Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by Everett B. Cole

  He examined the village with approval as he stood in the center of the clearing. There had been a great improvement since he had taken that headman in hand. Perhaps this fellow would be satisfactory—might even learn to take some pride in the appearance of his village—if, that is, a pseudoman were capable of pride.

  He looked over toward the headman’s hut.

  The fellow had come out, followed by the lead driver of the caravan. Good, that would save the trouble of hunting the fellow out.

  He concentrated on the caravan slave.

  “Your master has decided to remain at the Residence for a time,” he thought confidently. “You may have your drivers load up and move to a more permanent location.”

  The answering thought was unexpectedly distinct.

  “This location looks as though it were designed for a caravan’s stay. Where’s Dar Girdek?”

  Barra looked at the man in surprise. What was this? This fellow didn’t think like any pseudoman. Had Dar Girdek somehow managed to persuade a halfman to act as his lead driver? But why?

  He drew back a little, tensing. There was something wrong here.

  “Now, look,” persisted the man before him. “I’d like to see Dar Girdek. I’d like to know why I haven’t been able to get in touch with him this morning.”

  Barra blinked, then activated the new probe. He would have to find out what this man knew—how much others might know. Abruptly, he felt a violent return of the fear sickness which had temporarily subsided with the death of Dar Girdek.

  The probe was met by an impenetrable barrier. Barra’s eyes widened. This man was no halfman, either. He was one of the great psionics. Frantically, Barra’s thought retraced the past.

  Was this an investigator from the Council? Was he, Kio Barra, suspect? But how had any leak occurred? The fear grew, till he could almost smell the sour stench of it. And with it, came a buoying lift of pure fury.

  This man may have unmasked him, to be sure. The Council might even now be sending men to take him, but this spy would never know the results of his work. He would profit nothing here.

  He flipped the distorter from under his arm.

  As the Master Protector started to raise his distorter, Naran felt a sharp twinge of regret. He had resigned himself to this, and had made his preparations, but he hated to leave Barra to someone else. Of course, the man had no chance now. The disturbance he had keyed himself to make if he were hit with a distorter would be heard by every scholar in Ganiadur, and by half the Council. But—

  Suddenly, he felt a sort of pity for the killer before him. The guy wasn’t really altogether to blame. He’d been living for all these years with everything against him.

  Born into a psionic family, he had been the family skeleton—a thing of disgrace—to be hidden from the rest of the world and given tolerant protection.

  And when this barely tolerated being had managed somehow to gain power and get amplifying devices? Well—

  The crystal was leveled at him now. He looked at it indifferently, thinking of the man who held it.

  “Poor, lonesome weakling!”

  Abruptly, the clearing was lit up by a blinding red glare. Naran closed his eyes against the searing light. Seconds went by and he opened his eyes again, looking about the village in confusion.

  Had he somehow managed to retain full consciousness of ego, even after being reduced by a distorter beam? Was there a release into some other state of being? He had felt no—

  He looked at Kio Barra. The man stood, slack-faced, still holding his distorter rod, but gradually allowing it to sag toward the ground. Naran shook his head.

  “Now, what goes on?”

  He probed at the man’s mind.

  There was consciousness. The man could think, but the thoughts were dim and blurred, with no trace of psionic carrier. The control and amplifier jewels he wore had lost their inner fire—were merely dull, lifeless reflectors of the sunlight. This man could do no more toward bringing life to the jewels than could the village headman—perhaps, even less.

  Naran looked at him in unbelieving confusion, then turned as a sudden, screaming thought struck his mind.

  “A stinking, high-nosed witchman! And we thought he was one of us! Ate with him. Argued with him. Even fought with him. I’ve got to get away. Got to!”

  There was desperation in the thought. And there were hatred overtones, which blended, then swelled.

  As the terrorized ululation went on, Naran swung his head, locating the source. He’d have to do something about that—fast. The fellow would really demoralize the caravan now—even infect the big saurians—cause a stampede.

  This guy had some power of projection and his terror was intensifying it till anyone could receive the disturbing impulses, even though complete understanding might be lacking.

  Naran lifted himself from the ground, arrowing rapidly toward the caravan, his mind already forming the thoughts which he hoped would soothe the frantic fear and—at least to some degree—allay the frenzy of hated that swelled and became stronger and stronger.

  Barra could wait.

  As Barra swung his distorter to bear, he concentrated on the violent pulse needed to trigger the jewel, his mind closed to all else. He turned his attention on his target.

  Suddenly, he recognized the curiously tender expression which had formed on the face of the man before him.

  Frantically, he tried to revise his thoughts—to recall the blaze of energy he had concentrated to build up.

  It was too late.

  With a sense of despair, he recognized the sudden, lifting, twisting agony that accompanied the flare of the overloaded power crystal. For an eternal instant, his universe was a blinding, screaming, red nightmare.

  The flare died and he watched dully as the unharmed man before him looked about unbelievingly, then looked back to carefully examine him.

  “Oh,” he told himself dully. “I suppose they’ll take care of me, but what of it? They’ll put me somewhere. I’ll lose everything. It’ll be just like the place Boemar thought of sending me, when I—”

  Furiously, he tried to summon some tiny bit of energy to activate the distorter.

  Nothing happened.

  The man whose pity had destroyed him suddenly frowned, then turned and darted away. Dully, Barra watched him, then he turned, to look around the village. His face contorted in new terror.

  Some of the village men were moving toward him, curious expressions on their faces. He backed away from them and turned.

  A few more had moved to block his path.

  They were grunting and hissing to each other. Barra looked from face to face, then looked over toward the well.

  There were men over there, too, by the pile of stones. The old man who worked on the retaining walls of the village had picked up some of his building material.

  He stood, eying Barra calculatingly, a stone poised in each hand.

  THE END

  Commander Kar Walzen looked up from his desk as Hal Carlsen came in.

  “I’m told you had some trouble with my Operations Officer.”

  Carlsen shook his head. “No real trouble, sir. He wanted to schedule us for a C.A. assignment. I explained to him that I had an assignment that would take some time. Suggested that he pick one of the regular Criminal Apprehension teams to handle it.”

  The Sector Criminal Apprehension Officer frowned. “You refused an assignment, then. Right?”

  “No, sir. I simply explained to Captain Koren that my detachment would be tied up for a while. His assignment would be delayed if he waited for us to get back.”

  “That constitutes a refusal in my book. Now, let’s get this clear right at the start. You and your people are not a bunch of prima donnas. You’ve turned in some good assignments, but you were sent to C.A. to work, not to go hareing off any time you happened to feel like it. Is that clear?”

  “Sir, we have a Philosophical Corps assignment. It came in through Sector this morning. According to our o
rders, it takes priority.”

  “Nonsense! You’re assigned to me.” Walzen exhaled loudly and regarded the junior officer angrily.

  Carlsen reached into his tunic and took out a folded sheaf of papers. He pulled one off and extended it. “You should have received a copy of this, sir. I gave one to the captain.”

  Walzen grabbed the sheet, scanning it. Finally, he threw it down and reached for his communicator switch.

  “I’ll get this rescinded and set those people straight once and for all. Now you get back to Operations. Get your instructions from Captain Koren. I want to see a completed operational plan on this desk not later than tomorrow morning.” He rapped at the communicator switch.

  “You may go.”

  Carlsen hesitated for a few seconds, then went out to the outer office and sat down. The clerk looked at him curiously.

  “You need something, sir?”

  Carlsen shook his head. “No. The commander’ll be wanting to see me in a few minutes. No point in making him wait.”

  The clerk looked doubtful. “Yes, sir.”

  Carlsen sat back and relaxed. A low murmur came from the inner office. Walzen’s voice raised almost to a shout.

  “I tell you, I can’t perform my mission if my people are going to be constantly pulled out of service for some errand.” The murmur went on. Carlsen waited.

  There was a harsh, grating sound and Walzen’s door slammed open. The commander strode out, glaring at his clerk.

  “Get Mr. Carlsen back in here on the double.”

  He turned, then saw Carlsen.

  “Oh. You’re still here, eh? Come inside.”

  The commander slammed down in his chair and looked up angrily.

  “Headquarters tells me that assignment of yours has priority. Now I won’t go against definite orders. Never have, and never will. So you can go ahead this time. But let me tell you this: Next time you sneak over my head to the front office, I’m going to see to it that your career in the Stellar Guard is short, brutal, and nasty. Is that clear?”

  Carlsen nodded, waiting.

  “How long is this little junket of yours going to take?”

  “It’s hard to say, sir. We’ve got the Exploratory team’s field notes, but we’ve no idea what sort of detailed situations we may run into.”

  Walzen snorted. “Bunch of amateurs! I’ll give you a week. Then I’ll expect you to report back for duty. And I’m going to tell you once again. Don’t you ever again try going over my head so you can take one of these little vacations. Understand?”

  Hal Carlsen looked into the viewsphere as his scouter floated toward distant foothills. He examined the valley below, occasionally changing magnification as features of interest caught his attention.

  In the remote past, water running from newly formed mountains had raged across the land, cutting a path for itself as it raced toward the sea. Now, it had cut its channel, shifted course time after time, and at last had come to be a peaceful, elderly stream, meandering lazily at the center of a wide valley.

  Occasional cliffs along the ancient river course marked water lines of old. But in most places, erosion had caused the cliffs to become sloping bluffs which rose to a tableland above.

  Even the mountains had weathered, to become tree-clad hills and their sediment had paved the water-carved valley. Hedgerows divided the fertile land into fields and pastures. Tall trees grew on the river bank, their roots holding the soil to inhibit the river from further changes in course. Clusters of buildings dotted the valley floor and narrow roads connected them to one another and to a main highway which roughly bisected the valley’s width.

  Carlsen examined a craggy cliff speculatively, then shrugged. Could have been times when the sea came up here. Might be what’s left of a gulf, at that, he told himself. But right now, it’s people I’m interested in, not historical geology.

  A winding road led up the face of the cliff to a castle gate. Carlsen looked at it thoughtfully, then glanced at his range markers. It was just about at his own altitude and fairly close. He reached for the manual override, then shook his head. Just ahead was a large town at the head of the valley. He could look into the castle later.

  Beast-drawn carts were making their jolting way along the road below and as the ship passed over one of them, Carlsen tapped the controls, slowing to the speed of the cart. He increased magnification and studied the man and his draft animal.

  The driver was a youngish man, dressed in a sort of faded yellow smock and wide, short pantaloons. Thongs wrapped around his ankles supported a boardlike sole and gave his feet some protection. He was obviously humanoid and Carlsen could see no significant difference between him and the basic homo sapiens type. He nodded.

  Just about have to be, he told himself. It’s a geomorphic planet. Who else would you expect to find? He turned his attention to the draft beast.

  The creature was a slate gray. Carlsen estimated its mass at nearly a thousand kilograms. The body was relatively short and fat, supported on blocky legs. The neck was long, the muzzle shovellike. Carlsen tilted his head. Might be a herbivorous reptile? He increased magnification, then shook his head. No, there was scanty, coarse body hair. Lines ran from the cart to a system of straps at the animal’s shoulders. The beast plodded gracelessly, occasionally stretching its long neck aside to tear a bit of herbage from the growth at the roadside.

  Carlsen turned his attention back to the driver, then reached out and focused his psionic amplifier. For a few seconds, he sat in concentration, then he abruptly snapped a switch.

  Gloch! None of my business. That’s no kind of research.

  The driver moved uneasily, then looked upward. He searched the sky then shook his head uncertainly and returned his attention to his beast and the rutted road before him.

  Carlsen’s hand darted out, bringing the ship down until it hovered close over the cart.

  Interesting, he murmured. This guy knows there’s something up here. He glanced at a cluster of meters and shook his head.

  No trace of radiation shield leakage and at this speed there’s not a chance of concussion. He examined the man curiously. He’s got to be a sensitive, he decided. I think I’ll just record this guy for a while.

  Again, the driver squirmed uneasily and looked up and behind him. For a moment, he faced directly at Carlsen, who flipped a casual salute.

  Hi, chum, he laughed. If you can see anything here, you’ve got something new in the way of eyesight. But how about looking the other way for a while? I don’t want you to get curious about insects that pop out of nowhere. And I don’t want to use a full shielded spyeye. Haven’t got an oversupply of those. His hand poised over a switch.

  The driver shook his head again, rubbed a hand over his eyes, and finally faced forward, muttering to himself.

  Carlsen flicked up the psionic amplification.

  Wysrin Kanlor, the man was saying, you’re as crazy as that Mord claims. There’s got to be something up there. Something big. But all I can see is sky.

  Carlsen took his hand from the switch and looked thoughtfully at the man. At last, he opened a wall cabinet, took out a stubby cylinder, and opened its access port. For a few minutes, he busied himself in making adjustments, then he snapped the port shut. The cylinder faded from view and he opened a drawer under the console and shoved the invisible object inside. He swung around and watched a small viewscreen as the instrument approached, hovered before the driver, then focused.

  Locked on, Carlsen said. I’d say it’s worth it. If I don’t get anything else, I’ll get a good line on language and dialect from the way he talks to himself. He lifted ship, pointed its nose toward the town, and switched to the auto pilot.

  For a while, he studied the details of narrow, winding streets as the ship slowly circled. Then he eased down over the central plaza and set the auto pilot to hold position.

  At one side of the open space, a blackened area surrounded a thick, charred post. Several short lengths of chain, terminated by h
eavy cuffs, dangled from ringbolts. Nearby, a cart bearing a new post had pulled up and men were unloading tools. Carlsen frowned.

  Now just what have we here? he muttered. He snapped on the psionics and focused on one of the workmen.

  For an instant, there was a picture of flames rising about the post. A human figure twisted and moved frantically. There was a mixed sense of vicious pleasure, deep guilt, and suppressed skepticism. Then the man’s thoughts became crisply businesslike. Vocalized thought came through clearly.

  “All right, you two,” he ordered. “Let’s be at it. This stick’s got to be set sometime today. Man says they’re going to be needing it.”

  The workers went about their duties mechanically, paying no attention to their surroundings and showing no suspicion of awareness of the watcher above them. Carlsen frowned in distaste.

  Public executions, he decided. Pretty savage about it, too. He examined the buildings surrounding the plaza, then flicked at a series of switches. A swarm of beetlelike objects appeared, then swung about the plaza, dispersed, and disappeared through openings in the various buildings. Carlsen rotated a selector, examining the viewsphere.

  Finally, he stopped to study an interior view. The telltale was high on the wall.

  The high-ceilinged room was almost square. Rough stone walls were partly hidden by draperies. Overhead, rough rafters formed a grid in the plaster of the ceiling. At one end of the room, on a raised part of the stone flooring, a group of men sat behind a heavy table. Carlsen looked at them curiously.

  Two were enveloped in drab, gray robes whose texture belied their apparent austerity. Both wore ornate rings and one had a heavily jeweled amulet.

  Bet there’s some mighty nice tailoring under those robes, Carlsen told himself. He looked at the other three men.

  They were richly dressed, their clothing bearing small resemblance in either cut or material to the coarse cloth worn by the farmer and the workmen. They were leaning forward, listening attentively to the robed man with the jeweled amulet.

  The telltale was too small to handle psionic overtones. For a time, Carlsen listened to the man’s harangue, then he turned and got out another stubby cylinder.