The World of Null-A n-1

by Alfred Elton Van Vogt

  The important thing was not to arouse counterpurpose. Once, when they were penned in by an apparently endless line of racing trucks, Gosseyn shouted, “This is the city side! The mountain slopes on the other side probably have hardly anyone on them. When we leave, we’ll go that way and work around to your car.”

  They came to a steel fence that enterprising wrecking crews had put up against the crowd. It was for the most part a successful barrier, and the occasional individual who vaulted over it usually slunk back before the threatening guns of the guards who stood in little groups on the other side of the fence, like soldiers lawfully guarding a property from vandals.

  Once more, it was a case of straightforward risk. “Keep close to the road!” Gosseyn yelled. “They’ll hesitate about shooting at the trucks.”

  The moment they broke into the open, two guards raced toward them, shrieking something that was lost in the bedlam. Their contorted faces were limned in the fitful light. Their guns waved ferociously. And they went down like briefly animated dummies as Gosseyn shot them. He ran on after Lyttle, startled. He who had so frequently refused to kill—merciless now. The guards were symbols, he decided bleakly, symbols of destruction. Having taken on unhuman qualities, they were barbarous entities, to be destroyed like attacking beasts and forgotten. He forgot them. Ahead was the remnant of the Games Machine.

  For hours Gosseyn had tied his hopes to a law of logic. A law which held that a machine which had taken years to build couldn’t be unbuilt in twenty-four hours. He was not so right as he had expected. The Machine was visibly smaller. But it was the torpedo damage that was responsible. The outer tiers of game rooms were caved-in husks, as if fantastic air pressures had smashed them. And everywhere thirty-, fifty-, ninety-foot holes gaped in the gleaming, dented walls. Black, jagged holes that revealed, under the spraying, glittering fight, torn masses of scintillating wires and instruments—the outer portions of the nervous system of the dead Machine.

  For the first time, standing there, Gosseyn thought of the Machine as a high-type organism that had been living and was now dead. What was intelligent life but the sensitive awareness of a nervous system with a memory of experiences? In all the man-known history of the world, there never had been an organism with so much memory, such a vast experience, such a tremendous knowledge of human beings and human nature, as the Games Machine. Far in the background of his mind Gosseyn heard Dan Lyttle cry, “Come along! We mustn’t delay.”

  Gosseyn recognized that was so and moved forward, but it was his body that followed Lyttle toward the realization of their purpose. His mind and gaze clung to the Machine. Seen at closer range, the extent of the salvage work was more apparent. Whole sections had been torn down, were being torn down, were about to be torn down. Men carrying machines and metal plates and instruments swarmed out of the dark passageways; the sight of them shocked Gosseyn. Once more he was stopped by the realization that he was witnessing the end of an era.

  Lyttle tugged at his arm. And that galvanized Gosseyn as no words could have. He hurried forward, skirting the fiery glare of the truck and plane lights, the blaze of the beacons that poured down from every projection of metal big enough to support an atomic-powered searchlight.

  “Around to the back,” Gosseyn called, and led the way to the overhanging fold of metal into which the truck had disappeared with the crate containing the Distorter. As they half ran the din retreated somewhat, and there were not so many planes or trucks or men.

  There was tremendous activity, of course. The hissing of cutters, the clang of metal falling, the confusion of movement—all were there, but in lesser quantity. For every hundred men and trucks in the front of the Machine, there were a score here, working just as hard, just as frantically, apparently conscious that it was only a matter of time until their easy possession was challenged by irresistible numbers. And still the din grew less. Gosseyn and Lyttle came to the flange behind which the Distorter had been taken, and saw a scant dozen trucks drawn up against a loading platform. Doors had been cut out of the front of an enormous shedlike room, and from this vast, dim area men were carrying packing cases, machines, pieces of metal, and instruments.

  The shed was almost empty, and the crate with the Distorter in it stood off by itself as if waiting for them. An address had been stamped on it in six-inch black letters:

  RESEARCH DEPARTMENT

  THE SEMANTIC INSTITUTE

  KORZYBSKI SQUARE

  CITY

  The address started a chain of thought in Gosseyn’s mind. The Machine was under the legal control of the Institute. Since it knew a lot, then perhaps the people there knew more. It was a point to investigate as soon as possible.

  They headed out into the open field, out into the darkness. The sounds died behind them. The glare of light retreated beyond the peak of a high hill. They reached the car and arrived presently in the yard of the neat little home of Dan Lyttle. In a vague fashion Gosseyn had believed that Patricia Hardie would be waiting there for him. But she wasn’t.

  There was an excitement about removing the Distorter from its crate that took away the empty feeling of her not being there. They laid the Distorter, face upward, on the floor, and then sat down and looked at it. Bright, steely, alien metal—world destroyer! Because of it the agents of a galactic conqueror had reached into all the high places of Earth, and for long, oh, far too long, it was unsuspected. His initial capture of the Distorter had proved to be one of the final steps in the crisis of null-A.

  Finding itself free, the Games Machine had broadcast the truth and brought the Venusian war to Earth. For better or worse, the forces of the invaders and of null-A were now engaged, or about to be engaged. Sitting there, Gosseyn felt a black dismay. From every logical angle, the fight was already lost. He saw that Lyttle was tired. The young man’s head drooped. He caught Gosseyn’s eyes on him and he smiled grayly.

  “I was in such a state of tension yesterday,” he said, “that I didn’t sleep a wink. I intended to buy some anti-sleep pills, but I forgot.”

  Gosseyn said, “Lie down on the couch and sleep if you can.”

  “And miss what you’re going to do? Not on your life.”

  Gosseyn smiled at that. He explained that he intended to conduct his examination of the Distorter on an orderly basis.

  “First of all, I want to locate the source of energy used by the tubes, and so be able to switch it on or off. I’ll need some simple equipment, and the investigation itself will take time. Show me where you keep the instruments you used for taking your course in null-A physics and then go to sleep.”

  In three minutes, he was on his own. He felt in no hurry. From the beginning he had moved along at dizzying speeds and got approximately nowhere. The world of null-A, which he had once thought he was supposed to save, was crashing, had crashed, around him.

  But just what did he expect out of this examination? A clue, Gosseyn decided. Some key to its operation. Patricia had said it was forbidden-presumably by that weak organization the Galactic League, yet she had mentioned that its use was permitted for transport. What had that meant? He picked up Lyttle’s energy scanner and began adjusting the meter on it, peering from time to time through the eyehole. Abruptly, he could see into the Distorter.

  What made the first observation simple was that he could not see into the tubes. Their intricacies withheld, the problem of organizing the complication inside the Distorter became a matter of following the wire system. Gosseyn searched for the power source. He didn’t have to go far because the power was on. He had taken it for granted that the Machine would have shut the thing off. It took ten minutes to convince him that there was no apparent way of switching off the power. It was on. And meant to stay on. The Games Machine, of course, would have used energy probers that could short-circuit a wire system right through metal, and so it had solved its special problems. Gilbert Gosseyn, lacking a prober, was stymied, and since he had virtually promised Lyttle that he would do nothing on his own, he decided to go to s
leep. It was possible that by the time he awakened Patricia would have arrived.

  But she hadn’t. There was no one around. It was half past four in the afternoon and, except for the Distorter, he was alone in the house. There was a note from Lyttle on the kitchen table to the effect that he had gone to work and that he was leaving the car for Gosseyn to use. The note finished:

  . . . what the radio calls “murderous elements” are beginning to sabotage “peaceful production” and they are to be “ruthlessly” put down by the forces of “law and order.” You’ll find food all around you. I’ll be back at 12:30.

  Dan Lyttle

  After he had eaten, Gosseyn went into the living room and stared down at the Distorter, dissatisfied with his whole position. “I’m here,” he thought, “in a house where I could be captured in five minutes. There are at least two persons in the city who know I am in this house.”

  It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Patricia and Lyttle. He had made the assumption out of things that had happened, out of actual events, that they were on his side. But it was disquieting to be dependent again in any way upon the actions of other people. It wasn’t distrust. But suppose something had gone wrong. Suppose at this very minute information was being pressed out of Patricia about where he was, about the Distorter.

  He couldn’t go out until dark. Which left the Distorter. Undecided, he knelt beside it, and, reaching out gingerly, he touched the corner tube nearest him. Just what he expected he wasn’t sure. But he was prepared for shock. The tube was vaguely warm against his fingers. Gosseyn caressed it for a moment, rueful, irritated at his caution. “If I decide to leave in a hurry,” he thought, “I’ll grab a handful of tubes and take them along with me.”

  He stood up. “I’ll give her till dark.” He hesitated, frowning again. Maybe he’d better get those tubes now. They might not come out easily.

  He was sitting examining the Distorter again through the scanner when the phone rang. It was Lyttle, his voice shaking with excitement.

  “I’m calling from a pay phone. I’ve just seen the latest paper. It says that Patricia Hardie was arrested an hour and a half ago for—get this, it’s monstrous—the murder of her father. Mr. Wentworth”—Lyttle’s question was strangely timid—“how long does it take to make a null-A talk?”

  “There is no set time,” said Gosseyn. He was cold, his mind like a steel bar that had been struck a mighty blow and was now vibrating strongly in response. Thorson was playing this game implacably. He found his voice again.

  “Listen,” he said. “I’ll have to let you decide for yourself whether or not you stick to your job until midnight. If you know somewhere that you can go, go at once. If you feel that you have to come back here, come with care. I might or might not leave the Distorter here. I’m going to remove some tubes from it and go—well, never mind. Watch the ‘Careless’—‘Guest’ ads in the paper. And thanks for everything, Dan.”

  He waited, but when there was no comment, he hung up. Straight for the Distorter he headed. The corner tube, like all the others, projected about an inch above the metal. He grasped it and pulled at it with a slowly increasing pressure. It wouldn’t come out.

  He reversed his effort and pushed instead of pulled. There was probably a catch that needed releasing. The tube clicked down. There was a sudden, sharp strain on his eyes. The room wavered—his amazement was conscious, and the answer, the realization of what was happening was equally clear—wavered, vibrated, trembled in every molecule. Shook like an image in a crystal-clear pool into which a stone has been violently tossed.

  His head began to ache. He fumbled with his fingers, searching for the tube, but it was hard to see. He closed his eyes briefly, but it made no difference. The tube was burning hot under the fingers with which he tried to pull it back into place. He must have been dazed because he swayed and fell forward, bumping against the Distorter. He had a strange sense of lightness.

  He opened his eyes in surprise. He was lying on his side in utter darkness, and in his nostrils was the rich odor of growing wood. It was a familiar, heavy scent, but it took Gosseyn a long moment to make the enormous mental jump necessary to grasping the reality of it. The odor was the same as had assailed him on his futile journey into the tree tunnel behind Crang’s house on Venus.

  Gosseyn scrambled to his feet, almost fell as he stumbled over something metallic, and then groped against first one upcurving wall, then the other. And there was no doubt. He was in a tunnel in the roots of a gigantic tree of Venus.

  XXVI

  Nevertheless, the consuming hunger of the uncritical mind for what it imagines to be certainty or finality impels it to feast upon shadows.

  E. T. B.

  The burst of energy that had galvanized him into verifying where he was subsided. Gosseyn sat down heavily. It was not altogether a voluntary action. His hands were shaking; his knees felt weak.

  He had already noticed it was dark. Now he realized it with a new intensity. Darkness! Shadowless, unrelenting darkness. It pressed against his eyes and into his brain. He could feel his clothes against his skin, and the pressure of the wood floor. But in this night they could have been vagrant titillations experienced by a bodiless entity. In this unrelieved blackness, substance, human or unhuman, was almost a meaningless term.

  “I can,” Gosseyn told himself, “last two weeks without food, three days without water.”

  He recognized that he didn’t feel as hopeless as that, in spite of his memory of miles of black tunnels. Because they wouldn’t have focused a Distorter tube on just any part of this Venusian tree tunnel. It must be near some special point, easily accessible from where he was.

  He was about to climb to his feet when he realized for the first time the magnitude of what had happened. A few minutes ago he had been on Earth. Now he was on Venus.

  What was it Prescott had said? “If two energies can be attuned on a twenty-decimal approximation of similarity, the greater will bridge the gap of space between them just as if there were no gap, although the juncture is accomplished at finite speeds.”

  The finite speeds involved had been infinite for all the practical purposes of solar distances. Gosseyn began to feel better. The Distorter had attuned the highly organized energy compound that was his body to this small section of tree tunnel, and the “greater” had bridged the gap of space to the “lesser.”

  Gosseyn stood up and thought, “Why, I’m on Venus-where I wanted to be.” His spirits lifted higher. In spite of all his mistakes, he was still safe, still progressing. He knew many things, and even what he did not know suddenly seemed attainable. He had but to see more deeply, make a few more abstractions from reality, refine his observations another decimal place, and the veil would be torn aside, the mystery comprehended by his senses.

  The thought in its implications was wide enough in scope to actuate the integration “pause” of his nervous system. He grew even calmer.

  He remembered the metal on which he had stumbled when he had first tried to get to his feet. Even in that darkness, he found the object within seconds. It was the Distorter, as he had half anticipated. Cautiously his fingers touched each of the four corner tubes in turn. It was the fourth tube that was depressed, still depressed. Gosseyn hesitated. The Distorter had been “set” by people who had their own purposes and destinations. Some of the tubes were designed to “interfere” with the Games Machine, but a few surely could transport nun to other parts of the solar system, possibly to key centers of gang activity-military headquarters, the secret galactic base, storehouses of atomic torpedoes.

  The potentialities startled him. But they weren’t for now. This was not the time to take risks or conduct experiments. The sooner he got away from here the better.

  Gingerly, he picked up the Distorter and began to walk along in the darkness.

  “I’ll walk a thousand steps in one direction,” he decided, “then come back and walk a thousand in the other direction.” That should bring him to the gang center near his p
oint of “landing.” They wouldn’t have put it further away that that.

  As he rounded a sharp bend in the tunnel, after approximately three hundred steps, he saw a glimmer of light. He rounded three more bends. Even then the glow, though bright now and dead ahead, was sourceless. But Gosseyn saw that there was a railing silhouetted against the light. He put down the Distorter.

  Cautiously he moved forward. At the last moment, he dropped to his hands and knees. An instant later, he was staring between the bars of the fence. There was a metal pit below him. The metal gleamed dully from scores of atomic lights that blazed at set intervals from the enormous, downcurving walls. The pit was about two miles long, a mile wide, and half a mile deep. And, occupying one half of the far end, was a ship. It was a ship such as Earth men might have dreamed about in their wilder imaginative soarings. Spaceship engineers, plan-happy after weeks of poring over ninety-foot draft plans of normal solar spaceships, might have gone home and babbled to their wives, “Now I’m going to take off five hundred years and start a million draftsmen drawing plans for an interstellar ship two miles long.”

  The ship in the pit was just under two miles long. Its ridged back reared up sharklike to within what seemed a hundred feet of the ceiling. Another ship of its own size could have lain beside it, but if it had, the two of them would have crowded the mile width of the pit.

  Distance obscured details, but even so Gosseyn could see tiny figures swarming on the metal under the great belly of the ship. They seemed to have contact with something below the floor, for every little while great batches of little shapes scurried from a long line of humps that projected from the floor—as if elevators had come up loaded from floors lower down and disgorged their cargo. In the diagonal way Gosseyn was looking down at them, they must have been at least two-thirds of a mile away, little dark things crawling over the metal.