No World of Their Own (15 page)

“They were beaten,” said the guard.

“Like hell they were, son. You can't beat a unified planet larger than all the others put together. The war was a draw, and you know it. The most Earth and Thor together could do, I'll bet, is mount guard on Thrym, keep the natives down there where they belong. Thor alone could only compromise, and take the short end of the stick at that. The Thrymans did win their point, you know; there aren't any human colonies on the Proximan planets.

“So I still wonder what Thrym's getting out of this deal.”

“I don't want to talk about it any longer!” said the guard angrily. “Go on back.”

Langley stood for a moment, considering the situation. There were no soldiers in the cell block except these two. The door was held by an electronic lock. Saris could open it with a mere effort of will. But the two young men were keyed to an almost hysterical pitch. At the first sign of anything unforeseen, they'd open up on their prisoners. There didn't seem to be any way out of here.

He turned back to Saris. “Got your thoughts uncoiled?” he asked.

“Somewhat.” The Holatan gave him a sleepy look. “You may be astonished at certain t'ingss I hawe to say.”

“Go ahead.”

“I cannot read the human mind—not its actual t'oughtss, only its pressence and its emotional state. Giwen time, I could learn to do more, but there iss not been time yet, ewen wit' you. But the T'rymanss hawe a wery long time had to study your race.”

“So they can read our thoughts, eh? Hmmm … bet Chanthavar doesn't know that! Then that inspection here they mentioned would have been via the superintendent's mind, I suppose. But are you sure?”

“Yess. It iss a certainly. Let me explain.”

The exposition was short and to the point. Every living nervous system radiates energy of several kinds. There are the electrical impulses, which encephalography had discovered in man even before Langley's time. There is a little heat; there is the subtler and more penetrating emission in the gyromagnetic spectrum. But the pattern varies: each race has its own norms. An encephalographer from Earth would not find the alpha rhythm of the human brain in a Holatan; he would have to learn a whole new “language.”

On most planets, including Earth, there is little or no sensitivity to such emissions. The evolving life develops reactions to such vibrations as light and sound and, these being sufficient for survival purposes, does not go on to an ability to “listen in” on nervous impulses. Except for a few dubious freaks—to this day, the subject of ESP in man was one for debate and bafflement—humanity is telepathically deaf. But on some planets, through a statistically improbable series of mutations, ESP organs do develop and most animals have them. In the case of Holat, the development was unique—the animal could not only receive the nervous impulses of others, but could at short range induce them. This was the basis of Holatan emotional empathy; it was also the reason Saris could control a vacuum tube. As if following some law of compensation, the perceptive faculty was poor on the verbal level; the Holatans used sonic speech because they could not get clear ideas across telepathically.

Thryman telepathy was of the “normal” sort: the monsters could listen in, but could not influence, except via the specialized nerve endings in their joined feelers.

So to read the thoughts of another being, they had to know that being's language first. And Saris and Langley habitually thought in languages unknown to them. What they detected was gibberish.

“I … see.” The man nodded. “It makes sense.” He smiled, grimly. “Keeping our mental privacy is one consolation, at least.”

“There iss others,” replied the Holatan. “I hawe a warning to giwe you. There iss soon to be an attack.”

“Huh?”

“Act not so alarmed. But the female you hawe—Marin iss her name? In her I hawe detected an electronic circuit.”

“What?” Langley sucked in his breath. There was an eerie tingle along his nerves. “But she—”

“In her iss been planted surgically a t'ing which I t'ink iss a wariable-frequency emitter. She can be traced. I would hawe told Walti, but was not then familiar wit' the human nerwous system. I t'ought it a normal pattern for your femaless, ewen ass ours iss different from the maless. But now that I hawe seen more of you, I realise the trut'.”

Langley felt himself shivering. Marin … Marin again! But how?

Then he understood. The time she had been seized and returned. It had been for a purpose, after all. Langley had not been the goal of that raid. An automatic communicator similar to Valti's, planted in her body by today's surgery—yes. And such a device would be short-range, which meant that only a system of detectors spotted around the planet could hope to follow her. And only Chanthavar could have such a system.

“God in heaven,” he groaned, “how many people's Judas goat is she, anyway?”

“We must be prepared,” said the Holatan calmly. “Our guardss will try to kill us in case of such, no? Forewarned, we may be able to—”

“Or to warn Brannoch?” Langley played with the idea a minute but discarded it. No. Even if the Centaurians got clean away, Sol's battle fleet would be on their heels; the war, the empty useless crazy war, would be started like an avalanche. Let Chanthavar win, then. It didn't matter.

Langley buried his face in his hands. Why keep on fighting? Let him take his lead like a gentleman when the raid came.

No. Somehow, he felt he must go on living. He had been given a voice, however feeble, in today's history; it was up to him to keep talking as long as possible.

It might have been an hour later that Saris' muzzle nosed him to alertness. “Grawity wibrationss. I t'ink the time iss now.”

XIV

A siren hooted. As its echoes rang down the hall, the guards jerked about, frozen for a bare instant.

The door flew open and Saris Hronna was through. His tigerish leap smashed one man into the farther wall. The other went spinning, to fall a yard away. He was still gripping his weapon. He bounced to his feet, raising the gun, as Langley charged him.

The spaceman was not a boxer or wrestler. He got hold of the gun barrel, twisting it aside, and sent his other fist in a right cross to the jaw. The Thorian blinked, spat blood, but failed to collapse. Instead, he slammed a booted kick at Langley's ankle. The American lurched away, pain like a lance in him. The Centaurian backed, lifting the musket. Saris brushed Langley aside in a single bound and flattened the man.

“Iss you well?” he asked, wheeling about. “Iss hurt?”

“I'm still moving.” Langley shook his head, tasting the acridness of defeat. “Come on! Spring the rest. Maybe we can still make a break during the fracas.'

Shots and explosions crashed through the other rooms. Valti stumbled forth, his untidy red head lowered bull-like. “This way!” he roared. “Follow me! There must be a rear exit.”

The prisoners crowded after him, running swiftly down the corridor to a door which Saris opened. A ramp led upward to ground level. Saris hunched himself—anything might be waiting beyond. But there was no alternative. The camouflaged entrance flew up for him, and he bounded into a late daylight.

Black patrol ships swarmed overhead like angry bees. There was a flyer near one of the buildings. Saris went after it in huge leaps. He was almost there when a blue-white beam from the sky slashed it in half.

Wheeling with a snarl, the Holatan seemed to brace himself. A police vessel suddenly reeled and crashed into another. They fell in flame. Saris sprang for the edge of the compound, the humans gasping in his wake. A curtain of fire dropped over his path. Valti shouted something, pointing behind, and they saw black-clad slave soldiers rushing from the underground section.

“Stop their weapons!” shrieked Langley. He had one of the muskets and he laid it to his cheek and fired. The crack of it and the live recoil were a glory to him. A man spun on his heel and fell.

“Too many.” Saris lay down on the bare earth, panting. “Iss more than I can handle. I had little hope for escape anyhow.”

Langley cursed and threw down his gun.

The corpsmen ringed them in, warily. “Sirs, you are all under arrest,” said the leader. “Please accompany us.”

Marin wept, quietly and brokenly, as she followed them.

Chanthavar was in the plantation office. The walls were ringed with guards, and Brannoch stood gloomily to one side. The Solarian was immaculate, and his cheerfulness hardly showed at all.

“How do you do, Captain Langley,” he said. “And Goltam Valti, sir, of course. I seem to have arrived in the well-known nick of time.”

“Go ahead,” said the spaceman. “Shoot us and get it over with.”

Chanthavar raised his brows. “Why such a flair for drama?” he asked.

An officer entered, bowed, and reeled off his report. The hideaway was taken, all personnel dead or under arrest, Solar casualties six killed and ten wounded. Chanthavar gave an order, and Saris was herded into a specially prepared cage and borne outside.

“In case you're wondering, Captain,” said the agent, “the way I found you was—”

“I know,” said the spaceman.

“Oh? Oh … yes, of course. Saris would have detected it. I was gambling there—didn't think he'd realize in time what it was, and apparently he didn't. There were other tracing procedures in readiness; this happens to be the one which worked.” Chanthavar's lips curved into his peculiarly engaging smile. “No grudges, Captain. You tried to do what seemed best, I'm sure.”

“How about us?” rumbled Brannoch.

“Well, my lord, the case clearly calls for deportation.”

“All right. Let us go. I have a ship.”

“Oh, no, my lord. We couldn't be so discourteous. The Technate will prepare transportation for you. It may take a while—even a few months—”

“Till you get a head start on the nullifier research. I see.”

“Meanwhile, you and your staff will kindly remain in your own quarters. I shall post guards to see that you are not … disturbed.”

“All right.” Brannoch forced his mouth into a sour grin. “I have to thank you for that, I suppose. In your position, I'd have shot me down out of hand.”

“Someday, my lord, your death may be necessary,” said Chanthavar. “At present, though, I owe you something. This affair is going to mean a good deal to my own position, you understand. There are higher offices than my present one, and they will soon be open for me.”

He turned back to Langley. “I've already made arrangements for you, Captain. Your services won't be required any longer. We have found a couple of scholars who can talk Old American, and between them and the hypnotic machines Saris can be given a near-perfect command of the modern language in a few days. As for you, a position and an apartment at the university in Lora has been fixed up. The historians, archeologists and planetographers are quite anxious to consult you. The pay is small, but you'll keep free-born rank.”

Langley said nothing. So he was to be taken out of the game already. That was the end.

Valti cleared his throat. “My lord,” he said pompously, “I must remind you that the Society—”

Chanthavar gave him a long stare through narrowed eyes. The smooth face had gone utterly expressionless. “You have committed criminal acts within the laws of Sol,” he said.

“Extraterritoriality—”

“It doesn't apply here. At best, you can be deported.” Chanthavar seemed to brace himself. “Nevertheless, I am letting you go free. Get your men together, take one of the plantation flyers and go on back to Lora.”

“My lord is most gracious,” said Valti. “May I ask why?”

“Never mind why. Get out.”

“My lord, I am a criminal. I confess it. I want a fair trial by a mixed tribunal as provided in Article VIII, Section 4, of the Treaty of Luna.”

Chanthavar's eyes were flat and cold. “Get out or I'll have you thrown out.”

“I demand to be arrested!” shouted Valti. “I insist on my right and privilege of clearing my own conscience. If you won't book me, I shall complain directly to the Technon.”

“Very well!” Chanthavar spat it out. “I have orders from the Technon itself to let you go scot-free. Why, I don't know. But it's an order; it came as soon as I filed report of the situation and of my intention to attack. Are you satisfied?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Valti blandly. “Thank you for your kindness. Good day, gentlemen.” He bowed clumsily and stumped out.

Chanthavar broke into a laugh. “Insolent old beetle! I didn't want to tell him, but he'd have learned it anyway in time. Now let him wonder along with the rest of us. The Technon gets mysterious now and then. A brain planning a thousand years ahead has to, I suppose.” He rose and stretched. “Let's go. Maybe I can still make that concert at Salma tonight.”

Langley blinked at the sunshine outside. The tropics of Earth had gotten still hotter in 5000 years. He saw a group of armed men boarding a military flyer, and there was a sudden wrenching in his heart.

“Chanthavar,” he asked, “can I say goodbye to Saris?”

“I'm sorry.” The agent shook his head, not without compassion. “I know he's your friend, but there have been too many risks taken in this business already.”

“Well … will I ever see him again?”

“Perhaps. We aren't brutes, Captain. We don't intend to mistreat him if he cooperates.” Chanthavar waved to a smaller machine. “I think that's yours. Goodbye, Captain. I hope to see you again sometime if I get the chance.” He turned and strode briskly off. The dust scuffed up under his buskins.

Langley and Marin entered the flyer. One silent guard went along and set the autopilot. The flyer rose smoothly, and the guard sat down in front of them to wait with drilled patience.