The day was so dark that Dobrynin began to wonder if something wasn't seriously wrong. He stopped the pede-like cruiser at the foot of the great volcano, looked up through the glass at the warping sky. Black clouds continued to roil up from countless hollow, sharp-edged peaks all across the planet.
The satellite readout only confirmed what his eyes and instincts told him. Tremors and quakes shook the ground beneath him as a heavy static storm crackled white and spindly light through the poison atmosphere. Marcum-Lauries One was caught between the pull of its two suns, which happened roughly every three hundred years. But even so, internal pressures were much too high. It boded ill for the hopes of his people if the massive, ore-laden planet stopped producing.
"Damn." Molten silicates were running down the sides of the volcano's shattered peak. He re-engaged the flexing wheel pods and headed back toward the dome.
How he hated this war. Not just for the killing. Any fool knew that life was no great gift, and death no injury. One took care of his own, forged what meaning he could, then surrendered in the end to oblivion.
But this war. This stupid, wasteful war. How many times must the same story be told? Poverty and abuse on Canton leading to discontent, the fascists coming to power, spreading their hatred in the name of God and white supremacy. And of course a remote socialist settlement, theirs, had proved the ideal target for a tune-up campaign. If they hadn't gone straight for the Khrushchev colony he would probably have laughed. Fascism must inevitably fail, just as humanist Marxism would never die. The Cantons would surely be put down, but not before many things innocent and beautiful had been maimed forever. Fascists! In spite of all that he knew he could almost hate them without thinking.
And their own tentative alliance with Soviet Space. How long would that last if the gold, tungsten and osmo-alloys stopped coming? This planet was the key, and at the moment not a very sure bet. All he could do was go back to the safety (relative safety) of the dome and wait for Percy's report, and see if the Soviet astronomers had anything intelligent to say.
He suddenly realized as he crawled in segments across a gap in the high ridge. . .that he loved this place. Yes, loved it. The wide valley that opened before him, even in turmoil, was beautiful to the point of pain. Who could not feel the beauty of its raw vastness? His wife and colleagues on the tamer Lauries II had always thought him demented. THE STORMS, THE LONG NIGHTS, they would say. But he had never minded the storms or the dark. They merely seemed to him a metaphor for life. Yes, life was a storm; that thought heartened him. Perhaps this was just another, if more severe. No, he knew better. The fascists were real and the planet was in trouble. The flux of power among the Space giants now favored the United Commonwealth, which remained neutral but refused to allow the Soviets to intervene. And the German States, God damn them. For all their greatness and determination they still retained a stubborn streak of the Nazi mentality. There was little question who they would side with if it ever came to such a choice. It was all quite hopeless. His people were just pilgrims and this, too, would never be their home.
"Yes, yes, yes. But I do not give up!"
The dome was in sight and he was drawing closer. He was there. He guided the high-gravity cruiser between two of the eight supporting struts arcing down from the huge floor, the raised structure. He waited for the lift to be lowered, crawled up onto it. The airlock was opened, and the cruiser raised inside it. The doors were shut below him and breathable air whispered around him. He opened the hatch, climbed down and greeted his son.
"Leon. Any news?" The young man seemed troubled, though he was doing his best to conceal it.
"Yes, and none of it good. Salnikov is on the communicator. I'd better let him explain it."
They walked quickly to the high wall of the dock, rose in separate tubes to a curving corridor on the primary floor. From this they entered the meeting room. A large screen at the front of it showed the dispassionate face of Vladimir Salnikov, Soviet ambassador to Marcum-Lauries Independent. They pushed past the chairs of an oval table and went to the railing before it.
"Yes, Vladimir. What have you got?"
"I've been talking with Science Central," said the ambassador. "We know what the problem is, but are not yet certain what is causing it."
"Well are you going to tell me or do I have to guess it?" If all the stars in Space had suddenly gone out, it would never show on that face.
"Easy, Nicholai. I am on your side?" Dobrynin gave a reluctant nod. "Your planet is in serious trouble. She will not engage her second orbit. She only remains at the equilibrium point between the two, and loses almost six minutes each rotation. Internal pressures, as I am sure you know, are dangerously high. If something does not change soon, she will blow herself apart. You have perhaps ninety-eight hours."
… "Why, Vladimir? Why?"
"We cannot be sure, except to say there is no natural phenomenon that would explain it." A pause.
"Is there anything else you can tell me?"
"Not for the record."
"What about off it?"
"Go to scramble," said the Soviet. "Code 4."
His son made the necessary adjustments. Salnikov began again, the words no longer corresponding to the movement of his lips.
"Can you understand me?"
"Yes."
"Have you sent out your reconnaissance?"
"Yes, toward Cantos."
"Deviate course. There is nothing there."
"Where should we go instead?"
Salnikov gave a set of coordinates: a straight line out from the planet, directly opposed to its trajectory, as it sought to cross the intersection of its figure-eight orbit, and begin to move around the second sun.
"What should we look for?"
"An enormous station, over one hundred kilometers across. You won't pick it up on laser or visual, but if you send someone out you will see it clear enough."
"What is its function?"
"We don't know, and we are not about to go in and find out. But its location is suspicious. That is all I can say."
"…..okay. Thank you, Vladimir."
"Good luck, Nicholai. I think that you will need it." The screen went blank.
"Leon. go down to the lower communication room and signal all bases. I want everyone off—-everyone. These domes won't hold forever. I'm going to try and reach Percy."
Without further speech his son was gone. He leaned over the railing and tried, and after twenty minutes finally succeeded, in reaching the racing ship.
The planet had been evacuated. The heads of the geological and mining crews, along with military, scientific and governmental heads from the three colonies, were huddled together in a briefing room aboard the space station 'Lynx'. Dobrynin stood behind the podium and signaled for quiet, wanting desperately to get started. If only he could get his hands to work at something. He tapped the quiet buzzer impatiently.
"Gentlemen, please. We haven't much time." Those still standing were seated, and the last rustle of voices died away. All eyes went forward.
"I'm sure I don't have to tell you the spot we're in," he began. "You all know that ML One is in trouble. What you don't know is why. I have just learned myself, and it is hard to believe. But it's true. The orbit of Marcum-Lauries is being tampered with from outside. The problem is man-made."
Expressions of shock and disbelief. TIMID FOOLS, thought Dobrynin, THAT IS ALL FOR THE GOOD. THAT WE CAN DO SOMETHING ABOUT. But there were others who said nothing: the miners, the workers. They, too, only wanted to know what could be done.
He dimmed the lights and switched a graphic onto the wall-screen behind him: a binary system, the elliptical figure-eight of the planet's orbit encircling two nearly identical suns. He pointed to the lower right junction of the crossover point.
"Here is where she lies now. Every 304.62 earth years, she completes her orbit around the first sun, in this case Lauries, and passing the equilibrium point between the two, begins to circle the second in the opposite direction. There is a period of instability as she lies between the pull of both; but nothing like this. Then slowly the pull of the first sun grows less, she engages her second orbit, and geological activity becomes more stable. All quite simple. There are several examples of it just in the part of the galaxy we know."
"So how can a man change it?" came a voice.
"One man can't, obviously. But many men, with much planning and outside help, can and have."
He expanded the graphic, receding the orbit and two suns to a lower corner. Then tracing with the pointer a straight line away from the planet's trajectory, he projected near the center of the screen a miniature (but still too large for scale) image of the enemy station that Percy had photographed in ultraviolet and sent back to them. This he enlarged, until it filled all the screen.
Again expressions of dismay, and this time few kept silent. Its already ominous outline distorted by the ultraviolet, it looked like the huge, black and irregular hull of an ancient aircraft carrier, with something like an enormous radar dish mounted securely to the corrugated deck. As he rotated the image its high, central tower was pointed directly at them.
"This is the cause of our troubles." He resolved the image with the remote, turned it once more to show three similar but lesser tower structures spread across the bottom, an irregular tripod.
"The concept of a gravity or 'tractor' beam is nothing new. It has usually been used from ship to ship, or from static base to ship. Its principals to date have either been magnetic, the creation of artificial gravity, or kinetic, scrambling an object's own momentum to bring it down. What we have here is the first case, a gravity beam, though on a scale, and utilizing principles that are altogether new. The towers at the bottom of the structure are pointed at neighboring bodies, and serve only to hold the station in place. The central tower, the one doing all the damage, is pointed directly at Marcum-Lauries. That is why she won't engage her second orbit. That's why internal pressures are ready to blow her apart. She is being pulled by three sources at once, as well as by the thrust of her own rotation….. We have eighty-six hours at the most."
He re-lighted the room, and for a time there was silence. Then as the shock wore off, the questions began to come. He answered them with growing impatience.
"I don't know how it is possible, vice-minister, but it is….. The Soviets confirm our theories….. Where would they get the money and technology? Where do you think? No we cannot be sure. But if it isn't the German States then I don't know anything. No, the Commonwealth won't help us; why should they? The Soviets are powerless to intervene."
"But if the Commonwealth knew what the Cantons were doing—-"
"They would applaud it. They are in the midst of a right wing resurgence themselves. And the propaganda sent out against us has been most convincing."
"They say we kill our babies," came a grim voice near the front.
"We let the seriously handicapped and terminal disorder cases die of their own affliction. It is an act of mercy." A doctor.
"I know that as well as you," said Dobrynin. "But to them we kill our babies, just as we are atheists who believe in nothing, because we discourage religious extremes. That is all meaningless now. They will think what they will. We have no time to change their minds."
"We are overlooking the obvious," said a general, standing. "What about military action, an attack on the base? Our forces beat them back from Khrushchev well enough."
This time another answered, Ambassador Salnikov, who had just entered.
"You beat them back because you knew they were coming weeks in advance, and because they did not send their full strength against you. Indeed, it could only have been a diversion, meant to give you false confidence. Do not think you will find the station lightly guarded, General Kopek. THEY (there was something peculiar in the way he said the word) play this game to win."
"What does an ambassador know of war?" retorted Kopek angrily.
"Much more than I care to. Put away your guns and your anger, general.They will not help you here." The old man sat down with a snort.
There was a long, defeated silence. Finally one man, a co-worker and friend, raised his hand.
"Yes, Lebedev."
"What can we do to fight this thing?"
Dobrynin felt the small spark inside him that he knew to be hope.
"Well I am glad someone asked. We are not beaten yet. Stein, you are chief scientist here. What flaws do you see in the Canton scheme?"
The tall man rose, bowed his head self-consciously. "Well, governor. As we discussed before, I see two problems for the station. First, if the tripod is indeed used as an anchor—-and this seems likely—-and if the gravity beam is as strong as it must be to do this thing, then the pull on the station itself must be tremendous. Doubtless it is well constructed, of the hardest alloys and banding fields, for this purpose. . .and there may be other forms of cohesion as well. But even so, I would have to say it cannot maintain that kind of stress for long. We are given eighty-six hours—-though I must tell you that is only an estimate, it could happen much sooner. The Cantons must also know this. I do not think they have much longer."
"And the second?"
"The second flaw is what puzzles me, and I think that herein lies our hope. Any gravity beam, no matter how refined, can be at least partially disrupted by passing another object between the sending unit and the target. This particular beam, in order to travel such a distance and affect such a large, dense mass, is extraordinarily well honed. The solar flares of Marcum and Lauries have been only mildly affected. So. If we were able to pass a large mass, say an asteroid or small moon, between the planet and the station….. During the time of disruption, should it be successful, we would not only give the planet time to engage her second orbit, but also send a huge projectile plummeting directly at them. I'm sure they are prepared for this to some degree. But a very large, solid object would be quite difficult to destroy or turn aside. They would have no choice but to shut down completely, and very soon afterward at that. Unfortunately, as we discussed, there are no asteroids or other large objects, of sufficient size, close enough at hand to be moved into position in time. Still, something of this nature seems our only real chance."
"Thank you, Thomas."
"Then what can—-what will we do?" asked many voices at once.
Dobrynin stood calm, until the murmur died away.
"We will make our own asteroid."
Silence.
"May I remind you, Governor, that you do not have the authority to exercise such a plan without the consent of the Council?" This last remark came from Franz Pecci, a slight, high-ranking member of the Leadership Council whom he had never liked.
"And may I remind you, Mr. Pecci, that as governor-general of the planet I have final say on any decision which affects mining and excavation. My jurisdiction is quite clear. And if you have a better plan, I would very much like to hear it."
"We could negotiate. It seems clear that the Cantons don't want to destroy us, only exact for themselves some future profit. We have not even tried—-" Dobrynin was about to answer hotly, when Vladimir Salnikov lifted his hand and strode to the front of the room. He stood beside the speaker.
"Governor Dobrynin's plan has the backing of my government. I have spoken with them and they will stand behind it. And someday, Mr. Pecci, I would very much like to know how you can be so sure what it is the Cantons want." At this the man was silent.
"What say you, Vice-Minister? Has this plan your consent?"
The vice-minister rose. "Well. I am sure the Minister will want to know all the details, and I am sure he will question the risk. But for myself, you have my approval. And I think when the Minister is briefed in full, he will agree that we have little choice."
"Thank you, Peter," said Dobrynin. "I will see that he is given a full report, and that he is kept informed throughout." He turned back to the others. "Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me. My engineers and I have much work to do. Doctor Stein, we could use your help as well."
With that Dobrynin left the room, followed by five others. Salnikov watched them go, then lowered his head, and returned to his ship.
The charges had been laid. Two hundred kilometers beneath the surface, six old-style nuclear explosives had been set in a flat, star-shaped pattern—-this, in the heart of a solidified iron and nickel flow one hundred and sixty kilometers across, rising directly from the planet's core. Ironically, the massive upheaval which caused it had occurred many thousand years before, during yet another violent passage of the planet's equilibrium point. If such a bullet could be launched at the station, it would indeed be hard to knock down, though the full effect on the planet itself could hardly be calculated. Between the force of the blast and the current instability, almost anything was possible. Dobrynin had no illusions about serious mining for at least a year—-that things could ever again be the way they were before. But it had to be tried.
It has gone well enough so far, he thought. Five dead and seventeen wounded, but still, well enough. This is the hard part now. I don't mind dying, if I have to. But I don't want to.
MAYBE YOU WON'T DIE, said a voice. Yes, and maybe I will. I hope that my son understands. I hope he sees that I have no choice. BUT YOU HAVE A CHOICE. Do I? If there is a choice then I don't see it. Not without surrendering all that we have worked for. No. I cannot go back.
His son entered the room, followed by Stein and Alexander Dimitriev, his chief engineer. At his gesture they were seated at the table across from him.
"Thomas, Alexander. Now we are come to the hard part: how to detonate safely and accurately. As you know, in this, timing is everything. Everything. If we miss by only a few seconds, we doom the planet to extinction."
"Is it true that you intend to remain behind?" said Dimitriev, "and detonate the bombs yourself, from no greater distance than a thousand kilometers?"
"Father!" YOU MUST UNDERSTAND, LEON.
"Before I say yes or no, let us look at the alternatives. That is why you are here. I must know that you stand behind me."
"We could blow them by radio control." His son.
"No. With the static storms this heavy and unpredictable, they could detonate too soon, or not at all."
"What about a laser-triggered mechanism above ground?" asked Dimitriev. "A fast moving ship could activate it, then be gone." Dobrynin opened his hand toward Stein.
"I'm afraid that's not possible," he conceded. "To avoid cloud cover and volcanic discharge the ship would have to fly very high. And the way the upper atmosphere refracts light, even laser is not a sure thing. And also, there is the problem of the gravity beam itself, distorting the path of the ship."
Dimitriev turned away.
"Alexander, Leon. Listen to me. There is only one other chance that I see, and it is not a good one. We could build the laser-trigger upon a high tower, allowing me to activate it from the ground at a greater distance. But I am not sure we could construct such a tower in time. And also, it would cost more lives." He looked at his son. "Or I could detonate the bombs myself, safely and surely, by cable from Leopold Station. I wish there was another way."
"But why does it have to be you? You are needed—-" His son broke off.
"Who would you have me send instead? I am most qualified, except perhaps for Stein. And this….." He spoke now with difficulty. "This is my home. It is everything I have worked for. If it is lost then I. . .I would not want to live. We have left the mainstream. I do not want to go back." The room was still, and no one spoke.
Finally Dimitriev rose and came toward him. He offered him his hand, and Dobrynin took it in both of his own.
"Good hunting, Nicholai. I am with you." He turned and left the room.Stein rose also.
"I will have an approximate time, and prep the computer, at Leopold before I go….. I think that it is possible."
"Thank you, Thomas."
The scientist bowed his head and was gone. For a moment father and son stood looking down, and neither spoke.
"Why couldn't I do it in your place?"
"You have not the skill….. Your mother needs you."
"And not you? Will you leave her alone?"
"She has always been alone. Forgive me."
"Father." He was crying now, ashamed.
"Please, Leon." His throat was thick. "You must be strong now. I need you to be strong….. There is a chance I will not die." His son left the room.
Leopold Station. He sat with the button in front of him, on a console shelf amidst computers. He studied its scopes and readouts carefully: eight minutes.
He was glad that it was far away. It did not seem real. Almost—-he was thinking in Russian now—-he was not afraid. Perhaps he could reach the tube and down into the shelter in time. If that would help. I MUST CONCENTRATE. He breathed deeply, and watched the counter tick away his life. Seven minutes. Six.
He heard a sound behind him. At that moment the image on one of the screens shifted slightly.
"Turn around Dobrynin."
He whirled, startled, then returned quickly to the console, made the necessary adjustments. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Putting an end to your brave little noise." Dobrynin said nothing. "This gun fires nerve pellets as well as the other, Nicholai. I can paralyze you without killing you." Pecci's voice was calm, but there was fear beneath it.
"And I can press this button and kill us both. And if I die, how will you survive? Doctor Stein says the planet will not last another hour; do you not feel the quakes? You will perish along with it." As he spoke he watched and moved his hands across the console, all the while fighting the bitter urge to detonate now: too soon.
"You lie."
"No, Franz, in this I speak the truth. Your only chance is to get down to the shelter, now, and I will forget what has passed between us." Pecci said nothing. Dobrynin knew that he must buy more time.
"It doesn't matter, does it?"
"What?" He could feel the tension of the smaller man's mind.
"It doesn't matter that since I am twenty-five I have made no serious mistake, that myself and many beside me have worked hard for thirty years to make this place our home. It does not matter that we have broken from the current. Still, we are dependent on others. We are like the stalagmite, which must be fed from above. If anything comes between us and the source, we are cut off. We cannot grow. And any puny, so-called man with a putrid hammer, can come and chisel away at our roots!" He could not contain his anger.
"I could kill you now!" cried Pecci. He raised the gun and would have shot, but at that moment Dobrynin put a hand to his ear. A faint voice, mingled with crackling static, had come suddenly into his almost forgotten ear-piece.
"Governor, can. . .hear me?" It was Stein.
"Yes, Thomas. Try to speak louder. What is it?"
"…..just received. . .information on the beam. We. . .incorrect by. . . minutes."
"How many minutes?"
"Four. Must be sooner. Thirty seconds. . .now."
"Thirty seconds!" he cried. And regretted it as soon as the words had left his mouth. He quickly punched twenty-five into the counter, forgetting all other instruments.
"Yes….." Then no more was heard.
"Turn around, Dobrynin!"
"Go muck yourself!" he growled. If he was going to die, then let it be like Trotsky.
14. 13. 12.
Pecci shot him in the back and killed him.
……………………………………………………………… ……………………………………………………
Andersen, Korchnoi and Larkspur SectorsMonths I through VInternational Year: 2211
"There are various theories as to how insect life came to exist on Newman's Planet, named for its American discoverer. Most suggest that its seeds were somehow transported here from Earth, though there is little agreement as to how, naturally or otherwise, this was accomplished. Others state that it must have evolved here naturally. But this theory runs into equal difficulty. For the insects of Newman's world—-and insects they are indeed, as like to our own physiologically as one mammal is to another—-resemble much too closely specific genre already found on Earth.
"And yet there can be no denying that the four species known to exist (interesting in itself, that there should be so few), date back in their respective habitats roughly 95 million years. Fossil remains have been found, and their location and carbon dating signaled back to us. Unfortunately, no first-hand data is available, as the only two exploration parties ever to brave the hostile environs did not return.
"But from what they were able to gather and send back, we are given a picture both intriguing and disquieting. By far the most interesting news comes from the last report of the British expedition, only hours before all contact was lost. One of their young behavioral scientists, concentrating on the 'Stoors' of the equatorial regions (large, foraging creatures most nearly resembling the warrior ant, approximately 1.5 meters in length), was able to observe a gathering of several colonies around a single, great stone, possibly a meteorite, in the center of a deep cloven valley. He reports that the various groups, distinguished by dots and splotches of color on the head and abdomen, continued to stream in from all directions for nearly two hours, apparently taking no notice of his hovering cruiser. And when they had swelled to perhaps five thousand, they locked forelegs together into countless, concentric circles around the stone and began to chant, though by rights they should have been able to make no such sound. Mitchell Collins, the observer, reported that he was not sure whether it was, in fact, a physical sound, or one that came to him through his mind only. He further states that the precise movements and ritualistic nature of the gathering suggested some kind of primitive religious ceremony.
"This last observation, of course, remains purely subjective."
—-Dr. Charles LeDoux, planetary biologist, to a meeting of the United French Scientists Guild.
Naik Shannon had never heard of Newman's world, or if he had, the memory lay buried too deeply. And at the moment, he had other things on his mind. The survivors of the Marcum-Lauries colonies, his present charge, were scattered and in disarray. His own ship was too badly damaged to lend assistance; he was running with a price on his head; and of his own forces perhaps a hundred still lived.
Shin, his second in command, had radioed that he was trying to gather sufficient escort from the remnants of the fleet to take the civilian ships to safety in Soviet Space. Where the others had turned in the wake of the dismal defeat he could not guess. His head was pounding and he felt old and though he wanted to it was hard to care. Never had he felt so helpless.
After the death of the ore-planet the Canton assault had been swift and overpowering. The Laurian wings had fought well enough, considering their numbers and outdated equipment. But they were no match for the grim machination thrown against them. He had seen almost at once how the battle would go. But while there was any chance at all…..
The red-brown planet loomed closer. It had a somewhat ominous look: the knotted lacing of deep-cut ravines, the jagged mountains, so massive their outlines were visible even from here.
THEY ALL LOOK STARK AND ALIEN AT FIRST. But this one was something peculiar, no denying. Almost it had an aura of strangeness. If he hadn't been so desperately short of oxygen he might have kept searching….. For a moment he had forgotten the Cantons.
Again he studied the star system readout on the ship's console, switched to the more detailed graphic of Centaurus III, Newman's Planet. Touching the fingerboard, he summoned all the relevant data his computer possessed. The cursor darted back and forth across the screen.
Centaurus III
diameter: 16,000 kilgravity: .6 relativeEarthatmos density: .4 relative EarthCO2 72.1O2 19.4N 5.2CH4 3.0Trace .3temp:120 to 35F tropic100 to 20F sub tropic70 to -15F up mid latitude30 to -90F polar sub polwind: 5 to 220 kphhumid: .15 to .02 relativeEarthflora: positivefauna: probable
He read the last line over, took a deep breath. There were some fears one never fully overcame.
Not that Fear stood large in his mind—-seventy Earth years were enough to teach him how meaningless that word was in the end. Fear of death was not only something he had never known, but something he had never understood in others. His Cherokee blood, perhaps. He did not dread it. Now, more and more he almost welcomed death, so long as it was honorable and not cheap.
But this was pointless. He had to decide on an entry and find a place to land, and hope his breathing mask could make something of the strange planet's 'air'. Then take on as much oxygen as possible. Then. What?
GO BACK AND FIGHT THEM AGAIN. He was tired.
Simin crawled out from the heart of the stone, upwards through the long carven tunnel. Coming to a meeting of ways met a brother, touched antennae lightly—-vibrations in the sky - yes brother I will come. Followed twice left and right outward toward the canyon. The way grew wider, more brothers, out into the serrated caves opening far above the valley, came to the broad ledge. As one the heads of twenty mai rose to watch the yellow flame descending. Touch—-as before—-moved to look out from the rim of the ledge, front legs suspended in the air. The shell was landing in a wide plain among the hills beyond the valley, at the foot of the Mountains of Teeth.
Joining.
As before - down from the sky - bright flame, shell - two legs - I do not know brother. Summon queen, others - not yet I think. But we must - brought to us - gods - no, too small - perhaps this one is different. Must act as one - yes, as one - I think it is so. Yes brothers, I will go.
*
Shannon opened the hatch and looked out, long white hair pushed back as the wind swept past his hawk nose and weathered features. His face was red as brick. Intense, steel-gray eyes looked straight ahead.
Scattered patches of some yellow-brown foliage skirted the edges of red stone that rippled up in curving waves from the dark and rocky soil. Before him lay the rock-strewn plain, beyond it long low hills. He had purposely avoided the shadowy chasm beyond. The sky was pale gold, to auburn at the edges.
There had not been enough oxygen left for him to wait long inside the ship. The air-lock stood closed behind him. It was a naked feeling as he took those first breaths, sounding loudly through the intake bars of the mask. ALL RIGHT? It didn't taste just right, but the indicator on his sleeve showed green: sufficient oxygen, negligible poison. He felt restless. He crossed over the lip of the threshold, and descended the perforated steps.
Footing immediately around the landing site was difficult, as he moved out several paces to look back at the mountains unobstructed. The rising sun had just cleared a high gap between them, and its shadow of light crept slowly down their shoulders.
He felt emotion stir inside him. Like stark and stalwart horns they rose to their impossible heights, almost vertical. Of what stone they had been forged to so withstand the wind and weathering he could not guess. Like jagged pillars that would not die. The warrior's heart within him flamed.
Feeling some presence, he turned back to face the plain. Something was moving toward him. Distance defied close description; but the shape of the body and the nature of its movements did not at first imply intelligence. But he knew better than to form such judgments. It moved openly, tactlessly toward him. He felt no fear.
But as it drew steadily on, he felt the sudden shock of recognition. This was no slow, cumbersome oddity. It was an insect, nearly five feet long. Like but unlike a huge ant—-it was flatter, more heavily armored, with creased edges and corners, not unlike the rock. Crisp, tight-folded wings. He turned back toward the ship, but there was stayed by the will of whatever it was that came forward. He felt a sudden shame at his desire to run, and whirled angrily to face it, the long knife (the only weapon he carried) in his hand. With this action the creature seemed pleased: it wholly released its grip on his mind. It continued to come on.
Stopping finally some eight meters in front of him, it raised its upper body and addressed him. He saw then the bright orange-yellow ring, darkly filled, on the underside of its thorax. He heard words in his mind, somehow in his native tongue.
"I am Simin. We must fight, you and I. I cannot let you live. For this is our world, and it is not our way. But your death need not be without honor. And if you fight well, it may be of greater worth than you know."
For a moment the man stood disbelieving, incongruous. Then,
"You will have to take me first!" he cried, feeling yet again the fire that was in him.
The drone gave way before him, moving to the more level ground a short distance to one side. Shannon wondered at this, since clearly it moved among the pebble-stones effortlessly, then realized also that his knife had grown, or at least appeared to grow. Its curved blade gleamed, two feet long. The creature was trying to even the odds. But it fully meant to kill him. That he knew with equal certainty.
The two circled, then the mai advanced. The man aimed a blow at the head, but Simin rolled away beneath it. Then rose and came closer.
*
The man had fought well. SO UNLIKE THE OTHERS. That he possessed the heart of a soldier Simin had known from the first brief mind scan. But never would have guessed the size of it. For it was easy to feel the vast deserts the man had already crossed, and the final defeat showed clearly in his eyes. But still he fought on, for no other reason than that his fierce spirit refused to be broken. Paused before moving onto the fallen body.
Came forward, touched antennae to his temples, and drank deeply from the streams of Shannon's life. Then engulfed the top of the skull with massive, bowed jaws and cracked, lifted away the cranium. Slowly ate the man's brain, taking with it the remainder of his memory.
Almost at once the change began to come over him. Tingling, he backed away slowly on his hind legs. At last the miracle had come. He lifted his head to the sky, and felt the transformation taking place. The hard shell of his face softened, yielding gradually to a new shape: hawk nose, burning eyes. White hair streamed back from the auburn face, hard-edged once more. The huge protruding jaws remained. His forward body was now nearly upright, like a mantis, but with stronger, more flexible arms. His mind was keen and sharp.
He turned back to face the mountains, felt the same fierce elation. And for a time he could not move or think for the wonder of it. How had he not felt it before. For a time he could not move or think…..
At long length he turned and headed back to the place of his spawning —-the Gorge. The brothers, now forty, saw him reappear atop the high precipice that loomed at the far side of the canyon. They detected some subtle change in him, though from that distance they could only descry a somewhat more elevated form. He did not come to them at once, but stood looking down upon the stepped vastness, alone, as if seeing it for the first time.
When at last he did spread his wings and fly closer they looked up at him amazed, not understanding. He landed on the ledge but remained at his distance, regarding them quietly. He addressed them, no longer needing to touch. His strange eyes shone and he did not move, as if overwhelmed from within. He spoke to their minds.
"My time has come. Summon the others."
They could not understand, but obeyed, dispersing to summon their queen, and all others that lived within the span of their own.
*
The sun tipped the horizon and dust was gathering and still the long files of mai continued to stream down. Already the central basin was nearly filled, and pushing back toward the statued spires of the west wall. The moving shapes were dark in the lengthening shadows, and all looked up at him, perched silently atop the Carrier Stone. The first circle of seven queens, not touching, seemed to understand, as did the drones behind them. All others knew only that another Outsider had been killed. Waited patiently for the joining.
As the darkness deepened and the last movement ceased, all joined and were silent. The queens approached the Stone, the giver of life, and touched it.
From out of its crumpled iron surface arose a faint hum, the remainder of its strength. All lives were now fused, and the queens sent out their messages. Joined forelegs and antennae, bent all their thought toward Simin, so that now he probed the memory not with one mind but with many. And stimulated by the Carrier, its greatness began to come forth.
Slowly the streams of Shannon's life broke free and flowed in a gentle murmur through all, paced and given substance by the queens and drones. And slowly they took shape into music, a long, rhythmic chant. Then with gathering strength as a river fed by many tributaries, rose into song that filled all the valley, and echoed in the hearts of ten thousand mai. From birth to death, the long struggles of his life were played out, rising and falling like the seasons of the wind. Again and yet again he did battle, with hope or without it. The song grew within Simin, overpowering, so stark and beautiful that he thought he must die, but knew he could not yet.
Then all again was hushed, and stiffly the drone-that-was raised himself up. A voice rose out of his soul, but it was no longer his: a pulsing, soft white glow hovered in the air above him.
"They have called me a mercenary, but it is not so. I am a warrior. For be it my virtue or be it my curse, it has never been within me to yield to aggression, or to stand aside and let violence pass. Something has always risen inside me when persecution, in any form, is at hand. In this I claim no virtue, no heroism. This only will I say: that I have ever given my strength to those unable to defend themselves, the downtrodden, the weak, oppressed by the strong. But most bitter in my malice have always been those who kill in the name of God, some higher purpose. They are to me blindness and murder personified. Thus, I do not claim it.
"In twelve wars have I fought—-in half as many victories. For in time my soldiering became no longer a conscious action, but an instinctive response.
"Well do I know my folly in choosing this bitter course. But if I am to live, then it will be as a man. And if by the loneliness that is my soul I can turn aside the sword of injustice, even for a short time, then so help me God I will do it."
The words ended and the glow receded. It lived no more. Again himself, alone, Simin lowered his head, so deeply moved that the water flowed freely from his eyes. The ruling queen approached him.
"Simin-that-was. Do you take this Quest?"
"I will take it, though I fear to falter."
"You will not."
The queen stepped back, and all proclaimed him.
"Si-mai, ungol, misch-naik!" AGAINST THE EVIL THAT WAS AND IS, WE SENDYOU. The joining was ended, and the gathering dispersed.
He had flown for many days into the growing cold. The sun was gone and the wind was rising as he searched the ground below him for a place to pass the night. It must be sheltered, not so much from the elements (though this too was important) as from the marauding bands of ground wasps that lived in these northern regions. There was still far to go and much danger ahead. He had no strength for useless battles.
At last as all light faded he came upon a towering pillar of stone in the midst of a vast wasteland, split at the top as if cloven by a giant axe. Reaching its heights, he descended slowly into its broad embrasure. Detecting some deeper shadow in the blackness of the eastern wall, he flew toward a narrow fissure in the rock. Landing silently on the lip of it, he tested the air for vibrations. All was still. He moved inside and huddled close together. He was empty and cold and weary to the point of exhaustion. He remained in quiet thought for many hours.
When he had taken the quest, he knew only that he must somehow continue the labors of Shannon's life—-find some way to avenge the death of it. He had wandered alone for a period of days, remembering, until one morning, at the rising dust of a fiery dawn, he had felt the North calling to him. He felt it still, though less strongly, and he deemed that this was right. What he hoped to find there he could not say. He only knew that he must find it.
The most difficult aspect of his journey thus far had not been the long flight on short provisions. To the mai such things meant nothing. They lived to work and serve the greater need, that was all. No, it was more the feelings and emotions that the long pilgrimage evoked in him, seeming almost to rise from the vast loneliness of his world. For though the man's spirit had died or moved on, his sensations and experience had not. They lived on within Simin, and sometimes puzzled or even frightened him. He understood, and knew this was necessary; but the knowledge did not make it easier.
WHAT A TORTURED RACE THEY MUST BE, he thought. SO TORN BETWEEN DESIREAND FEAR. THEY ARE GIVEN NO ROLE, NO CLEAR PLACE. THEY MUST FIND IT,AS WE MUST FIND MOISTURE IN AN ARID LAND.
It was this fear of frustration and fruitless searching that he felt most deeply, because it had for so long been a part of his own existence. Through all his twenty months he had sought after some intangible, some elusive quality of being, with no more guide than a restless and smoldering hunger inside him. TO NOT KNOW, really not know who he was or where he was going.
This, he decided, must be the doom of humanity: to be born a burning question of itself, a paradox of beauty and destruction, love and loss. To take personally and introspectively the irresolvable conflict of life and desire over stillness and the void. Again, he felt it so deeply. That the struggle could also be beautiful he knew. But still, such a hard and lonely fate…..
When dawn came he crawled out of the niche and looked about him. The great crack was shadowed and still. He felt the presence of many creatures, but they were not yet near him. The rockface offered little resistance as he climbed, and soon he stood atop a hooked spire that sprang from the pillar's crumbling eastern shoulder, high above the plain. Two long lines of wingless wasps were mounting towards him. The first of their number touched the spire. He took one last taste of the dawn, then flew out beyond their reach.
He flew staunchly and steadily northward, now that he had some plan. For the clarity of first-sun had told him what he must do. Stopping to rest along the top of a shallow ridge, he ate part of a darkening bush-bulb, nearly as large as himself. Its taste was bitter, but it gave him strength. Then he set out again.
His mind had determined to search the farthest North. Shannon's memory told him what he might find there: great frozen wastes of ice and earth, underground hollows left from times when the water had been greater. Sometimes as he pondered these, at the edge of thought he would feel a sound, a sensation: deep throbbings in empty places beneath the ground, a golden light that drew him onward. But then it would vanish and leave him, wondering. He must find its source, if it were real.
Three days more he journeyed toward it, till on the fading edge of the third the wind forced him to land. It had been gathering strength since the morning of the spire, and now carried with it a bitter and biting cold that would not rest. His strength beginning at last to fail him, he determined to go on on foot, until he found some shelter, or a reason to stop. He felt the presence of no other creature, yet still he was uneasy. He had reached the edge of the mighty tundra that formed the cap of Newman's world.
Now more and more he reached into Shannon's past, trying to find the thing that had kept him going. Genuine physical weakness, other than simple hunger, thirst and fatigue, was something he had never known, and dealing with it frustrated all the lessons he had learned as a mai. Being alien to his experience, he had assumed that it did not exist—-that there was only weakness of will, and that so long as his desire held, no barrier of the flesh would ever stop him. This lesson in perspective he accepted, though grudgingly. It seemed that everything he had known in three seasons of life must be relearned, altered to fit this new reality. But his will remained undaunted.
He traveled many hours into the darkness of night, until he found a small hollow of earth and root of stone at the base of a pummeled and wind torn boulder. A thin lacing of ground-snow, carried by the wind, swirled around him and whistled in its cracks, making a melancholy sound that he felt still deeper for the lassitude of his body. Here he rested, and tried not to think, until the coming of morning.
The morning was much the same as the night, with only a patchy gray light to tell him when the day had come. He moved out of the shelter and walked, across shallow hills, rising in monotonous rhythm through a bleak and barren landscape. The earth was a dull and frozen brown, broken now and again by rock, or gnarled scrub, or nothing. The thin snow blew over all, trailing and whirling about in long wisps like the twisting hands of witches. He continued on for many hours, until the wind relented just long enough for him to exhaust himself in flight. He landed again, and found the earth covered intermittently with thin patches of ice, sometimes deepening and joining together into shrunken, unmoving streams, or withered oak leaves of many fingers.
He continued and night came again but he did not stop. He had eaten what hard and knotted brush he could find, and there was now no lack of moisture; and though it was his mind he feared, denying it had not yet become unbearable. He rested a short time, went on the next day. And the next, walking because he could not fly, into the growing cold, and thicker snow, and ice that began to dominate the ground. Until he was alone.
Time passed.
*
He had reached the farthest North. The world was ice, layered with snow. The wind blew the white softness above into dunes, sometimes foaming against islands of rock, huddled together in groups or branching straight like disjointed coral reefs, while its gusting blasts wrapped veils over all, swirling and howling in relentless defiance. The day lasted but four short hours, then all was swathed in darkness, so that the swirling sheets were blind and crashed over him like spray of drowning surf on the deck of a floundering ship. He was utterly alone.
Simin's strength was gone; he did not know what kept him going.Perhaps because he had never known defeat….. But surely it was more.Through the numb slowness of his near-frozen body a heart beat thatcarried no blood. He was dangerously crippled by the cold.
He had passed wide cracks in the ice, chasms and fissures that he knew must lead down: sometimes he could almost see, or sense, uncovered earth or the edges of rock far below. And this was what he sought. But always the feel of them was cold. He sought an entrance, which led to a passage. He must find it soon or perish.
On the seventh day since entering the tundra, an hour after the disappearing of light, a vast abyss opened before him, wider and emptier and deeper than any he had yet come across. Like a crushed cylinder of otherworldly proportions, it yawned directly in front of him, dropping deep into the earth. His forelegs hovered trembling above the void.
This must be the passage, or he would die. He no longer trusted his judgment; it had fallen in the snow many miles behind him. It could well be madness, but he felt a presence far below, some wild hope….. No. He must find shelter. Perhaps it was there. A shelter. If he could find it. MUST CONTINUE ON. NO, HERE. IT MUST BE HERE, OR I AM DYING. SO. . .EASY TO SURRENDER. LIKE FALLING ASLEEP. LETTING GO. NO!
He turned his sinking body around, and forced it to descend: hooking and digging, scraping into ice, forelegs stretched to the limit, trying not to slip. To slip was death. Down. Down farther. A little farther. THE WIND IS LESS HERE. Here. KEEP MOVING. MUST KEEP MOVING. NO STRENGTH. . .BUT WARMTH COMING BACK. YES, WARMTH. MOVE. FARTHER.
DON'T SLIP! DON'T SLIP. An overhang. CAREFUL. MUST STRUGGLE PASTSOMEHOW. SOME WAY. PAST. WARMTH. IT MUST BE WARMER. KEEP MOVING.IT WILL BE WARMER, OR I AM DYING. I AM DYING. IT IS WARMER.
After the long and grueling climb, stopping many times to marshal strength, he found himself at the bottom. The cylinder had narrowed, so that now it was scarcely thirty meters broad, a sharp cleft of stone, rising sheer into ice that overtook it for perhaps a thousand meters more. He rested there, his body pulsing, spent. The cold was not as intense, and the wind was less, and the movement had warmed his limbs.
But he was weak and near dead from hunger and exhaustion. He needed sustenance badly, soon. Or it was over. He moved to a tiny pool of snow that had formed from a trickle of the torrent above, and with his trembling foreclaw worked small bits of it into his mouth. All done in pitch darkness, and very little feeling left. Then moved to examine the corners of the cleft.
The first was blocked, solid stone. He turned about. He did not know he had reached the opposite wall until he passed through it, was inside. A cave had opened blindly and taken him in, narrow and not high, but a cave nonetheless. A passage. After a time he knew instinctively that he was underground, but was far too weary for the knowledge to have much effect. He continued forward. He must find some kind of sustenance. Sustenance. He thought of his foreclaw, but remembering the man….. No. Not yet.
He wandered on, stumbling, raising himself up to go on. Plodded forward, sinking ever deeper, and onward, until the air around him suddenly grew larger. A loosened rock rolled off another, and the echo did not return for some time. He moved to his right, sensing something, and stroked the tip of his claw against the slanting surface which met it. The surface was sometimes soft and not smooth; it was not part of the stone. He tried to break off a small piece. The layer was thin, and it crumbled. He tried again, brought the wretched substance—-some kind of dried blood, or excrement—-to his mouth. Its taste was bile and bitter and acid. Then swallowed. Throat burning, he repeated the motion perhaps a dozen times, then collapsed, half holding, to the floor. And lay unmoving.
*
Simin woke from his delirium many hours later, somewhat stronger, but still dizzy and confused. The little nourishment he had taken lifted his mind back to awareness, strong, if subtly altered by the thick aura of the place, and by the strange and pressing reality of his quest. He rose slowly, careful not to spend the wavering hope he had found, and looked around him.
Looked around him. There was a dim light in that place, that region of vastness. And whatever the source, though all before had been darkness, it was undeniable. The light was dim and surreal, softly yellow and fallow gold, but nonetheless afforded him a glimpse of this underground world, if it did not end, which he must now traverse. For here, more than ever, he sensed a presence that was greater than his own life, if distantly, not calling him but aware of his need.
Strangeness.
He was not alone in that ribbed, spine-ceilinged enclosure. Around a far turning he caught movement, and was sure as an ebb and flow motion of body and legs rounded the inward corner that was the edge of his sight. He was still too weak to fight, or to go on, as the many legged creature approached him blindly, unaware of his presence. It drew closer, then seemed to slow in its movements, coming gradually to a halt. Descendant of the centipede, it studied him from a distance of forty meters, its poisoned forward spikes twitching with unease.
Though the centipede was longer, its bulk and his were nearly equal. He had no strength for a fight, nor did he seek one. But perhaps his quivering opponent could be daunted, backed down. Yet as he continued to watch he felt no aggression, only puzzlement, coming from the other: He was not part of its food chain, nor was its territory threatened. It was only frightened, why so strongly he could not guess. He also knew, with sudden sureness, that it was one of many. Somehow he knew. He took a step forward, and it retreated swiftly along the way it had come, moving onto the wall, perhaps instinctively, where it felt a greater measure of safety. He followed it as best he could in the half light, the flexing striped-brown body, hoping to find the source of its food.
He passed the narrowing corner at the back of the high, curving chamber and descended a long, often twisting, downward tunnel that branched off from it. The other's speed was considerable, moving through the regions of its birth, and try as he might he could not keep up. He soon found himself alone in a roughly spherical vault, not large, with five knife-slash passages opening off it.
The light here was thicker, and in a swift moment of recognition he realized the reason for it. The soft glow was neither greater nor weaker anywhere around him: it did not have a true source, nor did it cast a single shadow. He felt a slight pulsing of moisture across his face, like a fine drizzle-rain touched by the wind. The light was in the mist itself. Also, there was the sensation of his flesh lightly touching, warming against the inner edges of his armor. His senses were heightened, and he was acutely aware of his hunger.
His antennae began to twitch, almost without his knowledge, turning him to the left. He followed to a shallow rift at the lowest point of the enclosure, where he found a tiny pool of dark water, sponged by a thick and brackish black algae. He immersed his jaws and tasted. Again. He filled his mouth, and painfully swallowed wave after wave of the wet and mud sustenance.
Then he backed away and lifted himself up, feeling alive once more. He moved to hide himself behind a jagged plate of rock, and waited for his strength to return.