MacRoscope (49 page)

“It is all we are supposed to see,” Groton said. “And somehow I do not think it would be wise to force the issue.”

“We
came
to force the issue!” Afra said.

“What I meant to say was, let’s not start hammering at the walls. We could discover ourselves in hard vacuum. Further exploration in an intellectual capacity should be all right.”

Ivo was looking at the device on the pedestal. It was about eighteen inches long, and reminded him vaguely of the S D P S: an object of greater significance than first appeared. It was in basic outline cylindrical, but within that general boundary was a mass of convoluted tubings, planes, wires and attachments. It seemed to be partly electronic in nature, but not entirely a machine; partly artistic, but not a piece of sculpture. Yet there was a certain familiarity about it; some quality, some purpose inherent in it that he felt he should recognize.

He picked it up, finding the weight slight for so intricate an object: perhaps two pounds, and deviously balanced. The incipient recognition of its nature struck him more strongly. He ought to know what it was.

Something happened.

It was as though there were the noise of a great gong, but with vibrations not quite audible to human ears. Light flared, yet his eyes registered no image. There was a shock of heat and pressure and ponderosity that his body could not discern definitely, and some overwhelming odor that his nostrils missed.

The others were looking at him and at each other, aware that something important had been manifested — and not aware of more.

Ivo still held the instrument.

“Play it, Ivo,” Beatryx said.

And all were mute, realizing that in all the chambers there had been no musical devices.

Ivo looked at it again, this time seeing conduits like those of a complex horn; fibers like those of stringed instruments; drumlike diaphragms; reeds. There was no place to blow, no spot to strike; but fingers could touch controls and eyes could trace connections.

The object was vibrating gently, as though the lifting of it had activated its power source. It had come alive, awaiting the musician’s imperative.

He touched a stud at random — and was rewarded by a roll of thunder.

Beatryx, Afra, Groton: they stared up and out, trying instinctively to trace the source, to protect themselves if the walls caved in… before realizing what had happened. Multiphonal sound!

“When you picked it up,” Groton began—

“You touched a control,” Afra finished. Both were shaken. “The BONG button.”

“And now the thunder stud,” Beatryx said.

Ivo slid one finger across a panel. A siren wail came at them from all directions, deafening yet melodious.

He explored the rest of it, producing a measured cacophony: every type of sound he could imagine was represented here, each imbued with visual, tactile and olfactory demesnes. If only he could bring this sensuous panorama under control—

And he could. Already his hands were responding to the instrument’s ratios, achieving the measure of it, growing into the necessary disciplines. This was his talent, this way with an organ of melody. He had confined himself to the flute — Sidney Lanier’s choice — but the truth was that all of Schön’s gift was his. Probably there was no human being with greater natural potential than his own — should he choose to invoke it.

Ivo could not call out the technical aspects or discuss the theory knowledgeably; that was not part of it. He could not even read musical notation, for he had never studied it, choosing instead to learn by ear. But with an instrument in his hands and the desire to play, he could produce a harmony, and he could do it precisely, however complicated the descriptive terms for what he performed.

Now he developed that massive raw talent, bringing all his incipient skill to bear. He picked a suitable exercise, adapting for the flute at first, hearing the words as the song became animate. It was not from Lanier; that would come when he had command. One had to practice with lesser themes first. A trial run only…

Drink to me only with thine eyes and I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss within the cup and I’ll not ask for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise doth ask a drink divine;

But could I of Jove’s nectar sip, I would not change for thine.

The others stood as the simple haunting melody surrounded them, marvelously clear, almost liquid, possessed increasingly of that éclat, that soul that was the true artist’s way. The galactic instrument brought also the suggestion of a heady nectar… and the touch of magic lips.

Afra was staring raptly at him, never having heard him play before. Had that been his worst blunder? Not to employ the real talent he had?

Groton was staring at Afra…

No, he was staring beyond her! The blank wall blocking the continuation of their tour was dissolving, revealing another passage. The way was open again!

“The free ride is over,” Groton murmured. “Now we have to participate.”

They moved down it then in silence, Ivo still carrying the instrument. This hall opened into a tremendous chamber whose ceiling was an opaque mist and whose floor was a translucency without visible termination. There were no walls; the sides merely faded into darkness, though there was light close at hand.

They walked within it, looking in vain for something tangible. But now even the floor was gone. Physically gone: it too had dissolved and left them in free-fall, hanging weightless in an atmosphere. Their point of entry, too, had vanished; they tried to swim back through the pleasant air, but there was nothing to locate. They were isolated and lost.

“So it
was
a trap,” Afra said, seemingly more irritated than frightened.

“Or — a test,” Groton said. “We had to demonstrate a certain type of competence to gain admittance, after the strictly sightseeing sections were finished. Perhaps we shall have to demonstrate more, before being permitted to leave.”

They looked at Ivo, who was floating a little apart from the others, and he looked at the thing in his hands.

“Try the same tune you did before,” Afra suggested. “Just to be sure.”

He played “Drink to Me Only” again. Nothing happened. He tried several other simple tunes, and the sound came at them from all over the unbounded chamber, not simple at all, but they remained as they were: four people drifting in nebulosity.

“I persist in suspecting that the key is musical,” Groton said. “Why else that instrument, obviously neither toy nor exhibit. So far we may only have touched on its capability.”

“Do you know,” Ivo said thoughtfully, “Lanier believed that the rules for poetry and music were identical, and he tried to demonstrate this in his work. His flute-playing was said to be poetically inspired, and much of his poetry was musically harmonious. He even—”

“Very well,” Afra said, unsurprised and still unworried, though the web of the spider seemed to be tightening. “Let’s follow up on Lanier. He wrote a travelogue of Florida, one poor novel, and the poems ‘Corn,’ ‘The Marshes of Glynn,’ The Symphony’—”

“The Symphony!” Groton said it, but they all had reacted to the title. “Would that be — ?”

“Play it, Ivo!” Beatryx said.

“The Symphony” was poetry, not music; there was no prescribed tune for it. But Ivo lifted the instrument and felt the power come into his being, for he had dreamed of setting this piece to music many times. He had never had the courage to make the attempt, on his own initiative. But here was his chance to make something of himself and his talent; to find out whether he could open, musically, the door to the riddle that was the destroyer.

There was music in meaning, and meaning in music, and they were very close to one another in the work of Sidney Lanier and in this poem in particular. Each portion of it was spoken by a different instrument, personified, and the whole was the orchestral symphony…

The macroscopic communications systems he had experienced shared this trait. Music, color, meaning — all were interchangeable, and he was sure some species communicated melodically on their homeworlds. A translation was possible, if he borrowed from galactic coding — and if he had the skill to do it accurately. He had learned to comprehend galactic languages, but he had never tried to translate
into
them. The music charged his hands and body — but could he render the
poetry?

The others waited, knowing his problem, searching for some way to help. Harold Groton, whose astrological interpretations could do no good in this situation; Afra Summerfield, whose physical beauty and analytical mind were similarly useless; Beatryx Groton, whose empathy could not enchant his suddenly uncertain fingers.

Analysis, empathy, astrology…

Then he saw that they
could
help, all of them. Just by being available.

Ivo began to play.

The mists receded; the shadowless darkness evaporated. In the grandeur of sound the vision came, vastly mechanized: the image of the galaxy, cosmic dish of brilliance turning about its nebulous axis, trailing its spiral arms, radiating into space a spherical chord of energy of which the visible spectrum was less than one percent.

Then came the planets, recognizably Solarian, superimposed upon the nebular framework: Pluto, Neptune, Uranus, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Venus, Mercury, Luna. And it was as though they rolled around within that bowl at differing velocities, Sol rolling too, and Earth at the center. Merged with that was a second bowl, that shifted against the first without friction: galactic and planetary roulette. The combined motions were diverse and complex; it seemed that no eye could trace where within that melee all the planets were at any given moment or how the bowls aligned. Only if the action stopped could such a survey be accomplished — and such a cessation would destroy it all.

It could not be halted — but it could be photographed, in a manner, and such pictures revealed unique aspects. For the two concavities were marked off in quarters, and each quarter in thirds: twenty-four sections between them, twelve against twelve. Each of these was an open chamber wherein a planet might lodge forever, once caught by the flash of the camera. And the flashes came, four of them, making the planets freeze and the two bowls mesh together, binding themselves to the configurations of the instant; and in each case a form of existence was thereby set.

The motions were such that
only
the instant fixed the ratios; had the action been halted a fraction sooner or later, an entirely different configuration would have resulted, and reality would have deviated by that amount.

This, then, the symphony of motion and meaning, embracing all experience. The instant of its theoretic cessation, that fixation of all planets, was the horoscope.

There was the swell of massed strings as Ivo descended to the circle of pie-shaped pens, searching out the fire symbols. He found a lion with flaming mane and passed it by; a centaur with drawn bow, the arrow a torch, and gave a nod to the archer that was not himself; and the ram. Here he tarried, approaching the animal with caution. The blades of its pasture were red spears of conflagration and the hairs of its body were coils of spreading smoke, but it was the head that predominated. Upon one mighty horn was written ASPIRATION and upon the other, TRADE.

“O Trade! O Trade! would thou wert dead!” Ivo exclaimed, quoting the words of the poet in the language of music: themes of the violin.

But Aries the Ram turned his molten head and snorted fire. “The beasts they hunger, and eat, and die; And so do we, and the world’s a sty; Hush fellow swine; Why nuzzle and cry?
Swinehood hath no remedy
.”

And Ivo was afraid of this enormous beast, that spoke of other beasts and was so close to him that its very gaze seemed to burn his flesh, and he comprehended its power and determination. But still he tried: “Does business mean,
Die, you
—
live, I?
Then ‘Trade is trade’ but sings a lie: ’Tis only war grown miserly.”

Aries pointed one horn at a scorched scroll illuminated in the massed-string surge, and Ivo read:

Formal galactic history commences with the formation of the first interstellar communications network. Only scattered authentic prior evidences exist for the employment of artificial macronics, and these may be disregarded as transitory phenomena of insignificant galactic moment.

The first two cultures to establish a dialogue were only two hundred light-years apart; but a thousand years elapsed from the onset of broadcasting to confirmation. The second culture received the signals of the first and comprehended them, but delayed some time before deciding to respond. It is conjectured that conservative elements within that culture feared the long-range effect of a dialogue with complete aliens: a caution that was justified if value was placed on the status quo.

During the second millennium fifteen additional cultures joined the network, having observed the successful interchange of the first pair and having gained confidence thereby. This was the nucleus of primitive galactic civilization.

Within a hundred thousand years the initial signal had traversed the galaxy and gone beyond, diffusing into the entropy of macronic debris; but its originator had ceased broadcasting within ten thousand, presumably because of species decline or natural catastrophe. It had not been, in retrospect, a particularly notable culture; it owes its distinction in galactic history solely to the fact that it was the first to precipitate the network. Others, however, stimulated by that sample period, remained active, and the total number of participants increased steadily for the first several million years. Eventually the number stabilized, ushering in the so-called main phase.

Spheres of influence developed, the extent of each determined by the relative commencement time of broadcast the level of knowledge provided, the endurance of the originating culture and the compatibility of neighboring cultures. Certain stations, having nothing original to contribute, closed down and were lost to history. Some became intermittent, doing little more than announcing their presence every millennium or so. Some became “service” stations, relaying material gathered and correlated from others. Some merely acknowledged prevailing broadcasts and expressed identification with the more notable ones. A few broadcast without reference to incoming signals, in this manner avoiding direct competition for prestige.

Thus fairly stable spheres developed amid the general chaos, centered on the most durable and knowledgeable stations. This stability extended beyond individual broadcasters, for when a major station desisted lesser ones would fill its place and continue disseminating its information. Quite a number of prominent spheres were based on long-defunct cultures, since the quality of knowledge developed transcended the details of species or culture. Overall civilization gradually expanded, as individual species profited by the knowledge of their neighbors. At times dominance within a sphere would shift, as a pupil became more vigorous than the instructor; but generally the leading cultures maintained their positions, owing perhaps to greater inherent species ability. This main phase endured for about a hundred million years, and almost all the early cultures were replaced by later ones who could lay claim to very little original knowledge. The time of pioneering was over, galactically, and it seemed that the ultimate in civilization had been attained.

The onset of the First Siege altered this situation drastically. This came in the form of an extragalactic broadcast that intercepted the galaxy broadside and thus saturated it within a few thousand years. This was the first intergalactic communicatory contact made, apart from faint, blurred signals of relatively primitive culture. This one was advanced: more sophisticated in knowledge and application than any hitherto known. By its mere existence it proved that the local level of civilization and technology was fledgling rather than mature. It presented a technique until this point thought to be beyond animated physical capability: the key to what amounted to instantaneous travel between the stars of the galaxy.

It was hailed as a miracle. No longer was commerce confined to the intellect. For the first time, divergent planetary species were able to make physical contact.

But the wiser cultures saw it for what it was
—
and could not cry the alarm before the consequences were upon them.

The stellar constellation known on Earth as Aries was not a true association of stars at all, for some were relatively close to the planet and others were far removed, in that apparent region of space. Yet this could be construed as a segment of the galaxy, and within it were numerous cultures. In this time of interstellar travel, empires were forming; and it was to one of these that Schön journeyed.

As Ivo had found himself at the Hegemony of Tyre, so Schön landed on an Earth-type but alien planet, feeling its gravity and breathing its atmosphere. There was vegetation, similar in function if not in detail to that of Earth, and there was what passed for civilization.

The planet appeared to be at war.

Schön assimilated the situation almost immediately. He proceeded to the nearest recruiting office. “I am a talented alien in need of employment,” he said to the boothed official.

The beetle-browed, facet-eyed creature contemplated him. “I grant you are alien — sickeningly so,” it honked. “If you are verbally talented, I suggest you make use of your ability to show cause why I should not vaporize you where you stand on your repulsive meaty digits, in three minutes or less.”

Schön could tell by the shade of its carapace that it was suspicious. “Obviously you suspect me of being a representative of a hostile power, since I perceive you are on a war, er, footing here.” The hesitation reflected the creature’s absence of feet. “Obviously, too, I
could
be a spy or saboteur, since the ability to penetrate your defenses without observation is a requisite for that trade. And my direct approach to you is no guarantee that my motives are innocent; I could be holding a radiation bomb triggered to go off the moment you blast me. That would be my employer’s guarantee that my failure to insinuate myself into your military machine could not lead to awkward exposure of his vile designs. I would naturally prefer to preserve my life and quietly gather whatever useful information I could while maintaining scrupulous cover. I should for that reason be an excellent employee of yours, since suspicion would naturally center on my activities and only months or years of excellent and unimpeachable service could dissipate this doubt — by which time the present crisis should long since be over and my employer could be allied to yours. But if I cannot accomplish this, at least my employer may have the satisfaction of knowing that a cubic mile of this planet’s lithosphere — perhaps a trifle less, if the shoddy workmanship of the past is any criterion — has been rendered uninhabitable by my radioactive demise. Two of my three minutes are done; you may keep the third.”

The creature paused, almost as though in doubt. “Will you accede to fluoroscopic examination?”

“Certainly. But that could be construed as an uncertainty on your part that your superiors would surely question. It would be wiser to blast me right now, before any such complications develop.”

“If you are armed as you describe, that would be disastrous.”

“Perhaps I am bluffing. A bluff is certainly cheaper than a bomb, particularly in these days of runaway inflation.”

“If you are bluffing, then you are probably not a spy and there is no
need
to blast you. In fact it could be an inadequacy on my record. If you are
not
bluffing—”

“There is something in what you say, and I commend your perspicacity. Still, I must point out that I could be a real spy who is bluffing merely about the bomb. That is more likely, don’t you agree, than my being an innocent person
with
a bomb.”

“If you
were
innocent, you wouldn’t
have
a bomb.”

Schön shrugged in eloquent defeat not untinged with a hint of well-concealed bad grace. “Have it your way.”

“Assuming that you are a spy, whether armed or unarmed, how could I best deal with you without risking my own life or record?”

“That’s an excellent question. You will no doubt think of much better alternatives, but all that occurs to me at the moment is the possibility of referring the case to your immediate superior, as a matter warranting his discretion.”

It was expeditiously done. After an essentially similar dialogue, Schön was bounced up another link in the chain of command. And another. Eventually he spoke to the chief of intelligence.

“We are satisfied that you are what you claim to be,” the Chief said. “Namely, a talented alien in need of employment. You are also of a physical stock not on record in the galactic speciology, but you are too clever to have been trained on a primitive planet. The probability is, then, that you
are
a spy for someone — but we hesitate to interrogate you thoroughly until we can be sure you are not an observer from a quote friendly unquote or at least neutral power. Since we have at the moment only one potential enemy and several thousand potential allies, and since we are not adverse to assistance, it behooves us to deal cautiously with you. Probability suggests you are an asset — but how can we minimize the risk?”

“Just don’t try to send me to any temple of Baal.”

“Pardon?”

“It would be expeditious to offer me compensation that is somewhat greater than the amount my overt services warrant. That way, I would be inclined to transfer my allegiance to you, in the event it was not already with your planet. Spies are notoriously underpaid, you know.”

The Chief vibrated a follicle against his beak. “Surely you realize that this is a ridiculous proposition? We would not possibly—”