Dawnman Planet up-2

by Mack Reynolds

  Dawnman Planet

  ( United Planets - 2 )

  Mack Reynolds

  Dawnman Planet

  by Mack Reynolds

  PART ONE

  I

  Supervisor Sid Jakes was in fine fettle. As his men inspected the papers of the VIPs at the door and finally ushered them into the highly guarded room, he took over and pleasured himself in presenting the exhibit.

  The exhibit was in a square box which resembled a combination coffin and deep freeze, which is exactly what it was. The exhibit itself was a small charred creature about the size of a monkey or rabbit. However, signs of clothing or harness could be made out, and what would seem to be side arms.

  The routine went almost identically with each visitor. At the door, Ronny Bronston, or one of the other Section G operatives, would finish the identification and call out such as, “Sidi Hassen, Hereditary Democratic-Dictator of the Free-wealth of the Planet Medina.”

  The ruler of Medina would come forward, invariably blank of face; and with a gesture, as though presenting his most valued possession, Sid Jakes would indicate the exhibit.

  The Section G agents had come to expect the same initial reaction each time.

  It was: “What is it?”

  Sid Jakes would grin happily, but hold his peace.

  The VIP, his eyes probably bugging by now, would say, in absolute astonishment: “Why, it’s an alien life form!”

  The sharper ones would sometimes say, that first time: “It’s an intelligent alien life form!”

  Supervisor Jakes let them remain long enough to realize the full significance of the badly burned, deep-frozen carcass; then, invariably stemming a flow of questions, he would usher the VIP to an opposite door, where other Section G operatives took over.

  The secret room cleared, they would begin all over again.

  “His All Holiness, Innocency the Sixteenth, Presidor of the Holy Theocracy of the Planet Byzantium.”

  His All Holiness would step forward and gape in turn at the charred body of the tiny creature. “It’s an intelligent alien life form! But there is no intelligent life in the galaxy, save Created man!”

  There was only one break in the routine.

  Ronny Bronston had been standing to one side for the nonce, while his two companions guarding the door processed the latest arrival.

  One of them began to say, “The Supreme Matriarch Harriet Dos Passos of the Planet…”

  Ronny snapped “She’s a fake!”

  The newcomer darted in the direction of the freezer box which contained the alien carcass, yelling. “I’ve got a right…”

  Ronny put out a foot, cold-bloodedly, and she went down, arms and legs going every which way.

  “Sorry, lady,” he said. “Admission is by invitation only.”

  “Get her, boys” Sid Jakes snapped, coming forward quickly himself. Ronny and the other two grabbed for the intruder.

  But she was made of sterner stuff than they had assumed.

  She rolled, bounced to her feet and scrambled toward the freezer.

  She stared into its interior, eyes bugging as all eyes had bugged that morning. Finally, she turned and faced them, her expression unbelieving, as all expressions had been unbelieving. She turned to face four cold faces, four leveled Model H hand weapons.

  Sid Jakes said, “If she makes one move, any move at all, muffle her.” He grinned at the intruder. “That was bad luck for you, the fact that you managed to see it, you silly flat. Do you think we’d go to this much security if it wasn’t ultra-important? Now, let’s have it. You’re obviously not Harriet Dos Passos. Who are you, how’d you get here, and who sent you?”

  The other snapped, her voice not as yet shaky, “I’m Rita Daniels, from Interplanetary News. That’s the corpse of an intelligent alien life form in there. I’m not stupid. There isn’t supposed to be other intelligent life in the galaxy. Our viewers have a right to know what’s going on here in the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs. United Planets is a democratic…”

  Sid Jakes interrupted, still grinning “You’d be surprised, my stute friend. Now, once again, who sent you?”

  “My editor, of course. I demand…”

  Sid Jakes made a gesture with his head at one of the Section G operatives. “Terry, take her over to Interrogation. Use Scop…”

  The news-hen bleated protest, which was completely ignored.

  “… to find out the names of every person who might remotely know about this romp of hers. The editor, possibly her husband, if she has one, the editor’s wife, secretaries, fellow reporters, absolutely everybody. Then send out men to round up every one of these. In turn, put them on Scop and get the names of everyone they might have mentioned this to.”

  “How far do we follow it, Sid?” the agent, named Terry asked.

  Sid Jakes laughed wryly, as though the question were foolish. “To the ultimate. Even though you wind up with everybody in Interplanetary News in Interrogation. We’ve got to have everybody who even suspects, or might possibly suspect, the existence of our little friend, here.” He made a gesture with a thumb at the alien in its box.

  The agent nodded, then asked one last question: “After interrogation, what?”

  Sid Jakes said flatly, “Then well have to memorywash her. Completely wash out this involved period, no matter how far back you have to go.”

  The newswoman shrilled. “You can’t do that! Under United Planets law, I’ve got…”

  Ronny Bronston shook his head at her. “You’re not in the hands of United Planets, in the ordinary sense of the word, girl friend. You’re in the hands of Section G.”

  “But you’re a section of the Bureau of Investigation, Department of Justice of the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs! I have my rights!”

  Sid Jakes didn’t bother to argue. He said to his other operative, “Get about it, Terry. This is bad. On your way over to Interrogation, if she makes any attempt to break away, muffle her, but tune your gun low. We don’t want her out for too long. She probably had no idea of what she was looking for, when she broke in here. Somewhere there was a leak, we’ve got to find the source of her knowledge that something was coming off. But, above all, we’ve got to prevent her from spreading what she saw.”

  Terry said, “Right, Sid. Come along! You heard the Supervisor. One wrong move and you’re muffled; and, believe me, it hurts.”

  Rita Daniel’s last protest, as she was marched out the door, was shrilled back over her shoulder. “You… can’t…do…”

  “Famous last words.” Sid Jakes grinned at his two remaining men. “Come on boys, let’s finish. There’s only a few more to go.” He looked at Ronny approvingly. “That was a neat trick. How did you spot her?”

  Ronny snorted deprecation. “She was too romantic. She was wearing makeup disguise, trying to resemble the real Matriarch. She’d have been better off altering the Tri-Di identification portrait in the credentials. We have no record of what the real Dos Passos looks like. She just recently came to office.”

  They processed the remaining VIPs, then sealed the secret room and put it under armed guard.

  Sid Jakes and Ronny Bronston, one of his favorite field men, went on to the conference hall, where they had been sending the viewers of the exhibition.

  “Where’s the Chief?” Ronny asked. He was what could only be described as a very average man. It was one of his prime attributes as a Section G operative. He was of average height and weight. His face was pleasant enough, though hardly handsome—a somewhat colorless young man of about thirty. He was less than natty in dress and his hair had a slightly undisciplined trend. He had dark hair and brown eyes, and he absolutely never stood out in a crowd.

  He was also as devoted an agen
t as was to be found in Section G, whose personnel was selected on the basis of devotion to the United Planets dream.

  Sid Jakes, walking along beside him—bouncing along, might be the better term—couldn’t have been more different. Even his clothes breathed a happy-go-lucky air. He had a nervous vitality about him that made all others seem lazy of movement. But his appearance was as belying as that of Ronny Bronston; one does not achieve to the rank of supervisor in Section G without abilities far and beyond usual.

  Sid said, grunting amusement, “The old man’s in hiding until the time comes for the big revelation. He’s not about to get into that hive of big shots and let them yell at him at random. I’ll have Irene give him the word when all’s ready.”

  The selected men of importance of United Planets had been gathered in an Octagon ultra-security conference room, which had been adjusted to hold the full two thousand of them. Comfortable seating arrangements and refreshment, both food and drink, had been provided. However, there was absolutely no method by which any, no matter of what importance, could communicate with the outside.

  The doors were guarded by empty-faced Section G agents, under most strict orders. Polite they were, when this president or that dictator, this scientific genius, or that head of a fanatic religious system, demanded exit or some manner of communicating with family or staff. Polite they were, but unbending. When a burly bully-boy, from the feudalistic planet Goshen, tried to be physical, a short scuffle was sufficient to demonstrate that Section G training included hand-to-hand combat.

  Irene Kasansky was seated, efficient as ever, at a desk near the podium. She was answering questions, briskly issuing commands into her order box, when requests involved preferred refreshment or other minor matters, which didn’t interfere with the security of the meeting.

  There comes a time, Ronny Bronston thought all over again, when automation falls flat and man returns to human labor. In this case, the ultra-efficient office secretary-receptionist. For spinster, Irene Kasansky might be, on the verge of middle age she might be, and unfortunately plain—but she was also by far the best secretary in the Octagon.

  Now she snarled from the side of her mouth. “It’s about time you got here. I’ve been through more jetsam, these past few hours, than I’ve had in the past few years managing Ross Metaxa’s office. And I thought that was the ultimate. Where have you been, playing dice?”

  Sid grinned down at her. “Don’t be bitter, dear. You’ll get wrinkles and an acid-looking face, and then everyone will stop propositioning you. All’s ready to go. Pry the old man away from that bottle of Denebian tequila and let’s let loose the dogs of war.”

  He turned and bounded to the speaker’s stand. Holding up his hands, he called: “Gentlemen, gentlemen, ladies. Can we all be seated? The meeting is about to commence.”

  He held silence then, until all was quiet, which took some time, considering the fact that the most highly individualistic persons in United Planets were gathered before him.

  Sid Jakes grinned finally, as though finding the whole thing amusing, and said, “Undoubtedly, you have been spending the better part of the morning discussing among yourselves the significance of the little creature I displayed to you. But now we shall hear from Commissioner Ross Metaxa.”

  “Who in the name of the Holy Ultimate is Ross Metaxa?” someone rumbled.

  And someone else snapped, indignantly, “You have taken His name in vain!” The latter worthy was dressed in colorful and flowing robes.

  “Please, gentlemen, please,” Sid shouted above again rising voices. “Commissioner Ross Metaxa!” He jumped down from the dais and grinned at Ronny.

  “The old man can have this job,” he chortled. “Every crackpot genius in this section of the galaxy is out there.”

  Ross Metaxa came in through an inconspicuous door in the rear of the room, immediately behind the speaker’s stand. Eyebrows went up. He was flanked by the Director of the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs—as high an officer as United Planets provided; and by the President of United Planets—a largely honorary office chosen by interplanetary vote. Once every ten years, each member planet was entitled to one voice, in selecting the president. Metaxa did not seem to be awed by his companions, but rather was obviously accompanied by peers.

  Sid chuckled from the side of his mouth. “The old man’s hanging it on heavy.”

  “He knows what he’s doing,” Ronny whispered back. “He’s going to have hard enough a time as it is, getting this assembly to listen to his opinions.”

  The Director and the President took chairs off to one side, and Metaxa made his way to the podium. He was a man in his middle years, sour of expression, weighty around the waist, and sloppily clothed to the point where it would seem an affectation.

  The voices of the two thousand had begun to rise again, questioning, querulous.

  Ross Metaxa glowered out at them for a long moment. Finally he growled, “All right, damn it, let’s cut out all this jetsam and get down to matters.”

  There was an immediate hush of shocked surprise.

  Before an indignant hum could rise again, the Commissioner of Section G announced brusquely: “Ladies and gentlemen, to use an idiomatic term of yesteryear, the human race is in the clutch.”

  II

  Someone in the first row of the audience snorted ridicule and called up, “Because of that little creature in there? Don’t be a flat!”

  The Commissioner of Section G looked at him bleakly. “It should occur, even to the physically conscious Grand Duke of the Planet Romanoff, that the size of the creature in question has nothing to do with it.” He tapped his head significantly. “It is what is in here that brought us up short. You see, the little fellow was picked up by one of our Space Forces scouts well over a century ago.”

  “A century!” one of his listeners bleated. “And we are only informed today?”

  A buzz began again, but Metaxa held up a wary hand. “Please. That is one of the things I am here to explain. Our little alien was found in what could have only been a one-man fighter scout. He was dead, his craft blasted and torn, obviously from some weapon’s fire. His own vessel was highly equipped with what could only have been weapons: most so damaged, our engineers have yet to figure them out. To the extent they have been able to reconstruct them, they’ve been flabbergasted.

  “The conclusions are obvious. Our intelligent alien, in there, was killed in an interplanetary conflict. How long he had been drifting in space, our technicians couldn’t determine, possibly only for months, but possibly for any number of centuries. But the important thing is that there was at least one other warlike, aggressive life form in the galaxy, besides man. Probably, at least two, since it was interplanetary war, which killed our specimen.”

  The buzz rose again, and was not to be silenced for a time. Ross Metaxa stood and waited it out. But they were anxious for his revelations and finally silence ruled.

  He dropped another bomb.

  “But we no longer need fear our friend in the other room. Man is in no danger from him and his species.”

  That set them off once more, but he held firm in silence until they quit their shouting of questions, their inter-audience squabblings, chattering and debate.

  At last he held up a hand, and said, “Let me leave that statement for a time. Let me lay a foundation upon which to base what we must discuss today.”

  He looked out at them, thoughtfully. “Most of you are going to have some reservations about what I have to say.

  “Fellow citizens of United Planets: When man first began to erupt into the stars, but a few centuries ago, his travels assumed a form that few could have foreseen. All but lemming-like, he streamed from the planet of his origin. And the form his colonizing took, soon lost all scheme of planning, all discipline. The fact was that any group that could float the wherewithal to buy or rent a space transport, or convert a freighter, could take off into the stars to found their own version of Utopia.

  “And t
ake off they did, without rhyme or reason. No, I recall that statement. Reasons they had aplenty: Racial reasons, religious reasons, political reasons, idealistic reasons, romantic reasons, socio-economic reasons, altruistic reasons and mercenary reasons. In a way, I suppose we duplicated, a hundredfold, the motivations the Europeans found to colonize the New World. The Spanish came with sword and harquebus in search of gold, ready to slaughter all who stood before them. The Pilgrims came to seek a new land, where they could practice a somewhat stilted religion, in a manner denied them at home. Large numbers of criminals came, either as convicts being exiled or fugitives from justice. Adventurers of every type zeroed-in, seeking their fortunes. Later, large numbers of Germans came, fleeing political persecution, and large numbers of Irish, fleeing famine.”

  Ross Metaxa grunted, and flicked his heavy head. “And so it was in space. And in the early years, in particular, there was comparatively little friction. The galaxy is immense, and thus far, we have but touched a slightest segment of it. We are way out in a sparsely populated spiral arm, but there are still inhabitable planets in vast multitude and room for all. Every spacer-load of idealists or crackpots could safely find their habitable planet and settle down to go to hell in their own way.”

  There was a mumble of discontent over the manner in which he was expressing himself, but he went on, ignoring the objections.

  “However, in time, some of our more aggressive planets began to have growing pains. Planets, settled by such groups as the Amish, began to worry about their neighbors on the Planet Füehrerland. This had been settled by a disgruntled group of followers of a political leader of the 20th Century, who had come to disaster in his own time, but whose tradition came down through the years, somewhat distorted in his favor, as traditions are apt to become. Suffice to say that United Planets, based here on Mother Earth, came into being. Its purpose, of course, was obvious. To assist man in his explosion into the stars. The very basis of the organization was Articles One and Two of the United Planets Charter. Citizeness Kasansky, please.”