Barrington Bayley SF Gateway Omnibus: The Soul of the Robot, The Knights of the Limits, The Fall of Chronopolis

by Barrington J. Bayley

  He spent a little while in the throne-room, peering through thresholds, no doubt, gazing at pools and wondering about the mountainous. Then he returned and offered the petitioners a concession of ten minutes off the working week. This was the greatest check he thought he could allow on his big industrial drive.

  They argued angrily about it, until things grew out of hand and the King ordered me to dismiss them. I had to have it done forcibly. Any one of the alien courtiers could have managed it single-handed by mere show of the weapons on his person, but instead I called in a twenty-man human bodyguard, thinking that to be ejected by their own countrymen might reduce their sense of solidarity.

  All the humans of the court exuded uneasiness. But they needn’t have worried. To judge by the King and his men, nothing might have happened. They held their positions with that same crystalline intelligence which they had carried through ten years of occupation. I was beginning to learn that this static appearance did not wholly result from unintelligibility, but that they actually maintained a constant internal state irrespective of external conditions. Because of this, they were unaware that the scene that had just been enacted comprised a minor climax. Living in a planar mentality the very idea of climax was not apparent to them.

  After the petitioners had gone, the King took me to his private chambers behind the courtroom. ‘Now is the time for consolidation,’ he said. ‘Without Sorn, the governing factions become separated, and the country disintegrates. I must find contact with the indigenous British. Therefore I will strike a closer liaison with you, Smith, my servant. You will follow me around.’

  He meant that I was to replace Sorn, as well as I could. Making it an official appointment was probably his way of appealing for help.

  He had hardly picked the right man for the job, but that was typical of the casual way he operated. Of course, it made my personal position much worse, since I began to feel bad about letting him down. I was caught at the nexus of two opposing forces: even my inaction meant that somebody would profit. Altogether, not a convenient post for a neutral passenger.

  Anyway, since the situation had arisen, I decided to be brash and ask some real questions.

  ‘All right,’ I said, ‘but for whose sake is this war being fought – Britain’s or yours?’

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth I felt a little frightened. In the phantasmal human-alien relationship, such earthy examinations were out of place. But the King accepted it.

  ‘I am British,’ he answered, ‘and Britain is mine. Ever since I came, our actions are inseparable.’

  Some factions of the British public would have disagreed with this, but I supposed he meant it in a different way. Perhaps in a way connected with the enigmatically compelling characters and aphorisms that had been erected about the country, like mathematics developed in words instead of numbers. I often suspected that the King had sought to gain power through semantics alone.

  Because I was emotionally adrift, I was reckless enough to argue the case. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘without you there would be no war. The Brazilians would never fight without compulsion from their own King, either. I’m not trying to secede from your authority, but resolve my opinion that you and the King of Brazil are using human nations as instruments … in a private quarrel.’

  For some while he thought about it, placing his hands together. He answered: ‘When the events of which I and the King of Brazil are a part moved into this region, I descended on to Britain, and he on to Brazil. By the fundamental working of things, I took on the nature of Britain, and Britain in reciprocation became incorporated in the workings of those events. And likewise with the King of Brazil, and with Brazil. These natures, and those events, are not for the time being separables, but included in each other. Therefore it is to defend Britain that I strive, because Britain is harnessed to my section of those outside happenings, and because I am British.’

  When I had finally sorted out that chunk of pedantry, his claims to nationality sounded like baloney. Then I took into account the slightly supra-sensible evidence of his British character. After a little reflection I realised that he had gone halfway towards giving me an explanation of it.

  ‘What kind of happenings,’ I wondered, ‘can they be?’

  The King can’t smile, and he can’t sound wistful, and it’s hard for him to convey anything except pure information. But what he said next sounded like the nearest thing to wistfulness he could manage.

  ‘They are very far from your mind,’ he said, ‘and from your style of living. ‘They are connected with the colliding galaxies in Cygnus. More than that would be very difficult to tell you …’

  There was a pause. I began to see that the King’s concern was with something very vast and strange indeed. England was only a detail …

  ‘And those outsiders who took over South Africa. What’s their part in this?’

  ‘No direct connection. Events merely chanced to blow this way.’

  Oddly, the way he said it made me think of how neat the triple invasion had been. In no instance had the borders of neighbouring states been violated, and the unmolested nations had in turn regarded the conquests as internal matters. Events had happened in discreet units, not in an interpenetrating mass as they usually do. The reactions of the entire Terrestrial civilisation had displayed an unearthly flavour. Maybe the incompatibility of alien psychology was not entirely mental. Perhaps in the King’s native place not only minds but also events took a different form from those of Earth. What is mentality, anyway, but a complex event? I could imagine a sort of transplanting of natural laws, these three kings, with all their power, bringing with them residual influences of the workings of their own worlds …

  It sounded like certain astrological ideas I had once heard, of how on each world everything is different, each world has its own basic identity, and everything on that world partakes of that identity. But it’s only astrology.

  As the time for war drew nearer, Hotch became more daring. Already he had made himself leader of the unions and fostered general discontent, as well as organising an underground which, in some ways, had more control over Britain than the King himself had. But he had a particular ambition, and in furtherance of this he appeared one day at Buckingham Palace.

  Quite simply, he intended to do what I had refused to do for him.

  He bowed low before the King, ignoring me, and launched into his petition.

  ‘The people of Britain have a long tradition of reliability and capability in war,’ he proclaimed. ‘They cannot be treated like children. Unless they are given fighting powers equal to those of the extraterrestrials – for I do not suppose that your own troops will be poorly armed – their morale will relapse and they will be defeated. You will be the psychological murderer of Britain.’

  When he had finished, he cast a defiant glance at me, then puffed out his barrel chest and waited for a reply.

  He had good reason to be afraid. One word from me, and he was finished. I admired his audacity.

  I was also astounded at the outrageous way he had made the request, and I was at a loss to know what to do.

  I sank on to the throne steps and slipped into a reverie. If I kept silent and showed loyalty to my country I would bring about the downfall of the King.

  If I spoke in loyalty to the King, I would bring about the downfall of Hotch.

  And really, I couldn’t find any loyalty anywhere. I was utterly adrift, as if I didn’t exist on the surface of the planet at all. I was like a compass needle which failed to answer to the magnetic field:

  ‘Psychological murderer of Britain,’ I repeated to myself. I was puzzled at the emotional evocation in that phrase. How could a human administer emotion to the King? But of course, it wasn’t really an emotion at all. In the King’s eyes the destruction of Britain was to be avoided, and it was this that Hotch was playing on.

  Emerging from my drowsy thoughts, I saw Hotch leave. The King had not given an answer. He beckoned to me.


  He spoke a few words to me, but I was non-committal. Then I waited outside the throne-room, while he spent an hour inside.

  He obviously trusted Hotch. When he came out, he called together his full council of eight aliens, four humans and myself, and issued directives for the modification of the war. I say of war, and not of preparations for the war, because plans were now sufficiently advanced for the general outlines of the conflict to be set down on paper. The way the aliens handled a war made it hardly like fighting at all, but like an engineering work or a business project. Everything was decided beforehand; the final outcome was almost incidental.

  And so several factories were re-tooled to produce the new weapons, the military hierarchy readjusted to give humans a greater part, and the focus of the main battle shifted five hundred miles further west. Also, the extrapolated duration of the war was shortened by six months.

  Hotch had won. All Britain’s industries worked magnificently for three months. They worked for Hotch as they had never worked, even for Sorn.

  I felt weary. A child could have seen through Hotch’s trick, but the King bad been taken in. What went on in his head, after all? What guided him? Did he really care – for anything?

  I wondered what Sorn would have thought. But then, I had never known what went on in Sorn’s head, either.

  The fleet assembled at Plymouth and sailed west into a sunny, choppy Atlantic. The alien-designed ships, which humans called swan-boats, were marshalled into several divisions. They rode high above the water on tripod legs, and bobbed lightly up and down.

  Aerial fighting was forbidden by treaty, but there was one aircraft in the fleet, a wonderful blue and gold non-combatant machine where reposed the King, a few personal servants and myself. We drifted a few hundred feet above the pale green waterships, matching our speed with theirs.

  That speed was slow. I wondered why we had not fitted ourselves out with those steel leviathans of human make, fast battleships and destroyers, which could have traversed the ocean in a few days whereas our journey required most of a month. It’s true the graceful swarm looked attractive in the sunlight, but I don’t think that was the reason. Or maybe it was a facet of it.

  The Brazilians were more conventional in their combat aesthetics. They had steamed slowly out of the Gulf of Mexico to meet us at a location which, paradoxically, had been predetermined without collusion. We were greeted by massive grey warships, heavy with guns. Few innovations appeared to have been introduced into the native shipbuilding, though I did see one long corvette-shape lifted clean out of the water on multiple hydroplanes.

  Fighting began in a casual, restrained manner when the belligerents were about two miles apart. There was not much outward enthusiasm for some hours. Our own ships ranged in size from the very small to the daintily monstrous, and wallowed prettily throughout the enemy fleet, discharging flashes of brilliant light. Our more advanced weapons weren’t used much, probably because they would have given us an unfair advantage over the Brazilian natives, who had not had the benefit of Hotch’s schemings.

  Inside me I felt a dull sickness. All the King’s men were gathered here in the Atlantic; this was the obvious time for Hotch’s rebellion.

  But it would not happen immediately. Hotch was astute enough to realise that even when he was rid of the King he might still have to contend with Brazil, and he wanted to test his future enemy’s strength.

  The unemphatic activity on the surface of the ocean continued, while one aircraft floated in the air above. The King watched, sometimes from the balcony, sometimes by means of a huge jumble of screens down inside, which showed an impossible montage of the scene viewed from innumerable angles, most of which had no tactical usefulness that I could see. Some were from locations at sea-level, some only gave images of rigging, and there was even one situated a few feet below the surface.

  I followed the King around, remembering his warning of the devastation which would ensue from Britain’s defeat. ‘But what will happen if we win?’ I asked him.

  ‘Do not be concerned,’ he told me. ‘Current events are in the present time, and will be completed with the cessation of the war.’

  ‘But something must happen afterwards.’

  ‘Subsequent events are not these events.’ A monstrous swinging pattern, made of bits and pieces of hulls and gunfire, built up mysteriously in the chaos of the screens, and dissolved again. The King turned to go outside.

  When he returned, the pattern had begun again, with modifications. I continued: ‘If you believe that, why do you talk about Britain’s welfare?’

  He applied himself to watching the screens, still showing no deviation from his norm, in a situation which to a normal man would have been crisis. ‘All Britain is mine,’ he said after his normal pause. ‘Therefore I make arrangements for its protection. This is comprehensible to us both, I think.’

  He swivelled his head towards me. ‘Why do you enquire in this way, Smith? These questions are not the way to knowledge.’

  Having been rebuked thus – if a being with a personality like atonal music can be said to rebuke – I too went outside, and peered below. The interpenetrated array seemed suddely like male and female. Our own more neatly shaped ships moved lightly, while the weighty, pounding Brazilians were more demonstratively aggressive, and even had long gun turrets for symbolism. Some slower part of my mind commented that the female is alleged to be the submissive, receptive part, which our fleet was not; but I dismissed that.

  After two hours the outcome still looked indefinite to my mind. But Hotch decided he had seen enough. He acted.

  A vessel which hitherto had kept to the outskirts of the battle and taken little part, abruptly opened up its decks and lifted a series of rocket ramps. Three minutes later, the missiles had disappeared into the sky and I guessed what war-heads they carried.

  Everything fitted neatly: it was a natural decision on Hotch’s part. In such a short time he had not been able to develop transatlantic rockets, and he might never again be this close to the cities of Brazil. I could see him adding it all up in his mind.

  Any kind of aeronautics was outlawed, and the Brazilians became enraged. They used their guns with a fury such as I hope never to see again. And I was surprised at how damaging a momentum a few thousand tons of fast-moving steel can acquire. Our own boys were a bit ragged in their defence at first, because they were busy butchering the King’s men.

  With the new weapons, most of this latter was over in twenty minutes. I went inside, because by now weapons were being directed at the aircraft, and the energies were approaching the limits of its defensive capacity.

  The hundred viewpoints adopted by the viewing screens had converted the battle-scene into a flurry too quick for my eyes to follow. The King asked my advice.

  My most immediate suggestion was already in effect. Slowly, because the defence screens were draining power, we ascended into the stratosphere. The rest of what I had to say took longer, and was more difficult, but I told it all.

  The King made no comment on my confession, but studied the sea. I withdrew into the background, feeling uncomfortable.

  The arrangement of vision screens was obsolete now that the battle-plan had been disrupted. Subsidiaries were set up to show the struggle in a simpler form. By the time we came to rest in the upper air, Hotch had rallied his navy and was holding his own in a suddenly bitter engagement.

  The King ordered other screens to be focused on Brazil. He still did not look at me.

  After he had watched developments for a short time, he decided to meditate in solitude, as was his habit. I don’t know whether it was carelessness or simple ignorance, but without a pause he opened the door and stepped on to the outside balcony.

  Fortunately, the door opened and closed like a shutter; the air replenishers worked very swiftly, and the air density was seriously low for less than a second. Even so, it was very unpleasant.

  Emerging from the experience, I saw the King standing pensively outside i
n the partial vacuum of the upper air. I swore with surprise: it was hot out there, and even the sunlight shining through the filtered windows was more than I could tolerate.

  When he returned, he was considerate enough to use another door.

  By this time the monitor screens had detected the squadrons of bombers rising in retaliation from Brazil’s devastated cities. The etiquette of the old war was abandoned, and there was no doubt that they too carried the nuclear weapons illegally employed by Hotch.

  The King observed: ‘When those bombers reach their delivery area in a few hours’ time, most of Britain’s fighting power will still be a month away in the Western Atlantic. Perhaps the islands should be warned to prepare what defences they have.’ His gem eyes lifted. ‘What do you say, Smith?’

  ‘Of course they must be warned!’ I replied quickly. ‘There is still an air defence – Hotch has kept the old skills alive. But he may not have expected such quick reprisals, and early interception is essential.’

  ‘I see. This man Hotch seems a skilful organiser, Smith, and would be needed in London.’ With interest, he watched the drive and ferocity of the action on the sea-scape. ‘Which is his ship?’

  I pointed out the large swan-boat on which I believed Hotch to be present. Too suddenly for our arrival to be anticipated, we dropped from the sky. The servants of the King conducted a lightning raid which made a captive of Hotch with thirty per cent casualties.

  We had been absent from the stratosphere for two minutes and forty-five seconds.

  Hotch himself wasn’t impressed. He accused me of bad timing. ‘You may be right,’ I said, and told him the story.