by Jerry
She felt a great need for the replenishment that only communion with Systems could bring. That meant she must enter Systems.
She verified again that the lights of Functions were blinking the proper patterns, the ones they had blinked from the Beginning and must for all time.
Then, quickly, she circled the altar. Her golden metallic vestments rustled, and her mesh breast plates and kilted skirt coruscated color as they caught and refracted the grid’s red and green flashes.
Behind the altar stood the door leading to Systems. As with all the works of Systems’ people, the door was constructed of metal, a portal two feet thick recessed in a wall three feet thick. Taal placed her palm on the activator embedded in the wall beside the door, and Systems recognized the palm’s pattern. The door swung open.
Taal genuflected and entered Systems, stepping reverently up onto the Deck. The door closed automatically behind her, but she did not notice; already, here in the heart of Systems, she was shucking off her self-doubt.
She performed the act of communion . . . the pacing up and down of the aisles flanked by the units of Systems. And as she paced she said her catechism, identifying the units and their parts, quoting fully and without hesitation from the Manual and Catalog.
There were Tools here in the room of Systems, and Spare Parts, all awaiting use by Taal should the need arise, but of course the Manual and Catalog were not here. A high priestess kept those in a consecrated corner of her bed chamber, so that they might be studied continuously and meditated upon, not only to make the ways of Systems known to man, but also to assure that the high priestess was ever ready to correct Malfunction by making Repairs.
The ceiling glowed softly, lighting Taal’s way, and as she chanted the verses of Manual she prayed that Systems looked upon her and found her worthy to make repairs.
Of course, Systems was actually quite capable of keeping itself in Repair. Systems was all-powerful.
The Manual, as revised by the enlightened down through the ages, explained that the Memory Banks, wherein lay all knowledge, sensed upcoming malfunction and took steps to prevent it, bypassing Relays, building Alternate Circuits, drawing on Reserve Power . . .
But sometimes Systems deliberately tested man. This was as it should be. On these occasions Systems created Malfunction and then did not make Repairs. The Manual described such Malfunction as “extra-systems environmental,” and the great interpreter of one hundred times three hundred sixty-five wake-periods ago, Sakamoto, had explained that this type of Malfunction was Systems’ way of verifying that man remained worthy of restoring the state of grace and therefore worthy of Systems’ protection and guidance.
As Taal completed her circuit of Systems’ units and passed down the last aisle, she knew the communion had prepared her more than ever to serve Systems; even her concern over the mounting shortages and the long interval between Gift Times had vanished.
Gift Time would come in due course. Did not Systems always care for its people?
She left the chamber positive of her state of grace, certain of her capabilities. Once again she took up her vigil monitoring the blinking altar lights.
Suddenly Printout clacked anew.
GIFT TIME, said Printout. GIFT TIME APPROACHES. STAND BY.
Taal paused only to marvel that her act of communion had achieved so much so swiftly. Then she punched out the ritualistic message of thanks to Systems and turned to lift the cover guard on the Alert button.
She touched the button—and everywhere the activities of Systems’ people stopped as they prayerfully began to Stand By.
The Ark team consisted of two men only, but Clark was an advanced Ark II and Dansk a full Ark IV. And though time was short, they went about their delicate business in confidence, sure they could finish before it was too late.
Then—
“Oh, oh,” said Clark, “someone’s come into the computer room.”
Dansk, across the cubicle, didn’t even look up from his work at the memory banks. “No sweat. Just so he doesn’t decide to come in here.”
“It’s not a he,” advised Clark cheerfully. “It’s a she . . . and quite a she indeed, I might add.” He peered into the peeper screen and watched appreciatively as the barbarically-clad golden girl approached down the aisle.
Dansk paused briefly to join Clark at the screen.
“Isn’t she a beauty?” Clark asked.
“No matter,” said Dansk, getting back to the job. “If she starts to come in here, you’ll have to stun-gun her.”
Clark nodded agreement without dissent. It wouldn’t be the gentlemanly thing to do, but then this wasn’t a gentlemanly mission. And time VMS running out.
He glanced at his watch. “Eighteen minutes before you have to take the con,” he cautioned.
“We’ll make it,” said Dansk. “We’ll be out of here in another minute or two. Allow another eight to reach the stand, maybe two more to take the con.”
“That’s eleven or twelve minutes. You’re cutting it pretty close.”
Dansk grinned. He would make it. He knew he would make it. How could anything go wrong when already he was touched with a sense of the wild exhilaration to come . . . the wild exhilaration that drew closer with each passing second?
Clark was still watching the golden girl. “I think she’s wacky. She’s wandering up and down the aisles, mumbling some crazy jargon about computer parts and state of grace.”
“Just so you keep her out of here,” said Dansk evenly. “Just so she doesn’t know what we’ve done. She might have the training to undo it.”
Clark consulted his watch again, as though his glance could slow the forward sweep of the hands, atomic half-life or no atomic half-life. “Seventeen minutes.”
“Done!” said Dansk, stepping away from the memory banks. “And it only took three minutes flat from start to finish.”
“Let’s get out of here!” urged Clark. “I’ll stun the girl. You just keep going.”
But Dansk, peering into the screen, held up a cautioning hand. “Wait! She’s leaving now.”
The moment the computer room door closed behind her, Dansk led the way in a mad dash across the room and into the concealed shaft they had lasered down from the surface.
There were now sixteen minutes to go . . .
The mission had begun for Dansk as it always began, with a summons to the office of Ark Commander Bonae on Darius II.
Bonae was an Ark V, his massive squat body and great splayed limbs a grudging tribute to the heavy-G planet of his birth, just as his sure direction of this sector of Ark Command was a tribute to his dedication to the Ark cause.
He greeted Dansk with a ready smile and sparkling eyes.
He’s as nuts about this work as I am, Dansk thought as he sat down across the desk from Bonae.
Dansk had been back from the last mission a full two days now, but he still felt excitement every time he thought about the power, and how he had built it up with the touch of a finger, a rising crescendo of pure, directed force . . .
“There’s been a ‘gram from Rekko,” Bonae said. “He’s quite pleased with the way you handled that assignment . . . wants you available for his next project.”
Dansk smiled. Daniel J, Rekko, boss of Rekko Galactic Construction, was a hard man to please, as Dansk had had all too many opportunities to learn.
“But a new job’s come up now,” said Bonae. “I’m sending you out on it with an Ark II named Clark. He’s a little young for a job as big as this, and could probably stand a little more experience first. But he’s an advanced Ark II, and quite capable. In any event, we have no choice; he’s the only man available in the time we have.”
Dansk leaned forward, expectant. The power, he thought as his blood quickened, it must be the power that gets you.
“There’s a solitary planet circling a sun out beyond Procyon,” Bonae said. “Kind of a desert world. Name of New New Rochelle. Now why would anybody want to name a planet New New Rochelle?”
/> “After a place named New Rochelle?” hazarded Dansk.
“I suppose. But, then, why would anybody ever want to name a place New Rochelle?”
“Beats me,” Dansk conceded. “After an original place called Rochelle, maybe?”
Bonae frowned. “There’s just no accounting for taste, is there?”
“No, sir,” said Dansk, recalling that Bonae’s home planet was named Xylariaceae, apparently after a type of mutated Earth fungi that grew well there.
“Anyway,” said Bonae, and Dansk’s blood quickened again, “New New Rochelle isn’t very rich, and it isn’t very populous. Maybe a billion inhabitants. No more. And every mother’s son of them working from dawn to dusk, trying to build up a strong enough agricultural base to support industrialization. We must save them.”
“From what?”
Bonae paused for effect before answering. “There’s a Wanderer boring in on the planet.”
A Wanderer!
Dansk had never dealt with a Wanderer—in the very nature of things there just weren’t that many around—but by definition to go after a Wanderer meant tendrilling in force upon force . . .
Bonae’s desk was empty save for a little plastic spool. He handed the spool to Dansk. “Here’s the file. You’ll find all the necessary data recorded—coordinates, dimensions, mass. I’ll leave the placing of the stand up to you. Near as we can tell, this baby hasn’t made a hit for a long time, perhaps for several centuries. They may be getting pretty desperate. No telling what kind of odd-ball society they’ve formed.
“But if they’ve followed the usual pattern—and there’s no reason to believe they haven’t—they’ll have some kind of computer worship. It always seems to degenerate into that. I’ve heard sociologists argue that survival in the circumstances they’re in virtually dictates the computer-worship route . . . and the parasitic culture that entails. They probably won’t have the foggiest notion of what they’re about to do to New New Rochelle, or even be aware they’re approaching it.”
“How much time do I have?” asked Dansk.
A fleeting concern crossed Bonae’s face. “Not much, I’m afraid. New New Rochelle estimates three weeks. And it’ll take you just about that long to get there.”
“Whew! I hope Clark’s a fast worker.”
“He is. And he’s qualified to back you up if you break a leg or something.”
Dansk chose to ignore that personal possibility. “Has the Wanderer been scouted?”
“Just by observation and computation from New New Rochelle. The results are in that spool I gave you. A confirmation robo’s been dispatched, but it won’t get there much sooner than you. We only learned about this a couple of hours ago—that part of space is so sparsely populated and backward that the Wanderer wasn’t spotted until it was almost too late. Clark’s already on his way. You’ll rendezvous with him off New New Rochelle.”
Bonae paused to grin broadly. “I had to pull Clark off a job with some mining development company. There’s hell to pay about that. But of course this takes priority. It has to. Anybody can see that. But not those miners. They’re beaming protests from one end of the Federation to the other. Thank God the use of Ark force is limited to Ark Command. I don’t know what kind of a mess the galaxy would be in if it were turned loose for every idiot to use as he chose . . .”
Dansk visualized chaos. Yes, this was the only way. Keep a tight rein on the power, screen all requests, and then make the force available only through Ark Command and only for responsible needs.
“We’ve got a chaser standing by,” said Bonae. “It’ll boost you out to the job as fast as anything. There’s a stand aboard, and the usual complement of technicians. That spool will give you what data we have. And by the time you’re there the robo may have made enough of a preliminary survey to help. You’ll just have to wait and see. Sorry this briefing’s so inadequate, but you know how these rush jobs are—there’s never enough information at hand.”
It was Dansk’s turn to grin. Weren’t they always rush jobs? And wasn’t there always a paucity of information?
“Oh, one other thing,” said Bonae casually as Dansk arose to leave—and because of the casualness Dansk knew he had better pay strict attention.
“Before you take the con,” said Bonae, “you’ll have to land on the Wanderer and attend to its computer. You know—install a few fundamental postulates in its basic logic system. There’s no point in using the Ark force if we don’t give that computer an acute neurotic compulsion to change its ways.”
“But the time element! Couldn’t somebody from New New Rochelle be attending to that computer right now?”
“I told you, Dansk. It’s a backward world. Sure, they’ve got com-putermen, but none I’ve ever heard of . . . none I’d trust with this task. No, you’re the man. And it won’t take long.”
“But first I’ve got to find the computer, and then figure it out,” protested Dansk. “That will take time!”
Bonae waved a hand airily. “No problem. All of these Wanderer computers are of the same make, model and class—antique infrared laser systems. Slow as molasses and twice as uncomplicated. You won’t have to waste time figuring it out. And as for finding it . . . well, the installations on all these Wanderers are standardized. Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all. You’ll find all the equipment and information you need aboard the chaser, including maps and schematics.”
“O.K.,” said Dansk. “Given that it won’t take long. But even so, with time so short, why can’t I delay attending to the computer until after I’ve taken the con?”
“No dice. With the programming that baby’s got now, it would fight you every step of the way. You’d win, of course, but it would probably be a tug of war that would tear the Wanderer to bits.” Bonae smiled. “You’ll have to do some hopping, but tell me . . . won’t it be worth it?”
Dansk thought of the surging power, building and building. Yes, it would be worth it. But there was one more question.
“What if the Wanderer’s inhabitants spot me, or try to interfere?”
“Stun ’em down! This isn’t a popularity contest; it’s an attempt to save a world. You do what has to be done!”
Ten minutes later Dansk boarded the chaser. On the eighteenth day the craft rendezvoused with Clark’s ship off New New Rochelle, and by the twenty-first was orbiting the Wanderer, gathering final data. There were just hours left in which to complete the job.
Dansk looked down on the Wanderer . . . on a world large as Earth . . . but a dead world—cold, pitted, airless. Perhaps once it had had atmosphere, and sparkling water, and life thrusting young green shoots up to bask in the sun and cover it with a mantle of living beauty. But that would have been long ago, when this planet circled a sun—a child clasped in the warm embrace of its mother.
Now there was no sun. The Wanderer, as were all Wanderers, was a derelict planet, torn from its primary by some cataclysm that occurred long before man scrabbled into existence and eventually came to ponder the Wanderer’s origin—and to seek to turn the orphan to his own uses.
The pattern was familiar. Take one sunless world, install a nuclear drive a hundred miles wide, put in fuel and a computer to guide the drive, establish a maintenance crew far below the surface where its men and women would be protected from the harsh dangers of space, start the planet on its guided way, rotate the crew every few years . . . and in due course the planet would arrive at a predetermined destination, to circle a sun and be nurtured to atmosphere and life through the application of technology and just plain hard work.
The cost in time and money to move the planet to the sun would be negligible compared to the gain of turning waste into real estate. And when a development company is a thousand years old, and spans star system after star system, it plans far, far ahead.
But not far enough, as it turned out. It had not planned on a galactic war of such dimensions that the company itself would not even be a memory afterwards . . . with no records rema
ining to tell how many Wanderers had been started on their way toward sun and life, or on what courses.
Replacement maintenance crews never arrived—nor did fresh supplies of nuclear fuel and crew-support requirements. In Wanderer after Wanderer, although they weren’t called that then, men re-programmed computers, heading for the nearest inhabited world.
But by the time they neared the world generations had passed, and computer technology had become a maintenance technology, not a guidance technology.
“And so,” said Dansk to Clark as they finished reviewing the data the robo had collected, “the people on that planet down there don’t know how to stop it. In their tight little world below the surface, safe and secure with every imagined protective measure built into their quarters, they don’t mind approaching another planet; sure, perturbations will occur, and there will be upheaval all around them.
“But their artificially-constructed living space underground won’t be disturbed. The plastic flow of molecular shielding, the stress components of walls . . . everything was originally built to withstand any conceivable mishap in space.”
“And somehow,” said Clark, “over the years they’ve become pirates, raping planets to resupply themselves for centuries at a time. And if a planet balks at their demands . . .”
If a planet balked at their demands, they did what this Wanderer most certainly would do to New New Rochelle if it were a balker.
The Wanderer would continue to bore in toward the planet, changing its great curving course to avoid collision only after its mass had set up perturbations enough to destroy whatever culture was there.
Whole continents would rise and fall . . . seas would boil across the face of the planet . . . thousand-mile-long fissures would release the pent-up fury of the molten rock below. And the weather . . . the weather would be monstrous . . . a billion hurricanes in one. And perhaps the planet would even be kicked out of the plane of its axial tilt.
Of course, by then there would be no one left alive to care.
“But this is one Wanderer that will never victimize another planet!” Dansk exulted as he and Clark beamed up their shaft after feeding the new postulates into the computer. “I’ve given that archaic monster an acute neurotic compulsion to stay a long, long way away from inhabited planets—and told it where I want it to take this world.”
