The Universe Maker

by A. E. van Vogt

  In one sense it was a mistake to think in terms of "soul," for such belief had a religious significance which automatically implied the belief was non-scientific, dependent on faith, incapable of being tested. Whereas, if there were phenomena, it would have manifested in innumerable ways, and would automatically be subject to laws. The fact that these laws might not be the same as those of the space-tune continuum, known as the material universe, would not prevent them from being correlated in a scientific fashion.

  "If," thought Cargill, as he entered the floater behind Lela, "I'm an energy field in the real universe, every time that field manifests itself somebody says 'Aha!' and we've got another philosophy."

  He had a very strong conviction that it was a riddle he would have to resolve.

  The days went by. Each morning their floater would drift up as high as its light-driven motor could carry them. On very clear, bright days that was as high as three miles. A thick mist could bring them down to within half a mile of the ground. And on a muggy or rainy day they had difficulty in clearing the higher hills. At such times, two or three hundred yards seemed to be their top altitude.

  It was a strange, almost timeless existence, with nothing to do except watch the ground or lie on a cot and sleep, or sit in the all-room of the ship and plan escape.

  Lela was the obstacle. It seemed to Cargill that he had never seen a girl so tense and wary. She slept in the control room, with the door locked. And yet, if he stirred, her light went on and he could see her watching him through the transparent door. That happened not just once, but every time. Her alertness baffled all his schemes. The end of this phase of their relationship came one night—Cargill wasn't sure whether it was the tenth or eleventh day since their escape; he had lost track of time.

  As the floater settled to the grass beside a stream, he opened the outer door, stepped down and walked rapidly off among the trees. A muffled yell sounded from behind him. The beam of a powerful searchlight pierced the gathering twilight and silhouetted him in its glare. A hundred feet ahead of him a tree fell, seared and smoldering.

  Cargill, who hadn't expected her to be able to fire at him from inside the control room, stopped short. Slowly, angrily, he returned to the ship. He had planned a showdown if he failed, and the moment had come.

  Lela met him at the door, tense and furious. "You were trying to run away," she accused.

  Cargill stopped and glared at her. "You bet I was. What do you think I'm made of—stone?"

  His tone must have conveyed part of his meaning, for some of the anger faded out of the girl. Oddly enough, to some extent, the implication was true. As a single man in the army, he had learned not to be too discriminating about his girls. After eleven days alone with Lela, he no longer felt as critical of her. She had a youthful prettiness, and there was more than enough passion in her to satisfy any man.

  But his purpose was more than conquest of a woman. He intended to take full control of the floater. He stared at her now, where she stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light from inside. She held a spitter in her fingers; and that was his problem.

  Boldly, he stepped closer to her. "It's one or the other," he said. "The two of us either live together here sensibly, or you'll have to kill me."

  "Don't you come no nearer," said Lela, but her voice lacked conviction. She added, falteringly, "I've got to have marrying."

  Cargill said urgently, "You know I've got to stick with you. Where else would I go?"

  He stepped closer, so close that when she put up the gun, the end of the tube touched his shirt. "I'm going to stay, but I won't be bossed, and I won't be put off."

  Deliberately, he pushed against the gun. She started to back away. He reached out and caught her shoulders with his fingers. Ignoring the gun, he pulled her gently into his arms.

  She was stiff and unbending. She kept mumbling something about "It's sin! It's sin!" Her lips when he kissed her trembled. She tried to pull away, and yet simultaneously her body went limp. She took the gun out from between them and held it off to one side, as if she were afraid it might go off. If ever a person was in a state of internal conflict, it was she.

  "Give me the gun," said Cargill. "We've got to be equal. A woman has got to trust a man. It can't be any other way."

  He kissed her again, and this time she offered no resistance. She was crying a little under her breath, a sound as old as the relationship between a man and a woman. Cargill instinctively kissed away her tears, and then reached over and took the gun.

  Just for an instant, that made her stiffen; and then— and then she let him have it.

  9

  It seemed to Cargill that control of the sky floater would enable him to do what he wanted. But what did he want? The weeks passed and he could not make up his mind. For some reason he had become involved in a plot. If he made a move that brought him out into the open, the plotters would once more close in upon him, and would try to force him to do their will.

  Finally, one day Cargill had an idea, the beginning of purpose. The nature of that purpose made him uneasy but the idea, once it came, would not go away. He went into the control room and sat down in front of the video plate. It was not the first tune he had examined the machine or listened hi to it. But now there was a plan in his mind.

  As with the floater engine and other machinery, the TV and radio mechanism was completely enclosed, making it impossible for him to examine the inner workings of the instrument. For a while Cargill simply tuned into conversations and into the one program that was on.

  A Shadow station broadcasted the program, which consisted of popular music of the jive variety. After each selection, a persuasive voice urged the listener to come to Shadow City and receive Shadow training. To Cargill, who did not care for jazz, the "commercials" had been fascinating—in the beginning. Now he listened for a few moments to the repetitious music and then absently turned the dial.

  Occasionally, he adjusted to see if any pictures were being broadcast. He found several. First, there was a man's coarse face and the man saying, "Now look, we've got to work this deal without any fooling." Car-gill listened long enough to the "deal" to find out that it had to do with a boss bargaining as to how much he would receive for a new floater, which had been turned over to him by the Shadows. Cargill noted down the man's name, the details of the transaction and made another adjustment.

  The next picture showed the interior of a ship. Apparently, a broadcaster had been left on carelessly. Since only the bosses had TV broadcasting units Cargill presumed that he was gazing into a boss's control room. He saw no one, though he watched for several minutes. A third picture featured a youth talking to a girl. He was saying, "Aw, c'mon, Jenny, you get your ma to put your floater down near ours tonight. Don't be one of these hard-to-get women."

  There were other personal conversations. Cargill identified their nature and passed on. It was too early for the only television show broadcast by the Shadows. Not that he was any longer particularly interested in it. It always featured the arrival of Tweeners and Planiacs at the terminal center just outside Shadow City. Emphasis was given to the Planiacs. It was a man-in-the-street type of show in which a Shadow interrogator questioned new arrivals who wished to take Shadow training. When he had first heard the show Cargill had hoped the Shadows would actually picturize a part of their training program. So far they had not done so.

  Not for the first tune he felt disappointed that these receivers were unable to tune in on programs broadcast from Tweener cities. It was significant, of course. The Shadows were evidently making sure that no one else had the opportunity to control the floater folk.

  Abruptly, Cargill shut off the instrument and sat frowning. His purpose, like a fire, threatened to consume him. And yet, once he took the plunge, he'd be even more of a marked man than he was now.

  From the nearby control chair, Lela said anxiously, "What's the matter, honey?"

  Cargill said slowly, "We can't go on like this forever —with everybody a
gainst us. We’ve got to have somebody around who will help us in an emergency or if something goes wrong."

  Lela nodded uneasily, said reluctantly: "I've been thinking about that once in a while."

  Cargill guessed that instead she had probably been making the effort not to think about it. Aloud, he said, "We've got to do more than think about it. We've got to do something."

  "What, for instance?"

  Cargill frowned. "There's one thing I've got to get straightened out first."

  "What's that?"

  "It's about something you told me once—which I can't quite believe anymore—about how many floater people there are. You said fifteen million."

  She nodded, bright-eyed. "That's right. I wasn't fooling."

  "Lela, it's impossible." He spoke urgently. "If there were that many people in the air, we'd be running into them continuously, every hour, every day, by the score."

  The girl was silent. "It's a big country," she said at last, stubbornly, "and I've heard Carmean and the other bosses of this area talking about it, and those are the figures they give. And, besides, you're not always looking out. I see lots of floaters, but I've been sort of trying to keep distance between us and them."

  Cargill recalled her twenty-four-hour vigils in the control room and felt abruptly impressed. Remembering how tense she always was, he thought that perhaps he had underestimated the girl's perceptiveness. He still couldn't accept her figures, but he guessed that she just didn't have the information he wanted. His own estimate would be that there were fewer than five million Planiacs, perhaps not more than half that many. Cargill leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "Lela, what do people think of Carmean? Do they like her?"

  It was a question which she would not actually be able to answer, since she couldn't know what millions of people thought. But people sometimes had extremely sensitive impressions. Lela said savagely, "Nobody likes Carmean. She's a skunk."

  Cargill sighed but pressed on. "What about the other bosses? What do people think of them?"

  "Why, you just put up with them," said Lela in a surprised tone. "There they are. They're part of life."

  "I see," said Cargill, with satisfaction. She might not know it but her answer was more significant than any direct statement she might make. It reflected the beliefs and attitudes of a culture, the automatically accepted credos, the rigidities behind every thought and action. He opened his eyes and asked another question: "How did Carmean get to be a boss?"

  "Just like any of the others, I guess," Lela said. "The Shadows started to give her things to give to the rest of us, and pretty soon we were all doing as she said to get our share."

  Cargill nodded and asked, "And how did the Shadows come to pick up her?"

  "Gosh, I don't know." Lela looked puzzled. "I never thought of that." She brightened, "I guess they looked her over and figured she had the stuff."

  It was so superficial an answer that Cargill abandoned that lure of questioning. He drew a deep breath and said, "Have you ever heard of a revolution?"

  She hesitated, frowning. "You mean, where somebody starts a fight?"

  Cargill smiled. "Something like that, but on a large scale. In the twentieth century, where I come from, we had possibly the most competent and determined revolutionists in the history of the world. Before they were even slowed down, they took over half the world. It took a long time for the rest of us to catch on to what they were doing, but finally it dawned on us, and we began to look into their methods."

  There was a light of understanding in Lela's eyes. "You mean those Russes?" she asked.

  Cargill agreed. "Yep, the Russes."

  "They sure fixed those," said Lela.

  Cargill, who had already heard how the fixing took place, did not pursue the subject The great land mass had been divided into forty separate states. The fall of Sovietism produced a resurgence of religion on a singularly primitive level. It was a feudalistic disaster, product of the usual fears of a mentally sick hierarchy, uncreative, and so completely suppressive that the genius of half the people of earth had already been lost for two hundred years.

  Cargill explained: "For us, the best thing to do would be to start off with a barrage of propaganda—and then wait to see what happens. The fight," he smiled grimly,

  "comes last." He turned back to the TV set, saying as he did so: "Well take the first step right now."

  By the fifth day of his broadcasts, Cargill began to have a queer feeling of unreality. He seemed to be talking into emptiness. For the first time in his life he understood how people must have felt in the early days of radio with only a microphone to stare at. What he lacked was a Hooper rating. There was -no mail to bring an awareness of audience response, no surveys of any kind to encourage him. But in spite of his doubts he kept on.

  Thirty days drifted by. On the morning of the thirty-first day, just as Cargill finished his propaganda talk, a man's face appeared on his TV plate. He was a cunning-looking individual about forty-five years old.

  "I want to talk to you," he said.

  A trap? Cargill's fingers hovered over the dial that would cut him off the air. He hesitated and the stranger had time to say, "My name is Guthrie. I want to talk to you about this rabble-rousing you've been doing."

  He looked and sounded like a boss. He was a typical rough older Planiac and his words were sweet music to Cargill. But it was not yet time to talk.

  "I'm not interested," said Cargill.

  He broke the connection.

  From that moment he began to name places where his supporters should meet and get together. It was dangerous but then so was being alive. What would save the great majority from counteraction was that each floater was armed with a mounted spit gun.

  The days passed. Late one afternoon, Lela came briefly out of the control room. "It's going to be dark by the time we get to the lake," she said.

  Cargill smiled. "Which lake do you mean?" He added quickly, "Never mind. I'm just amazed constantly at the way you pick out these places."

  "It isn't anything," said the girl. And she meant it. "I've been watching this country since I was a baby. I know it like the palm of my hand."

  "Better, I'll wager," said Cargill.

  They came in low over the trees and landed in a clearing with the aid of their searchlight. As Cargill started to open the door a spit gun flared in the darkness. What saved him was that he was behind the door. The energy spat past him and made a thunderous sound as it struck the metal corridor wall. The door smoked from the terrific heat. He had a sense of suffocation. Under him the ship began to lift. And then, once more, there was a sunlike glare—only this time the blow was delivered farther back, near the rear of the machine. The floater faltered and, as Cargill at last got the door shut, sagged back to the ground. It struck with a jar unlike anything that Cargill had ever experienced. He hurried to the control room and found Lela manning their spit gun.

  She was very pale. "Those scum," she said, "have wrecked us."

  The dawn light filtered through the turgid glass. It was dull at first, little more than a lighter shade of darkness, but it grew bright. From the control room Cargill could see the dark areas outside lightening. To his right was the gray horizon of the lake with the far shore hazed in mist.

  From where she sat, manning the ship's powerful spit gun, Lela said, "It's bright enough now. Try and lift her again."

  It was a hope that had motivated their courage all through the long night—that morning would bring some life to the sluggish motors. The hope died a second later as Cargill eased in the power and pulled it all the way back. The ship did not even stir.

  "We'll try it again," said Lela hi a tired voice, "when the sun comes up,"

  Cargill rejected her hope. "Has your father any influence with the bosses?" he asked.

  The girl shrugged. "Carmean kind of likes him."

  Cargill silently wondered why. He said finally, "Maybe if we talked to them we could find out what they want.*1

&nbs
p; From the conversation he had heard more than a month ago between Carmean and the Shadow, Grannis, he had a rather sharp conviction they were after him.

  He said, "I think you'd better try to get your Pa on the radio and see if he can come here. We'll try to hold them off until he arrives and then, if possible, you can go with him."

  Lela was pale. "What about you?"

  Cargill did not answer immediately. The feeling of vagueness that was inside him was only too familiar. It was the same kind of blur that had made it possible for him to run up a hill in Korea against enemy fire. With that blurred feeling about his future he had entered all battles in which he had been engaged. He said now, "I'll try to slip away tonight after it gets dark." He was about to elaborate when his gaze strayed past her toward the edge of the clearing a hundred feet away. A Shadow stood there.

  Cargill’s face must have shown that something was wrong, for Lela whirled. Her body grew rigid. The Shadow had been motionless as if observing the scene. Now he began to walk toward the ship. There was a dazed expression on Lela's face. She straightened slowly, settled herself behind the long spit gun and aimed it. Her face seemed bloodless and she sat very still. Twice she seemed in the act of pressing the activator of that remarkable weapon. Each time she shuddered and closed her eyes. "I can't," she whispered at last. "I can't!"

  The Shadow was less than fifty feet away. With a frantic movement, Cargill pulled the girl out of the chair, settled into it and grabbed the gun. A sheet of flame reared up a dozen feet in front of the Shadow.

  The Shadow paid no attention. He came on. Once more Cargill fired. The flame glazed through the Shadow. A score of feet behind him grass and shrubbery burned with a white intensity. Twice more Cargill fired directly into the Shadow shape—and each time it was as if there was nothing there, no resistance, no substance. And the Shadow came closer.

  Cargill ceased firing. He was trembling. There was a thought in his mind—a new overpowering thought. If the Shadow shape were insubstantial, if potent, palpable energy meant nothing to it, then what about steel walls?