Adventures in the Far Future Page 3

  Ptheela purred approvingly from the other side, and Pat snorted. “Get your mind off romance, Ptheela! Vic’s practically out on his feet. If he weren’t so darned stubborn, this should make him go to sleep.”

  “Romance!” Ptheela chewed the idea and spat it out. “All spring budding and no seed. A female should have pride from strong husbands and proven seeding.”

  Vic let them argue. At the moment, Pat’s attention was soothing, but only superficially. His head went on fighting for some usable angle and finding none. He’d swiped all the knowledge he could from Ptheela, without an answer. Plathgol was more advanced than Earth, but far below the Betz II engineers, who were mere servants of the Council.

  No wonder man had resented the traffic with other worlds. For centuries he had been the center of his universe. Now, like the Tasmanians, he found himself only an isolated valley of savages in a universe that was united in a culture far beyond his understanding. He’d never even conquered his own planets; all he’d done was to build better ways of killing himself.

  Now he was reacting typically enough, in urgent need of some race even lower, to put him on middle ground, at least. He was substituting hatred for his lost confidence in himself.

  Why learn more about matter transmitting when other races knew the answers and were too selfish to share them? Vic grumbled, remembering the experts. He’d wasted hours with them, to find that they were useless. The names that had been towers of strength had proved no more than men as baffled as he was. With even the limited knowledge he’d pried from Ptheela, he was far ahead of them—and still further behind the needs of the problem.

  The gun Flavin had insisted he wear was uncomfortable, and he pulled himself up, staring at the crew of men who were working as close to the center of wind as they could get. He hadn’t been able to convince them that tunneling was hopeless. All they needed was a one-millimeter hole through the flooring, up which blasting powder could be forced to knock aside the glass fragment. They refused to accept the fact that the Betz II shielding could resist the best diamond drills under full power for centuries. He shrugged. At least it helped the general morale to see something being done; he’d given in finally and let them have their way.

  “We might as well go back,” he decided. He’d hoped that the morning air and sight of the station might clear his head, but the weight of responsibility had ruined that. It was ridiculous, but he was still in charge.

  Flavin reached back and cut on the little television set. With no real understanding, he was trying to learn tolerance of Ptheela, but he felt more comfortable in front, beside the chauffeur.

  Vic felt the automatic. “I hear no news on Pan-Asia’s ultimatum.”

  “Yeah. The story was killed by Presidential emergency powers, and Pan-Asia has agreed to a three-day stay—no more. My information isn’t the best, but I gather we’ll bomb it ourselves if it isn’t cleared up by then.”

  Vic threw open the door to his little office and the four went in. It wasn’t until he started toward his desk that he noticed his visitor.

  The Galactic Envoy might have been the robot he claimed, but there was no sign of it. He was dressed casually in expensive tweeds, lounging gracefully in a chair, with a touch of a smile on his face. Now he got up, holding out a hand to Vic.

  “I heard you were running things. Haven’t seen you since I helped pick you for the first year class, but I keep informed. Thought I’d drop by to tell you the Council has given official approval to your full authority over the Earth Branch of Teleport Interstellar, and I’ve filed the information with the U.N. and your President.”

  Vic lifted his head. “Why me?”

  “You’ve learned all the theory Earth has, you’ve had more practical experience with more stations than anyone else, and you’ve undoubtedly picked Ptheela’s brains dry by now. You’re the obvious man.”

  “I’d a lot rather see one of your high and mighty Galactic experts take over!”

  The Envoy shook his head gently. “We’ve found that the race causing the trouble usually is the race best fitted to solve it. The same ingenuity that maneuvered the sabotage-it was sabotage, by the way—will help you solve it, perhaps. The Council may not care much for your grab-first rule in economics and politics, but it never doubted that you represent one of the most ingenious races we have met. You see, there really are no inferior races.”

  “Sabotage?” Pat looked sick. “Who’d be that stupid and vicious?”

  The Envoy smiled faintly. “Who’d give the Knights of Terra money for a recruiting drive? I can’t play much part in things here—I’ve got limited abilities, a touch of telepathy, a little more knowledge than you, and a certain in-built skill at handling political situations. Your own government is busy examining the ramifications of the plot now. It had to be an inside job, as you call it.”

  “Earth for Earth, and down with the transmitters,” Vic summed it up.

  The Envoy nodded. “They forget that the transmitters can’t be removed without Council workers. And when the Council revokes approval, it destroys all equipment and most books, while seeing that three generations are brought up without knowledge. You’d revert to semi-savagery and have to make a fresh start up. Well, I’m lucky—your President Wilkes is sympathetic, and your F.B.I, has been cooperative so far. If you solve things, the sabotage shouldn’t prove too much of a problem. Good luck.”

  Flavin had been eying him, and his dislike flared up as the Envoy left. “A hell of a lot of nerve for guys who claim they don’t interfere!”

  “It happened to us twice,” Ptheela observed. “We were better for it eventually. The Council’s rules are from half a billion years of experience, with tremendous knowledge. We must submit.”

  “Not without a fight!”

  “Without a fight,” Vic said blunder. “We’re babes in arms to them. Anyhow, who cares? Congressional babble won’t save us if we lose our atmosphere. But they can’t see it.”

  The old idea—something would turn up. Maybe they couldn’t cut off the transmitter from outside, and had no way of getting past the wind to the inside. But something would turn up.

  He’d heard rumors of the Army taking over, and almost wished they would. As it stood, he had full responsibility and nothing more. Flavin and the Council had turned things over to him, but the local cop on the beat had more power. It would be a relief to have someone around to shout even stupid orders, and get some of the weight off Vic’s shoulders.

  Sabotage! It couldn’t even be an accident; the cockeyed race to which he belonged had to try to commit suicide and then expect him to save it.

  He shook his head, vaguely conscious of someone banging on the door, and reached for the knob. “Amos!”

  The sour face never changed expression as the corpselike figure of the man slouched in. Amos was dead—he’d been in the transmitter. They all realized it at once.

  But Amos shook off their remarks. “Nothing surprising, just common sense. When I saw the capsule start cracking, I jumped into a capsule headed for Plathgol, set the delay, and tripped the switch. Saw some glass shooting at me, but I was in Plathgol before it hit Went out and got me a mess of tsiuna—they cook fair to middling, seeing they never tried it before they met us. Then I showed ‘em my pass, came through Chicago, here, and home. I figured the old woman would be Worried. Nobody told me about the mess till I saw the papers. Common sense to report to you, so here I am.”

  “How much did you see of the explosion?” Pat asked.

  “Not much. Just saw it was cracking—trick glass, no temperature tolerance. Looked like Earth capsule color.”

  It didn’t matter. It added to Vic’s disgust to believe it was sabotage, but didn’t change the picture otherwise. The Council wouldn’t reverse its decision. They treated a race as a unit, making no exception for the behavior of a few individuals, whether good or bad.

  Another knock on the door cut off his vicious circle of hopelessness. “Old home week here, evidently. Come in!”r />
  The man who entered was the rare example of a fat man in the pink of physical condition, with no sign of softness. He shoved his bulk through the doorway as if he expected the two stars on his shoulders to light the way and awe all beholders. “Who is Victor Peters?”

  Vic wiggled a finger at himself, and the general came over. He drew out an envelope and dropped it on the desk, showing clearly that acting as a messenger was far beneath his dignity. “An official communication from the President of the United States,” he said mechanically, and turned to make his exit back to the intercity transmitters.

  It was a plain envelope, without benefit of wax seals or ribbons. Vic ripped it open, looked at the signature and the simple letterhead, and checked the signature again. He read it aloud to the others.

  “To Mr.—damn it, officially I’ve got a doctor’s degree—to Mr. Victor Peters, nominally—Hah!—in charge of the Bennington Branch of Teleport Interstellar—I guess they didn’t tell him it’s nominally in charge of all Earth branches. Umm. You are hereby instructed to remove all personnel from a radius of five miles minimum of your Teleport Branch not later than noon, August 21, unless matters shall be satisfactorily culminated prior to that time. Signed, Homer Wilkes, President of the United States of America.”

  “Bombs!” Pat shuddered, while Vic let the message fall to the floor, kicking it toward the wastebasket. “The fools! The damned fools! Couldn’t they tell him what would happen? Couldn’t they make him see that it’ll only make turning off the transmitter impossible forever?”

  Flavin shrugged, dropping unaware onto the couch beside Ptheela. “Maybe he had no choice. Either he does it or some other power does it.”

  Then he came to his feet, staring at Vic. “My God, that’s tomorrow noon!”

  IV

  VIC looked at the clock later, and was surprised to see that it was already well into the afternoon. The others had left him, Ptheela last when she found there was no more knowledge she could contribute. He had one of the electronic calculators plugged in beside him, and a table of the so-called Dirac functions propped up on it; when the press had discovered that Dirac had predicted some of the characteristics that made teleportation possible, they’d named practically everything for him.

  Vic pulled the calculator back, just as Flavin came into the room. The man was losing weight, or else fatigue was creating that illusion. He dropped into a chair as Vic looked up.

  “The men evacuated from around the station?” Vic asked.

  Flavin nodded. “Some of the bright boys finally convinced them that they were just wasting time, anyhow. Besides, the thing is still spreading, and getting too close to them. Vic, the news gets worse all the time. Can you take it?”

  “Now what? Don’t tell me they’ve changed it to tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow, hell! In two hours they’re sending over straight blockbusters, radar-controlled all the way. No atomics—yet-but they’re jumping the gun, anyhow. Some nut convinced Wilkes that an ordinary eight-ton job might just shake things enough to fracture the glass that’s holding the short. And Pan-Asia is going completely wild. I’ve been talking to Wilkes. The people are scared silly, and they’re pressuring for quick war.”

  Vic nodded reluctantly and reached for the benzedrine he’d hoped to save for the last possible moment, when it might carry him all the way through. What difference did it make? Even if he had an idea, he’d be unable to use it.

  “And yet …” He considered it more carefully, trying to figure percentages. There wasn’t a chance in a million, but they had to take even that one chance. It was better than nothing. “It might just work—if they hit the right spot. I know where the glass is, and the layout of the station. But I’ll need authority to direct the bombs. Flavin, can you get me President Wilkes?”

  Flavin shrugged, reached for the televisor. He managed to get quite a way up by some form of code, but then it began to be a game of nerves and brass. Along his own lines, he apparently knew his business. In less than fifteen minutes, Vic was talking to the President. For a further few minutes, the screen remained blank. Then another face came on, this time in military uniform, asking quick questions, while Vic pointed out the proper targets.

  Finally the officer nodded. “Good enough, Peters. We’ll try it. If you care to watch, you can join the observers. Mr. Flavin already knows where they are. How are the chances?”

  “Not good. Worth trying.”

  The screen darkened again, and Flavin got up. The thing was a wild gamble, but it was better to jar the building than to melt its almost impregnable walls. Even Betz II metal couldn’t take a series of hydrogen bombs, though nothing else could hurt it. And with that fury, the whole station would go.

  They picked up Pat, and moved out to Flavin’s car. Vic knew better than to try to bring Ptheela along. As an alien, she was definitely taboo around military affairs. The storm had reached the city now, and dense clouds were pouring down thick gouts of rain, leaving the day as black as night. The car slogged through it, until Flavin opened the door and motioned them out into a temporary metal shelter.

  Things were already started. Remote scanners were watching the guided missiles come down, and eyes were operating in the bombs, working on infrared that cut through the rain and darkness. It seemed to move slowly on the screen at first, but picked up apparent speed as it approached the transmitter buildings. The shielding grew close, and Pat drew back with an involuntary jerk as it hit and the screen went black. Dead center.

  But the remote scanners showed no change. The abrupt break in the air-motion where the transmitter field began, outside the shielding, still showed. Another bomb came down, and others, each spaced so as to hit in time for others to be turned back, if it worked. Even through the impossible tornado of rotating fury, it was super-precision bombing.

  The field went on working just the same, far beyond the shielding, pulling an impossible number of cubic feet of air from Earth every second. They stopped watching the screen shown by the bomb-eyes at last, and even the Army gave up.

  “Funny,” one observer commented. “No sound, no flash when the bombs hit. I’ve been watching the remote scanners every time instead of the eye, and nothing happens. The bombs just disappear.”

  Pat shook herself. “They can’t hit. They go right through the field, before they can hit. Vic, it won’t matter if we do atom-bomb the station. It can’t be reached.”

  But he was already ahead of her.

  “The Ecthindar will love that. They’ve already been dosed with chemical bombs. Now guess what they’ll do.”

  “Simple.” It was the observer who got that. “Start feeding atom bombs into their transmitters back to us.”

  Then he shouted hoarsely, pointing through a window. From the direction of the station, a dazzle of light had lanced out sharply, and was now fading down. Vic snapped back to the remote scanner, and scowled. The field was still working; there was no sign of damage to the transmitter. If the Ecthindar had somehow snapped a bomb into the station, it must have been retransmitted before full damage.

  The Army men stared sickly at the station, but Vic was already moving toward the door. Pat grabbed his arm, and Flavin was with them by the time they reached the waiting car.

  “The Bennington office,” Vic told the driver. “Fast! Somebody has to see the Ecthindar in a hurry, if it’ll do any good.”

  “I’m going, too, Vic,” Pat announced. He shook his head. “I’m going,” she repeated stubbornly. “Nobody knows much about Ecthinbal or the Ecthindar. You call in Code messages, get routine Code back. We can’t go there without fancy pressure suits, because we can’t breathe their air. And they never leave. But I told you I was interested in races, and I have been trying to chit-chat with them. I know some things. You’ll need me.”

  He shook his head again. “It’s enough for one of us to get killed. If I fail, Amos can try, or Flavin. If they both fail-well, suit yourself. It won’t matter whether they kill me there or send through
bombs to kill me here. But if one of us can get a chance to explain, it may make some difference. I don’t know. But it may.”

  Her eyes were hurt, but she gave in, going with him silently as he stepped into the local Bennington unit and stepped out in Chicago, heading toward the Chicago Interstellar branch. She waited patiently while the controlmen scouted out a pressure suit for him. Then she began helping him fasten it and checking his oxygen equipment. “Come back, Vic,” she said finally.

  He chucked a fist under her chin and kissed her quickly, keeping it casual with a sureness he couldn’t feel. “You’re a good kid, Pat. Ill sure try.”

  He pulled the helmet down and clicked it shut before stepping into the capsule and letting the seal snap shut. He could see her swing to the interstellar phone, her lips pursed in whistled code. The sound was muffled, but the fights changed abruptly, and her hand hit the switch.

  There was no apparent time involved. He was on Ecthinbal, looking at a faintly greenish atmosphere, noticeable only because of the sudden change, and fifty pounds seemed to have been added to his weight. The transmitter was the usual Betz II design, and everything else was familiar except for the creature standing beside the capsule.

  The Ecthindar might have been a creation out of green glass, coated with a soft fur, and blown by a bottlemaker who enjoyed novelty. There were two thin, long legs, multijointed, and something that faintly resembled the pelvis of a skeleton. Above that, two other thin rods ran up, with a double bulb where lungs might have been, and shoulders like the collar pads of a football player, joined together and topped by four hard knobs, each with a single eye and orifice. Double arms ran from each shoulder, almost to the ground.

  He expected to hear a tinkle when the creature moved, and was surprised when he did hear it, until he realized the sound was carried through the metal floor, not through the thin air.