by Roger Elwood
And then he broke down. He didn’t know the word for “electronic.”
§
Morruchan refrained from taking advantage. Instead, the Merseian became quite helpful. Falkayn’s rejoinder was halting, often interrupted while he and the other worked out what a phrase must be. But, in essence and in current language, what he said was:
“The Hand is correct as far as he goes. But consider what will follow. The eruption of a supernova is violent beyond imagining. Nuclear processes are involved, so complex that we ourselves don’t yet understand them in detail. That’s why we want to study them. But this much we do know, and your physicists will confirm it.
“As nuclei and electrons recombine in that supernal fireball, they generate asymmetrical magnetic pulses. Surely you know what this does when it happens in the detonation of an atomic weapon. Now think of it on a stellar scale. When those forces hit, they will blast straight through Merseia’s own magnetic field, down to the very surface. Unshielded electric motors, generators, transmission lines … oh, yes, no doubt you have surge arrestors, but your circuit breakers will be tripped, then intolerable voltages will be induced, and the entire system will be wrecked. Likewise telecommunication lines. And computers. If you use transistors … ah, you do … the flipflop between p-and n-type conduction will wipe every memory bank, stop every operation in its tracks.
“Electrons, riding that magnetic pulse, will not be long in arriving. As they spiral in the planet’s field, their synchrotron radiation will completely blanket whatever electronic apparatus you may have salvaged. Protons should be slower, pushed to about half the speed of light. Then come the alpha particles, then the heavier matter: year after year after year of cosmic fallout, most of it radioactive, to a total greater by orders of magnitude than any war could create before civilization was destroyed. Your planetary magnetism is no real shield. The majority of ions are energetic enough to get through. Nor is your atmosphere any good defense. Heavy nuclei, sleeting through it, will produce secondary radiation that does reach the ground.
“I do not say this planet will be wiped clean of life. But I do say that without ample advance preparation, it will suffer ecological disaster. Your species might or might not survive; but if you do, it will be as a few starveling primitives. The early breakdown of the electric systems on which your civilization is now dependent will have seen to that. Just imagine. Suddenly no more food moves into the cities. The dwellers go forth as a ravening horde. But if most of your farmers are as specialized as I suppose, they won’t even be able to support themselves. Once fighting and famine have become general, no more medical service will be possible, and the pestilences will start. It will be like the aftermath of an all-out nuclear strike against a country with no civil defense. I gather you’ve avoided that on Merseia. But you certainly have theoretical studies of the subject, and—I have seen planets where it did happen.
“Long before the end, your colonies throughout this system will have been destroyed by the destruction of the apparatus that keeps the colonists alive. And for many years, no spaceship will be able to move.
“Unless you accept our help. We know how to generate forcescreens, small ones for machines, gigantic ones which can give an entire planet some protection. Not enough—but we also know how to insulate against the energies that get through. We know how to build engines and communications lines which are not affected. We know how to sow substances which protect life against hard radiation. We know how to restore mutated genes. In short, we have the knowledge you need for survival.
“The effort will be enormous. Most of it you must carry out yourselves. Our available personnel are too few, our lines of interstellar transportation too long. But we can supply engineers and organizers.
“To be blunt, Hand, you are very lucky that we learned of this in time, barely in time. Don’t fear us. We have no ambitions toward Merseia. If nothing else, it lies far beyond our normal sphere of operation, and we have millions of more profitable planets much closer to home. We want to save you, because you are sentient beings. But it’ll be expensive, and a lot of the work will have to be done by outfits like mine, which exist to make a profit. So, besides a scientific base, we want a reasonable economic return.
“Eventually, though, we’ll depart. What you do then is your own affair. But you’ll still have your civilization. You’ll also have a great deal of new equipment and new knowledge. I think you’re getting a bargain.’’
§
Falkayn stopped. For a while, silence dwelt in that long dim hall. He grew aware of odors which had never been on Earth or Hermes.
Morruchan said at last, slowly: “This must be thought on. I shall have to confer with my colleagues, and others. There are so many complications. For example, I see no good reason to do anything for the colony on Ronruad, and many excellent reasons for letting it die.”
“What?” Falkayn’s teeth clicked together. “Meaneth the Hand the next outward planet? But meseems faring goeth on apace throughout this system.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Morruchan said impatiently. “We depend on the other planets for a number of raw materials, like fissionables, or complex gases from the outer worlds. Ronruad, though, is of use only to the Gethfennu.”
He spoke that word with such distaste that Falkayn postponed asking for a definition. “What recommendations I make in my report will draw heavily upon the Hand’s wisdom,” the human said.
“Your courtesy is appreciated,” Morruchan replied—with how much irony, Falkayn wasn’t sure. He was taking the news more coolly than expected. But then, he was of a different race from men, and a soldierly tradition as well. “I hope that, for now, you will honor the Vach Dathyr by guesting us.”
“Well—” Falkayn hesitated. He had planned on returning to his ship. But he might do better on the spot. The Survey crew had found Merseian food nourishing to men, in fact tasty. One report had waxed ecstatic about the ale.
“I thank the Hand.”
“Good. I suggest you go to the chambers already prepared, to rest and refresh yourself. With your leave, a messenger will come presently to ask what he should bring you from your vessel. Unless you wish to move it here?”
“Uh, best not … policy—” Falkayn didn’t care to take chances. The Merseians were not so far behind the League that they couldn’t spring a nasty surprise if they wanted to.
Morruchan raised the skin above his brow ridges but made no comment. “You will dine with me and my councillors at sunset,” he said. They parted ceremoniously.
A pair of guards conducted Falkayn out through a series of corridors and up a sweeping staircase whose banister was carved into the form of a snake. At the end, he was ushered into, a suite. The rooms were spacious, their comfort-making gadgetry not greatly below Technic standards. Reptile-skin carpets and animal skulls mounted on the crimson-draped walls were a little disquieting, but what the hell. A balcony gave on a view of the palace gardens, whose austere good taste was reminiscent of Original Japanese, and on the city.
Ardaig was sizable, must hold two or three million souls. This quarter was ancient, with buildings of gray stone fantastically turreted and battlemented. The hills which ringed it were checkered by the estates of the wealthy. Snow lay white and blue-shadowed between. Ramparted with tall modem structures, the bay shone like gunmetal. Cargo ships moved in and out, a delta-wing jet whistled overhead. But he heard little traffic noise; nonessential vehicles were banned in the sacred Old Quarter.
“Wedhi is my name, Protector/’ said the short Merseian in the black tunic who had been awaiting him. “May he consider me his liege man, to do as he commands.”
“My thanks,” Falkayn said. “Thou mayest show me how one maketh use of facilities.” He couldn’t wait to see a bathroom designed for these people. “And then, mayhap, a tankard of beer, a textbook on political geography, and privacy for some hours.”
‘The Protector has spoken. If he will follow me?”
The two of them entere
d the adjoining chamber, which was furnished for sleeping. As if by accident, Wedhi’s tail brushed the door. It wasn’t automatic, merely hinged, and closed under the impact. Wedhi seized Falkayn’s hand and pressed something into the palm. Simultaneously, he caught his lips between his teeth. A signal for silence?
With a tingle along his spine, Falkayn nodded and stuffed the bit of paper into a pocket.
When he was alone, he opened the note, hunched over in case of spy eyes. The alphabet hadn’t changed.
Be wary, star dweller. Morruchan Long-Ax is no friend. If you can arrange for one of your company to come tonight in secret to the house at the corner of Triau Street and Victory Way which is marked hy twined fylfots over the door, the truth shall he explained.
§
As darkness fell, the moon Neihevin rose full, Luna size and copper color, above eastward hills whose forests glistened with frost Lythyr was already up, a small pale crescent. Rigel blazed in the heart of that constellation named the Spear Bearer.
Chee Lan turned from the viewscreen with a shiver and an unladylike phrase. “But I am not equipped to do that,” said the ship’s computer.
“The suggestion was addressed to my gods,” Chee answered.
She sat for a while, brooding on her wrongs. Ta-chih-chien-pih—O2 Eridani A II or Cynthia to humans—felt even more distant than it was, warm ruddy sunlight and rustling leaves around treetop homes lost in time as well as space. Not only the cold outside daunted her. Those Merseians were so bloody big1
She herself was no larger than a medium-sized dog, though the bush of her tail added a good deal. Her arms, almost as long as her legs, ended in delicate six-fingered hands. White fur fluffed about her, save where it made a bluish mask across the green eyes and round, blunt-muzzled face. Seeing her for the first time, human females were apt to call her darling.
She bristled. Ears, whiskers, and hair stood erect. What was she—descendant of carnivores who chased their prey in five-meter leaps from branch to branch, xenobiologist by training, trade pioneer by choice, and pistol champion because she liked to shoot guns—what was she doing, feeling so much as respect for a gaggle of slewfooted bald barbarians? Mainly she was irritated. While standing by aboard the ship, she’d hoped to complete her latest piece of sculpture. Instead, she must hustle into that pustulant excuse for weather, and skulk through a stone garbage dump that its perpetrators called a city, and hear some yokel drone on for hours about some squabble between drunken cockroaches which he thought was politics … and pretend to take the whole farce seriously!
A narcotic cigarette soothed her, however ferocious the puffs in which she consumed it. “I guess the matter is important, at that,” she murmured. “Fat commissions for me if the project succeeds.”
“My programming is to the effect that our primary objective is humanitarian,” said the computer. “Though I cannot find that concept in my data storage.”
“Never mind, Muddlehead,” Chee replied. Her mood had turned benign. “If you want to know, it relates to those constraints you have filed under Law and Ethics. But no concern of ours, this trip. Oh, the bleeding hearts do quack about Rescuing a Promising Civilization, as if the galaxy didn’t have too chaos many civilizations already. Well, if they want to foot the bill, it’s their taxes. They’ll have to work with the League, because the League has most of the ships, which it won’t hire out for nothing. And the League has to start with us, because trade pioneers are supposed to be experts in making first contacts and we happened to be the sole such crew in reach. Which is our good luck, I suppose.”
She stubbed out her cigarette and busied herself with preparations. There was, for a fact, no alternative. She’d had to admit that, after a three-way radio conversation with her partners. (They didn’t worry about eavesdroppers, when not a Merseian knew a word of Anglic.) Falkayn was stuck in what’s-his-name’s palace. Adzel was loose in the city, but he’d be the last one you’d pick for an undercover mission. Which left Chee Lan.
“Maintain contact with all three of us,” she ordered the ship. “Record everything coming in tonight over my two-way. Don’t stir without orders—in a galactic language—and don’t respond to any native attempts at communication. Tell us at once whatever unusual you observe. If you haven’t heard from any of us for twenty-four hours at a stretch, return to Catawrayannis and report”
No answer being indicated, the computer made none.
§
Chee buckled on a gravity harness, a tool kit, and two guns, a stunner and a blaster. Over them she threw a black mande, less for warmth than concealment. Dousing the lights, she had the personnel lock open just long enough to let her through, jumped, and took to the air.
It bit her with chill. Flowing past, it felt liquid. An enormous silence dwelt beneath heaven; the hum of her grav was lost. Passing above the troopers who surrounded Muddlin’ Through with armor and artillery—a sensible precaution from the native standpoint, she had to agree, sensibly labeled an honor guard—she saw the forlorn twinkle of campfires and heard a snatch of hoarse song. Then a hovercraft whirred near, big and black athwart the Milky Way, and she must change course to avoid being seen.
For a while she flew above snow-clad wilderness. On an unknown planet, you didn’t land downtown if you could help it. Hills and woods gave way at length to a cultivated plain where the lights of villages huddled around tower-jagged castles. Merseia—this continent, at least—appeared to have retained feudalism even as it swung into an industrial age. Or had it?
Perhaps tonight she would find out.
The seacoast hove in view, and Ardaig. That city did not gleam with illumination and brawl with traffic as most Technic communities did. Yellow windows strewed its night, like fireflies trapped in a web of phosphorescent paving. The River Oiss gleamed dull where it poured through town and into the bay, on which there shone a double moonglade. No, triple; Wythna was rising now. A murmur of machines lifted skyward.
Chee dodged another aircraft and streaked down for the darkling Old Quarter. She landed behind a shuttered bazaar and sought the nearest alley. Crouched there, she peered forth. In this section, the streets were decked with a hardy turf, which ice had blanketed, and lit by widely spaced lamps. A Merseian went past, riding a horned gwydh. His tail was draped back across the animal’s rump; his cloak fluttered behind him to reveal a quilted jacket reinforced with glittering metal disks and a rifle slanted over his shoulder.
No guardsman, surely; Chee had seen what the military wore, and Falkayn had transmitted pictures of Morruchan’s household troops to her via a hand scanner. He had also passed on the information that those latter doubled as police. So why was a civilian going armed? It bespoke a degree of lawlessness that fitted ill with a technological society … unless that society was in more trouble than Morruchan had admitted.
Chee made certain her own guns were loose in the holsters.
The clop-clop of hooves faded away. Chee stuck her head out of the alley and took bearings from street signs. Instead of words, they used colorful heraldic emblems. But the Survey people had compiled a good map of Ardaig, which Falkayn’s gang had memorized. The Old Quarter ought not to have changed much. She loped off, seeking cover whenever she heard a rider or pedestrian approach. There weren’t many.
This corner! Squinting through murk, she identified the symbol carved in the lintel of a lean gray house. Quickly, she ran up the stairs and rapped on the door. Her free hand rested on the stunner.
The door creaked open. Light streamed through. A Merseian stood black against it. He carried a pistol himself. His head moved back and forth, peering into the night. “Here I am, thou idiot,” Chee muttered.
He looked down. A jerk went through his body. “Hu-ya! You are from the star ship?”
“Nay,” Chee sneered, “I am come to inspect the plumbing.” She darted past him into a wainscoted corridor. “If thou wouldst preserve this chickling secrecy of thine, might one suggest that thou close yon portal?”
Th
e Merseian did. He stood a moment, regarding her in the glow of art incandescent bulb overhead. “I thought you would be … different.”
“They were Terrans who first visited this world, but surely thou didst not think every race in the cosmos is formed to those ridiculous specifications. Now I’ve scant time to spare for whatever griping ye have here to do, so lead me to thine acher.”
§
The Merseian obeyed. His garments were about like ordinary street clothes, belted tunic and baggy trousers, but a certain precision in their cut—as well as blue-and-gold stripes and the double fylfot embroidered on the sleeves—indicated they were a livery. Or a uniform? Chee felt the second guess confirmed when she noted two others, similarly attired, standing armed in front of a door. They saluted her and let her through.
The room beyond was baronial. Radiant heating had been installed, but a fire also roared on the hearth. Chee paid scant attention to rich draperies and carven pillars. Her gaze went to the two who sat awaiting her.
One was scarfaced, athletic, his tailtip restlessly a flicker. His robe was blue and gold, and he carried a short ceremonial spear. At sight of her, he drew a quick breath. The Cynthian decided she’d better be polite. “I hight Chee Lan, worthies, come from the interstellar expedition in response to your kind invitation.”
“Khraich.” The aristocrat recovered his poise and touched finger to brow. “Be welcome. I am Dagla, called Quick-to-Anger, the Hand of the Vach Hallen. And my comrade Olgor hu Freylin, his rank Warmaster in the Republic of Lafdigu, here in Ardaig as agent for his country.”
That being was middle-aged, plump, with skin more dark and features more flat than was common around the Wilwidh Ocean. His garb was foreign, too—a sort of toga with metal threads woven into the purple cloth. And he was soft-spoken, imperturbable, quite without the harshness of these lands. He crossed his arms—gesture of greeting?—and said in accented Eriau:
