!” the little man shrilled. “They are going to put up the Barrier any minute! Hurry!”
Squeezing his way through the inner ring, Naismith came into view of the fat woman and her entourage, gathered around a row of big circular screens. One showed a view of the time-laboratory workrooms, with a gnome in the foreground—
Pendell, or another just like him. The fat woman was screaming hysterically, “Isn’t it ready yet? How soon, then, how soon?”
“A few minutes, Highborn.”
“Why can’t you be more specific? A few minutes, a few minutes—how many?”
“By my estimate, not more than five,” said the gnome. His face was strained; he was giving part of his attention to the aristarch, part to a control box he held in his hands.
“But I want to know exactly” the fat woman shrilled. Her eyes were mad in her yellow face. “Go forward in time and find out, as I asked you to before!”
The hawk-faced man drifted up and said, “That would pinch out the loop, Highborn. It is contrary to the basic laws of time.”
“Pinch out the loop, pinch out the loop, that’s all I hear!”
the old woman screamed. “I’m tired of it, tired of it! How many minutes now?”
“Perhaps three,” said the gnome, tight-lipped.
“Highborn, the trap worked!” said a grime-streaked Entertainer, darting up, his face jubilant. “The Uglies were destroyed
—we have their time vehicle!”
“Good!” said the fat woman, looking momentarily pleased.
“How many does that leave?”
The men beside her turned toward one of the floating screens, in which nothing showed but a scattering of greenish points of light. As Naismith watched, a few winked out, here and there.
The nearest man touched the edge of the screen, peered at the numbers that appeared at the bottom. “Seven hundred fifty-three, Highborn,” he said.
“Good! And how many Zugs?”
The group’s attention turned to another, similar screen, in which the dots of light glowed sullen red. “The same as before, Highborn,” said a man. “Five hundred eighty-seven.”
The old woman snorted with indignation. “Still so many?”
she said. “Why, I say why?”
“The Barrier will kill them, Highborn,” Hawknose reminded her gently.
“Then how long is it till the Barrier?” she demanded.
“Less than one minute,” said the gnome. Drops of sweat stood on his brow.
In his mounting distress, it seemed to Naismith that the whole great gathering had turned sordid and ugly, the colors dulled; even the air he breathed smelled overperfumed and fetid. This was a sorry climax to the drama of the human race, he thought—this pampered oligarchy of piggish little men and women, selfish, ignorant and stupid—less worthy to survive than the Entertainers who amused them, or even the neuras-thenic technicians who kept their city functioning. And now there would be no threat to their dominion, for ever and ever
… That, somehow, was the most intolerable idea of all.
“Ready!” the gnome snapped. His eyes gleamed with excitement as he glanced around. Behind him in the darkness, Naismith could see the other technicians floating beside their machines, all with faces upturned toward Pendell.
“Now!” said the gnome harshly, and his fingers touched the control box.
Naismith felt an instant’s violent and inexplicable alarm.
Something seemed to compress his lungs; a band of pain clamped around his forehead.
Shouts of excitement echoed in his ears. All across the vast space, men and women in gaudy costumes were swirling about each other in rapid motion.
“How many Uglies left?” the old woman cried. “How many, I say how many?”
“None, Highborn!” a man called triumphantly. In the screen, every green light had winked out.
Glancing across the hall, Naismith saw many drifting greenskinned corpses, but not one living servant.
“And how many Zugs?” called the old woman.
A hush fell. In the second screen, one ruddy light was still burning.
“One,” said the nearest man reluctantly. “One Zug left alive, Highborn.”
“Fool!” she screamed at Pendell. “Fool, fool! How could you be so careless? Why didn’t your Barrier kill them all?”
“I don’t know, Highborn,” the gnome said. His face twitched; he blinked, rubbed his thin arms with his hands. “In theory it is impossible, but—”
“But there it is!” she shouted. “Well, what are you going to do? How can we be safe if there’s a Zug still alive? Where is that Shefth? I say where is he?”
Several hands thrust Naismith forward. “Here, Highborn.”
“Well?” she demanded, whirling, her mad eyes staring into his. “Well? Are you going to kill it? What are you waiting for?”
Naismith tried to speak, and failed. His body was on fire with pain; he could barely see.
“What’s the matter with him?” the old woman squalled. “I say what’s the matter?”
Hands probed his body. Dimly he heard the hawk-nosed man’s voice: “Are you ill?”
Naismith managed to nod.
“Look at him, just look!” the old woman shouted. “What good is he now? Put a death collar on him and be done with it!”
“But the Zug, Highborn!” called an anxious voice. “Who will kill the Zug?”
“Put the collar on him, I say!” the woman’s hysterical voice railed on. “I can’t stand the sight of him. Put the collar on him—kill him, kill him!”
Naismith felt a moment of intolerable tension, then a sudden release. He was afloat in darkness, safe, protected.
The woman’s shout seemed to echo from a distance. “Well, why don’t you put the collar on?”
A pause. Another voice answered: “Highborn, this man is dead.”
Chapter Sixteen
In the darkness, the being who knew himself as Naismith awakened. Memory returned. He knew where he was, and what he was.
He was alive, though the rapidly cooling body in which he lay was not. He could remember, now, with utter clarity, all the things it had been necessary for “Naismith” to forget.
He remembered killing Wells. Earlier, he remembered standing beside the wreckage of a bomber, and coolly selecting the dog tags of one of its crewmen, the one who most resembled him in age and height: dog tags that read “NAISMITH, GORDON.”
He remembered stripping the body, carrying it on his shoulders to a ravine, throwing it in and covering it with boulders….
Earlier still, he remembered his first grublike awareness—
warmth, protection, motion. He had put out pseudoganglions, first cautiously, then with gathering sureness and skill. He had linked his own nervous system with that of his host, a Shefthi warrior returning belatedly from a Zug hunt.
Then he could see, feel, hear, with his host’s human senses.
He was inside the Shefth: he was the Shefth….
With grim satisfaction, he realized that the game was over, the long-maturing plan had been successful. His knowledge of his own kind came only from human sources, but logic alone made it certain that he represented his species’ counterblow to the humans’ Barrier. Encysted in a human body, his mind radiations mingled with those of a human brain, he alone of all his kind could pass through that Barrier. He was the one surviving Zug: he himself was the monster he had been sent to kill.
Now, as his strength returned, he was aware of motion. The host-body was being towed off out of the way, probably by a robot. He waited, tensely, until the motion was
arrested and the sounds of voices diminished. It was evident that he had been taken out of the great hall, into some smaller chamber.
He waited again, to make sure, but there was no further movement.
Ever since the host-body died, he had been injecting desic-cants into it to harden it and make it brittle along the center line of the torso. Now he stretched himself, applied pressure: and the body split. Light came into his prison.
For the first time, he saw with his own eyes; and he was dazzled. The world was so much more brilliant and beautiful than human senses could convey!
Now he saw that he was floating in a small, bare cubicle, among the corpses of dozens of greenskins.
Carefully he drew himself out of the hollow he had made in the body of his host. He felt his limbs and wings stretching in the air, hardening.
A fresh babble of voices came from outside the cubicle. He gripped the empty host-body and drew it quickly to the back of the room, hiding it behind the other floating bodies. A moment later, there was a commotion: a body crashed heavily into the room, followed by another. The first was babbling in a thin, terrified voice, “No, no, no…”
He risked a glance. A robot, as he watched, was affixing a death collar to the scrawny neck of a technician. Its task done, the robot turned and floated away. It was carrying a cluster of the metal collars, which jangled faintly as it moved.
The technician, left behind, tugged vainly at his collar. Tears glittered in the little man’s eyes. With a choked sound, after a moment, he turned and followed the robot.
The being who called himself Naismith waited grimly. Now that the Shefthi and the greenskins were gone, the City’s rulers were evidently making sure of the technicians—perhaps of the Entertainers as well. However that might be, Naismith waited because he had to. -
During these first few minutes, he was vulnerable and weak, easy prey for any determined man with a weapon.
At intervals, cautiously, he tested his wings. The curved ribs were hardening, the membranes drying. He flexed his grasping members, watching the armored segments slide in their casings.