“Oh, does it? My mistake! We use the same-sounding word on my planet, and there it means fear.” Suddenly a strange expression came into his face. He ejaculated, “Burkinshaw! Burkinshaw! Ye gods!”
“What’s the matter?” Melor inquired.
“Nothing much. It’s only that evidence is piling up on top of a theory. It should help. Yes, it ought to help a lot.” Getting up, he paced the room restlessly. “Is there an underground independence movement on Linga?” he asked.
Tor grinned with relish, and said, “I’d not be far from the truth if I guessed that there’s such a movement on every planet excepting this one. Imperially speaking, we’re all in the same adolescent condition: not quite ripe for self-government. Well all get independence tomorrow, but not today.” He heaved a resigned sigh. “Linga’s been getting it tomorrow for the last seven hundred years.”
“As I thought,” Harold commented. “The same old set-up. The same old stresses, strains and inherent weaknesses. The same blindness and procrastination. We’ve known it all before—it’s an old, old tale to us.”
“What is?” persisted the curious Melor.
“History,” Harold told him.
Melor looked puzzled.
“There’s an ancient saying,” Harold continued, “to the effect that the bigger they come the harder they fall. The more ponderous and top-heavy a structure the riper it is for toppling.” He rubbed his chin, studied his listeners with a peculiarly elfish gaze. “So the problem is whether we can shove hard enough to make it teeter.”
“Never!” exclaimed Tor. “Nor a thousand either. It’s been tried times without number. The triers got buried—whenever there was enough to bury.”
“Which means that they tried in the wrong way, and/or at the wrong time. It’s up to us to push in the right way at the right time.”
“How can you tell the right time?”
“I can’t. I can choose only the time which, when everything’s taken into account, seems the most favorable—and then hope that it’s the right time. It’ll be just my hard luck if I’m wrong.” He reflected a moment, then went on, “The best time ought to be nine days hence. If you can help me to keep under cover that long, I’ll promise not to involve you in anything risky in the meanwhile. Can you keep me nine days?”
“Sure we can.” Tor regarded him levelly. “But what do we get out of it other than the prospect of premature burial?”
“Nothing except the satisfaction of having had a finger in the pie.”
“Is that all?” Tor asked.
“That’s all,” declared Harold positively. “You Lingans must fight your way as we’re fighting ours. If ever my people help you, it will be for the sake of mutual benefit or our own satisfaction. It won’t be by way of reward.”
“That suits me.” Tor said flatly. “I like good, plain talk, with no frills. We’re tired of worthless promises. Count us with you to the base of the scaffold, but not up the steps—we’d like to indulge second thoughts before we mount those!”
“Thanks a lot,” acknowledged Harold gratefully. “Now here are some ideas I’ve got which—”
He stopped as the television set emitted a loud chime. Tor reached over, switched on the apparatus. Its screen came to life, depicting the same uniformed sourpuss as before.
The official rumbled, “Urgent call I Citizens are warned that the escaped specimen Harold Harold-Myra, for whom a call was broadcast half an hour ago, is now known to be a telepath, a mesman, a seer and a recorder. It is possible that he may also possess telekinetic powers of unknown extent. Facts recently brought to light suggest that he’s a decoy and therefore doubly dangerous. Study his likeness; he must be brought in as soon as possible.”
The screen blanked, lit up again, showed Harold’s face for a full minute. Then the telecast cut off.
“What does he mean, a seer and a recorder?” inquired Harold, mystified.
“A seer is one who makes moves in anticipation of two, three, four or more of his opponent’s moves. A chessmaster is a seer.”
“Heavens, do they play chess here, too?”
“Chess is popular all over the Empire. What of it?”
“Never mind,” said Harold. “We’ll stick the fact on top of the pile. Go on.”
“A recorder,” explained Tor, “is someone with a photographic memory. He doesn’t write anything down. He remembers it all, accurately, in full detail.”
“Humph! I don’t think there’s anything extraordinary about that.”
“We Lingans can’t do it. In fact, we know of only four life forms that can.” Respect crept into Tor’s snake-skinned face. “And do you really have telekinetic power as well?”
“No. It’s a false conclusion to which they’ve jumped. They appear to think I’m a poltergeist or something—goodness only knows why.” He mused a moment. “Maybe it’s because of that analysis in stage three. I can control my heart beats, my blood pressure, my thoughts, and I made their analytical apparatus go haywire. They can get out of it nothing but contradictory nonsense. Evidently they suspect that I sabotaged its innards by some form of remote control.”
“Oh!” Tor was openly disappointed.
Before any of them could venture further remark, the television set called for attention and Sourpuss appeared for the third time.
“All normative citizens will observe a curfew tonight from midnight until one hour after dawn,” he droned. “During this period the police may call at certain apartments. Any nonnative citizens found absent from their apartments and unable to give satisfactory reason therefor, or any nonnative citizens who obstruct the police in the execution of their duty, will be dealt with in accordance with pan-planetary law.” He paused, stared out of the screen. He looked bellicose. “The fugitive, Harold Harold-Myra, is in possession of identity card number AMB 307-40781, entered in the name of Robertus Bron. That is all.”
“Bron,” echoed Harold. “Bron . . . Burkinshaw . . . chessmasters. Dear me!”
The three Lingans were apprehensive, and Melor ventured, “You can see their moves. One: they’re satisfied that by now you’ve found a hiding place. Two: they know you’re hiding with outsiders and not with natives. Since there aren’t more than sixty thousands of outsiders on this planet, sharing one third that number of apartments, it’s not impossible to pounce on the lot at one go.” His forehead wrinkled with thought. “It’s no use you fleeing elsewhere because this curfew is planet-wide. It covers everywhere. I reckon your easiest way out would be to hypnotize a native and stay in his apartment overnight. If, as they say, you’re a mesman, it should be easy.”
“Except for one thing.”
“What is that ?”
“It’s what they expect me to do. In fact, it’s what they’re trying to make me do.”
“Even so,” persisted Melor, “what’s to stop you?”
“The routine. A master race always has a routine. It’s drilled into them; it’s part of their education. Having been warned that a badly wanted specimen is on the loose and about to bolt, they will take the officially prescribed precautions.” He grinned at them reassuringly, but they didn’t derive much comfort from it. “I can only guess what that routine will be, but I reckon it’ll include some method of advertising my presence in a native’s apartment even though its occupant is helpless. Scanners coupled to the Police Emergency system and switched in by the opening of a door, or something like that. When I take risks, I pick my own. It’s asking for trouble to let the opposition pick ‘em for you.”
“Maybe you’re right,” agreed Melor. “We do know that local people have certain facilities denied to outsiders.”
“Now if a couple of cops come along to give this place a look over, and I take control of their minds and send them away convinced that I’m just another Lingan, the powers-that-be will have been fooled, won’t they?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” put in Tor. He was disgusted with his own lack of imagination. “It was so obvious that I didn’t see
it.”
“So obvious,” Harold pointed out, “that the authorities know that’s just what would occur should they find me here.”
“Then why the curfew and the search?”
“Bluff!” defined Harold. “They hope to make me move or, failing that, put scare into those harboring me. They’re banging on the walls hoping the rat will run. I won’t run! With your kind permission, I’ll sit tight.”
“You’re welcome to stay,” Tor assured. “We can find you a spare bed, and if you—”
“Thanks!” Harold interrupted, “but I don’t need one. I don’t sleep.”
“You don’t!” They were dumfounded.
“Never slept a wink in my life. It’s a habit we’ve abandoned.” He walked around the room, studying its fittings. “Impatience is the curse of plotters. Nothing bores me more than waiting for time to ripen. I’ve simply got to wait nine days. Are you really willing to put up with me that long or, if not, can you find me some place else?”
“Stay here,” said Tor. “You repay us with your company. We can talk to each other of homes beyond reach. We can talk about the freedom of subject peoples and of things it is not wise to discuss outside. It is sweet to dream dreams. It is good to play with notions of what one might do if only one could find a way to do it.”
“You’re a little pessimistic,” gibed Harold.
~ * ~
On the fourth day his idleness became too much to bear. He went out, strolled along the streets of the city. Two more irate broadcasts had advertised his extended liberty, but the last of them had been three days before. Since then, silence.
His trust reposed in the inability of the public to remember that morning’s broadcast, let alone the details of the twentieth one before it, and his confidence was not misplaced. People wandered past him with vacant expressions and preoccupied minds. In most cases, their eyes looked at him without seeing him. In a few cases, his features registered, but no significance registered with them. The farther he walked, the safer he felt.
Downtown he found a smart, modernistic store well stocked with scientific instruments. This simplified matters. He’d been trying to solve the problem of how to get Melor to shop for him without using this silly stuff called money. The Lingan’s respect for it equalled his own contempt for it, therefore he couldn’t ask his hosts to spend their own on his behalf. Instinct rather than deliberate reasoning had made him recognize this simple ethic of a moneyed world.
Boldly entering the store, he examined its stock. Here were some things he wanted, others capable of ready adaption to what he desired. Different cultures evolved differing modes of manufacture. Conventional jobs would need alteration to become conventional according to his other-worldly notions, but the simplest tools would enable him to deal with these. Making a list of his requirements, he prowled around until it was complete, handed it to a salesman.
The latter, a shrewd individual, looked the list over, said sharply, “This stuff is for microwave radiation.”
“I know it,” said Harold blandly.
“It is not for sale to the public except on production of an official permit,” he went on. Then, stiffly, “Have you such a permit? May I see your identity card?”
Harold showed him the card.
“Ah!” mouthed the salesman, his manner changing, “the police!” His laugh was apologetic and forced. “Well, you didn’t catch me disregarding regulations!”
“I’m not trying to catch you. I’ve come to get some necessary equipment. Pack it up and let me have it. I’m on urgent business and in a hurry.”
“Certainly, certainly.” Bustling to and fro, anxious to placate, the salesman collected the equipment, packaged it. Then he made careful note of the name and number on Harold’s identity card “We charge this to the Police Department, as usual?”
“No,” Harold contradicted. “Charge it to the Analysis Division of the Immigration Department, Stage Three.”
He had a satisfied smile as he went out. When the Bearded One got the bill he could stick it in his analyzer and watch the meters whirl. Which reminded him now that he came to think of it—there didn’t seem to be an overmuch sense of humor on this world.
Safely back in the Lingans’ apartment, he unloaded his loot, got started on it. His hosts were out. He kept the door locked, concentrated on his task and progressed with speed and dexterity which would have astounded his former captors. When he’d been at work an hour the set in the corner chimed urgently, but he ignored it and was still engrossed in his task when the Lingans came in some time later.
Carefully closing and fastening the door, Melor said, “Well, they’ve got worried about you again.”
“Have they?”
“Didn’t you catch the recent broadcast?”
“I was too busy,” explained Harold.
“They’ve discovered that you’ve got a police card and not the card they first announced. They broadcast a correction and a further warning. The announcer was somewhat annoyed.”
“So’d I be,” said Harold, “if I were Sourpuss.”
Melor’s eyes, which had been staring absently at the litter of stuff on which Harold was working, suddenly realized what they saw.
“Hey, where did you get all that?” he asked, with alarm. “Have you been outdoors?”
“Sure! I had to get this junk somehow or other and I couldn’t think of how to get it any other way. I couldn’t wish it into existence. We’ve not progressed quite that far—yet!” He glanced at the uneasy Lingan. “Take it easy. There’s nothing to worry about. I was out for less than a couple of hours, and I might have been born and bred in this city for all the notice anyone took of me.”
“Maybe so.” Melor flopped into a chair, massaged his scaly chin. Ripples of underlying blueness ran through it as his skin moved. “But if you do it too often you’ll meet a cop, or a spaceman, or a Drane. Cops are too inquisitive. Spacemen recognize outsiders and rarely forget a face. Dranes know too much and can divine too much. It’s risky.” He looked again at the litter of apparatus. “What’re you making, anyway?”
“A simple contactor.”
“What’s that for?”
“Making contact with someone else.” Harold wangled an electric iron into the heart of the mess, deftly inserted a condenser smaller than a button, linked it into the circuit with two dabs of solder. “If two people, uncertain of each other’s whereabouts, are seeking each other within the limits of the same horizon, they can trace each other with contactors.”
“I see,” said Melor, not seeing at all. “Why not make mental contact?”
“Because the telepathic range is far too short. Thoughts fade swiftly within distance, especially when blanketed by obstacles.”
The three were still watching him curiously when he finished the job shortly before midnight. Now he had a small transmitter-receiver fitted with three antennae, one being a short, vertical rod, the second a tiny silver loop rotatable through its horizontal plane, the third a short silver tube, slightly curved, also rotatable horizontally.
“Now to tune it up,” he told them.
Connecting the set-up to the power supplies, he let it warm through before he started tuning it with a glassite screwdriver. It was a tricky job. The oscillatory circuit had to be steered a delicate margin past peak so that it would swing dead on to resonance when hand-capacity was removed. And, strangely enough, hand-capacity was greater on this planet. The correct margin had to be discovered by trial and error, by delicate adjustment and readjustment.
He manipulated the tuning with fingers as firm and sensitive as any surgeon’s. His jawbone ached. Tuning the set onward, he took his hand away. The circuit swung short. He tried again and again. Eventually he stood away from the apparatus, rubbed his aching jaw in which dull pain was throbbing, switched off the power.
“That’ll do,” he remarked.
“Aren’t you going to use it now?” Melor inquired.
“I can’t. Nobody’s looking for me yet.
”
“Oh!” The trio were more puzzled than ever. They gave it up and went to bed.
Putting away his apparatus, Harold dug a book on ancient history out of the Lingans’ small but excellent library, settled himself down to the fourth successive night of self-education. There was dynamite in these books for those who had eyes to see. No Lord of Terror had seen them in the light in which he saw them!
~ * ~
The ninth day dawned in manner no different from any other. The sun came up and the Empire’s boss city stirred to officially conducted life.
When Melor appeared, Harold said to him, “I believe that this is your free day. Have you any plans for it?”
“Nothing important. Why?”
Journey to Infinity - [Adventures in Science Fiction 02] Page 46
