Lucifer Comet (2464 CE)

by Ian Wallace

  “Gentlepeople, I think you understand the problem. We will be ruled by you. Please caucus among yourselves for just a few minutes, and then someone may arise and offer a solution for viva voce decision.”

  After silence, a mutterbuzz. Nobody consulted Dorita; she stayed silent, gazing at the icebound. combat-tableau. And there were diversified stirrings within her.

  The chief representative of Centralia arose, and the mutterbuzz died. “Dr. Almagor, as my party perceives it, we are select people here, we know how to deal with risk—and we are even dispensable.” Nervous chuckles, very short. Centralia proceeded: “Our curiosity dictates that you unfreeze them alive and free. But we will listen to a different opinion.” He sat.

  The silence was total. Dorita found herself agreeing vigorously. Methuen, despite his eagerness to see the combat spectacle, was having another sort of thought.

  Said Almagor: “Hearing no further suggestion, I will call for the ayes and nays. And I fear I must request that the newskenner people remain silent; once the vote is in, if any newskenner person or anyone else wishes to depart ahead of the action, please come forward and I will let you out by a backstage exit before the final unfreezing. I now call for the ayes—”

  Coming clear on his thought, Methuen stood and barked: “Doctor, I have an alternate suggestion.”

  All turned to him. Almagor remarked: “This is Commander Methuen who brought in the comet. Yes, Commander?”

  Said Methuen, quietly, clearly: “I would like to see the combat, and I can take a risk. However, one or both of the specimens may die, and that is a high price to pay for instant curiosity. Can you keep them in suspended animation, for a subsequent awakening separately and in confinement?” When he sat, there was a small scattering of applause.

  Responded Almagor: “I had hoped for that sort of suggestion. The following can be done. I can prolong the suspense of their animation, de-ice them, move them somewhat farther apart, confine them separately in transparent capsules so they Can see each other, and then awaken them—right here, all in a matter of minutes.”

  The Secretary for Education, Science and Culture arose annoyed: “Pray do that, Doctor—and I don’t know why you didn’t offer this alternative in the first place.”

  Almagor gently chided: “It had to come from you people,

  Madam. And now I will call for the ayes and nays on Commander Methuen’s suggestion as amended by me; if the ayes have it, this will be done; if not, we will consider the recommendation from Centralia—”

  The ayes were unanimous. Dorita was disappointed, but she saw the sense of it. Nobody ever learned whether any of the newskenner people or anyone else would have arisen to depart if the vote had gone another way.

  A capsule-floor of nine square meters was placed immediately behind each creature, and a chair was centered on each floor. Assistants who stood behind each creature, outside the diminished ice cube, caught the specimens as they fell backward when the last ice dropped away, dragged them to the chairs, got them balanced sitting erect with drooping heads, got out of the way. Over each creature was then lowered a bottomless transparent box constituting walls and ceiling for each capsule; in each, one wall was high-doored for magnetically controlled ingress or egress; there was a small door opening off an inside shelf in each capsule, obviously for introduction of food and water; and along the back wall of each capsule was a washing-and-stooling unit. An air-tube led from each ceiling. Almagor had been entirely ready for this decision, obviously he had hoped for it; but Zorbin reflected that Almagor hadn’t managed his crowd very well in order to get it. Technicians adhesive-sealed walls to floors. The two capsules now stood five meters apart; they were slide-pushed toward each other along the stage floor until they were no more than a meter apart, with the inert specimens facing each other.

  The specimens were awakened.

  Integrating swiftly, they came out of their chairs; the bat-creature slammed himself against the capsule-glassoid while the humanoid shattered his spear against the glassoid of his prison. The calmly intent humanoid was much taller than Almagor, slender, beardless despite millennia in space, fair of hair and brown of skin, with a penile semi-erection in combat. The monster had the head and crouch of a Neanderthal; he was yellowish green, wings and all, and coarse orange-red-haired all over except as to the naked-skin wings; the forehead was back-sloped, the post-orbital ridges prominent, the chin shallow-receding although the jaws were heavy; he had long tip-yellow fangs, his fingernails and toenails were dirty-sharp-long, his combat-erectus was total; his batwing-spread was three evil meters.

  Both of them seemed instantly to comprehend that they were somehow thwarted; the humanoid sank infuriated into his chair, roaring nonsense in basso profundo, while the winged brute laid big flat hands against his glassoid and falsetto-gibbered defiance. Some zany in the audience began to applaud, and a few suggestibles joined in: it was almost as good as a real fight; Dorita stared around, Methuen glared around—these were VIPs?

  The creatures, evidently hearing the applause, became aware of the spectators. The humanoid came erect, and both creatures swiveled to study the theater; seeing this, Almagor signed to somebody backstage who raised the theater lighting. The specimens looked at each other; they looked at the spectators. The humanoid said something to the batwing, who spread wide arms in a universal gesture of puzzlement; both continued staring at spectators. There was no need for Almagor to comment (and he did not) that evidently each had reoriented himself and realized that something astounding had happened to him.

  Dorita had an idea and could not resist calling out from her seat: “Doctor, I have a suggestion!”

  Almagor and many spectators looked for the source of the voice. The doctor requested; “Madam, will you please arise and identify yourself?”

  “Identification not necessary,” seated Dorita purred; “my suggestion will stand on its own feet. It is clear that both creatures are speaking intelligently, using language, and they understand each other; but the humanoid sounds like a recording played much too slow, and the monster sounds like one played too fast. Tell me, are the sounds of these creatures being flaked?”

  “Of course, and I think I anticipate your excellent suggestion. You want me to play back the sounds of the humanoid faster and those of the monster slower.”

  “Right, sir.”

  But before this could be done, the humanoid went into astonishing action. With dignity he began to harangue the audience, in basso profundo largo, standing erect without concern for his nakedness and slowly turning to address all quarters of the theater. And all the time the humanoid was doing this, the bat-creature crouched, obviously gibing, chittering squeaky counterpoint to the rumble-roar of the orator.

  Now the humanoid paused, stared, spread arms and hands in broad exasperation, dropped them in defeat, sat, stared helpless at his enemy—who squatted silent-glowering. Both were now entirely detumescent.

  Said Almagor: “I will play it all back in modified tempos as the lady has suggested.”

  He replayed everything. The humanoid’s voice came through with speed-up as rich low baritone, speaking what was clearly language, excited at first as it imprecated the foe, calm and measured as it addressed the audience. The slowed voice of the bat-creature was jerky guttural tenor, equally language, first angry-aroused, then possibly jeering—some of the listeners sensed untranslatable profanity. Both creatures were startled by the replays, then most attentive, perhaps recognizing their own voices, perhaps not….

  Zorbin, a Tellenic Sinite, whispered to his chief: “Believe it or not, in their talking I get a faint sense of bad Tellene.” Methuen stared at the humanoid: his features might be Tellenic, and then again they might not; as for the bat-creature, he was Neanderthal—or he was Satan.

  Feeling personally involved, Methuen stood. “Doctor Almagor, it must be evident to ail present that these are intelligent creatures from a remote planet or perhaps from two planets. In view of our ignorance about the comet�
�s trajectory, it is even possible that one or both of them lived on Erth in the era which we call paleolithic. It should also be clear that the humanoid despite his nakedness may well represent a civilization or pre-civilization; and that the other despite his monstrous appearance at least represents a culture.

  “I propose that they be confined separately in comfortable circumstances for medical study and for questioning by selected people in several disciplines. I would hope to be one of those selected; and my aide here, Lieutenant Zorbin, who has a sense for language among his many excellent qualities, ought also to be selected if I am selected.” He sat.

  ESC Secretary Farragut asserted from her seat: “Good idea; I endorse it. My department will be able to provide any sort of expert required.”

  Interjected the legate of Centralia: “We can provide an expert in linguistics; this will be fundamental.”

  Others wished to speak, but Almagor interrupted. “Mr. Secretary, we are in Norwestia and I do sense political implications. I leave the decisions to you.”

  By discussion’s end, a rather cumbersome task force had been designated: Commander Methuen (embarrassingly as chairman), Lieutenant Zorbin (as staff consultant), and ten expert scientists to be named within the week by the ten Erth-world constellations other than Norwestia (which Methuen would be representing). It could prove an ill-assorted task force with some useful disciplines overlooked and others duplicated; but this was a speedy method of reaching action-agreement, and the task force could be refined with more experience. The Secretary expressed hope that Dr. Almagor’s people would meanwhile be proceeding with all related scientific studies; Almagor gave assurance that this was already in progress and would continue, and he added that close rapport between himself and Chairman Methuen would advance the work of both.

  Methuen stood again; he felt hideously under-ranked for chairing so potent a task force, but he was resolute to do the job. “Excuse me, Mr. Secretary, but I should like permission to conduct beginning interviews with the specimens as early as tomorrow, and the other task-force members may come in as they may arrive.” This was granted; it was a chairman’s prerogative. The General Commander of Astrofleet, who was present, made a mental note to promote Methuen tomorrow; Methuen was evidently ready, and it would strengthen his hand as task-force chairman.

  Dorita, of course, had no part in the arrangement. But the business had inflamed her curiosity and her ambition to action-pique, and she was determined to be in somehow. And Dorita thought she knew how.

  7

  It was no trouble at all for Dorita to locate Methuen, knowing his name, rank, and service. It was promising to learn that he lived in a bachelor apartment building. Since he was new-back from space, he probably. … On the other hand, he had looked and sounded like an officer who was ambitious, clever, self-contained, and project-oriented; perhaps tonight he had brushed the woman question aside in order to meditate the extraplanetary-creature question. She was perfectly capable of getting in to the alien creatures at night alone; but it would be helpful if she could do it in company with the commander. It looked like a job for shrewd sex; she hadn’t practiced that much, just a little bit to hone a useful skill; but perhaps a new-unspaced Methuen might overlook gaucheries.

  She chanced phoning him at 1930 hours. He was in, wearing (as the visiscreen showed) fleet dress pants and an open-collar white shirt which he probably hadn’t changed since this afternoon, although presumably he had gone out to eat. Methuen was immediately interested in the image of his caller: Dorita had fixed herself up, not much but enough.

  She told him, pouring on girl-coo: “Sir, my name is Miss Dorita Lanceo, I am a teaching fellow at Smith College. I was present at the creature-unfreezing today; I am the one who suggested the tempo-changes in the audio.” The part about Smith College was crap, but he’d probably accept it for now.

  He was courteously cautious. “What can I do for you, Miss Lanceo?”

  She stayed business-cool, but three buttons of her own shirt were open. “My field is extraplanetary psycho-anthropology, so naturally I have a professional interest in these creatures. Perhaps I could be of some help to you. Could I meet with you this evening, to discuss possible futurities?” For now, she omitted throwing him an affirmative suggestion, wanting to see how it might go without that.

  She could see him examining frankly her face and more furtively the top of her shirt. He said presently, “Could you be here in an hour?”

  “Perfect.”

  “You know my address, since you know my telephone number?”

  “Right. Is that all for now?”

  “I look forward to meeting you, although I can’t promise anything. Out for now.”

  En route in a robocab, she decided that Methuen would be interesting, no ordeal at all.

  Still dressed the same, he welcomed her and seated her in a compact and rather straight chair, although there were easy chairs and a sofa. He offered a drink; she specified bourbon and water, half and half; he nodded; when he returned with two drinks, it was evident that he had Scotch and water—she knew the color difference. She had a long cigarette in her fingers; he lit it for her, but apparently he carried a lighter only for courtesy. He relaxed in an easy chair, sipping, watching her. She sat prim with her knees together, but she still wore her partly open shirt.

  Each waited for the other to begin. The drinks were half consumed and her cigarette was done and stubbed out while they watched each other.

  Methuen was finding her enormously desirable, and this made him enormously wary. Once, when he had been a young ensign getting ready for a clandestine date with an older single, an experienced and cynical barracks-mate had told him: “Watch out, B.J., because you aren’t the kind of guy who ought to play around, you will feel unnecessary guilt and make some bad mistakes.” Methuen had tossed this off; he had gone ahead and seduced the woman (without much trouble, later he had realized), and thereafter had gone into constrictions of ambivalent guilt, conscience-certain that he should offer to marry her, ambition-sure that he wanted to stay unencumbered. It had turned out to be a silly conflict because the woman was a free soul. On the other hand, the next time a similar thing had happened and he had played it cynical-free, the girl had come up as an innocent thing who got pregnant an6. did want him to marry her; and the two-way laceration incident to his tortuous operation of cutting himself loose was an experience which still haunted him. Since that time, Methuen had played it with great care, practicing for the most part a priestly continence. Once, on a far planet, he had experienced high romance; even this had ended in frustration, because the woman had ultimately tossed him over in favor of her husband.

  Despite his mercilessly self-appraising introspection, Methuen could not measure the degree to which these woman-experiences had influenced his meticulous caution in the planning stages before committing himself to action. Perhaps it was merely that he was a consequence-projecting kind of joe; and whenever he had rashly abandoned consequence-projection with women, disaster or at least guilt had resulted—which confirmed, for him, the rightness of being meticulous in all things, for him. He held no brief against those who could succeed intuitively-impctuously; he could not do so, that was all. Besides, conscience he did have, and his conscience was an astutely rigorous master, and he wanted it so. Impetuous winners broke lives; he thought it unright to do this when it could be avoided. Whenever he balanced consequences, these were primarily consequences for Erthworld and for Astrofleet, secondarily for individuals affected, tertiarily for Methuen; but he had to remember that if his way was good, he must preserve himself in order to preserve his way.

  He was not at all self-righteous. Rather, more than the average man, he was aware of his weaknesses, and he wanted to surmount them if he could.

  As now he looked upon child-seductive Dorita, who obviously was ready to use her sexuality in order to obtain something from him, he was balancing the consequences of this indulgence, first for Erthworld and Astrofleet, secondarily for
this Dorita who could be hurt, tertiarily for himself. Before he could decide and act, he needed to know more.

  Dorita, who had been reading all this thought-web (admirable in him but time-wasteful for her), leaned toward him, allowing her young breasts to blossom beneath her shirt, and told him softly: “Sir, let me begin by saying candidly that I am not associated with Smith or any other college, that was a number to get through your door. I do feel that I have qualifications to help you with these extraplanetary creatures. I will do anything, anything at all, to help you.”

  It might not hurt to test her, the response might establish a thing or two. He leaned toward her: “The situation here is a bit stiff, Miss Lanceo. Could we perhaps talk better in bed?”

  Finding this a splendid idea, Dorita nevertheless played it cute. She caused her face and what showed of her bosom to flush, her eyes widened, her mouth went round, and she answered quite evenly: “I am complimented, but perhaps you do not understand that I came here tonight entirely on business.”

  He pressed it, not sure what he would do if she should yield. “My dear Miss Lanceo, you are not being realistic at all. You are a beautiful young thing of—what? sixteen?”

  “Eighteen,” she lied by one year; it might give him more confidence, he was not the sort who would pruriently want to play around with adolescent girls.

  “Eighteen, then; but sixteen is how you look, and that happens to be a woman-age peculiarly seductive to a sex-hungry spacer. You come at night to my apartment, offering no genuine credentials, saying you want to help me but not explaining how, insisting that to help me you will do anything at all. Either you are sexually aroused by my notoriety, or you have some ulterior motive. Either way, I suggest that bed is the best place to discuss it.” And as she raised a hand and opened her mouth, he amended: “Or, if bed is too messy, you may prefer to hit the carpet. You’ll notice that it is new shag.” Sipping, he watched her.