If Karellen was listening, be gave no sign. But, of course, he never did.
* * *
In the first year of their coming, the advent of the Overlords had made less difference to the pattern of human life than might have been expected. Their shadow was everywhere, but it was an unobtrusive shadow. Though there were few great cities on Earth where men could not see one of the silver ships glittering against the zenith, after a little while they were taken as much for granted as the sun, moon or clouds. Most men were probably only dimly aware that their steadily rising standards of living were due to the Overlords. When they stopped to think of it — which was seldom — they realised that those silent ships had brought peace to all the world for the first time in history, and were duly grateful.
But these were negative and unspectacular benefits, accepted and soon forgotten. The Overlords remained aloof, hiding their faces from mankind. Karellen could command respect and admiration; he could win nothing deeper so long as he pursued his present policy. It was hard not to feel resentment against these Olympians who spoke to Man only over the radio-teleprinter circuits at United Nations Headquarters. What took place between Karellen and Stormgren was never publicly revealed, and sometimes Stormgren himself wondered why the Supervisor found these interviews necessary. Perhaps he felt the need of direct contact with one human being at least; perhaps he realised that Stormgren needed this form of personal support. If this was the explanation, the Secretary-General appreciated it; he did not mind if the Freedom League referred to him contemptuously as “Karellen’s office-boy”.
The Overlords had never had any dealings with individual states and governments; they had taken the United Nations Organisation as they found it, had given instructions for installing the necessary radio equipment, and had issued their orders through the mouth of the Secretary-General. The Soviet delegate had quite correctly pointed out, at considerable length and upon innumerable occasions, that this was not in accordance with the Charter. Karellen did not seem to worry.
It was amazing that so many abuses, follies and evils could be dispelled by those messages from the sky. With the arrival of the Overlords, nations knew that they need no longer fear each other, and they guessed — even before the experiment was made — that their existing weapons were certainly impotent against a civilisation that could bridge the stars. So at once the greatest single obstacle to the happiness of mankind had been removed.
The Overlords seemed largely indifferent to forms of government, provided that they were not oppressive or corrupt. Earth still possessed democracies, monarchies, benevolent dictatorships, communism and capitalism. This was a source of great surprise to many simple souls who were quite convinced that theirs was the only possible way of life. Others believed that Karellen was merely waiting to introduce a system which would sweep away all existing forms of society, and so had not bothered with minor political reforms. But this, like all other speculations concerning the Overlords, was pure guesswork. No one knew their motives; and no one knew towards what future they were shepherding mankind.
Chapter 3
Stormgren was sleeping badly these nights, which was strange, since soon he would be putting aside the cares of office forever. He had served mankind for forty years, and its masters for five, and few men could look back upon a life that had seen so many of its ambitions achieved. Perhaps that was the trouble; in the years of retirement, however many they might be, he would have no further goals to give any zest to life. Since Martha had died and the children had established their own families, his ties with the world seemed to have weakened. It might be, too, that he was beginning to identify himself with the Overlords, and thus to become detached from humanity.
This was another of those restless nights when his brain went on turning like a machine whose governor had failed. He knew better than to woo sleep any further, and reluctantly climbed out of bed. Throwing on his dressing-gown, he strolled out on to the roof garden of his modest flat. There was not one of his direct subordinates who did not possess much more luxurious quarters, but this place was ample for Stormgren’s needs. He had reached the position where neither personal possessions nor official ceremony could add anything to his stature.
The night was warm, almost oppressive, but the sky was clear and a brilliant moon hung low in the south-west. Ten kilometres away, the lights of New York glowed on the skyline like a dawn frozen in the act of breaking.
Stormgren raised his eyes above the sleeping city, climbing again the heights that he alone of living men had scaled. Far away though it was, he could see the hull of Karellen’s ship glinting in the moonlight. He wondered what the Supervisor was doing, for he did not believe that the Overlords ever slept.
High above, a meteor thrust its shining spear through the dome of the sky. The luminous trail glowed faintly for a while; then it died away, leaving only the stars. The reminder was brutal; in a hundred years, Karellen would still be leading mankind towards the goal that he alone could see, but four months from now another man would be Secretary-General. That in itself Stormgren was far from minding — but it meant that little time was left if he ever hoped to learn what lay behind that darkened screen.
Only in the last few days had he dared to admit that the Overlords’ secretiveness was beginning to obsess him. Until recently, his faith in Karellen had kept him free from doubts; but now, he thought a little wryly, the protests of the Freedom League were beginning to have their effect upon him. It was true that the propaganda about Man’s enslavement was no more than propaganda. Few people seriously believed it, or really wished for a return to the old days. Men had grown accustomed to Karellen’s imperceptible rule, but they were becoming impatient to know who ruled them. And how could they be blamed?
Though it was much the largest, the Freedom League was only one of the organisations that opposed Karellen — and, consequently, the humans who co-operated with the Overlords. The objections and policies of these groups varied enormously; some took the religious viewpoint, while others were merely expressing a sense of inferiority. They felt, with good reason, much as a cultured Indian of the nineteenth century must have done as he contemplated the British Raj. The invaders had brought peace and prosperity to Earth — but who knew what the cost might be? History was not reassuring; even the most peaceable of contacts between races at very different cultural levels had often resulted in the obliteration of the more backward society. Nations, as well as individuals, could lose their spirit when confronted by a challenge which they could not meet. And the civilisation of the Overlords, veiled in mystery though it might be, was the greatest challenge Man had ever faced.
There was a faint click from the facsimile machine in the adjoining room as it ejected the hourly, summary sent out by Central News. Stormgren wandered indoors and ruffled half-heartedly through the sheets. On the other side of the world, the Freedom League had inspired a not-very-original headline. “IS MAN RULED BY MONSTERS?” asked the paper, and went on to quote: “Addressing a meeting in Madras today, Dr C. V. Krishnan, President of the Eastern Division of the Freedom League, said: ‘The explanation of the Overlords’ behaviour is quiet simple; Their physical form is so alien and so repulsive that they dare not show themselves to humanity. I challenge the Supervisor to deny this.’ ”
Stormgren threw down the sheet in disgust. Even if the charge were true, would it really matter? The idea was an old one, but it had never worried him. He did not believe that there was any biological form, however strange, which he could not accept in time and, perhaps, even find beautiful. The mind, not the body, was all that mattered. If only he could convince Karellen of this, the Overlords might change their policy. It was certain that they could not be half as hideous as the imaginative drawings that had filled the papers soon after their coming to Earth!
Yet it was not, Stormgren knew, entirely consideration for his successor that made him anxious to see the end of this state of affairs. He was honest enough to admit that, in the final analysis,
his main motive was simple human curiosity. He had grown to know Karellen as a person, and he would never be satisfied until he had also discovered what kind of creature he might be.
* * *
When Stormgren failed to arrive at his usual time next morning, Pieter Van Ryberg was surprised and a little annoyed. Though the Secretary-General often made a number of calls before reaching his own office, he invariably left word that he was doing so. This morning, to make matters worse, there had been several urgent messages for Stormgren. Van Ryberg rang half a dozen departments trying to locate him, then gave it up in disgust.
By noon he had become alarmed and sent a car to Stormgren’s house. Ten minutes later he was startled by the scream of a siren, and a police patrol came racing up Roosevelt Drive. The news agencies must have had friends in that vehicle, for even as Van Ryberg watched it approach, the radio was telling the world that he was no longer merely Assistant, but Acting-Secretary-General of the United Nations.
* * *
Had Van Ryberg had fewer troubles on his hands, he would have found it entertaining to study the Press reactions to Stormgren’s disappearance. For the past month, the world’s papers had divided themselves into two sharply defined groups. The Western press, on the whole, approved of Karellen’s plan to make all men citizens of the world. The Eastern countries, on the other hand, were undergoing violent but largely synthetic spasms of national pride. Some of them had been independent for little more than a generation, and felt that they had been cheated out of their gains. Criticism of the Overlords was widespread and energetic; after an initial period of extreme caution, the Press had quickly found that it could be as rude to Karellen as it liked and nothing would happen. Now it was excelling itself.
Most of these attacks, though very vocal, were not representative of the great mass of the people. Along the frontiers that would soon be gone forever the guards had been doubled, but the soldiers eyed each other with a still inarticulate friendliness. The politicians and the generals might storm and rave, but the silently waiting millions felt that, none too soon, a long and bloody chapter of history was coming to an end.
And now Stormgren had gone, no one knew where. The tumult suddenly subsided as the world realised that it had lost the only man through whom the Overlords, for their own strange reasons, would speak to Earth. A paralysis seemed to descend upon press and radio commentators; but in the silence could be heard the voice of the Freedom League, anxiously protesting its innocence.
* * *
It was utterly dark when Stormgren awoke. For a moment he was too sleepy to realise how strange that was. Then, as full consciousness dawned, he sat up with a start and felt for the switch beside his bed.
In the darkness his hand encountered a bare stone wall, cold to the touch. He froze instantly, mind and body paralysed by the impact of the unexpected. Then, scarcely believing his senses, he kneeled on the bed and began to explore with his finger-tips that shockingly unfamiliar wall.
He had been doing this only for a moment when there was a sudden click and a section of the darkness slid aside. He caught a glimpse of a man silhouetted against a dimly lit background; then the door closed again and the darkness returned. It happened so swiftly that he had no chance to see anything of the room in which he was lying.
An instant later, he was dazzled by the light of a powerful electric torch. The beam flickered across his face, held him steadily for a moment, then dipped to illuminate the whole bed — which was, he now saw, nothing more than a mattress supported on rough planks.
Out of the darkness a soft voice spoke to him in excellent English, but with an accent which Stormgren could not at first identify.
“Ah, Mr Secretary — I’m glad to see you’re awake. I hope you feel quite all right.”
There was something about the last sentence that caught Stormgren’s attention, so that the angry questions he had been about to ask died upon his lips. He stared back into the darkness, then replied calmly: “How long have I been unconscious?”
The other chuckled.
“Several days. We were promised there’d be no after-effects. I’m glad to see it’s true.”
Partly to gain time, partly to test his own reactions, Stormgren swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was still wearing his night-clothes, but they were badly crumpled and seemed to have gathered considerable dirt. As he moved he felt a slight dizziness — not enough to be unpleasant but sufficient to convince him that he had indeed been drugged.
He turned towards the light.
“Where am I?” he said sharply. “Does Wainwright know about this?”
“Now, don’t get excited,” replied the shadowy figure. “We won’t talk about that sort of thing yet. I guess you’re pretty hungry. Get dressed and come along to dinner.”
The oval of light slipped across the room and for the first time Stormgren had an idea of its dimensions. It was scarcely a room at all, for the walls seemed bare rock, roughly smoothed into shape. He realised that he was underground, possibly at a great depth. And if he had been unconscious for several days, he might be anywhere on Earth.
The torchlight illuminated a pile of clothes draped over a packing-case.
“This should be enough for you,” said the voice from the darkness. “Laundry’s rather a problem here, so we grabbed a couple of your suits and half a dozen shirts.”
“That,” said Stormgren without humour, “was very considerate of you.”
“We’re sorry about the absence of furniture and electric light. This place is convenient in some ways, but it rather lacks amenities.”
“Convenient for what?” asked Stormgren as he climbed into a shirt. The feel of the familiar cloth beneath his fingers was strangely reassuring.
“Just — convenient,” said the voice. “And by the way, since we’re likely to spend a good deal of time together, you’d better call me Joe.”
“Despite your nationality,” retorted Stormgren, “— you’re Polish, aren’t you? — I think I could pronounce your real name. It won’t be worse than many Finnish ones.”
There was a slight pause and the light flickered for an instant.
“Well, I should have expected it,” said Joe resignedly. “You must have plenty of practice at this sort of thing.”
“It’s a useful hobby for a man in my position. At a guess I should say you were brought up in the United States but didn’t leave Poland until…”
“That,” said Joe firmly, “is quite enough. As you seem to have finished dressing — thank you.”
The door opened as Stormgren walked towards it, feeling mildly elated by his small victory. As Joe stood aside to let him pass, he wondered if his captor was armed. Almost certainly he would be, and in any case he would have friends around.
The corridor was dimly lit by oil lamps at intervals, and for the first time Stormgren could see Joe clearly. He was a man of about fifty, and must have weighed well over two hundred pounds. Everything about him was outsize, from the stained battledress that might have come from any of half a dozen armed forces, to the startlingly large signet ring on his left band. A man built on this scale probably would not bother to carry a gun. It should not be difficult to trace him, thought Stormgren, if he ever got out of this place. He was a little depressed to realise that Joe must also be perfectly well aware of this fact.
The walls around them, though occasionally faced with concrete, were mostly bare rock. It was clear to Stormgren that he was in some disused mine, and he could think of few more effective prisons. Until now the fact of his kidnapping had failed to worry him greatly. He had felt that, whatever happened, the immense resources of the Overlords would soon locate and rescue him. Now he was not so sure. He had already been gone several days — and nothing had happened. There must be a limit even to Karellen’s power, and if he were indeed buried in some remote continent, all the science of the Overlords might be unable to trace him.
There were two other men sitting at the table in the bare, dim
ly lit room. They looked up with interest, and more than a little respect, as Stormgren entered. One of them pushed across a bundle of sandwiches which Stormgren accepted eagerly. Though he felt extremely hungry, he could have done with a more interesting meal, but it was very obvious that his captors had dined no better.
As he ate, he glanced quickly at the three men around him.
Joe was by far the most outstanding character, and not merely in the matter of physical bulk. The others were clearly his assistants — nondescript individuals, whose origins Stormgren would be able to place when he heard them talk.
Some wine had been produced in a not-too-aseptic glass, and Stormgren washed down the last of the sandwiches.
Feeling now more fully in command of the situation, he turned to the huge Pole.
“Well,” he said evenly, “perhaps you’ll tell me what all this is about, and just what you hope to get out of it.”
Joe cleared his throat.
“I’d like to make one thing straight,” he said. “This is nothing to do with Wainwright. He’ll be as surprised as anyone.”
Stormgren had half expected this, though he wondered why Joe was confirming his suspicions. He had long suspected the existence of an extremist movement inside — or on the frontiers of — the Freedom League.
“As a matter of interest,” he said, “how did you kidnap me?”
He hardly expected a reply to this, and was somewhat taken aback by the other’s readiness — even eagerness — to answer.
“It was all rather like a Hollywood thriller,” said Joe cheerfully. “We weren’t sure if Karellen kept a watch on you, so we took somewhat elaborate precautions. You were knocked out by gas in the air-conditioner — that was easy. Then, we carried you out into the car — no trouble at all. All this, I might say, wasn’t done by any of our people. We hired — er — professionals for the job. Karellen may get them — in fact, he’s supposed to — but he’ll be no wiser. When it left your house, the car drove into a long road tunnel not a thousand kilometres from New York. It came out again on schedule at the opposite end, still carrying a drugged man extraordinarily like the Secretary-General. Quite a while later a large truck loaded with metal cases emerged in the opposite direction and drove to a certain airfield where the cases were loaded aboard a freighter on perfectly legitimate business. I’m sure the owners of those cases would be horrified to know how we employed them.
Childhood's End Page 3
