Rebellious Stars

by Issac Asimov

  He whirled quickly at the small sound of the opening door to his left. The man who entered was armed and uniformed but there was a girl with him. He relaxed a bit. It was only a girl with him. At another time he might have observed the girl closely, since she was worth observation and approval, but at the moment she was only a girl.

  They approached together, stopping some six feet away. He kept his eyes on the guard’s blaster.

  The girl said to the guard, “I’ll speak to him first, Lieutenant.”

  There was a little vertical line between her eyes as she turned to him. She said, “Are you the man who has this story of an assassination plot against the Director?”

  Biron said, “I was told I would see the Director.”

  “That is impossible. If you have anything to say, say it to me. If your information is truthful and useful, you will be well treated.”

  “May I ask who you are? How do I know you are authorized to speak for the Director?”

  The girl seemed annoyed. “I am his daughter. Please answer my questions. Are you from outside the System?”

  “I am from Earth.” Biron paused, then added, “Your Grace.”

  The addition pleased her. “Where is that?”

  “It is a small planet of the Sirian Sector, Your Grace.”

  “And what is your name?”

  “Biron Malaine, Your Grace.”

  She stared at him thoughtfully. “From Earth? Can you pilot a space ship?”

  Biron almost smiled. She was testing him. She knew very well that space navigation was one of the forbidden sciences in the Tyranni-controlled worlds.

  He said, “Yes, Your Grace.” He could prove that when the performance test came, if they let him live that long. Space navigation was not a forbidden science on Earth, and in four years one could learn much.

  She said, “Very well. And your story?”

  He made his decision suddenly. To the guard alone, he would not have dared. But this was a girl, and if she were not lying, if she really were the Director’s daughter, she might be a persuasive factor on his behalf.

  He said, “There is no assassination plot, Your Grace.”

  The girl was startled. She turned impatiently to her companion. “Would you take over, Lieutenant? Get the truth out of him.”

  Biron took a step forward and met the cold thrust of the guard’s blaster. He said urgently, “Wait, Your Grace. Listen to me! It was the only way to see the Director. Don’t you understand?”

  He raised his voice and sent it after her retreating form. “Will you tell His Excellency, at least, that I am Biron Farrill and claim my sanctuary right?”

  It was a feeble straw at which to clutch. The old feudal customs had been losing their force with the generations even before the Tyranni came. Now they were archaisms. But there was nothing else. Nothing.

  She turned, and her eyebrows were arched. “Are you claiming now to be of the aristocratic order? A moment ago your name was Malaine.”

  A new voice sounded unexpectedly. “So it was, but it is the second name which is correct. You are Biron Farrill indeed, my good sir. Of course you are. The resemblance is unmistakable.”

  A small, smiling man stood in the doorway. His eyes, widely spaced and brilliant, were taking in all of Biron with an amused sharpness. He cocked his narrow face upward at Biron’s height and said to the girl, “Don’t you recognize him, too, Artemisia?”

  The girl hurried to him, her voice troubled. “Uncle Gil, what are you doing here?”

  “Taking care of my interests, Artemisia. Remember that if there were an assassination, I would be the closest of the

  Hinriads to the possible succession.” Gillbret oth Hinriad winked elaborately, then added, “Oh, get the lieutenant out of here. There isn’t any danger.”

  She ignored that and said, “Have you been sounding the communicator again?”

  “But yes. Would you deprive me of an amusement? It is pleasant to eavesdrop on them.”

  “Not if they catch you.”

  “The danger is part of the game, my dear. The amusing part. After all, the Tyranni do not hesitate to sound the Palace. We can’t do much without their knowing. Well, turnabout, you know. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  “No, I’m not,” she said shortly. “This is none of your business.”

  “Then I’ll introduce you. When I heard his name, I stopped listening and came in.” He moved past Artemisia, stepped up to Biron, inspected him with an impersonal smile, and said, “This is Biron Farrill.”

  “I have said so myself,” said Biron. More than half his attention was upon the lieutenant, who still held his blaster in firing position.

  “But you have not added that you are the son of the Rancher of Widemos.”

  “I would have but for your interruption. In any case, you’ve got the story now. Obviously, I had to get away from the Tyranni, and that without giving them my real name.” Biron waited. This was it, he felt. If the next move was not an immediate arrest, there was still a trifling chance.

  Artemisia said, “I see. This is a matter for the Director. You are sure there is no plot of any sort, then.”

  “None, Your Grace.”

  “Good. Uncle Gil, will you remain with Mr. Farrill? Lieutenant, will you come with me?”

  Biron felt weak. He would have liked to sit down, but no suggestion to that effect was made by Gillbret, who still inspected him with an almost clinical interest.

  “The Rancher’s son! Amusing!”

  Biron brought his attention downward. He was tired of cautious monosyllables and careful phrases. He said abruptly, “Yes, the Rancher’s son. It is a congenital situation. Can I help you in any other way?”

  Gillbret showed no offense. His thin face merely creased further as his smile widened. He said, “You might satisfy my curiosity. You really came for Sanctuary? Here?”

  “I’d rather discuss that with the Director, sir.”

  “Oh, get off it, young man. You’ll find that very little business can be done with the Director. Why do you suppose you had to deal with his daughter just now? That’s an amusing thought, if you’ll consider it.”

  “Do you find. everything amusing?”

  “Why not? As an attitude toward life, it’s an amusing one. It s the only adjective that will fit. Observe the universe, young man. If you can’t force amusement out of it, you might as well cut your throat, since there’s damned little good in it. I haven’t introduced myself, by the way. I’m the Director’s cousin.”

  Biron said coldly, “Congratulations!”

  Gillbret shrugged. “Youre right. It’s not impressive. And I’m likely to remain just that indefinitely since there is no assassination to be expected, after all.”

  “Unless you whip one up for yourself.”

  “My dear sir, your sense of humor! You’ll have to get used to the fact that nobody takes me seriously. My remark was only an expression of cynicism. You don’t suppose the Directorship is worth anything these days, do you? Surely you cannot believe that Hinrik was always like this? He was never a great brain, but with every year he becomes more impossible. I forget! You haven’t seen him yet. But you will! I hear him coming. When he speaks to you, remember that he is the ruler of the largest of the Trans-Nebular Kingdoms. It will be an amusing thought.”

  Hinrik bore his dignity with the ease of experience. He acknowledged Biron’s painstakingly ceremonious bow with the proper degree of condescension. He said, with a trace of abruptness, “And your business with us, sir?”

  Artemisia was standing at her father’s side, and Biron noticed, with some surprise, that she was quite pretty. He said, “Your Excellency, I have come on behalf of my father’s good name. You must know his execution was unjust.” Hinrik looked away. “I knew your father slightly. He was in Rhodia once or twice.” He paused, and his voice quavered a bit. “You are very like him. Very. But he was tried, you know. At least I imagine he was. And according to law. Really, I don’t know the detai
ls.”

  “Exactly, Your Excellency. But I would like to learn those details. I am sure that my father was no traitor.”

  Hinrik broke in hurriedly. “As his son, of course, it is understandable that you should defend your father, but, really, it is difficult to discuss such matters of state now. Highly irregular, in fact. Why don’t you see Aratap?”

  “I do not know him, Excellency.”

  “Aratap! The Commissioner! The Tyrannian Commissioner!”

  “I have seen him and he sent me here. Surely, you understand that I dare not let the Tyranni—”

  But Hinrik had grown stiff. His hand had wandered to his lips, as though to keep them from trembling, and his words were consequently muffled. “Aratap sent you here, you say?”

  “I found it necessary to tell him—”

  “Don’t repeat what you told him. I know,” said Hinrik. “I can do nothing for you, Rancher—uh—Mr. Farrill. It is not in my jurisdiction alone. The Executive Council—stop pulling at me, Arta. How can I pay attention to matters when you distract me?—must be consulted. Gillbret! Will you see that Mr. Farrill is taken care of? I will see what can be done. Yes, I will consult the Executive Council. The forms of law, you know. Very important. Very important.”

  He turned on his heel, mumbling.

  Artemisia lingered for a moment and touched Biron’s sleeve. “A moment. Was it true, your statement that you could pilot a space ship?”

  “Quite true,” said Biron. He smiled at her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she dimpled briefly in return.

  “Gillbret,” she said, “I want to speak to you later.”

  She hurried off. Biron looked after her till Gillbret tweaked at his sleeve.

  “I presume you are hungry, perhaps thirsty, would like a wash?” asked Gillbret. “The ordinary amenities of life continue, I take it?”

  “Thank you, yes,” said Biron. The tension had almost entirely washed out of him. For a moment he was relaxed and felt wonderful. She was pretty. Very pretty.

  But Hinrik was not relaxed. In his own chambers his thoughts whirled at a feverish pace. Try as he might, he could not wriggle out of the inevitable conclusion. It was a trap! Aratap had sent him and it was a trap!

  He buried his head in his hands to quiet and deaden the pounding, and then he knew what he had to do.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Inside Palace Central there was no sensory mechanism by which one could tell the coming of night, yet Biron felt that coming through some indefinite instinct hidden in the unknown corridors of the human brain. He knew that outdoors the night’s blackness was scarcely relieved by the futile sparks of the stars. He knew that, if it were the right time of year, the jagged “hole in space” known as the Horse-head Nebula (so familiar to all the Trans-Nebular Kingdoms) inked out half the stars that might otherwise have been visible.

  And he was depressed again.

  He had not seen Artemisia since the little talk with the Director, and he found himself resenting that. He had looked forward to dinner; he might have spoken to her. Instead, he had eaten alone, with two guards lounging discontentedly just outside the door. Even Gillbret had left him, presumably to eat a less lonely meal in the company one would expect in a palace of the Hinriads.

  So that when Gillbret returned and said, “Artemisia and I have been discussing you,” he obtained a prompt and interested reaction.

  It merely amused him and he said so. “First I want to show you my laboratory,” he had said then. He gestured and the two guards moved off.

  “What kind of a laboratory?” asked Biron with a definite loss of interest.

  “I build gadgets,” was the vague response.

  It was not a laboratory to the eye. It was more nearly a library, with an ornate desk in the corner.

  Biron looked it over slowly. “And you build gadgets here? What kind of gadgets?”

  “Well, special sounding devices to spy out the Tyrannian spy beams in a brand-new way. Nothing they can detect. That’s how I found out about you, when the first word came through from Aratap. And I have other amusing trinkets. My visisonor, for instance. Do you like music?”

  “Some kinds.”

  “Good. I invented an instrument, only I don’t know if you can properly call it music.” A shelf of book films slid out and aside at a touch. “This is not really much of a hiding place, but nobody takes me seriously, so they don’t look. Amusing, don’t you think? But I forget, you’re the unamused one.”

  It was a clumsy, boxlike affair, with that singular lack of gloss and polish that marks the homemade object. One side of it was studded with little gleaming knobs. He put it down with that side upward.

  “It isn’t pretty,” Gillbret said, “but who in Time cares? Put the lights out. No, no! No switches or contacts. Just wish the lights were out. Wish hard! Decide you want them out.”

  And the lights dimmed, with the exception of the faint pearly luster of the ceiling that made them two ghostly faces in the dark. Gillbret laughed lightly at Biron’s exclamation.

  “Just one of the tricks of my visisonor. It’s keyed to the mind like personal capsules are. Do you know what I mean?”

  “No, I don’t, if you want a plain answer.”

  “Well,” he said, “look at it this way. The electric field of your brain cells sets up an induced one in the instrument. Mathematically, it’s fairly simple, but as far as I know, no one has ever jammed all the necessary circuits into a box this size before. Usually, it takes a five-story generating plant to do it. It works the other way too. I can close circuits here and impress them directly upon your brain, so that you’ll see and hear without any intervention of eyes and ears. Watch!”

  There was nothing to watch, at first. And then something fuzzy scratched faintly at the corner of Biron’s eyes. It became a faint blue-violet ball hovering in mid-air. It followed him as he turned away, remained unchanged when he closed his eyes. And a clear, musical tone accompanied it, was part of it, was it.

  It was growing and expanding and Biron became disturbingly aware that it existed inside his skull. It wasn’t really a color, but rather a colored sound, though without noise. It was tactile, yet without feeling.

  It spun and took on an iridescence while the musical tone rose in pitch till it hovered above him like falling silk. Then it exploded so that gouts of color splattered at him in touches that burned momentarily and left no pain.

  Bubbles of rain-drenched green rose again with a quiet, soft moaning. Biron thrust at them in confusion and became aware that he could not see his hands nor feel them move. There was nothing, only the little bubbles filling his mind to the exclusion of all else.

  He cried out soundlessly and the fantasy ceased. Gillbret was standing before him once again in a lighted room, laughing. Biron felt an acute dizziness and wiped shakily at a chilled, moist forehead. He sat down abruptly.

  “What happened?” he demanded, in as stiff a tone as he could manage.

  Gillbret said, “I don’t know. I stayed out of it. You don’t understand? It was something your brain had lacked previous experience with. Your brain was sensing directly and it had no method of interpretation for such a phenomenon. So as long as you concentrated on the sensation, your brain could only attempt, futilely, to force the effect into the old, familiar pathways. It attempts separately and simultaneously to interpret it as sight and sound and touch. Were you conscious of an odor, by the way? Sometimes it seemed to me that I smelled the stuff. With dogs I imagine the sensation would be forced almost entirely into odor. I’d like to try it on animals some day.

  “On the other hand, if you ignore it, make no attack upon it, it fades away. It’s what I do, when I want to observe its effects on others, and it isn’t difficult.”

  He placed a little veined hand upon the instrument, fingering the knobs aimlessly. “Sometimes I think that if one could really study this thing, one could compose symphonies in a new medium; do things one could never do with simple sound or sight. I lack the
capacity for it, I’m afraid.”

  Biron said abruptly, “I’d like to ask you a question.”

  “By all means.”

  “Why don’t you put your scientific ability to worthwhile use instead of—”

  “Wasting it on useless toys? I don’t know. It may not be entirely useless. This is against the law, you know.’

  “What is?”

  “The visisonor. Also my spy devices. If the Tyranni knew, it could easily mean a death sentence.”

  “Surely you’re joking.”

  “Not at all. It is obvious that you were brought up on a cattle ranch. The young people cannot remember what it was like in the old days, I see.” Suddenly his head was to one side and his eyes were narrowed to slits. He asked, “Are you opposed to Tyrannian rule? Speak freely. I tell you frankly that I am. I tell you also that your father was.” Biron said calmly, “Yes, I am.”

  “Why?”

  “They are strangers, outlanders. What right have they to rule in Nephelos or in Rhodia?”

  “Have you always thought that?”

  Biron did not answer.

  Gillbret sniffed. “In other words, you decided they were strangers and outlanders only after they executed your father, which, after all, was their simple right. Oh, look, don’t fire up. Consider it reasonably. Believe me, I’m on your side. But think! Your father was Rancher. What rights did his herdsmen have? If one of them had stolen cattle for his own use or to sell to others, what would have been his punishment? Imprisonment as a thief. If he had plotted the death of your father, for whatever reason, for perhaps a worthy reason in his own eyes, what would have been the result? Execution, undoubtedly. And what right has your father to make laws and visit punishment upon his fellow human beings? He was their Tyranni.

  “Your father, in his own eyes and in mine, was a patriot. But what of that? To the Tyranni, he was a traitor, and they removed him. Can you ignore the necessity of self-defense? The Hinriads have been a bloody lot in their time. Read your history, young man, All governments kill as part of the nature of things.