by Brian Lumley
Shing was a blue world similar to Earth but ancient beyond words, whose moon stood off far distant, golden and uncratered. The surface of the planet was all of four-fifths water, a single shallow ocean laving the shores of three great green continents, whose mountains had been rounded by the ages and in many places worn down to little more than hills. Away from Shing the star, on Shing the planet’s night side, its cities blazed like diamond incrustations: twinkling patches of white fire, webbed together in the darkness of a sleeping world.
I showed you Yamp, the gas giant on the system’s rim, the Khiff whispered, so as not to disturb Scott’s thoughts, and now you see Shing . . . as it used to be and as Shania saw it. Inward lies another world: small, steamy Zull; hot and untenable, with acid lakes and swamps. There, see?
In the far distance, in toward the sun, Zull was a ball of swirling cloud, of small interest to Scott. And beyond Zull the sun itself, Shing: a great silver orb blazing with nuclear heat still, but by no means as hot as Sol.
Shing the star would have died eventually, of her own accord, said the Khiff. Alas that she wasn’t given the chance, and her billions of remaining years all stolen in a single moment’s madness.
The view-screen reverted to Shing the planet, then changed again to show the gas giant Yamp passing to stern. And this was where we were, said the Khiff, when our sensors detected a vast gravitic disturbance and our alarm system warned us to turn and flee! A ship was leeching on Yamp’s innermost moon, a satellite heavy in gold—and it was using the entire mass for its propulsive purposes!
Scott saw a beam of white light, thin as a pencil, reaching from deep space past the debris of Yamp’s rings to a small moon that was speeding across the gas giant’s mottled disc.
Shania saw the same thing, said the Khiff, for these are her memories. And of course I saw it through Shania. We traced the beam telepathically—and so heard the crazed laughter of the Mordri Three! But that is something I do not wish to remember for you, and not even for myself!
The scene in the view-screen spun through one hundred eighty degrees; Scott felt momentarily dizzy, and Shania’s arms tightened around him. But now the stars were literally hurtling past her ship; in another moment they blurred into nothingness and were gone, and there was only an opaque grey mistiness.
Gravity drive, said the Khiff. But even at this speed, a speed beyond imagination, still we were fortunate to escape the effect of what the Mordris had done. Indeed, it was felt in all the levels of space and time! Scientists on Earth many billions of light-years away have yet to feel it. But eventually—and if your world is still here, and if it still has scientists all those billions of years from now—they may yet record it as an immense burst of gamma radiation!
Such concepts were stupefying in their magnitude; Scott’s mind whirled; but as yet he still hadn’t actually witnessed the destruction of the Shing system.
“Hearing” his thoughts, Shania’s Khiff sighed and answered him: Well, if you must, then you must. So be it. This is what my Shania saw:
Out there in deep space, perhaps a whole light-year beyond the Shing system, the Mordri ship issued its FTL converter beam at Yamp’s innermost moonlet. The beam served a dual purpose; on the one hand reducing that gold-heavy satellite to stony rubble and blue-grey grit, and on the other drawing energy released in the conversion back to the Mordri ship to power its flight. But the ship required only a tiny fraction of the converted energy, while the rest must expend itself elsewhere. Which it did.
Racing away from that vast wrenching, that gigantic space-time spasm, Shania’s ship was caught in its outermost flux and dragged out of gravity drive. Spun end over end in the massive shock wave, the ship’s automatic stabilizer came into play and likewise the view-screen—which flickered in fact into replay—letting Shania, and now Scott, witness what had happened to the Shing system.
On the screen:
The region where Yamp’s moon had been was the center of an awesome, blinding, expanding sphere of brilliant light; but the moon itself was no longer there! Atomised, it was the fuel of a nuclear fire that was hotter than the ancient sun itself. Yamp, the gas giant, was hit like a bubble in a firestorm, evaporating in a moment. But that was only the beginning . . .
Other than the things Scott had learned in various discussions with Shania, he wasn’t at all ignorant of science and its theories of space and time. Now he remembered reading in a popular scientific journal something about the so-called Big Bang, the beginning of the universe, and recalled that there had been a theoretical period of FTL expansion called “inflation,” which attempted to explain why the universe appeared to have happened everywhere at once. But he’d never thought he might see such an incredible expansion for himself. Yet here it was, in the view-screen:
A vast sphere of purest energy, with what was once Yamp’s innermost satellite at its center, its incredible growth was so much faster than the energy and even the light it was made of. Shing was immediately enveloped, vaporised along with its many millions of dwellers, the Shing’t, who had never known what hit them. Then the swamp world Zull: reduced first to gas and without a single second’s pause to its most basic elements, energy itself.
And finally ancient Shing, making it a double catastrophe.
Supernova! said Shania’s Khiff. But it made no difference, for the Shing system was already dead. And my Shania was fortunate that she—and I—had not died with it. Indeed, we still might have! We put on speed but couldn’t outpace it, and in the very last moment before being overtaken we locked on to a gravity wave and reengaged the drive . . .
Later, tracking the gravity wake of the Mordri vessel, we followed behind . . . only to witness more terror, death, and destruction.
Then as the darkness—the normal darkness behind Scott’s eyelids—returned, the Khiff said, I have shown you what you wanted to see, remembered it for you. Now tell me, Scott: have you seen enough?
“God, yes!” Scott answered in a hoarse whisper, still disorientated, half-stunned by the experience. “More than enough, I think.”
Then now I shall leave you. For while you bade me welcome, I can only be at home with my Shania . . .
Scott felt limp, exhausted. He forced himself to his feet, went and stood by his desk, took up his mug of coffee that had gone stone cold some time ago. His blood felt cold, too; it ran cold in his veins. But still he sipped at the coffee, tasted the bitterness and pulled a face, and finally said, “That’s what these bastard maniacs have planned for us?”
“Yes,” said Shania, still seated on the couch. “Certainly for your world and your people, if not the entire solar system. I doubt if there’s sufficient gold in all your world to do that much damage. But as for the Earth: its crust will suffer a meltdown; its mantle will overheat, erupt; the heavy metals in its core may even explode. There will be no chance for life of any kind . . . all of it gone in nanoseconds.”
“But why? Why did they do it? Why will they do it again?”
“Haven’t I explained? They deny a Higher Power. They defy Deity, and seek to confront it, whatever it is. They attempt to confirm their belief—no longer a theory but to them a fact—that creation was a natural event and not brought about through the will of any . . . any Superior Intelligence, this Creator, in which they don’t believe. They continue to pursue precisely the same course that drove them to experiment and caused their madness in the first place. They have ‘reasoned’—if such a word may be applied to them—that beneficial acts cannot produce a result: ‘God’ won’t react to what He expects of His creatures; but surely He will react to evil, the destruction of His creatures! Therefore, if there is a God, He will confront the Mordri Three and strike them down. But so far their case seems proven, at least in their ‘rationale.’ For as yet no such Being has so much as cried out against their evil, let alone threatened them or challenged it!”
Shania paused to catch her breath, then said, “Scott, you asked why they’ve done what they’ve done, and why they con
tinue to do it. And I’ve done my best to answer you. But now you tell me something: does madness really need a reason?”
After a moment’s thoughtful silence, Scott said, “Shania, do you know what all of this means to me? Boiled down, it simply means that these Mordris are godless. And I think maybe I’ve been that way myself ever since Kelly left me. But it’s not God who let that happen, it’s because of this . . . this who-gives-a-damn bloody theory of theirs that she died, was murdered by one of them, and that has made me the perfect vessel for vengeance. God in His many forms may or may not exist as a majority of His worshippers think of Him, but if there is something—and Harry Keogh hinted that there is—then I’m now the tool that’s going to disprove the Mordri Three’s theory. And Creator or no Creator, God or no God, I am going to kill Simon fucking Salcombe if it’s the last thing I do!”
Shania nodded and said, “And you’re ready now, I think.”
“There are one or two things I still need to know,” Scott replied, grimly, “one or two questions I’ve yet to ask, if only to help my understanding. But it won’t make much difference how you answer my questions, because my course is set.”
“Then ask away,” she said, “for if we’re going to do anything at all, it has to be now or tomorrow at the very latest.”
“And that’s one of my questions,” said Scott. “How can you be sure of that? That it’s coming as soon as all that?”
“I’m sure the Mordris must know I’m here now,” Shania told him. “They cannot have mistaken all the signs we’ve been giving off. Why, the very fact that we’ve been shielding ourselves has to have been an obvious sign in itself! And who would know better how to do that than another Shing’t? But they are three and I am—or I was—only one. So why is it they haven’t come to kill me?”
Scott nodded his understanding. “Because you don’t matter. Because they believe it’s too late.”
“Exactly. And the day after tomorrow—if there’s to be a day after tomorrow—it could well be too late.”
Another curt nod, and Scott said, “Second question. Right from the start, since first we met, you’ve known about the Mordris: their location, what they’re doing, and so on. I remember you telling me about this machine they’re building. But again I have to ask you: how do you know these things?”
“I’ve been here a long time, Scott,” Shania answered, “and from the moment my vessel crashed here I’ve had to be very careful. But almost two years ago, finally I made my way to a small Swiss village under Schloss Zonigen and there used my telepathy to discover what I could of the Mordris.”
“What?” Scott frowned. “But didn’t they know you were spying on them? You were that close, yet they failed to sense your presence?”
Shania sighed and explained, “I didn’t need to spy on the Mordris themselves, Scott. Knowing that they had been there for two years, in the heights over that village, was sufficient intelligence in itself.”
Scott snapped his fingers. “Of course! You read the minds of the people in the village. For after all the time the Mordri Three had spent in Schloss Zonigen, it was a safe bet that they had infiltrated the village and were using its people.”
“That’s right.” Shania nodded. “And when I looked into the minds of those people . . . all I found was terror! And from them I learned all I needed to know about what the Mordri Three were doing in that mountain stronghold of theirs. And as for now . . . well, the silence of the Mordris tells its own story—”
“That their work is almost done?”
“Yes.”
“Then there’s only one thing left to do,” said Scott. “And that’s to go over our plan one last time, and make sure there’s nothing we’ve missed . . .”
35
Because of transportation problems, a flat tire on one of their two rented cars, and a spare that was only half inflated, Trask and his people didn’t get into Idossola until 6:45 P.M. local.
The village was, or would have been once upon a time, very pretty even in the shade of Schloss Zonigen whose vertical crag towered to the northwest, partly blocking the evening sunlight and bringing an early dusk. They first saw the place when their vehicles climbed a road of hairpin bends to cross a rocky spur, from which almost aerial vantage point they had looked down on the village at a steep angle.
And there it was: Idossola, laid out below in a crease in the mountainous terrain that was more a mile-wide saddle than a valley proper. And beyond the village the deep green fields and sheltered meadows, gradually narrowing and climbing into a hazy mountain background, with pine trees in the foothills and high, bald spurs rising on both sides . . . and Schloss Zonigen, the crag standing opposite, iced like a grotesque cake in its uppermost peaks, and dominating the entire scene.
As for Idossola itself:
It was typical of its sort: picture postcard, yes; but as the cars wound their way down into the main street, past chalet-styled houses, shops with timbered facades, and a high-steepled church, all well spaced out, it became obvious even in the gathering dusk that Idossola had seen better times. There were vehicles on the streets, but very few; house lights were beginning to come on, but again not as many as one might expect; the shop fronts needed a good paint job, and one large, stately Gasthaus bordering the village square was closed, unlit, and bore a FOR SALE sign nailed to one of the beautifully carved timbers that supported a balcony under projecting, decorative eaves.
“High season,” Trask mused as his car drove slowly by with Paul Gar-vey at the wheel, Ian Goodly and Alan McGrath seated in the back. “And yet the place looks empty, three-quarters dead.”
“Aye,” McGrath agreed with him. “No much chance o’ a knees-up aroon here! Ah cannae see too much thigh-slappin’ dancin’ or beer-guzzlin’ frae steins goin’ on the nicht!”
Ian Goodly, who had never managed to fathom McGrath’s accent, looked sideways at him in something approaching awe . . .
The Gasthaus Alpenmann stood well back from the main road, halfway down one of four side streets and overlooking a lesser village square. Wood smoke curled from its chimneys, and several of its lights were on, mostly in the spacious, low-ceilinged, pine-panelled foyer. And the desk clerk—who as it happened turned out to be the proprietor, Herr Alpenmann himself—was present to greet his guests, smiling however shallowly as Trask and his team trooped in.
Herr Alpenmann was small, dark-haired, sharp-featured, and thin to the point of emaciation. Gaunt and hollow-eyed, with no shoulders to speak of, his evening-dress jacket seemed ready to slide right off him. His English, however, was near-perfect. He had expected the English herren to arrive earlier, he said, but it wasn’t a problem. Food was available; the evening meal would be served as soon as the herren had approved the accommodation, cleaned up, and came downstairs—say, in forty-five minutes?
Trask thanked him, made to sign the register, gave a small start. He glanced at Herr Alpenmann—who seemed to be watching him too closely—and then with a shrug and a flourish finally put his name to paper. The others followed suit.
Paul Garvey had seen Trask’s start; last to sign the register, it came as no surprise to the telepath to find the Head of Branch waiting for him on the wide landing after the others had climbed the stairs to their rooms.
“You saw it?” said Trask, grimly.
“Picked it out of your mind before I saw it,” said Garvey, quietly. “Actually, I thought you’d almost given the game away, starting like that.”
“Damn, I know!” Trask answered. “But it did come as something of a shock. That signature was the very last thing I was expecting to see!” And then, frowning at what Garvey had said: “Anyway, what are you talking about; to whom did I nearly give the game away? Herr Alpenmann? Why would he be interested?”
“I only know that he was,” said Garvey. “He was nervous as a cat, and his mind was locked tight. He was trying desperately hard to think of nothing!”
“What?” said Trask. “He was trying to think . . . ?”
“Not good,” Trask growled, shaking his head. “That bloody idiot Samuels! Who’d have thought it? Didn’t we give him ample warning? Damn! Okay, forget that I was momentarily taken aback; that probably doesn’t matter now, for it’s possible that George Samuels has already compromised us. God only knows what kind of stupid questions he’s been asking! And according to the date in the book he’s been here since yesterday! We need to talk to him—and soon. What about the rest of the team: did they notice my gaffe or see Samuels’s signature?”
“I don’t think so,” said the other. “They’re all a little tired . . . me, too, but there’s something about this place that’s keeping me awake.”
“Like what?” said Trask.
“The silence,” said Garvey. “By which I mean the telepathic silence. Usually I would have to shut some of it out. It can get to be quite a babble, you know? But not here. Maybe they’re all in the same pickle—the village people, I mean—guarding their thoughts, afraid to even think.”
Trask nodded, said, “Well, it isn’t too difficult to guess what that means. Okay, did you get Samuels’s room number?”
“Eighteen of twenty-one.” The telepath nodded. “And I note we’re one to five, at the other end of the corridor. Then, next to us, six to nine are also occupied. Our Swiss specials? Probably.”
Again Trask’s nod. “Yes, I saw that. Okay, drop your stuff off and go see if Samuels is in. If so, make damn sure he stays in! I’ll have a quick word with the others and I’ll join you in number eighteen.”
