The Rituals of Infinity

by Michael Moorcock

  Suddenly the pilot broke in. 'Look!'

  About six 'copters in close formation were coming through the ash-rain in the distance. 'They're not ours,' the pilot said, banking steeply. 'I'm going back to the base.'

  'What are they?' Faustaff asked.

  Peppiatt answered. 'Probably D-squaders. Might be salvagers.'

  'D-squaders! Again!' The D-squads rarely attacked more than once after they had started the initial U.M.S.

  T think they're out to destroy E-15,' Peppiatt said. 'We'll have to defend, you know, professor. Lots of lives at stake.'

  Faustaff had never quite been able to make the logical step which excused the taking of life if it saved life. His mind was lightly confused as he nodded and said, with a tight feeling in his chest, 'Okay.'

  The 'copter landed near the adjustor and the pilot got out and spoke to Haldane the chief operator. Haldane came hurrying to where Faustaff and Peppiatt were climbing down. He was fiddling with his helmet. Then his radio blasted on all the frequencies they were using.

  'Alert! Alert! All guards to Area 50. D-squad about to attack adjustor'

  Within seconds helicopters began to move in towards Area 50 and land, disgorging armed men.

  Faustaff felt infinitely depressed as he watched them take up their defensive positions around the adjustor. Then the D-squad 'copters began to come in. Faustaff saw black-clad figures, seemingly faceless with black masks completely covering their heads. They had weapons in their hands.

  The barely-seen lance of concentrated light from a laser rifle suddenly struck down from one of the leading D-squad 'copters. A man on the ground fell silently.

  The guards around the adjustor began to aim a criss-cross lattice of laser-rays at the coming 'copters. The 'copters dodged, but one of them exploded. Like tiny, lethal searchlights the beams struck back and forth. The fact that the D-squads used E-l equipment for all their attacks indicated to Faustaff that that was their origin. The only device they had which Faustaff and his men didn't have was the Matter Disrupter. Faustaff could make out the 'copter which carried it, flying well behind the others and rather lower.

  More of Faustaffs men fell and Faustaff could barely stop himself from weeping. He felt a helpless anger, but it never once occurred to him to strike back at the men who had done the killing.

  Another 'copter exploded, another went out of control and flew into U.M.S. Faustaff saw it become incredibly luminous and then its outline grew and grew, becoming fainter as it grew, until it vanished. Faustaff shuddered. He wasn't enjoying his visit to E-15.

  Then he saw several of his guards fall in one place and realised that the attacking D-squad were concentrating their fire. He saw laser beams touch the adjustor, saw metal smoulder and burst into white flame. The helicopters rose and fled away, their mission accomplished.

  Faustaff ran towards the adjustor. 'Where's Haldane?' he asked one of the guards. The guard pointed at one of the corpses. Faustaff cursed and began checking the adjustor's indicator dials. They were completely haywire. The adjustor was still powered and its central core hadn't been struck, but Faustaff could see immediately that it would take too long to repair. Why had the D-squads intensified their attacks so much, risking their lives—indeed, losing their lives—to do so? It wasn't like them. Normally they were strictly hit-and-run men. Faustaff pushed this question from his mind. There were more immediate problems to be solved.

  He switched his helmet mike to all frequencies and yelled. 'Begin total population assembly immediate. Operate primacy evacuation plan. The U.M.S. is going to start spreading any time—and when that happens we won't have much notice before the whole planet breaks up.'

  The 'copter with the grab began to move down towards the adjustor but Faustaff waved it away. The adjustor was heavy and it would take time to get it back to base. The evacuation of all the men from the area was more important. He told as much to the pilot over his radio.

  Against the background of the vast, undulating curtain of disrupted matter, the team worked desperately to get out of the area. Faustaff helping men into 'copters and giving instructions wherever they were needed. There weren't enough 'copters to get everyone out at once. The evacuation would have to be organised in two lifts.

  As the last of the 'copters took off, a handful of men, including Faustaff and Peppiatt, were left behind.

  Faustaff turned to look at the U. M.S. with despair, noting that the spectrum was slowly toning down. It was the danger signal.

  He looked back and saw some land vehicles bumping across the grey wasteland towards them. They didn't look like his organisation's jeeps or trucks. As they drew closer he could make out the figures sitting in them, dressed in a strange assortment of costumes.

  Sitting high in the back of one jeep was a man dressed in red—a red cap on his head, a red smock covering most of his body. He had a small oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, but Faustaff recognised him by his clothes. It was Orelli, leader of one of the biggest teams of salvagers. He had a laser-rifle pack on his back, and the rifle across his knees.

  Peppiatt's voice came through thecrackle of static in his earpiece. 'Salvagers. Not wasting much time. They must be after the adjustor.'

  The remaining guards raised their weapons, but Faustaff shouted: 'No firing. The adjustor's no use to us. If they want to risk their lives salvaging it, it's up to them.'

  Now Faustaff could make out a figure in a jeep just behind Orelli's. An incredibly tall, incredibly thin figure, in a green, belted jacket covered in ash, black trousers and ash-smeared jackboots. He carried a machine-gun. He had a mask but it hung against his chest. His face was like a caricature of a Victorian aristocrat's, with thin, beak-like nose, straggling black moustache and no chin. This was Gordon Ogg who had once ranked high in Faustaffs organisation.

  The jeeps came to a halt close by and Orelli waved blandly to the little group standing near the ruined adjustor.

  'Rights of salvage are ours, I think professor. I gather that is Professor Faustaff in the bulky suit and helmet. I recognise the distingushed figure.' He had to shout this through the noise of the raging U.M.S.

  Orelli leapt down from the jeep and approached the group. Ogg did likewise, approaching at a loping gait reminiscent of a giraffe. While Orelli was of average height and inclined to plumpness, Ogg was almost seven feet tall. He cradled his machine-gun in his left arm and stepped forward, extending his right hand towards Faustaff. Faustaff shook it because it was easier to do that than make a display of refusing.

  Ogg smiled vaguely and wearily, brushing back dirty, ash-covered hair. Except in extreme cases he normally scorned any kind of protective gear. He was an Englishman in love with the early 19th century mystique of what an Englishman should do and be, a romantic who had originally opposed Faustaff purely out of boredom inspired by the well-organised routine of Faustaff s organisation. Faustaff still liked him, though he felt no liking for Orelli, whose natural deceipt had been brought to full flower by his church training on E-4. Even his high intelligence could not counter the rare loathing that Faustaff felt for this man whose character was so preternaturally cruel and treacherous. Faustaff found it bewildering and disturbing.

  Orelli's eyes gleamed. He cocked his head to one side, indicating the adjustor.

  'We noted the D-squad flying back to its base and gathered you might have an old adjustor you didn't want, professor. Mind if we look at it?'

  Faustaff said nothing and Orelli minced towards the adjustor, inspecting it carefully.

  'The core's still intact, I note. Seems mainly a question of ruined circuits. I think we could even repair it if we wanted

  to—though we haven't much use for an adjustor, of course.'

  'You'd better take it,' Faustaff said grimly. 'If you hang around talking you'll be caught by the U.M.S.'

  Ogg nodded slowly. 'The professor's right, Orelli. Let's get our men to work. Hurry up.'

  The salvagers instructed their men to begin stripping the adjustor of the esse
ntial parts they wanted. While Faustaff, Peppiatt and the rest looked on wearily, and the salvagers worked.

  Ogg glanced at Faustaff and then glanced away again. He seemed embarrassed momentarily. Faustaff knew he didn't normally work with Orelli, that Ogg despised the ex-cardinal as much as Faustaff did. He assumed that the difficulty of getting a tunnel through to E-15 had caused the two men to join forces for this operation. Ogg would have to be very careful that he was not betrayed in some way by Orelli when the usefulness of the partnership was over.

  Faustaff turned back to look at the U.M.S. Slowly but surely the spectrum was toning down towards the purple-blue that would indicate it was about to spread in full force.

  5

  The Break-up of E-15

  When the 'copters had returned and taken Faustaff and the rest back to base, leaving the salvagers still picking the bones of the adjustor, Faustaff immediately took charge of the evacuation plans. It was proving difficult, he was informed, to get many of E-15's natives to the central base. Being in ignorance of Faustaff and his team, they were suspicious and reluctant to move. Some were already at the base, gathered from the nearby underground communities. Looking dazed and unable to comprehend where they were and what was happening, they even seemed to be losing touch with their own individual identities. Faustaff was interested to see this, since it gave him additional data on their reactions which might help him understand the queer psychic changes that took place amongst the populations of the inhabitants of subspace. His detached interest in their state didn't stop him from approaching them individually and trying to convince them that they were better off at the centre. He realised he would have to put several sympathetic members of his team in with their group when they were relocated on E-3's gigantic forest areas.

  With some difficulty the group had succeeded in putting a tunnel through to E-3. The evacuees were already beginning to be shuttled through.

  In dribs and drabs they came in and were escorted through the tunnel. Faustaff felt sorry for them as they moved, for the most part, like automatons. Many of them actually seemed to think they were experiencing a strange dream.

  Eventually the last of the evacuees were through and the team began to gather up its equipment.

  Peppiatt was in charge of the tunneller and he began to look worried as the subspacial 'opening' flickered.

  'Can't hold it open much longer, professor,' he said. The last few guards stepped forward into the tunnel. 'We're the last,' he said with some relief, turning to Faustaff.

  'After you,' said Faustaff.

  Peppiatt left the tunneller's controls and stepped forward. Faustaff thought he heard him scream as the tunnel collapsed. He rushed back to the tunneller and desperately tried to bring the tunnel back to normal. But a combination of the subspacial blocks and the steadily increasing disruption on E-15 made it impossible. Eventually he abandoned the tunneller and checked the invoker-disc on his wrist. There wasn't much hope of that working, either, under these conditions.

  It looked as if he was trapped on the doomed world.

  Faustaff, as usual, acted instinctively. He rushed from the cavern-chamber and out to where a 'copter still stood. He had had some training in piloting the 'copters. He hoped he could remember enough of it. He forced his huge frame into the seat and started the engine. Soon he had managed to get the 'copter into the air. On the horizon the peculiar purple-blue aurora indicated that there was little time left before the whole planet broke up.

  He headed east, to where he had gathered the salvagers had their camp. He could only hope that they hadn't yet left and that their tunnel was still operating^Fhelr^was^good chance that even if that were the case they would refuse to help him get off the planet.

  He could soon see the shimmering, light plastic domes of a temporary camp that must be that of the salvagers. He could see no signs of activity and at first he thought that they had left.

  He landed and went into the first tent he came to. There were no salvagers, but there were black-clad corpses. This wasn't the salvager's camp at all—it was the camp of the D-squad. Yet as far as he could tell the D-squaders were dead for no apparent reason. He wasted time checking one of the corpses. It was still warm. But how had it died?

  He ran from the tent and climbed back into the 'copter.

  Now he flew even more urgently, until he saw a small convoy of jeeps moving below him. With some relief he realised that they had not yet even reached their base. They seemed to be heading towards a smoking volcano about ten miles away. He guessed that the salvagers had no 'copters on this operation. They were risking a lot in using the comparatively slow-moving turbojeeps. Had they killed the D-squaders? he wondered. If so, it still didn't explain how.

  Soon he saw their camp—a collection of small inflated domes which he recognised as being made of the new tougher-than-steel plastic that seemed as flimsy as paper. It was used by the more advanced nations on E-l, mainly for military purposes.

  Faustaff landed the 'copter with a bump that half-threw him from his seat. An armed guard, dressed in a heavy greatcoat and a helmet that looked as if it had been looted from some 19th century fire station, moved cautiously towards him.

  'Hey—you're Professor Faustaff. What are you doing here? Where are Ogg and Orelli and the others?'

  'On their way,' Faustaff told the man, who seemed amiable enough. He recognised him as Van Horn, who had once worked for the organisation as a cargo control clerk. 'How's it going, Van Horn?'

  'Not so comfortable as when I worked for you, professor, but more variety—and more of the good things in life, you know. We do pretty well.'

  'Good,' said Faustaff without irony.

  'Situation bad here, is it, professor?'

  'Very bad. Looks like there's going to be a break-up.'

  'Break up! Phew! That is bad. Hope we get off soon.'

  'It'll have to be soon.'

  'Yes ... What are you doing here, professor? Come to warn us? That's pretty decent.' Van Horn knew Faustaff and knew he was capable of doing this.

  But Faustaff shook his head. 'I've already done that. No—I came to ask for help. My tunneller went wrong. I'm finished unless I can get through your tunnel.'

  'Sure,' Van Horn said with a grin. Like most people he liked Faustaff, even though his gang and Faustaffs organisation were somewhat opposed. 'Why not? I guess everybody will be pleased to help. For old time's sake, eh?'

  'All except Orelli.'

  'Except him. He's a poison snake, professor. He's so mean. I'm glad my boss is Ogg. Ogg's a weird guy, but okay. Orelli's a poison snake, professor.'

  'Yes,' Faustaff nodded absently, seeing the jeeps approaching through the smoke and falling ash. He could make out Orelli in the leading jeep.

  Orelli was the first salvager to encounter Faustaff. He frowned for a second and then smiled blandly. 'Professor Faustaff again. How can we help you?'

  The question was rhetorical, but Faustaff answered directly. 'By giving me a chance to use your tunnel.'

  'Our tunnel?' Orelli laughed. 'But why? Your father invented tunnellers—and now you come to us, the despised salvagers.'

  Faustaff bore Orelli's amused malice. He explained how his tunnel had broken down. Orelli's smile grew bigger and

  bigger as he listened. But he said nothing.

  Orelli looked like a cat who'd been handed a mouse to play with. 'I'll have to talk this over with my partner, you understand, professor. Can't make a hasty decision. It could effect our whole lives in one way or another.'

  'I'm asking you for help, man, that's all!'

  'Quite.'

  Gordon Ogg came loping up, looking vaguely astonished to see Faustaff here.

  'What are you doing here, professor?' he asked.

  'The professor is in trouble,' Orelli answered for him. 'Serious trouble. He wants to use our tunnel to get off E-15.'

  Ogg shrugged. 'Why not?'

  Orelli pursed his lips. 'You are too casual, Gordon. Too casual. "Why not?" you say.
This could be a trap of some kind. We must be careful.'

  'Professor Faustaff would not lay traps' Ogg said. 'You are over-suspicious, Orelli.'

  'Better safe than sorry, Gordon.'

  'Nonsense. There is no question of the professor not coming through with us—assuming that we can get through.'

  Faustaff saw Orelli's expression change momentarily to one of open anger and cunning, then the smile returned.

  'Very well, Gordon. If you wish to be so reckless.' He shrugged and turned away.

  Ogg asked Faustaff what had happened and Faustaff told him. Ogg nodded sympathetically. Originally some sort of British soldier-diplomat on E-2, Ogg's manner was gentle and remote and he was still an essentially kindly man, but the romantic mind of a Byron lay behind the mild eyes and courteous manner. Ogg saw himself, even if others did not quite see him in the same way, as a freebooter, a wild adventurer, risking his life against the warped and haunted landscapes of the subspacial alternates. Ogg lived this dangerous life and no doubt enjoyed it, but his outward

  appearance was still that of a somewhat vague and benign British diplomat.

  Ogg led Faustaff to the main tent where his men were already going through the tunnel with their loot.

  'The tunnel's to E-ll,' Ogg said. 'It seemed no good in trying to get through to E-2 or E-l under current conditions.'

  'Perhaps we should have realised that,' Faustaff murmured, thinking of Peppiatt, dead in subspace. E- 11 wasn't a pleasant world, being comprised primarily of high mountains and barren valleys, but he could contact his base on E- 11 and soon get back to E-l.

  Orelli came into the tent, smiling his brotherly love to everyone. 'Are we ready?' he asked.