When the Five Moons Rise

by Jack Vance

  Circumbright grunted, loaded his pipe. “Perhaps we’ll find that out, along with the other things.”

  “Perhaps. Already I begin to look at life and existence from another viewpoint.”

  Laurie looked worried. “I thought things were just the same.”

  “Fundamentally, yes. But this feeling of power—of not being tied down—” Shorn laughed. “Don’t look at each other like that. I’m not dangerous. I’m only a Telek by courtesy. And now, where can we get three pressure suits?”

  “At this time of night? I don’t know.”

  “No matter. I’m a Telek. We’ll get them. Provided of course you’d like to visit the Moon. All-expense tour, courtesy of Adlari Dominion. Laurie, would you like to fly up, fast as light, fast as thought, stand in the Earthshine, on the lip of Erastosthenes, looking out over the Mare Imbrium?”

  She laughed uneasily. “I’d love it, Will. But...I’m scared.”

  “What about you, Gorman?”

  “No. You two go. There’ll be other chances for me.”

  Laurie jumped to her feet. Her cheeks were pink, her mouth was red and half open in excitement. Shorn looked at her with a sudden new vision. “Very well, Gorman. Tomorrow you can start your experiments. Tonight—”

  Laurie found herself picked up, carried out through the window.

  “Tonight,” said Shorn by her side, “we’ll pretend that we’re souls— happy souls—exploring the universe.”

  Circumbright lived in a near-abandoned suburb to the north of Tran. His house was a roomy old antique, rearing like a balky horse over the Meyne River. Big industrial plants blocked the sky in all directions; the air reeked with foundry fumes, sulfur, chlorine, tar, burnt-earth smells.

  Within, the house was cheerful and untidy. Circumbright’s wife was a tall, strange woman who worked ten hours a day in her studio, sculpturing dogs and horses. Shorn had met her only once; so far as he knew she had no interest or even awareness of Circumbright’s anti-Telek activities.

  He found Circumbright basking in the sun, watching the brown river water roil past. He sat on a little porch he had built apparently for no other purpose but this.

  Shorn dropped a small cloth sack in his lap. “Souvenirs.”

  Circumbright opened the bag unhurriedly, pulled out a handful of stones, each tagged with a card label. He looked at the first, hefted it. “Agate.” He read the label. “ ‘Mars.’ Well, well.” A bit of black rock was next. “Gabbro? From—let’s see. ‘ Gannymede .’ My word, you wandered far afield.” He shot a bland blue glance up at Shorn. “Telekinesis seems to have agreed with you. You’ve lost that haggard, hunted expression. Perhaps I’ll have to become a Telek myself.”

  “You don’t look haggard and hunted. Quite the reverse.”

  Circumbright returned to the rocks. “Pumice. From the Moon, I suppose.” He read the label. “No—Venus. You made quite a trip.”

  Shorn looked up into the sky. “Rather hard to describe. There’s naturally a feeling of loneliness. Darkness. Something like a dream. Out on a Ganymede we were standing on a ridge, obsidian, sharp as a razor. Jupiter filled a third of the sky, the red spot right in the middle, looking at us. There was a pink and blue dimness. Peculiar. Black rock, the big bright planet. It was.. .weird. I thought, suppose the power fails me now, suppose we can’t get home? It gave me quite a chill.”

  “You seem to have made it.”

  “Yes, we made it.” Shorn seated himself, thrust out his legs. “I’m not hunted and haggard, but I’m confused. Two days ago I thought I had a good grasp on my convictions—.”

  “And now?”

  “Now—I don’t know.”

  “About what?”

  “About our efforts. Their ultimate effect, assuming we’re successful.”

  “Hm-m-m.” Circumbright rubbed his chin. “Do you still want to submit to experiments?”

  “Of course. I want to know why and how telekinesis works.”

  “When will you be ready?”

  “Whenever you wish.”

  “Now?”

  “Why not? Let’s get started.”

  “As soon as you’re ready, we’ll try encephalographs as a starting point.”

  Circumbright was tired. His face, normally pink and cherubic, sagged; filling his pipe, his fingers trembled.

  Shorn leaned back in the leather chaise lounge, regarded Cir- cumbright with mild curiosity. “Why are you so upset?”

  Circumbright gave the litter of paper on the workbench a contemptuous flick of the fingers. “It’s the cursed inadequacy of the technique, the instruments. Trying to paint miniatures with a whisk broom, fix a watch with a pipe wrench. There”—he pointed—“encephalograms. Every lobe of your brain. Photographs—by x-ray, by planar section, by metabolism triggering. We’ve measured your energy flow so closely that if you tossed me a paper clip I’d find it on paper somewhere.”

  “And there’s what?”

  “Nothing suggestive. Wavy lines on the encephalograms. Increased oxygen absorption. Pineal tumescence. All gross by-products of whatever is happening.”

  Shorn yawned and stretched. “About as we expected.”

  Circumbright nodded heavily. “As we expected.”

  VII

  In Laurie’s apartment on upper Martinvelt, Shorn and Circumbright sat drinking coffee.

  Circumbright was unaccustomedly nervous and consulted his watch at five-minute intervals.

  Shorn watched quizzically. “Who are you expecting?”

  Circumbright glanced quickly, guiltily, around the room. “I suppose there’s no spy-beetle anywhere close.”

  “Not according to the detector cell.”

  “I’m waiting for the messenger. A man called Luby, from East Shore.”

  “I don’t think I know him.”

  “You’d remember him if you did ”

  Laurie said, “I think I hear him now.”

  She went to the door, slid it back. Luby came into the room, quiet as a cat. He was a man of forty who looked no more than seventeen. His skin was clear gold, his features chiseled and handsome, his hair a close cap of tight bronze curls. Shorn thought of the Renaissance Italians—Cesare Borgia, Lorenzo Medici.

  Circumbright made introductions which Luby acknowledged with a nod of the head and a lambent look; then he took Circumbright aside, muttered in a rapid flow of syllables.

  Circumbright raised his eyebrows, asked a question; Luby shook his head, responded impatiently. Circumbright nodded, and without another word Luby left the room, as quietly as he had entered.

  “There’s a high-level meeting—policy-makers-—out at Portinari Gate. We’re wanted.” He rose to his feet, stood indecisively a moment. “I suppose we had better be going.”

  Shorn went to the door, looked out into the corridor. “Luby moves quietly. Isn’t it unusual to concentrate top minds in a single meeting?”

  “Unprecedented. I suppose it’s something important.”

  Shorn thought a moment. “Perhaps it would be better to say nothing of my new.. .achievements.”

  “Very well.”

  They flew north through the night, into the foothills, and Lake Paienza spread like a dark blot below, rimmed by the lights of Portinari.

  Portinari Gate was a rambling inn six hundred years old, high on a hillside, overlooking lake and town. They dropped to the soft turf in the shadow of great pines, walked to the back entrance.

  Circumbright knocked, and they felt a quiet scrutiny.

  The door opened, an iron-faced woman with a halo of iron-gray hair stood facing them. “What do you want?”

  Circumbright muttered a password; silently she stepped back. Shorn felt her wary scrutiny as he and Laurie entered the room.

  A brown-skinned man with black eyes and gold rings in his ears flipped up a hand. “Hello, Circumbright.”

  “Hello...Thursby, this is Will Shorn, Laurita Chelmsford.”

  Shorn inspected the brown man with interest. The Great Thursby, rumored co
ordinator of the world-wide anti-Telek underground.

  There were others in the room, sitting quietly, watchfully. Circumbright nodded to one or two, then took Shorn and Laurie to the side.

  “I’m surprised,” he said. “The brains of the entire movement are here.” He shook his head. “Rather ticklish.”

  Shorn felt of the detector. “No spy-cells.”

  More people gathered, until possibly fifty men and women occupied the room. Among the last to enter was the young old Luby.

  A stocky dark-skinned man rose to his feet. “This meeting is a

  departure from our previous methods, and I hope it won’t be necessary again for a long time.”

  Circumbright whispered to Shorn, “That’s Kasselbarg, European Post.”

  Kasselbarg swung a slow glance around the room. “We’re starting a new phase of the campaign. Our first was organizational; we built a world-wide underground, a communication system, set up a ladder of command. Now—the second stage; preparation for our eventual action.. .which, of course, will constitute the third stage.

  “We all know the difficulties under which we work; since we can’t hold up a clear and present danger, our government is not sympathetic to us, and in many cases actively hostile—especially in the persons of suborned police officials. Furthermore, we’re under the compulsion of striking an absolutely decisive blow on our first sally. There won’t be a second chance for us. The Teleks must be”—he paused—“they must be killed. It’s a course toward which we all feel an instinctive revulsion, but any other course bares us to the incalculable power of the Teleks. Now, any questions, any comments?”

  Shorn, compelled by a sudden pressure he only dimly understood, rose to his feet. “I don’t want to turn the movement into a debating society—but there’s another course where killing is unnecessary. It erases the need of the decisive blow, it gives us a greater chance of success.”

  “Naturally,” said Kasselbarg mildly, “I’d like to hear your plan.”

  “No operation, plan it as carefully as you will, can guarantee the death of every Telek. And those who aren’t killed may go crazy in anger and fear; I can picture a hundred million deaths, five hundred million, a billion deaths in the first few seconds after the operation starts—but does not quite succeed.”

  Kasselbarg nodded. “The need for a hundred percent coup is emphatic. The formulation of such a plan will constitute Phase Two, of which I just now spoke. We certainly can’t proceed on any basis other than a ninety-nine percent probability of fulfillment.”

  The iron-faced woman spoke. “There are four thousand Teleks, more or less. Here on Earth ten thousand people die every day. Killing the Teleks seems a small price to pay for security against absolute tyranny. It’s either act now, while we have limited freedom of choice, or dedicate the human race to slavery for as long into the future as we can imagine.”

  Shorn looked around the faces in the room. Laurie was sympathetic; Circumbright looked away uncomfortably; Thursby frowned thoughtfully; Kasselbarg waited with courteous deference.

  “Everything you say is true,” Shorn said. “I would be the most ruthless of us all, if these four thousand deaths did not rob the human race of the most precious gift it possesses. Telekinesis to date has been misused; the Teleks have been remarkable for their selfishness and egotism. But in

  reacting to the Telek’s mistakes, we should not make mistakes on our own.”

  Thursby said in a cool, clear voice, “What is your concrete proposal, Mr. Shorn?”

  “I believe we should dedicate ourselves, not to killing Teleks, but to giving telekinesis to every sane man and woman.”

  A small red-haired man sneered. “The ancient fallacy, privilege for the chosen ones—in this case, the sane.”

  Shorn smiled. “Better than privilege—of this kind—for the insane. But let me return to my fundamental proposition: that taking telekinesis out of monopoly and broadcasting it is a better solution to the problem than killing Teleks. One way is up, the other down; building versus destruction. In one direction we put mankind at its highest potential for achievement; in the other we have four thousand dead Teleks, if our plan succeeds. Always latent is the possibility of a devastated world.”

  Thursby said, “You’re convincing, Mr. Shorn. But aren’t you operating on the unproved premise that universal telekinesis is a possibility? Killing the Teleks seems to be easier than persuading them to share their power; we’ve got to do one or the other.”

  Shorn shook his head. “There are at least two methods to create Teleks. The first is slow and a long-range job: that is, duplicating the conditions that produced the first Teleks. The second is much easier, quicker, and, I believe, safer. I have good reason for—” he stopped short. A faint buzzing, a vibration in his pocket.

  The detector.

  He turned to Luby, who stood by the door. “Turn out the lights! There’s a Telek spy-cell nearby! Out with the lights, or we’re all done for.”

  Luby hesitated. Shorn cursed under his breath. Thursby rose to his feet, startled and tense. “What’s going on?”

  There was a pounding at the door. “Open up, in the name of the

  law.”

  Shorn looked at the windows: the tough vitripane burst out; the windows were wide open. “Quick, out the window!”

  Circumbright said in a voice of deadly passion, “Somewhere there’s a traitor—.”

  A man in black and gold appeared at the window with a heat-gun. “Out the door,” he bellowed. “You can’t get away, the place is surrounded. Move out the door in an orderly fashion; move out the door. You’re all under arrest. Don’t try to break for it; our orders are to shoot to kill.”

  Circumbright sidled close to Shorn. “Can’t you do something?”

  “Not here. Wait till we’re all outside; we don’t want anyone shot.”

  Two burly troopers appeared in the doorway, gestured with pistols. “Outside, everybody. Keep your hands up.”

  Thursby led the way, his face thoughtful. Shorn followed; behind

  came the others. They marched into the parking area, now flooded with light from police lamps.

  “Stop right there,” barked a new voice.

  Thursby halted. Shorn squinted against the searchlight; he saw a dozen men standing in a circle around them.

  “This is a catch and no mistake,” muttered Thursby.

  “Quiet! No talking.”

  “Better search them for weapons,” came another new voice. Shorn recognized the dry phrasing, the overtones of careless contempt. Adlari Dominion.

  Two Black and Golds walked through the group, making a quick search.

  A mocking voice came from behind the searchlights. “Isn’t that Colonel Thursby, the people’s hero? What’s he doing in this nasty little conspiracy?”

  Thursby stared ahead with an immobile face. The red-haired man who had challenged Shorn cried to the unseen voice: “You Telek bootlicker, may the money they pay rot the hands off your wrists!”

  “Easy, Walter,” said Circumbright.

  Thursby spoke toward the lights. “Are we under arrest?”

  There was no answer, only a contemptuous silence.

  Thursby repeated in a sharper tone: “Are we under arrest? I want to see your warrant; 1 want to know what we’re charged with.”

  “You’re being taken to headquarters for questioning,” came the reply. “Behave yourselves; if you’ve committed no crime, there’ll be no charge.”

  “We’ll never reach headquarters,” Circumbright muttered to Shorn. Shorn nodded grimly, staring into the lights, seeking Dominion. Would he recognize the Cluche Kurgill whom he had invested with Telek power?

  The voice called out, “Were you contemplating resistance to arrest? Go ahead. Make it easy on us.”

  There was motion in the group, a swaying as if from the wind that moved the tops of the dark pine trees.

  The voice said, “Very well, then, march forward, one at a time. You first, Thursby.”<
br />
  Thursby turned slowly, like a bull, followed the trooper who walked ahead waving a flashlight.

  Circumbright muttered to Shorn, “Can’t you do something?”

  “Not while Dominion is out there—.”

  “Silence!”

  One by one the group followed Thursby. An air barge loomed ahead, the rear hatch gaping like the mouth of a cave.

  “Up the ramp; inside.”

  The hold was a bare, metal-walled cargo space. The door clanged shut, and the fifty captives stood in sweating silence.

  Thursby’s voice came from near the wall. “A clean sweep. Did they get everybody?”

  Circumbright answered in a carefully toneless voice. “So far as I know.”

  “This will set the movement back ten years,” said another voice, controlled but tremulous.

  “More likely destroy it entirely.”

  “But—what can they convict us of? We’re guilty of nothing they can prove.”

  Thursby snorted. “We’ll never get to Tran. My guess is gas.”

  “Gas?”—a horrified whisper.

  “Poison gas pumped through the ventilator. Then out to sea, drop us, and no one’s the wiser. Not even ‘killed while escaping.’ Nothing.”

  The aircraft vibrated, rose into the air; under their feet was the soft feeling of air-borne flight.

  Shorn called out softly, “Circumbright?”

  “Right here.”

  “Make a light.”

  A paper torch cast a yellow flicker around the hold; faces glowed pale and damp as toad-bellies; eyes glared and reflected in the flare of the torch.

  The row of ports was well shuttered, the hand keys were replaced by bolts. Shorn turned his attention to the door. He should be able to break it open. But the problem was new; in a sense this bulging open of a door was a concept several times more advanced than movement of a single object, no matter how large. There was also a psychological deterrent in the fact that the door was locked. What would happen if he attempted to telekinecize and nothing happened? Would he retain his power?

  Thursby was standing with his ear to the ventilator. He turned, nodded. “Here it comes, I can hear the hiss....”