Z-Sting

by Ian Wallace

  Marta again lay on a chaise longue, except that this one was no period piece with legs, but a modern layer of resilient plastic floating on a force field. As yesterday, she was dressed or undressed for sun-bathing—genuine sun this time, direct from Sol (not reflected off Neptune) and therefore requiring higher amplification for the Florida beach effect, Sol being visible only as a nova-bright star. (Mighty Neptune reflected more collectible Sol-photons than tiny Nereid could catch direct from Sol.)

  And Marta looked distinctly younger already—after a single day! This meant three things: he had been right in hoping that his experience with himself could be replicated much faster in another; Marta must be following to the letter, or more so, his directions about exercise and surplus intake of food tablets; and the will of Marta was prodigious, overflowing her diencephalon and cerebrum, radiating into her midbrain and hindbrain and on out into her spinal cord and her autonomies.

  He brought in his tight focus on her face and throat (maybe ten thousand rays, the splash effect making form and color definite but snowy). Hair gray-blond all over, with encircling braids. (It wasn’t growing blond that fast, but he had introduced a photochemical pigment-cell adaptation.) Forehead only fine-lined, temples not at all drawn. Eyebrows definitely fuller. Eyelids not taut, crowsfeet not offensive, reduced puffiness beneath the eyes. Nose not at all pinched, cheeks semi-full, lips a bit fuller (though still pulled somewhat too tightly over prosthedental implants), chin better, and near the jaw corners only slight bulges where before there had been definite jowls. Yes, Marta was making commendable progress.

  Her eyes opened. Their pale blue was quite charming. He knew that she could not see him, could not even know that there was contact: to establish communication, he would have to try telepathy at four billion kilometers . . .

  Then his brows hit painfully down over his goggles, and he almost felt nausea. Again, as in his cabin on Ziska’s warship, he was remembering what a slimy snake he was. She lay there awaiting the meeting, not knowing how or whether it would come, trusting him. Powerful as she was, ruthless as she was known to be, in this situation she was child and he was master. Could he bring himself to enter her consciousness as a friend, being in fact a treacherous enemy?

  He closed the consideration out of his mind. Nothing about this youthening could hurt Marta personally, and it was part of a necessary task affecting the welfare of a billion men and women in Senevendia—and maybe also billions everywhere on Erth.

  He turned his attention to a technique for entry. The i-rays could extend only to a light source, running along the standing gradients created by the stream of photons therefrom. They could touch Marta’s face, which reflected light They could not enter her mind.

  His mindreach could, however, extend along the standing secondary beams furnished by the i-rays. It could touch Marta’s face. And it could enter.

  It did so. And he found himself in telepathic touch with Marta—a communion so intimate that it was as though the two minds were merely two somewhat distinct contextures within the same mind: contextures that might come into fused identity if both of them should wish this . . .

  With one limitation. All Marta’s mind lay open to his mindreach. But with Croyd as the aggressive agent, Marta could know of Croyd only what he might wish to reveal to her.

  This thought caused him to pull up short in the exploration that he had begun. If his double-agency on a straightforward man-to-man basis was giving him qualms of conscience, how much more villainous was this ultimate cloaked intrusion into a holy-of-holies!

  He resolved on conversation; he wished to inhibit his knowing of her, restricting it to what she might wish to reveal.

  He announced himself gently. Marta, this is Croyd. We are in telepathic contact, but you must formulate your comments in order for me to understand them.

  He felt female-emotional turmoil (the qualitative gender difference is perceptible in a mind), and felt it subsiding, compelled into submission by her own iron-masculine will. With only a trace of emotional background perceptible, her mind responded concisely: It appears that your treatment is working. Is that what you came to learn?

  Partly. I had four other reasons for coming. To see you. To test a gadget. To give you another treatment. To report our progress with respect to the Erth crisis.

  He felt in her the following four emotional splashes: pleasure, curiosity, excitement, anxiety—each instantly tempered. She asked: What gadget?

  The one I used to set up efficient telepathic contact with you here on Nereid from Moon where now I sit. It works fine. Shall we proceed to the treatment?

  Leave that for the last. What kind of a gadget is it?

  Ivisiradio. Faster than light.

  Her curiosity was beginning to be sharpened by practical considerations. How much faster?

  If we were using it for ordinary vocal communication between Moon and Nereid, then between saying question and hearing answer there would be no more time lag than we are now experiencing—instead of eight hours four minutes.

  Now Marta was seated taut on the side of her chaise longue, gripping it with both hands, feet flat on the floor—a tense pose that he had seen before; she was gazing out through the solarium roof into space as though Croyd were out there—as indeed his body was, way out there. She demanded aloud: Have you succeeded in keeping your device away from Ziska?

  I have—so far.

  Good.

  Why?

  “He is my enemy. He wants Mare Stellarum for himself.”

  You are talking aloud.

  Her smile was wan. Sorry, she said in her mind. Then: When will you place this device at my disposal?

  When will you have Mare Stellarum organized so that it is unnecessary for the Chairman to keep operational secrets from her Minister of Internal Security—and other top ministers—and the President of Erthworld Union?

  He felt her massive mental wince, and then a flare of dangerous anger: it was a bit mind-searing, and he tightened his defenses to ride it out. Abruptly she demanded: If you are truly an old man just out of the tank, how did you arrive at setting up such a gadget on the moon—obviously before you called on Nereid yesterday? Who are you?

  He brazened it: Ziska thinks I’m a spy for Galactic. He imprisoned me and tried to kill me.

  The anger went cold, but its turbulence increased, and it was redirected at Ziska. Contrary to my orders?

  He implied that I had seduced you—mentally, at least. He said that by countermanding your orders he was obeying the spirit of your purposes. Which would be true, of course, were I in fact a spy for Galactic.

  It is an absurd contention, her mind barked, contrived by Ziska to get you out of his way. Perhaps it is time for the progress report.

  That will be short. There is none.

  By Ziska, this I assume. How about you?

  There is none.

  Coldness: Why not?

  I just got here.

  Faint thaw. I confess surprise, then, that you are talking with me instead of acting. What is your plan?

  Begin by realizing that Ziska and his organization will be using all their resources to clamp off this disaster. These resources are not likely to be sufficient. For me to use other resources, I must first learn what their resources are. Therefore I have no plan yet—only a starting point.

  Which is?

  The Mazurka,

  Why?

  Ziska has already given you a connection, which is happenstantial but may prove consequential. The Mazurka is plotting tempopatterns. I have already made contact with the Mazurka—she is at this moment completing scansion of Senevendia.

  Mental silence. Then Marta, calmly: It seems a good starting point, and I anticipate fruitful consequences by this hour tomorrow. May we now proceed with my treatment?

  Croyd suggested: It will require that I put you to sleep, so I suggest you first check your security. The treatment will take ten minutes of my time, and I will then leave you asleep—you will awaken normally i
n a quarter- or half-hour—while I move into Erthworld operations.

  Still seated on the edge of the chaise longue, Marta said aloud: “I am secure.” She stared a moment longer into space. Resolutely she swung herself around and lay supine with eyes closed.

  He asked: Are you ready for sleep?

  She asked aloud: “Are you a spy for Galactic?”

  “Yes,” he blurted.

  Her emotion that he felt was rather demotion: total psychic sag. He regretted his impulsive confession. Then he realized that it had not been impulsive, but rather inevitable because of his bad conscience.

  Her yawing depressive reaction came into a kind of self-settlement: she was a toughened woman, and his youthening of her had strengthened her resilience. Eyes remaining closed, body remaining relaxed, she responded, quietly: I have three questions. Why are you spying? Why do you confess? What do you propose to do?

  I thought your first question would be: “How do l know that you are not slowly killing me?”

  That would be a silly question, since if you can youthen me swiftly, you can kill me instantly. Please answer the questions I did ask.

  We of Galactic have conscience but little hope of winning the Interplanetary contract. Mare Stellarum will win it. Therefore I have a double mission as a Galactic agent: to help Marta clean up her organization, and to youthen Marta so she will as winner have the force to operate our galaxy with conscience.

  The hypo-depressive contexture of Marta responded by generating a rich contextural velour: still hypo-depressive, but vital now, no longer dead. Her mind drawled: I can scarcely find that complimentary, but I suppose I have to consider it just and even hopeful in a dreary way. Why have you confessed?

  You challenged at a time when a good conscience was in bad conscience.

  You are aware that I can relay your confession to Ziska and have you confined or killed?

  That would take more than four hours, even if I were to permit it or you finally were to desire it. Besides, Ziska has already tried both.

  Would you permit it?

  Yes.

  Why?

  I have you unfairly at my mercy. I put you into this situation with the intent to deal honestly insofarforth, and I shan’t depart from that. I don’t believe in rape without prior consent of the raped.

  That would not be rape.

  You apprehend me perfectly.

  Thank you. Then what do you propose to do, as a spy for Galactic? Or to say it another way—what makes you a spy for Galactic? Why are you not simply my agent?

  Without interfering with Ziska's operation, I propose to solve the Erth crisis personally in such a way that it will be known who solved it.

  And when it becomes known that a Galactic agent successfully infiltrated the supposedly impregnable Mare Stellarum, and went on to solve a planetary crisis that Mare Stellarum could not begin to solve—

  —The world will know that Galactic has great potencies while Mare Stellarum has mortal weaknesses. But the world will also know, I assure you, that it was the Chairman of Mare Stellarum who knew about the Galactic spy and yet permitted him to operate for the good of the world and the cleansing of Mare Stellarum.

  Prolonged mental silence. Then Marta, eyes still closed: So Galactic goes up, and Mare Stellarum goes down and up, and the Interplanetary contract becomes a horse race, and Marta Vensen gets younger and cleaner.

  Thats about it.

  This has to be truth. It is too sophisticated for fiction.

  One objection, Croyd interposed.

  Only one?

  I could lose.

  You are honest.

  Finally, yes. So are you, finally. It is time for me to tell you about a feeling I have.

  I am sure it is not a good feeling, Croyd. Tell me nevertheless.

  Supposedly the Z-sting is programmed to enshroud some constellation—in this case, Senevendia—for a ten-year ruining. What if the sting were to exceed its program?

  How?

  For instance, by inflicting a permanent curse on all Erth-world?

  Pause.

  Marta, hushed: It could mean the end of all real values.

  Croyd waited.

  How? she demanded.

  I do not know. I have told you my feeling. Do you think your Interned Security people can save Erthworld?

  Frankly, Croyd, no. The computer-deterrent was a hideous mistake that I inherited. At first I was naïve, I accepted it as part of life. Later I kept telling myself that I must do something about it when I could find the time. Actually, a few years ago, I put a task force on the question—headed by Ziska, as I ruefully reflect. But I do not think we can beat it.

  Do you think I can beat it?

  I do not know that you cannot—if, that is, I persuade myself to omit notifying Ziska.

  Then, if you notify Ziska and he has me killed or disabled, you are responsible for crippling Senevendia and perhaps killing Erthworld.

  Had you not confessed, Croyd, I would not be debating whether to notify Ziska. So you are equally responsible.

  This is a curious Mexican stand-off, Marta. Two people trying to out-honest each other—and only all people lose.

  I have always contended that it was possible to find whimsy in the grimmest of situations. Thank you for proving my point.

  The whimsy, however, is in bad taste.

  I agree. Only by permitting bad taste does my view hold valid.

  Dual mental pause. Then: Croyd, are we not wasting time that we could be using to my physical profit?

  Not as much time as you may think. Check your cutichron.

  It seems to be running slow.

  I read your time reading, Marta: it is right. This is telepathy, very efficient: we’ve been at it only a few minutes.

  Why are you so concerned for Galactic? Why would you not join my Mare Stellarum?

  Some day I’ll answer both questions for you, Marta. Why are you so concerned for Mare Stellarum? I could twist a few arms and get you a top spot in Galactic—

  I was beautiful. I am virginal.

  It rocked him back, the totality of confession. He allowed himself to sense her emotions: they were a raw depressive plunge, the confession had cost her all her female pride. He schooled himself to ask no questions: she had said enough, too much: Mare Stellarum—his Mare Stellarum—was her meaning.

  For the first time, but perforce, he gave her a shot of reassurance. The emotional chasm gradually filled and leveled, the velour-texture returned. In that contexture he told her, with a deliberate underlay of conviction: Frustration may be a catapult, but the sustaining drive has to be personal energy and the dedication has to be conscience and heart. I comprehend, Marta—and I admire.

  Long silence—almost a tenth of a second Marta said aloud: “Please put me to sleep.”

  “Herod, my friend, I couldn’t stay with it. I had to tell her who I am.”

  Herod’s eyes narrowed. “That you’re Thoth Evans?”

  “No no, forget that name. But I had to tell her that I work for Galactic.” Mutual responses seemed instantaneous on ivisiradio; by rekamatics, in contrast, the delay in each answer would have exceeded four years.

  Herod’s eyes closed. “Conscience?”

  “Conscience.”

  “That rather clobbers us.”

  “Herod, believe it or not, I really don’t think it does.”

  “But, Croyd—all other considerations aside—hasn’t your confession hamstrung you for saving Erthworld?”

  “You have maybe, like me, a hunch that the trouble will overflow more than Senevendia?”

  “Right. So how do you get the string out of your hams?”

  “I don’t see any new hamstringing yet. Ziska had already defied Marta and put me in jail. He even tried killing me.”

  Herod’s brows went up. With a small smile he commented: “But there you still are.”

  “Well, yes.”

  The Herod smile grew malevolent. “So it seems that if you hadn’t confessed you
would have gained nothing, whereas by confessing you have lost nothing. What does that do to the virtue of your confession?”

  Croyd recognized the gambit with a grin of his own. “All right, Herod Lucifer. I could claim that it was virtuous because I hadn’t previously thought of your sophistry. But unfortunately, I had thought of it. So I won’t feel any better now. But on the other hand, now I won’t keep feeling worse.”

  Herod soberly nodded. “Perhaps that’s advantageous to us—a man doesn’t work well when he feels wrong. Besides—just personally, I see what you mean. The Mare Stellarum people aren’t enemies, after all. They’re competitors, God bless them. So I cry a benison upon your wholesome stupidity and turn you loose on the action.”

  Rehab Action Seven

  CARLTON'S TICKET TO THE ACTION

  Moon and Erth, 22-23 May

  Should the Z-sting so malfunction as to make three simultaneous strikes at sufficiently well-dispersed Erth targets, it appears likely that the Z-effect would homogenize, permanently enveloping the planet. The result would be the sealing off of Erth from outer space: Erth and space would be mutually inaccessible, and all the celestial bodies including Sol and Moon would be invisible from Erth. Diffuse sunlight might penetrate, so that photosynthesis might continue; but because of a reduction in thermal radiation, the planetary climate would be permanently tropical, the polar caps would melt . . .

  —Excerpt from an unidentified and unpublicized minority scientific report to the Erthworld President (2417). Published counter-reports inferentially negated the possibility of such a malfunction.

  Fast entree into sensitive locations would be required by the ghost-of-a-plan that he had formed. His Mare Stellarum 6-P Hertz card could get him into most of them; but having confessed to Marta, he was disinclined to continue using these credentials. He wished also to reserve for final contingencies an alternate ID which Herod had given him, establishing him as Croyd, a 6-U (Unspecialized) for Galactic, Ltd. That card might get him admitted, excluded, or jailed, depending on the mood of his challenger; but in any event, it would get him semi-VIP attention.