Nomad (1944)

by Wesley Long; George O. Smith

  Guy was going slowly as spaceships travel, but he was secure in the belief that he was not followed. He wondered whether his arduous path had been really necessary. He’d given them the shake easily. Right on the first try, and from then on he’d been able to go free as he wanted. The rest of his manipulation had been insurance.

  But there had been no pursuit. It was almost impossible to have flown the millions of miles he had covered in free flight along a course beside another freely flying ship without diverging or converging. That would take corrective driving, and the radiation would flare in his detector. He had seen none. He was safe.

  He spent his time figuring, and trying to fix the position of Ertene. He corrected his fix time after time, and prayed that he was right.

  And when he detected the great, nonreflecting sphere in space with his converted detector, he shouted in joy.

  He passed Ertene and went beyond detector range by twenty million miles. Then he broke his barrier and directed the lifeship to the center of the big barrier over Ertene. He closed his own barrier again and watched the blackness increase in size as he coasted toward it. He made contact, passed inside, and saw Ertene and the synthetic sun.

  He kept his barrier on and approached the planet with the acceleration of falling bodies.

  He hit the atmosphere and the falling velocity turned the silence of space-flight into a scream. He watched the pyrometers, and though the hull became hot, it did not become dangerously so. His velocity upon contact had been in thousands of feet per second, not miles, as would have been the case in a meteor.

  The velocity dropped slightly; Guy calculated the terminal velocity of the lifeship at three hundred miles per hour, and with that in mind he began to figure furiously.

  He had none too much time.

  His automatic calculator ground out the answer. The best he could do was sixty seconds at 12-Gs! That would bring him to almost-zero velocity upon contact with Ertene.

  He believed that sixty seconds would be short enough to escape detection by any but an observer expecting him. The recorders, showing a streak that ended deep in Ertene’s broad ocean would be suspected of recording noise-transients instead of a signal. No ship would land deep in an ocean.

  And it must be remembered that Ertinians were quite nonsuspicious, since they’d had no experience with disreputable characters for several thousands of years. They might not even have detection circuits working other than to enumerate the items that came in through the screen above. His barrier would not cause reaction with the big barrier about Ertene; it would have presented another problem of entering if it were so.

  Guy sprawled in the flattened pilot’s chair, took a deep breath, and then the autopilot threw on 12-Gs of deceleration. Sixty seconds later, the slowed ship splashed wide and beautifully into the ocean, and sank gently to the bottom.

  And Guy spent twenty-four solid hours trying to detect the spurious responses that might emanate from a close-at-hand detector circuit.

  No one came to investigate.

  Running submerged, Guy went slowly across the ocean to the nearest land. He lowered the lifeship to the ocean floor beside a forbidding cliff and emerged, swimming to the beach several miles down the coast, clothed in spacesuit and bulging like a blimp with buoyant air.

  He walked along the coast back to the spot above the ship, and cached his helmet and as much of the heavy equipment of his suit as he could remove. He loafed and rested until night fell, and then made his way toward the blinking lights of the city several miles in the other direction along the coast.

  His following actions were not according to the code of ethics.

  He completely submerged whatever conscience he had and proceeded along the back-ways of the darkened streets at an hour when most honest Ertinians were fast asleep.

  Those who were not asleep were preoccupied, as he found when he almost passed within arm’s length of a couple that were sitting silent and close together on a street-side bench as far from the dim streetlight as they could get. They did not see him, though he watched them and chuckled quietly.

  He located the back entrance of a clothing store and tackled the lock with a bit of steel wire. He worked for an hour, undisturbed, before it clicked open. Then he stood up and went to work on the lock above the door that kept the alarm from ringing when turned by a proper key. Another hour solved that lock, and Guy entered the store stealthily. His action was quite logical. He went to the stock room below and selected one each of his size from the bottom boxes. He rifled the jewelry counter and selected a minor item or two with the Ertinian initial that signified the pseudonym of his choice. He took a few small coins from the register and then left, attired as an Ertinian.

  They’d notice the discrepancy in time. But it would occur from time to time, as each rifled box was opened and found to be short. They might even put the shortages to error in packing instead of robbery.

  He went directly away from the town, hiking along the road that returned him to his ship. Here Guy buried the last evidence of his Terran origin, and when the first rays of morning shone across the broad ocean, Guy Maynard became Gomanar.

  He looked at himself. Gone were the Terran shirt and trousers. Gone were the low, soft shoes. In the warmth of Ertene, Guy was thankful for the abbreviated costume, and equally thankful for the over-all tan that came as a result of spending much time in space.

  Blue trunks; loose, flowing shirt; hard-soled, high-laced boots of the softest material known; and a short shawl or cape that hung from the shoulders to mid-thigh in back. Maynard worried about the lack of pockets and found some difficulty in getting used to the cartridge belt effect that passed in place of pockets on Ertene. A small, hard handcase contained his razor and some spare items of clothing.

  Maynard left Terra behind him beside the ocean, and strode along the highway. He continued to practice his speech and though he knew he was proficient, he worried about the first time he’d be expected to use it. But he could not remain silent forever, and so he turned into the first farmhouse he came to. Breakfast was his aim, and the sun was getting high.

  He knocked on the door. A dog came rushing around the comer of the house, all suspicion, and smelled Guy’s feet curiously. Then as Guy spoke to the animal, the dog backed up several feet and lay with chin on forefeet.

  “Doda seems to like you,” came the rich, pleasant tones of the woman from inside the doorway. ‘•May I ask your business, sir?”

  Guy smiled his best smile, usually reserved for special occasions. “I am named Gomanar. I am a migratory worker in search of two items: Breakfast first and work second. Have you either?”

  “Of course,” smiled the woman. Her smile broke into a full laugh. “You’ll not mind if we present them to you in reverse order?”

  “You’ll get the worst of the agreement that way,” smiled Guy, cheerfully. “I’ll work less on an empty stomach and then be hungrier.” “You look like the kind of man who can pack it away,” she said. “It might be that you would eat so much that you become sluggish?” she finished with another laugh. Her eyes traveled up and down Guy’s muscular figure and decided that sluggish was possibly the one way that this startling young man did not get. She turned and called: “Lors! We have a visitor!”

  Her husband came to the door and looked questions at Maynard. He repeated his tale.

  “Naturally,” he boomed. “Naturally.”

  “Thank you,” answered Guy simply.

  “What’s the disagreement?” he asked his wife.

  “A mere argument as to the sequence of events. He wants to eat first.”

  “A natural desire. That gives him the benefit of deciding the value received. But let’s keep no man hungry, Tena. Your name again?”

  “Gomanar.”

  “Lorsana,” said the man. “Come We’ll quibble over value received while eating.” He treated the argument as a huge joke though it was serious business to Guy.

  Breakfast was large and appetizing, and near
the finish, Lorsana said: “You look as though hard work did not bother you too much. You didn’t get that figure just roaming back and forth, performing odd jobs.”

  “I’ve managed to keep fit,” said Guy noncommittally.

  “I see that,” laughed Lorsana. “But look, Gomanar. I need a helper for a few days. Have you ever logged?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad, but not impossible. I’m clearing a bit of wooded land and need an experienced logger. If you’ll help out until it’s finished, I’ll pay you the regular wage-level. Would you care to help?”

  “I may at that. Yes, a bit of logging would round out a wide and varied experience.”

  “It’s done then,” laughed the man. Guy thanked his active life. The job would have killed him if his muscles hadn’t been in condition. It was hard, heavy work, and it covered long hours daily. At night, Guy crawled into his bed and slept like an innocent. And though he kept a sharp ear out for any mention of the System that Ertene was approaching, nothing was said in his presence. It worried him. Had positions been reversed, the subject would have been in every Terran radio and in every Terran newspaper, and a common subject for <1 inner-conversation.

  When the work was finished and Lorsana paid him sixty Ertinian nomads. Guy said good-by to Lorsana and his wife, patted the dog and left. The work had done him good. It had taken the newness out of his clothing and had filled his belt with good, Ertinian money.

  But farm work was no place to make a start in life—from Guy’s age, at least. So with regret, he left the farmhouse and trudged along the road for several miles until he came to a large city. He sought lodgings, bought dinner at a restaurant, and then on the following morning presented himself to a manufacturer of precision instruments.

  His age and bearing seemed to have good effect, and he was given preference over several other applicants, and ushered into the employment manager’s office.

  “Be seated,” directed the manager. He looked at the card in his hand and memorized briefly. “You’re Gomanar. Call me Jerimick.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You seek technical work, Gomanar. Yet your card indicates that you have no formal education.”

  “I am well read. And I believe that I can hold my own ground with any college graduate.”

  “Perhaps. Have you attended any college or university, even for a single term?”

  Guy had, but not for Ertinian publication. Pie shook his head and smiled defiantly.

  “You understand that regulated study is far superior to the random investigations made at home?”

  “If one marshals his mind to follow a prescribed pattern, the ill effects of random study are not present”

  “Quite true. I feel inclined toward you—Gomanar.” He thought for a moment. “We have some instruments in here at present which require repair. There is no rush on a couple of them—I’m going to try you out, Gomanar, on these. You’ll pardon my taking insurance by giving you those of little urgency first If you succeed in your repair of these instruments in equal or better than the time normally spent by accredited employees, you’ll be hired. Is it a deal?”

  “I’m confident enough,” laughed Guy. Small tools and instrument-work came as a second nature to the Terran. “Lead me to it!”

  “I have but one objection to hiring a man like you,” said Jerimick. “You’ll prove an excellent worker— and in forty days you’ll tire of it and go to wandering again.”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “I can. You’ve never had a woman thrown your way. Some day one will come along and tie you down, and the whole planet will be better off for it. You’re the type that we worry about.”

  “Why?” asked Maynard innocently.

  “You—and all your kind—are restless. You are always searching for something you can not find. I don’t know what it is, but what you seek does not exist.”

  “You mean we’re looking for something nonexistent?”

  “I do.”

  “That’s strange. After all, I’ve met my kind. They all seem intelligent. No intelligent man would search the world over for something that did not exist. Or is my logic false?”

  “Sounds reasonable. Yet you explain it I know your type. I’ve dealt with people for ten kilodays. I’ve consulted the brainiest psychiatrists on Ertene, and they agree with me. Your type,” said Jerimick, “is restless. You are quick of mind, and sure of yourselves save for this unrest. You can turn your hands to any trade, and prosper, yet no trade offers you the outlet you seek. I’ll wager my income for the next kiloday that you’ll repair my instruments in record time—and wager the next kiloday’s income that you have never seen their like before. You have an ability to visualize hidden details of operation and apply a sort of rule-thumb logic to them and make them work. And when you’ve discovered that your logic is good, you seek a more complex problem.

  “I’m going to make a serious admission, Gomanar. I believe that your kind of man would be better off if Ertene joined Sol’s System.”

  That stunned Guy. “I’d keep that idea beneath my skull,” said Maynard.

  “I know. I shall. It was merely hypothetical. I’m certain that it will go no farther. Besides, such a rash move would most certainly be bad fop the great majority of us, though your kind might prosper.”

  “I’d really hate to see such a thing happen,” said Guy.

  “And that statement, I believe, is the voice of education, of training, of conditioning. I doubt that you really know what is good for you!”

  “We’ll never know,” said Maynard.

  “No, please God,” said Jerimick, fervently. “But both of us have work to do.” He scribbled on a printed form, filling out less than one quarter of the spaces, and handed it to Guy. “Through that door and to your right. The medical examiner will O.K. you first, and then you’ll be sent direct to your job. Luck, Gomanar.”

  “Thank you,” replied Guy, worrying slightly about the examiner.

  He discovered that the examination was as sketchy as the filled-in hiring-form. Within an hour he was seated at a bench with tools and equipment before him, and was whistling a cheery but tuneless melody as he delved into the insides of a small traffic-control that must be intended for local flier-traffic.

  And so Guy Maynard came to Ertene.

  XVI.

  In the days that passed, Guy noted a tendency to show him’ deference. He could not understand, though he tried, why they would single him out above the others. When he needed a tool, and his actions showed that he was in search, a mere question brought immediate —not only results—but delivery to his bench.

  They stood aside as he approached narrow passageways, and in a tight corridor they would back up all the way without a word. His own offer of retreat went unwanted; the other party retreated and waited with a smile until Guy decided that they had reached an impasse and went himself since the other obviously had no intention of moving.

  He found this same condition prevailed throughout the city, too. They spoke to him seldom, yet he found himself with the best meals, the better seats, the quieter rooms, and the clearest path.

  It took about twenty days of that to get Guy worried.

  And since he became dead certain that they suspected him of being different, Guy left the city at night, and gave only a short note of thanks to Jerimick. He explained that his search required that he seek new fields. His only concession to Terran training was the night he selected. It was the night after payday, and it increased his tiny store of funds to a more reasonable value.

  Guy took a night-flier and went halfway across the continent. It still followed him, for the stewardess gave him more than his share of attention.

  Guy was not vain. No more, that is, than any other normal man. He knew that his figure was well-proportioned and did not require any apology in the abbreviated Ertinian costume. His features were regular, and though his thirty years was still considered young, the lines on his face gave him character. He’d bee
n shaving within an inch of his life each morning and before dinner each night, and he knew that his beard was light enough to escape detection as long as he maintained that schedule.

  This attention he was getting bothered him. He was not ready for attention yet. He’d prefer a couple of years to establish some sort of false foundation by skipping around from place to place, and losing his past in the maze of data.

  What was worse, he could pin nothing down definitely. He wondered whether he might be guiltily self-conscious. That might be. But he’d been honestly critical and knew that Ertene was singling him out for something.

  It was not the kind of attention that accompanied suspicion or notoriety. It was a universal will to help him, to offer him the best, to accord him some sort of deference.

  But why?

  His discussions with others were nonproductive. They spoke in vague terms until they heard his viewpoint and then agreed with him, and it was only with difficulty that he learned their true views were calculable only by the magnitude of their agreement.

  For lack of anything more desirable, Guy took to walking in the evening. He covered miles in his meanderings through this city in the center of the continent, and in doing so learned very little, but at least it kept him from being everlastingly confronted by that unnamable acclaim.

  Worst of all, most of them treated his name—Gomanar—with some amusement. Guy searched his mind, and knew that it had no amusing nuance by any stretch of the imagination. He wondered whether he had assumed the name of some famous man, but a search of the libraries gave him negative evidence —which in this case was fairly conclusive both for fame and for notoriety.

  His work was well received. Even when he made errors, it was overlooked, and Guy knew that others were called to task for their errors.

  At last he could stand it no longer, and since his position as an instrument worker placed him in contact with numberless small, technical parts, Guy pilfered them shamelessly. and started to make a thought-beam receiver in his rooms.

  And that was a project that might take a year in itself.