Journey to Infinity - [Adventures in Science Fiction 02]

by Edited by Martin Greenburg

  She rose with him. “It’s that serious then?” Her tone was awed. “The dynamics of the directorship ... ?” Then her thoughts went back to her piece. “Banned . . . forever, Dan ? Perhaps in a few years, perhaps when your problem is solved?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps if my problem is solved.” He left her with that.

  Because they were reasonable, adjusted people, both of them put the matter out of their minds after that evening. The problem was in other hands, and when the answer came from the scientists, it would be reopened. It was not that they forgot; rather they compartmented. Dangret checked periodically with the Council on the progress of the research units; Sarise played her piece from time to time and made slight revisions here and there. But, recognizing that final action would have to wait on the findings of the CPS, neither of them allowed his own part of the difficulty to assume emotional proportions.

  The answer was a long time coming. When it did, finally, Dangret took the news first to Sarise.

  She was walking in the natural garden in front of the official residence, and greeted him with a small sigh.

  “I think I’ll make a trip to Tangerix III,” she told him. “I’ve been wanting to see the family, and there’s something about this poor excuse for vegetation that makes me half wild!” She pointed to the trees and flowers of Earth, none of which could compare in any way with the planned landscapes of robot-constructed homesites on the better planets. Tangerix particularly boasted garden-spot planets.

  “Not to soon, I hope.” Dangret smiled, teasing a little. “You’d like to be here when your composition is played, wouldn’t you?”

  She wheeled to face him, breathless. “When?” It was a sound more than a word.

  “Next week. For the Council of Social Scientists. After that,” his words became more sober, “you can go to Tangerix, and I’ll go with you.”

  “But . . . how can you? You have Council sessions coming, and . . .”

  “And as of next Tuesday, the Directorship will no longer exist, and your piece will help finish it.” She raised a puzzled face to his. “No, I can’t tell you any more, and I shouldn’t have said that much, I . . . well, I got my answer; it was what I was afraid of, you see, and it leaves me no alternative but . . .” he stopped abruptly. “We’ll go to Tangerix. You can make plans now if you like.” She followed him into the next room, watched him stand before the fresco. There was an expression on his face that she had never seen before as he summoned a robot and set it to remove the painting.

  “I cannot bear to see it any longer.”

  ~ * ~

  The conclave of social scientists was held on Earth, at a person-to-person meeting—a rare event—and planned that way for only one reason: so that Sarise’s composition could have an effect it could not possibly achieve over the other. The Council met early in the morning, and Dangret, in a few words, informed them that they had been assembled for a purpose. But before he told them that purpose, he wished to have them review two sensories, and to contain their curiosity until after the playings.

  There was some murmuring of impatience from younger men who could not understand being called away from important work for entertainment, but the older heads, who had worked under Dangret for many years, leaned back in their cushions, and lost themselves in their senses as the first piece started, the historical review Dangret himself had seen many months before.

  The younger members had not experienced it before, and the majestic sweep of the epic soon stilled the few murmurs. By the time it was finished, and Sarise’s indescribable composition began to fill their senses, they were all completely receptive. When it was over, absolute silence filled the great Council Hall. Dangret himself was almost as much affected on second hearing as the others were on first reception. He let the hush prevail for a full minute—and a minute can be long—before he rose from his seat, and mounted the platform to the bank of microphones.

  “Gentlemen and Scientists,” he began, “What you have just experienced is a new sensation to most of you. To all of you, I think. It is fear. I shall not take time now to describe to you the background of this composition. As sociologists, you are aware that no artist could generate fear without a reason for fear existing in the artist’s environment—even a reason, as this one was, that went unexpressed and unheeded until the artist’s crystallization of the emotion forced a search for the cause.

  “Since I first heard this piece, I have had the CPS, the Council of Physical Scientists, at work on a difficult problem. Last week I had their answer. I shall return to that, and explain it in a few moments.

  “But first, I must make an announcement. The findings of the CPS will constitute the reasons for my decision. Gentlemen, the future is in your hands. The Directorship is over. I, as the last Director, now, with the information I hold, have no ethical choice but to resign and leave the resolution of the problem in your hands. I shall subsequently apply for admission to your ranks, and hope that I may aid in finding the solution, but the problem is one of research, not management.

  “We must find a new form of society. If we would keep our comforts and our way of life, if we would keep our race extant, and above all, if we would maintain our ethic, it is now incumbent upon us—upon you—to develop a civilization that does not rely on the laws of dynamics. A static society.

  “Our government and our culture has rested on the unlimited principle of expansion, on continued dynamic development. The universe is large, large enough surely for a race so puny in comparison as ours. But not, I must now tell you, for a civilization constructed like ours.

  “Many hundreds of years ago it was a habit of physicists and what were then known as metaphysicists to debate the problem of infinity. There were many differing opinions, and the conclusion in the end, was that the universe was infinite.

  “I discovered, in a Council of the Physical Scientists, some months back, that this conclusion had never been proved. I set them the task of proving it. The answer I had last week dictated my actions of today. We must stop; we must change now, and find a new way of living that can exist without constant expansion, because, fellow Scientists, our universe has been finally established to be finite in nature!”

  There was silence, but the expressions on the faces before him changed slowly, and he recognized feelings similar to his own. Dread! It had been there, submerged, but now it was out for all to see—the fear of a barrier that none could cross. To men who had lived their lives believing in the limitless of human expansion, the very thought of this truth was as deadly as their physically coming upon the barrier, the limit . . .

  “There is only one alternative to stasis,” Dangret said finally; “ancient philosophers were fond of saying that man was his own worst enemy. This has been, for many years, an unnecessary, if not a false, truth. Now we must recognize that man can expand only one further way. The frontiers are not yet gone, but they are vanishing. We must turn back upon a conquest of ourselves, or we must learn to live staticly. The problem I now leave in your hands. I hope…” and Dangret smiled, because humor, even in this crisis, was an integral part of his being, “I hope that after a brief period of personal stasis, I shall be admitted to your Council to help find a means for the conquests of man by man.”

  Dangret left the platform, and walked from the hall, without waiting for the shocked silence among the sociologists to articulate itself in words. Outside, he went directly to the apartment where Sarise had watched the scene on the com set.

  He entered silently, walked over to where she still sat staring through open set at the hubbub in the hall, and put his hands gently on her two shoulders. She started slightly, and smiled wearily up at him. “So that was it?”

  “Yes.” His voice was tender and rough at the same time. “Yes, that was it. You see what you did. Oh, yes, you did it. You’re an artist, and you saw things, knew things I didn’t. You took my Directorship from me, didn’t you ? You took this house, and the glory and pleasure. You took everything I had fro
m me, and you did it by being an artist. That was what I loved you for at first you know, and now . . .” He lifted his hands from her shoulders to cup her face. “Now I love you more than ever. The least you can do,” and he smiled again, “is take me home to Tangerix III, and let me have a bit of personal stasis.”

  <>

  ~ * ~

  Despite the radical change in Man’s policy of expansion in 101,950, his culture continued to thrive. In 312,552 the great robot migration began, ending with their mysterious and entire disappearance. The human species adjusted to the change gradually and a peaceful instability occupied them for a million years. By 1,562430 the descendants of Earthmen were again seeding universal dominance—with Mother Earth forgotten.

  METAMORPHOSITE

  by Eric Frank Russell

  T

  hey let him pause halfway along the gangway so that his eyes could absorb the imposing scene. He stood in the middle of the high metal track, his left hand firmly grasping a side rail, and gazed into the four hundred foot chasm beneath. Then he studied the immense space vessels lying in adjacent berths, his stare tracing their gangways to their respective elevator towers behind which stood a great cluster of buildings whence the spaceport control column soared to the clouds. The height at which he stood, and the enormous dimensions of his surroundings, made him a little, doll-like figure, a man dwarfed by the mightiest works of man.

  Watching him closely, his guards noted that he did not seem especially impressed. His eyes appeared to discard sheer dimensions while they sought the true meaning behind it all. His face was quite impassive as he looked around, but all his glances were swift, intelligent and assured. He comprehended things with that quick confidence which denotes an agile mind. One feature was prominent in the mystery enveloping him; it was evident that he was no dope.

  Lieutenant Roka pushed past the two rearmost guards, leaned on the rail beside the silent watcher, and explained, “This is Madistine Spaceport. There are twenty others like it upon this planet. There are from two to twenty more on every one of four thousand other planets, and a few of them considerably bigger. The Empire is the greatest thing ever known or ever likely to be known. Now you see what you’re up against.”

  “‘Numbers and size,’” quoth the other. He smiled faintly and shrugged. “What of them?”

  “You’ll learn what!” Roka promised. He, too, smiled, his teeth showing white and clean. “An organization can grow so tremendous that it’s far, far bigger than the men who maintain it. From then on, its continued growth and development are well-nigh inevitable. It’s an irresistible force with no immovable object big enough to stop it. It’s a juggernaut. It’s destiny, or whatever you care to call it.”

  “Bigness,” murmured the other. “How you love bigness.” He leaned over the railing, peered into the chasm. “In all probability down there is an enemy you’ve not conquered yet.”

  “Such as what?” demanded Roka.

  “A cancer bug.” The other’s eyes swung up, gazed amusedly into the lieutenant’s. “Eh?” He shrugged again. “Alas, for brief mortality!”

  “Move on,” snapped Roka to the leading guard.

  The procession shuffled on, two guards, then the prisoner, then Roka, then two more guards. Reaching the tower at the end of the track, the sextet took an elevator to ground level, found a jet car waiting for them, a long, black sedan with the Silver Comet of the Empire embossed on its sides. Two men uniformed in myrtle green occupied its front seats while a third stood by the open door at rear.

  “Lieutenant Roka with the specimen and appropriate documents,” said Roka. He indicated the prisoner with a brief gesture, then handed the third man a leather dispatch case. After that, he felt in one pocket, extracted a printed pad, added, “Sign here, please.”

  The official signed, returned the pad, tossed the dispatch case into the back of the car.

  “All right,” he said to the prisoner. “Get in.”

  Still impassive, the other got into the car, relaxed on the rear seat. Roka bent through the doorway, offered a hand.

  “Well, sorry to see the last of you. We were just getting to know each other, weren’t we? Don’t get any funny ideas, will you? You’re here under duress, but remember that you’re also somewhat of an ambassador—that’ll give you the right angle on things. Best of luck!”

  “Thanks.” The prisoner shook the proffered hand, shifted over as the green uniformed official clambered in beside him. The door slammed, the jets roared, the car shot smoothly off. The prisoner smiled faintly as he caught Roka’s final wave.

  “Nice guy, Roka,” offered the official.

  “Quite.”

  “Specimen,” the official chuckled. “Always they call ‘em specimens. Whether of human shape or not, any seemingly high or presumably intelligent form of life imported from any newly discovered planet is, in bureaucratic jargon, a specimen. So that’s what you are, whether you like it or whether you don’t. Mustn’t let it worry you, though. Nearly every worthwhile specimen has grabbed himself a high official post when his planet has become part of the Empire.”

  “Nothing worries me,” assured the specimen easily.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  The official became self-conscious. He picked the dispatch case off the floor, jiggled it aimlessly around, judged its weight, then flopped it on his lap. The two in front maintained grim silence and scowled steadily through the windshield as the car swung along a broad avenue.

  At good speed they swooped over a humpback crossing, overtook a couple of highly colored, streamlined cars, swung left at the end of the avenue. This brought them up against a huge pair of metal gates set in a great stone wall. The place would have looked like a jail to the newcomer if he’d known what jails look like—which he didn’t.

  The gates heaved themselves open, revealing a broad drive which ran between well-tended lawns to the main entrance of a long, low building with a clock tower at its center. The entrance, another metal job heavy enough to withstand a howitzer, lay directly beneath the tower. The black sedan curved sidewise before it, stopped with a faint hiss of air brakes.

  “This is it.” The official at the back of the car opened a door, heaved himself out, dragging the case after him. His prisoner followed, shut the door, and the sedan swooped away.

  ‘You see,” said the man in green uniform. He gestured toward the lawns and the distant wall. “There’s the wall, the gate, and a space from here to there in which you’d be immediately seen by the patrols. Beyond that wall are a thousand other hazards of which you know nothing. I’m telling you this because here’s where you’ll have your home until matters get settled. I would advise you not to let your impatience overcome your judgment, as others have done. It’s no use running away when you’ve nowhere to run.”

  “Thanks,” acknowledged the other. “I won’t run until I’ve good reason and think I know where I’m going.”

  The official gave him a sharp look. A rather ordinary fellow, he decided, a little under Empire average in height, slender, dark, thirty-ish and moderately good-looking. But possessed of the cockiness of youth. Under examination he’d probably prove boastful and misleading. He sighed his misgiving. A pity that they hadn’t snatched somebody a good deal older.

  “Harumph!” he said apropos of nothing.

  He approached the door, the other following. The door opened of its own accord, the pair entered a big hall, were met by another official in myrtle green.

  “A specimen from a new world,” said the escort, “for immediate examination.”

  The second official stared curiously at the newcomer, sniffed in disdain, said, “O.K.—you know where to take him.”

  Their destination proved to be a large examination room at one end of a marble corridor. Here, the official handed over the dispatch case to a man in white, departed without further comment. There were seven men and one woman in the room, all garbed in white.

  They studied the specimen
calculatingly, then the woman asked, “You have learned our language?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well, then, you may undress. Remove all your clothes.”

  “Not likely!” said the victim in a level voice.

  The woman didn’t change expression. She bent over an official form lying on her desk, wrote in a neat hand in the proper section: “Sex convention normal.” Then she went out.

  When the door had shut behind her, the clothes came off. The seven got to work on the prisoner, completing the form as they went along. They did the job quietly, methodically, as an obvious matter of old-established routine. Height: four-point-two lineal units. Weight: seventy-seven migrads. Hair: type-S, with front peaked. No wisdom teeth. All fingers double-jointed. Every piece of data was accepted as if it were perfectly normal, and jotted down on the official form. Evidently they were accustomed to dealing with entities differing from whatever was regarded as the Empire norm.