The Duplicators

by Murray Leinster

  There should have been merely an instant of intolerable vertigo and of intense nausea, and then the sensation of a spiral fall toward infinity, but nothing more. Those sensations occurred. But as they began there was also a wild, rasping roar in the engine room. Lights dimmed. Thistlethwaite howled with fury and flung himself down into an inferno of blue arcs and stinking scorched insulation. In that incredible nightmare-like atmosphere he hit something with a stick. He pulled violently on a rope. He spun a wheel rapidly. And the arcs died. The ship’s ancient air system began to struggle with the smoke and smells.

  It took him two days to make repairs, during which he did not address one syllable to Link. But Link was busy anyhow. He was taking observations and checking the process with the Practical Astrogator as he went along. Then he used the computer to make his observations mean something. He faithfully wrote all these exercises in the ship’s log. It helped to pass the time. But when determination of the ship’s position by three different methods gave the same result, he arrived at the astonishing conclusion that the Glamorgan was actually on course.

  He was composing a tribute to himself for the feat when Thistlethwaite came bristling into the control room.

  “I fixed what you messed up,” he said bitterly. “We can go on now. But next time you do something, don’t do it till you ask me, and I’ll fix it so you can. You could’ve wrecked us.”

  Link opened his mouth to ask what could be a more complete wreck than the Glamorgan right now, but he refrained. He arranged for Thistlethwaite to go down into the engine room. He shouted down the stairways. Thistlethwaite bellowed a reply. Link checked the ship’s heading again, glanced at the ship’s chronometer, and threw the overdrive on.

  Nothing happened except vertigo and nausea and the feeling of falling in a spiral fashion toward nowhere at all. The Glamorgan was again in overdrive. The little man came in, brushing off his hands.

  “That’s the way,” he said truculently, “to handle this ship!” Link scribbled a memo of the instant the Glamorgan had gone into overdrive.

  “In two days, four hours, thirty-three minutes and twenty seconds,” he observed, “we’ll want to break out again. We ought to be somewhere near Sord, then.”

  “If,” said Thistlethwaite suspiciously, “if you’re not tryin’ to put something over on me!”

  Link shrugged. He’d begun to wonder, lately, why he’d come on this highly mysterious journey. In one sense he’d had good reason. Jail. But now he began to be restless. He wore a stake-belt next to his skin, and in it he had certain small crystals. There were people who would murder him enthusiastically for those crystals. There were others who would pay him very large sums for them. The trouble was that he had no specific idea of what he wanted to do with a large sum. Small sums, yes. He could relax with them. But large ones—He felt a need for the pleasingly unexpected. Even the exciting.

  One day passed and he was definitely impatient. He was bored. He couldn’t even think of anything to write in the log book. There’d been a girl about whom he’d felt romantic, not so long ago. He tried to think sentimentally about her. He failed. He hadn’t seen her in months and she was probably married to somebody else now. The thought didn’t bother him. It was annoying that it didn’t. He craved excitement and interesting happenings, and he was merely heading for a planet that hadn’t made authenticated contact with the rest of the galaxy in two hundred years, and then had promised to shoot anybody who landed. He was only in a leaky ship whose machinery broke down frequently and might at any time burn out.

  He was, in a word, bored.

  The second day passed. Four hours, thirty-three minutes remained. He tried to hope for interesting events. He knew of no reason to anticipate them. If Thistlethwaite were right, there would be only business dealings aground, and presently an attempt to get to somewhere else in the Glamorgan, and after that—

  The whiskery man went down into the engine room and bellowed that everything was set. Link sat by the control board, leaning on his elbows, in a mood of deep skepticism. He didn’t believe anything in particular was likely to happen. Especially he didn’t believe in Thistlethwaite’s story of fabulous wealth. There was nothing as valuable as Thistlethwaite described. Such things simply didn’t exist. But since he’d come this far—

  Two minutes to go. One minute twenty seconds. Twenty seconds. Ten… five… four… three… two… one!

  He flipped the overdrive switch to off. There were the customary sensations of dizzy fall and vertigo and nausea. Then the Glamorgan floated in normal space, and there was a sun not unreasonably far away, and all the sky was stars. Link was even pessimistic about the identity of the sun, but a spectro-photo identified it. It was truly Sord. There were planets. One. Two. Three. Three had ice-caps; it looked as if two-thirds of its surface was sea, and in general it matched the Directory’s description. It might… just possibly… be inhabited.

  A tediously long time later the Glamorgan floated in orbit around the third planet out from its sun. Mottled land masses whipped by below. There were seas, and more land masses.

  Thistlethwaite watched in silence. There could be no communication with the ground, even if the ground was prepared to communicate. The Glamorgan’s communication system didn’t work. Link waited for the little man to identify his destination. When it was named there would probably be trouble.

  “No maps,” said Thistlethwaite bitterly, on the second time around. “I asked Old Man Addison for a map but he hardly knew what I meant. They never bothered to make ’em! But Old Man Addison’s Household is near a sea. Near a bay, with mountains not too far off.”

  Link was not relieved. It isn’t easy to find a landmark of limited size on a large world from a ship in space that has no maps or even a working communicator. But on the fourth orbital circuit, clouds that had formerly hidden a certain place had moved away. Thistlethwaite pointed.

  “That’s it!” he said, scowling as if to cover his own doubts. “That’s it! Get her down yonder!”

  Link took a deep breath. Standard spaceport procedure is for a ship to call down by communicator, have coordinates supplied from the ground, get into position, and wait. Then the landing grid reaches out its force fields and lets the ship down. It is neat, and comfortable, and safe. But there was no landing grid here. There was no information. And Link had no experience, either.

  He made one extra orbit to fix the indicated landing point in his mind and to try to guess at the relative speed of ship and planetary surface. On the seventh circling of the planet, he swung the ship so it traveled stern-first and its emergency rockets could be used as retros. The drive engine would be useless here. Thistlethwaite stayed in the control room to watch. He chewed agitatedly on wisps of whisker.

  The ship hit atmosphere. There was a keening, howling sound, as if the ancient hull were protesting its own destruction. There were thumpings and bumpings. Loose plates rattled at their rivets and remaining welds.

  Something came free and battered thunderously at other hull plates before it went crazily off to nowhere. Vibration began. It became a thoroughly ominous quivering of all the ship. Link threw over the rocket lever, and the vibration ceased to increase as the emergencies bellowed below. He gave them more power, and more, until the deceleration made it difficult to stand. Then, at very long last, the vibration seemed to lessen a very little.

  The ship descended into a hurricane of wind from its own motion. Unbelievable noises sounded here and there. The hole where a plate had torn away developed an organ tone with the volume of a baby earthquake’s roar.

  The ship hurtled on. Far ahead there was blue sea. Nearer, there were mountains. There was a sandy look to the surface of the soil. Clouds enveloped the ship, and she came out below them, bellowing, and Link gave the rockets more braking power. But the ground still seemed to race past at an intolerable speed. He tilted the ship until her rockets did not support her at all, but only served as brakes.

  Then she really went down, wallowing.
He fought her, learning how to land by doing it, but without even a close idea of what it should feel like. Twice he attempted to check his descent at the cost of not checking motion toward the now-not-so-distant shoreline. He began to hope. He concentrated on matching speed with the flowing landscape.

  He made it. The ship moved almost imperceptibly with respect to such landmarks as he could see. Something vaguely resembling a village appeared, far below, but he could not attend to it. The ship suddenly hovered, no more than five thousand feet high. Then Link, sweating, started to ease down.

  Thistlethwaite protested agitatedly:

  “I saw a village! Get her down! Get her down!”

  Link cut the rockets entirely; the ship began to drop like a stone, and he cut them in again and out and in.

  The Glamorgan landed with a tremendous crash. It teetered back and forth, making loud grinding noises. It steadied. It stopped.

  Link mopped his forehead. Thistlethwaite said accusingly:

  “But this ain’t where we shoulda landed! We shoulda stopped by that village! And even that ain’t the one I want!”

  “This is where we did land,” said Link, “and lucky we made it! You don’t know how lucky!”

  He went to a port to look out. The ship had landed in a sort of hollow, liberally sprinkled with boulders of various shapes and sizes. Sandy hillocks with sparse vegetation on their slopes appeared on every hand. Despite the ship’s upright position, Link could not see over the hills to a true horizon.

  “I’ll go over to that village we saw comin’ down,” said Thistlethwaite importantly, “an’ arrange to send a message to my friends. Then we’ll get down to business. And there’s never been a business like this one before in all the time since us men stopped swappin’ arrowheads! You stay here an’ keep ship.”

  He swung the ship’s one weapon, a stun gun, over his shoulder. It gave him a rakish air. He put on a hat.

  “Yep. You keep ship till I come back!”

  He went down the stairs. Link heard him go down all the levels until he came to the exit port in one of the ship’s landing fins. From the control room he saw Thistlethwaite stride grandly to the top of the nearest hill, look exhaustively from there, and then march away with an air of great and confident composure. He went out of sight beyond the hillcrest.

  Link went down to the exit port himself. The air in the opening was fresh and markedly pleasant to breathe. He felt that it was about time that something interesting happened. This wasn’t it. Here was only commonplace landscape, commonplace sky, and commonplace tedium. He sat on the sill of the open exit port and waited without expectation for something interesting to happen.

  Presently he heard tiny clickings. Two small animals, very much like pigs in size and appearance, came trotting hurriedly into view. Their hoofs had made the clicking sounds. They saw the ship and stopped short, staring at it. They didn’t look dangerous.

  “Hi, there,” said Link companionably.

  The small creatures vanished instantly. They plunged behind boulders. Link shrugged. He gazed about him. After a little, he saw an eye peering at him around a boulder. It was the eye of one of the pig-like animals. Link moved abruptly and the eye vanished.

  A voice spoke, apparently from nowhere. It was scornful. “Jumpy, huh? Scared?”

  “I was startled,” said Link mildly, “but I wouldn’t say I was scared. Should I be?”

  The voice said sardonically, “Huh!”

  There was silence again. There was stillness. A very sparse vegetation appeared to have existed where the Glamorgan came down on her rockets. Those scattered bits of growing stuff had been burned to ash by the rocket flames, but at the edge of the burned area some few small smoldering fragments sent threads of smoke skyward to be dissipated by wind that came over the hilltops. On a hillcrest itself a tiny sand-devil whirled for a moment and then vanished.

  The voice said abruptly and scornfully, “You in the door there! Where’d you come from?”

  Link said agreeably, “From Trent.”

  “What’s that?” demanded the voice, disparagingly.

  “A planet—a world like this,” explained Link.

  The voice said, “Huh!” There was a long pause. It said, “Why?”

  Link had no idea what or who his unseen questioner might be, but the tone of the questioning was scornful. He felt that a certain impressiveness on his own part was in order. He said, “That is something to be disclosed only to proper authority. The purpose of my companion and myself, however, is entirely admirable. I may say that in time to come it is probable that the anniversary of our landing will be celebrated over the entire planet.”

  Having made the statement, he rather admired it. Almost anything could be deduced from it, yet it did not mean a thing.

  There was again a silence. Then the voice said cagily, “Celebrated by uffts?”

  Here Link made a slight but natural error. The word “uffts,” which was unfamiliar, sounded very much like “us,” and he took it for the latter. He said profoundly, “I would say that that is a reasonable assumption.”

  Dead silence once more. It lasted for a long time. Then the same voice said sharply, “Somebody’s coming.”

  There came a scurrying behind the boulders. Little clickings sounded. There were flashes of pinkish-white hide. Then the two pig-like creatures darted back into view, galloping madly for the hillcrest over which they’d come. They vanished beyond it. Link spoke again, but there was no reply.

  For a long time silence lay over the hollow in which the Glamorgan had come to rest. Link spoke repeatedly—chattily, seriously. The silence seemed almost ominous. He began to realize that Thistlethwaite had been gone for a long time. It was well over an hour, now. He ought to be getting back.

  He didn’t come. Link was genuinely concerned when, at least another half-hour later, a remarkably improbable cavalcade came leisurely over the hillcrest, crossed by Thistlethwaite to begin with, and the pig-like animals later. The members of the cavalcade regarded the ship interestedly, and came on at a deliberate and unhurried pace. There were half a dozen men, mounted on large, splay-footed animals which had to be called unicorns, because from the middle of their foreheads drooped flexible, flabby, horn-shaped appendages. The appendages looked discouraged. The facial expression of the animals who wore them was of complete, inquiring idiocy.

  That was the first impression. The second was less pleasing. The leader of the riders wore Thistlethwaite’s hat—it was too small for him—and had Thistlethwaite’s stun gun slung over his shoulder. Another rider wore Thistlethwaite’s shirt and a third wore the whiskery man’s pants. A fourth had his shoes dangling as an ornament from his saddle. But of Thistlethwaite himself there was no sign.

  All the newcomers carried long spears, lances, and wore at their belts large knives in decorated scabbards half the length of a sword.

  The cavalcade came comfortably but ominously toward the Glamorgan. It came to a halt, its members regarding Link with expressions whose exact meaning it was not easy to decide. But Thistlethwaite had marched away from the ship with the only weapon on board, a stun rifle. The leader of this group carried it, but without any sign of familiarity with it. Link considered that he could probably get inside the ship with the port door closed before anything drastic could happen to him. He should, too, find out what had happened to Thistlethwaite.

  So he said, “How do you do? Nice weather, isn’t it?”

  Chapter 3

  There was a movement among the members of the cavalcade. The leader, wearing Thistlethwaite’s hat and carrying his stun rifle, looked significantly at his followers. Then he turned to Link and spoke with a certain painful politeness. There was no irony in it. It was manners. It was the most courteous of greetings.

  “I’m pretty good, thank you, suh. And the weather’s pretty good too, only we could do with a mite of rain.” He paused, and said with an elaborate stateliness, “I’m the Householder of the Household over yonder. We heard your ship
come down and we wondered about it. An’ then… uh… somethin’ happened and we come to look it over. We never seen a ship like this before, only o’course there’s the tales from old times about ’em.”

  His manner was one of vast dignity. He wore Thistlethwaite’s hat, and his companions or followers wore everything else that Thistlethwaite had had on in the Glamorgan. But he ignored the fact. It appeared that he obeyed strict rules of etiquette. And of course, people who follow etiquette are bound by it even in the preliminaries to homicide. Which is important if violence is in the air. Link took advantage of the known fact.

  “It’s not much of a ship,” he said deprecatingly, “but such as it is I’m glad to have you see it.”

  The leader of the cavalcade was visibly pleased. He frowned, but he said with the same elaborate courtesy:

  “My name’s Harl, suh. Would you care to give me a name to call you by? I wouldn’t presume for more than that.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Link saw that two pig-like animals had appeared not far away. They might be the same two he’d seen before. They squatted on their haunches and watched curiously, what went on as between men. He said:

  “My name’s Link. Link Denham, in fact. Pleased to meet you.”

  “The same, suh! The same!” The leader’s tone became warm while remaining stately. “I take that very kindly, Link, tellin’ me your last name, too. And right off Denham… Denham… I never met none of your Household before, but I’ll remember it’s a mannerly group. Would you… uh… have anything else to say?”

  Link thought it over.

  “I’ve come a long way,” he observed. “I’m not sure what to say that would be most welcome.”

  “Welcome!” said the man who called himself Harl. He beamed. “Now, that’s right nice! Boys, we been welcomed by this here Link and he’s told us his last name and that’s manners! This here gentleman ain’t like that other fella! We’re guestin’.”