The Fugitive Worlds (16 page)

They are five in number, Beloved Creator,
the Xa said.
All are female, which is unusual if our limited experience of this
race is anything to go by.

Are they aware of the station? Or of you?

There was a short pause.
No, Beloved Creator. The ship,
which is one of the group we saw previously, is returning to
its home world for reasons which, although they are not clear to me, are obviously connected with the emotional well-being of its commander. There is no thought of observing or investi
gating our activities.

The communication from the Xa was correctly and cour
teously formed, but it contained shadings of mind-colors
which seemed inappropriate. Divivvidiv associated them with
malice and gloating, and he had little trouble in identifying
the most likely source.

Do you predict that we will be observed?

It is almost inevitable,
the Xa replied.
In fact, it is almost
inevitable that there will be a collision. The Primitive ship is
experiencing virtually no lateral drift, and
—
as you know
—
my body is now expanding at its maximum rate.

Divivvidiv withdrew at once into the high-brain mode so
that he could ponder the problem without being overheard
by the Xa. The extermination of five uncultured bipeds
would be an utterly trivial occurrence—especially when one considered the events which were soon to overtake this entire
region of space—but he would have to take the decision in
person. And the deaths would be
close.

Those facts, coupled with his direct involvement, would
forge a mental link between him and the five whose lives
were to be brought to a close and, inescapably, he would be
caught up in each reflux. The reflux was the brief, incredibly
fierce and inexplicable burst of psychic activity which always
occurred one or two seconds after the death of an intelligent
being. Even when the physical form was instantaneously
vaporized, and in theory no further mental interaction with
the living could possibly take place, there always came that
searing pang—excruciating, chastening, ineffable,
poignant
—that momentary spiritual refulgence which had a profoundly disturbing effect on those who felt it.

The fact that the reflux happened at all was taken by many
as proof of the continuance of the personality after death.
Some component of the mind-body complex was migrating
to a new existence, it was claimed. Others of a more material
istic nature seized on the way in which the strength of the
reflux faded with distance as an indication that there
were realms of physics which Dussarran science had yet to
explore.

Divivvidiv did not adhere to either school of thought, but he had been close to reflux epicenters twice in his life—when his parents had died—and he had no wish to repeat the experience if it could be avoided. Morality was powerfully reinforced by self-interest, leaving him in a dilemma which he would have to resolve quickly if he were to meet his obligations to the all-important Xa.

Part crystal, part computer, part sentient being—the Xa could only grow to the size necessary for its eventual purpose in a region where there was a complete absence of gravity, coupled with an abundance of oxygen. The Dussarrans had been fortunate in finding such an environment within reach of their original home, but the existence of a burgeoning technical society on the twin worlds was an unwelcome complication to their plans, mainly because the Xa's structure —in spite of being so huge—was comparatively fragile. The Primitives were capable of damaging it, with or without malicious intent, and therefore had to be controlled like vermin if they came near.

Divivvidiv considered the problem for a short time, then arrived at a solution which satisfied his fondness for the creative compromise. It would involve his going outside the station's pressurized living quarters so that he could communicate privately and efficiently with Director Zunnunun on the home world, Dussarra. Luckily, the series of relocations had been successfully completed and Dussarra was now part of the local system, visible as a bright blue mote against the rich stellar background. At a range of only
a few million miles it would be easy to establish mind-to-mind
contact with Zunnunun with no risk of others intercepting the communication. Divivvidiv reverted to mid-brain mode and, with his eyes fixed on the image of the ship which was laboring up from the alien planet, contacted the Xa.

You have already told me that the Primitives are unaware of our presence,
he said.
Does that mean they are totally without means of direct communication?

There was a brief hesitation while the Xa carried out the necessary investigation.
Yes, Beloved Creator, the Primitives are completely passive in that respect.

Divivvidiv felt a surge of mingled revulsion and pity— how could any creature endure going through its entire existence in a condition of mind-blindness? The Primitives' lack of higher sense organs made them easier to deal with in this instance, but the cautious and meticulous side of Divivvidiv's nature prompted him to ask further questions.

Are they a belligerent race?

Yes, Beloved Creator.

Do they carry weapons?

Yes, Beloved Creator.

Extract a description of the weapons for me.

Another pause followed before the Xa spoke.
Their weapons employ solid lead projectiles expelled through tubes by the force of gases compressed in metal containers.
Simultaneously the Xa conveyed to Divivvidiv exact details of the dimensions and energy transference capabilities of the types of weapons the Primitives carried both on their persons and aboard their slow-moving craft.

Divivvidiv felt a growing sense of satisfaction as he became
certain there was no obstacle to the plan he had conceived for dealing with the approaching ship and its crew.

You are well pleased, Beloved Creator,
the Xa said.

Yes
—I
shall now return to my dream and await the arrival of the Primitives in comfort.

You are pleased because it will not be necessary for you to terminate the Primitives' lives.

Yes.

In that case, Beloved Creator, why does it not trouble you that soon you will kill me?

You do not understand these things.
Divivvidiv felt a sudden
impatience with the Xa and its obsession with preserving its own pseudo-life. Each time it returned to the subject his own
mind was clouded with dark thoughts of genocide, and—in
spite of the mental disciplines at which he was adept—the
echoes of those thoughts disturbed his dreams.

Toller knew it was only his imagination, but an abnormal
quietness seemed to have descended over the Five Palaces
area of Ro-Atabri. It was not the sort of quietness which
comes when human activity is in abeyance—it was more as
if an invisible blanket of soundproof material had been
pressed down over everything in his vicinity. When he looked
about him he could see evidence that carpenters and stone
masons were busy with their restoration work; bluehorns and
wagons were sending up clouds of dust which added scumbles
of yellow to the blue of the foreday sky; ground crew and
airmen were going about their business of getting the ships
ready for the round-the-world flight. Everywhere he looked
there was purposeful movement, but the noises of it seemed
to be reaching him through the filters of distance, attenuated,
lacking in relevance.

The flight was due to begin within the hour, and it was
that
fact—Toller knew—which was numbing his reactions, separating him from the perceived world of the senses. Nine
days had passed since Vantara's departure for Overland, and during that time he had sunk into a mood of depression and
apathy which had defied all efforts to overcome it.

When he should have been preparing his men and his ship
for the circumnavigation he had been lost in thought, living and reliving that strange hour with Vantara at the Migration
Day festivity. What had prompted her to behave as she had?
Knowing that she was on the eve of quitting the planet
altogether, she had raised him to the heights—he could still
feel
her lips against his, her breasts cupped in his hands—
only to dash him down again with her sudden callous aloof
ness. Had she been playing cat-and-mouse on a whim, passing a dull hour with a trivial game?

There were moments in which Toller believed that to be the case, and at those times he plumbed new depths of misery, hating the countess with a passion which could whiten his knuckles and rob him of speech in mid-sentence. At other
times he saw clearly that she had exerted herself to break down
barriers between them, that she considered him a person of value, and that she would indeed be waiting to receive him when next he set foot on Overland. In those periods of optimism Toller felt even worse, because he and his love—the finest and most desirable woman who had ever lived—were literally worlds apart, and he was unable to imagine how he could endure the coming years without seeing her.

He would stare up at the great disk of Overland, its convex vastness crossed again and again by streamers of cloud, and wish for some means of instantaneous communication between the sister planets. There had been fanciful talk of some day building huge sunwriters, with tilting mirrors as large as rooftops, which would have been capable of sending messages between Land and Overland. If such a device had existed Toller would have used it, not so much to talk to Vantara—bridging the interworld gulf in that unsatisfactory way might have made his yearnings even more insupportable —but to get in touch with his father.

Cassyll Maraquine had the power and influence to obtain his son a special release from the Land mission. In the past, before he had been touched by the madness of love, Toller had scorned such uses of privilege, but in his present state of mind he would have seized on the favor with unashamed greed. And now, to make matters worse, he was on the point of setting out on a voyage which would take him through the Land of the Long Days, that distant side of the planet where he would not even have the spare consolation of being able to see Overland and in his mind's eye watch over Vantara while she went about her oh-so-special life. . . .

"This will never do, young Maraquine," said Com
missioner Kettoran, who had approached Toller unnoticed,
making his way among piles of lumber and other supplies.
He was wearing the grey robe of his office, but without the official emblems of brakka and enamel. Another man of his rank might have sequestered himself in imposing quarters or
only ventured abroad with an entourage, but Kettoran liked
to wander unobtrusively and alone through the various sec
tions of the base.