by Jack Vance
“Good morning, Sergeant. Any disturbance?”
“None at all, Mr. Dominion.”
“How about below?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. I’m only responsible for the interior, and I’ve had the lights on all night. Not a fly has showed itself.” “Good.” Dominion glanced around the great bowl. “If
there are no trespassers now, there won’t be any, since there’s no ground level entrance.”
He took himself and the trooper to the ground. Two other men in uniform appeared.
‘‘Good morning,” said Dominion.
‘‘Any disturbance?”
‘‘No sir. Not a sound.”
‘‘Curious.” Dominion rubbed his pale, peaked chin. ‘‘Nothing below the stadium?”
‘‘Nothing, sir. Not a nail. We've searched every nook and cranny, down to bedrock, inch by inch.”
‘‘Nothing on the detectors?”
‘‘No, sir. If a gopher had tunneled under the stadium, we'd have known it.”
Dominion nodded. ‘‘Perhaps there won't be any demonstration after all.” He stroked his chin. ‘‘My intuition is seldom at fault. But never mind. Take all your men, station them at the upper and lower ends of the valley. Allow no one to enter. No one, on any pretext whatever. Understand me?”
‘‘Yes, sir.”
‘‘Good.”
Dominion returned to the rim of the stadium, gazed around the sunny bowl. The grass was green and well cropped; the colored upholstery of the chairs made circular bands of pastel around the stadium.
He took himself through the air to the director’s cupola, an enclosed booth hanging in a vantage point over the field on a long transparent spar. He entered, seated himself at the table.
Other Teleks began to arrive, dropping like brilliant birds from the sky, settling to bask in the sunlight. Refreshment trays floated past; they sipped wine and ate spice cakes.
Dominion presently left the high cupola, drifted low over the stadium. There was no expectation of filling it; thirty thousand seats would allow room for future increase. Thirty thousand Teleks was the theoretical limit that the economy of Earth could maintain at the present standard of living. And after thirty thousand? Dominion shrugged aside the question; the problem had no contemporary meaning. The solution should prove simple enough; there had been talk of swinging Venus out into a cooler orbit, moving in Neptune, and creating two habitable worlds by transferring half of Neptune’s mantle of ice to dusty Venus. A problem for tomorrow. Today's concern was the creation of the Telek Earth State, the inculcation of religious awe into the common folk of Earth—the only means, as it had been decided, to protect Teleks from witless assassination.
He dropped into a group of friends, seated himself. His work was done for the day; now, with security achieved, he could relax, enjoy himself.
Teleks came in greater numbers. Here was a large group— fifty together. They settled into a section rather high up on the shady side, somewhat apart from the others. A few minutes later another group of fifty joined them, and later there were other similar groups.
At nine o'clock the voice of Lemand De Troller, the program director, sounded from the speakers:
“Sixty years ago, at the original Telekinetic Congress, our race was born. Today is the first annual convention of the issue of these early giants, and I hope the custom will persist down the stream of history, down the million years that is our destined future, ten million times a million years. . . ."
Circumbright and Shorn listened with dissatisfaction as De Troller announced the program. He finished with “—the final valediction by Graycham Gray, our chairman for the year.”
Circumbright said to Shorn, “There’s nothing there, no mass telekinesis in the entire program.”
Shorn said nothing. He leaned back in his seat, looked up to the director’s cupola.
“Ample opportunity for mass exercise,” complained Circumbright, “and they overlook it entirely.”
Shorn brought his attention back down from the cupola. “It’s an obvious stunt—perhaps too obvious for such a sophisticated people.”
Circumbright scanned the 265 men and women in radiant Telek costumes that Shorn had brought into the stadium. He looked over his shoulder to Thursby, in the seat behind him. “Any ideas?"
Thursby, in brown and yellow, said tentatively, “We can't very well force them to indoctrinate us."
Laurie, beside Shorn, laughed nervously. “Let's send Circumbright out to plead with them."
Shorn moved restlessly in his seat. Two hundred and sixty-five precious lives, dependent for continued existence on his skill and vigilance. “Maybe something will turn up."
A game of bumpball was underway. Five men lying prone in eight-foot red torpedoes competed against five men in blue torpedoes, each team trying to bump a floating three-foot ball into the opposition goal. The game was lightning swift, apparently dangerous. The ten little boats moved so fast as to be mere flickers; the ball slammed back and forth like a ping-pong ball.
Shorn began to notice curious glances cast up toward his group. There was no suspicion, only interest; somehow they were attracting attention. He looked around and saw his group sitting straight and tense as vestrymen at a funeral —obviously uneasy and uncomfortable. He rose to his feet,, spoke in an angry undertone, “Show a little life; act as if you’re enjoying yourselves!"
He turned back to the field, noticed a service wagon not in use, pulled it up, moved it past his charges. Gingerly they took tea, rum punch, cakes, fruit. Shorn set the case back on the turf.
The bumpball game ended; now began the water sculpture. Columns of water reared into the air: glistening, soft forms, catching the sunlight glowing deep from within.
There were other displays: the air over the stadium swam with colors, shapes, films, patterns, and so passed the morning. At noon buffet tables dropped from the sky to the stadium turf. And now Shorn found himself on the horns of a dilemma. By remaining aloof from the tables his group made themselves conspicuous; but they risked quick detection by mingling with the Teleks.
Thursby resolved the problem. He leaned forward. “Don't you think we'd better go down to lunch? Maybe a few at a time. We stick out like a sore thumb sitting up here hungry."
Shorn acquiesced. By ones and twos he set the members of his company down to the sward. Laurie nudged him. “Look. There’s Dominion. He’s talking to old Poole.’’
Circumbright in unusual agitation said, “I hope Poole keeps his wits about him.’’
Dominion turned away. A moment later Shorn brought Poole back to his seat. “What did Dominion want?’’
Poole was a scholarly-looking man of middle age, mild and myopic. “Dominion? Oh, the gentleman who spoke to me. He was very pleasant. Asked if I were enjoying the spectacles, and said that he didn’t think he recognized me.’’
“And what did you say?"
“I said I didn’t get out very much, and that there were many here I hardly knew."
“And then?"
“He just moved away."
Shorn sighed. “Dominion is very sharp."
Thursby wore a worried frown. “Things haven’t gone so well this morning."
“No. But there’s still the afternoon."
IX
Three o’clock.
“There’s not much more," said Circumbright.
Shorn sat hunched forward. “No."
Circumbright clenched the arms of his seat. “We’ve got to do something. Somehow, someway: mass telekinesis!"
Shorn looked up at the director’s cupola. “It’s got to come from there. And I’ve got to arrange it." He reached over, clasped Laurie’s hand, nodded to Thursby, rose to his feet, took himself by an inconspicuous route along the back wall, up to the transparent spar supporting the cupola. Inside he glimpsed the shapes of two men.
He slid back the door, entered quietly, froze in his footprints. Adlari Dominion, lounging back in an elastic chair, smiled up at him, ominous
as a cobra. “Come in. I’ve been expecting you."
Shorn looked quickly to Lemand De Troller, the program director, a bulky blond man with lines of self-indulgence clamping his mouth.
“How so?"
“I have a pretty fair idea of your intentions, and I admit their ingenuity. Unluckily for you, I inspected the body of Cluche Kurgill, assassinated a short time ago, and it occurred to me that this was not the man whom I entertained at Glarietta; I have since reprimanded myself for not scrutinizing the catch at Portinari Gate more carefully. In any event, today will be a complete debacle, from your standpoint. I have excised from the program any sort of business which might have helped you."
Shorn said thickly, “You showed a great deal of forebearance in allowing us to enjoy your program."
Dominion made a lazy gesture. “It’s just as well not to bring our problems too sharply to the attention of the spectators; it might lay a macabre overtone upon the festival for them to observe at close hand two hundred and sixty-five condemned anarchists and provocateurs."
“You would have been made very uncomfortable if I had not come up here to the cupola."
Dominion shook his head. “I asked myself, what would I do in your position? I answered, I would proceed to the cupola and myself direct an event such as to suit my purposes. So—I preceded you." He smiled. “And now—the sorry rebellion is at its end. The entire nucleus of your gang is within reach, helpless; if you recall, there is no exit, they have no means to scale the walls."
Shorn felt the bile rising in his throat; his voice sounded strange to his ears. “It’s not necessary to revenge yourself on all these people; they’re merely decent individuals, trying to cope with—" He spoke on, pleading half-angrily for the 265. Meanwhile, his mind worked at a survival sublevel. Dominion, no matter how lazy-seeming and catlike, was keyed-up, on his guard; there would be no surprising him.
In any struggle Lemand De Troller would supply the decisive force. Shorn might be able to parry the weapons of one man, but two cores of thought would be too much for him.
Decision and action came to him simultaneously. He gave the cupola a great shake; startled, De Troller seized the desk. Shorn threw a coffee mug at his head. Instantly, before the mug had even struck, Shorn flung himself to the floor. Dominion, seizing the instant of Shorn's distraction, aimed a gun at him, fired an explosive pellet. Shorn hit the floor, saw De Troller slump, snatched the weapon from Dominion's hand— all at once.
The gun clattered to the deck, and Shorn found himself looking into Dominion’s pale glowing eyes.
Dominion spoke in a low voice, “You’re very quick. You’ve effectively reduced the odds against yourself.” Shorn smiled. “What odds do you give me now?”
“Roughly, a thousand to one.”
“Seems to me they’re even. You against me.”
“No. I can hold you helpless, at the very least, until the program property man returns.”
Shorn slowly rose to his feet. Careful. Let no movement escape his eye. Without moving his eyes from Dominion’s he lifted the coffee mug, hurled it at Dominion’s head. Dominion diverted it, accelerated it toward Shorn. Shorn bounced it back, into Dominion’s face. It stopped only an inch short, then sprang back at Shorn’s head with tremendous speed. Shorn flicked it with a thought, he felt the breath of its passage and it shattered against the wall.
“You’re fast,” said Dominion. “Very fast, indeed. In theory, your reactions should have missed that.”
“I’ve got a theory of my own,” said Shorn.
“I’d like to hear it.”
“What happens when two minds try to teleport an object in opposing directions?”
“An exhausting matter,” said Dominion, “if carried to the limit. The mind with the greater certainty wins, the other mind .. . sometimes . . . lapses.”
Shorn stared at Dominion. “I believe my mind to be stronger than yours.”
“Suppose it is? What do I gain in proving otherwise?”
Shorn said, “If you want to save your life—you’ll have to.” With his eyes still on Dominion, he took a knife from his pocket, flicked open the blade.
It leaped from his hand at his eyes. He frantically diverted it, and in the instant his defense was distracted, the gun darted to Dominion’s hand. Shorn twisted up the muzzle by a hair’s-breath; the pellet sang past his ear.
Fragments of the coffee mug pelted the back of his head, blinding him with pain. Dominion, smiling and easy, raised the gun. It was all over, Shorn thought. His mind, wilted and spent, stood naked and bare of defense—for the flash of an instant. Before Dominion could pull the trigger Shorn flung the knife at his throat. Dominion turned his attention away from the gun to divert the knife; Shorn reached out, grabbed the gun with his bare h^ids, tossed it under the table out of sight.
Dominion and Shorn glared eye to eye. Both of them thought of the knife. It lay on the table, and now under the impulse of both minds, slowly trembled, rose quivering into the air, hilt up, blade down, swinging as if hung by a short string. Gradually it drifted to a position midway between their eyes.
The issue was joined. Sweating, breathing hard, they glared at the knife, and it vibrated, sang to the induced quiver from the opposing efforts. Eye to eye stared Dominion and Shorn, faces red, mouths open, distorted. No opportunity now for diversionary tactics; relax an instant and the knife would stab; blunt force strained against force.
Dominion said slowly, “You can’t win, you who have only known telekinesis a few days; your certainty is as nothing compared to mine. I’ve lived my lifetime in certainty; it’s part of my living will, and now see—your reality is weakening, the knife is aiming at you, to slash your neck.”
Shorn watched the knife in fascination, and indeed it slowly turned toward him like the clock-hand of Fate. Sweat streamed into his eyes; he was aware of Dominion’s grimace of triumph.
No. Allow no words to distract you; permit no suggestion; bend down Dominion’s own resolution. His vocal chords were like rusty wire, his voice was a croak.
“My certainty is stronger than yours because”—as he said the words the knife halted its sinister motion toward his throat—“time has no effect upon telekinesis! Because I’ve got the will of all humanity behind me, and you’ve got only yourself!”
The knife trembled, twisted, as if it were a live thing, tortured by indecision.
“I’m stronger than you are, because . . . I’ve got to be” He sank the words into Dominion’s mind.
Dominion said quickly, “Your neck hurts, your mind hurts, you cannot see.”
Shorn’s neck hurt indeed, his head ached, sweat stung his eyes, and the knife made a sudden lurch toward him. This can’t go on, thought Shorn. “I don’t need tricks, Dominion; you need them only because your confidence is going and you’re desperate.” He took a deep breath, reached out, seized the knife, plunged it into Dominion's breast.
Shorn stood looking down at the body. “I won—and by a trick. He was so obsessed by the need for defeating me mentally that he forgot the knife had a handle.”
Panting, he looked out over the stadium. Events had come to a halt. The spectators restively waited for word from the program director.
Shorn picked up the microphone.
“Men and women of the future ...” as he spoke he watched the little huddle of 265. He saw Laurie stir, look up; he saw Circumbright turn, clap Thursby’s knee. He felt the wave of thankfulness, of hero-worship, almost insane in its fervor that welled up from their minds. At that moment he could have commanded any of them to their death.
An intoxicated elation came to him; he fought to control his voice. “This is an event improvised to thank Lemand De Troller, our program director, for his work in arranging the events. All of us will join our telekinetic powers together; we will act as one mind. I will guide this little white ball”—he lifted a small ball used in the obstacle race—“through the words ‘Thank you, Lemand De Troller.’ You, with your united wills, wil
l follow with the large bumpball.” He rolled it out into the center of the stadium. “With more preparation we would have achieved something more elaborate, but I know Lemand will be just as pleased if he feels all of us are concentrating on the big ball, putting our hearts into the thanks. So—now. Follow the little white ball.”
Slowly he guided the white ball along imaginary block letters in the air; faithfully, the big bumpball followed.
It was finished.
Shorn looked anxiously toward Circumbright. No signal.
Once again.
“Now—there is one other whom we owe a vote of thanks: Adlari Dominion, the capable liaison officer. This time we will spell out, ‘Thank you and good luck, Adlari Dominion.’ ”
The white ball moved. The big ball followed. Four thousand minds impelled, 265 minds sought to merge into the pattern: each a new Prometheus trying to steal a secret more precious than fire from a race more potent than the Titans.
Shorn finished the last N, glanced toward Circumbright. Still no signal. Anxiety beset him; was this the right indoctrination technique? Suppose it was effective only under special conditions, suppose he had been operating on a misapprehension the entire time?
“Well,” said Shorn doggedly, “once again.” But the spectators would be growing restless. Who to thank this time?
The ball was moving of "its own volition. Shorn, fascinated, followed its path. It was spelling a word.
W - I - L - L—then a space—S - H - O - R - N—another space—T - H - A - N - K - S.
Shorn sank back into the elastic seat, his eyes brimming with tears of release and thankfulness. “Someone is thanking Will Shorn,” he said into the microphone. “It’s time for them to leave.” He paused. And 265 new telekinetics lifted themselves from the stadium, flew west toward Tran, disappeared into the afternoon.
Shorn returned to the microphone. “There’re a few more words I want to say; please be patient a moment or two longer.
“You have just been witnesses—unwitting witnesses—to an event as important as Joffrey’s original congress. The future will consider the sixty-year interval only a transition, humanity’s final separation from the beast.
