by Brian Lumley
A second brain, now vestigial, formed a pale grey oval the size of a walnut central in Sith’s upper mass. Some Thone individuals extruded their atrophied brains as useless matter; others formed them into sigil-shapes by which they might be recognised without first revealing their names. Since the pinnacle of all Thone ambition was to achieve almost total seclusion and insularity, however, Sith had always considered this a symptom of disordered identity or hereditary inferiority; he had kept his own nonfunctioning brain pristine, retaining it for curiosity value only. Perhaps he would do something with it when (if) he mounted the crystal pedestal to become Grand Thone. By which time he would be above reproach, of course.
The other important difference between Sith’s race and mankind was this: their body temperature was more than twice that of men. This came of having evolved on a mainly arid, hothouse world; which in turn meant that their basic body fluid was closer to mercury than to water. It was not mercury, however, and having a curious molecular structure was indeed very much lighter than water. In short, Sith was very insubstantial by human standards. Physically, if not mentally.
The Bannerman construct, on the other hand, was just the opposite.
The original Jon Bannerman had in fact been a Portuguese tourist. Having an older, retired friend in Scotland, he had visited him during a tour of the British Isles. His friend had been something of a local dignitary with connections sufficient that Bannerman was granted a visit to the Castle in the secure area at the foot of Ben Lawers. That had been four months ago, when first Sith had decided to go out among the native inhabitants of this world. Bannerman’s visit to the Castle had coincided with Sith’s preparations.
Since a model was required (on which Sith would base his construct) Bannerman had been taken. It could just as easily have been someone else, but it was him. Standing alone at the base of a side wall, he had known a moment’s dizziness—and that was all. His reception within the synthesizer had been well organized; in the space of mere moments he had been copied; anyone watching him might well have been puzzled by a trick of the light which made him seem to disappear for a few seconds, only to reappear moments later.
The Castle hadn’t greatly impressed Jon Bannerman—indeed it had given him a headache which persisted for a day and a night. But he was grateful for having seen it anyway. And at the end of a week he’d gone back home to Portugal.
Outwardly the construct was Jon Bannerman. Tall and by local standards slightly foreign-looking, especially its dark eyes—strong, with a blocky figure and broad chest, and a sturdy neck bearing a moderately handsome head; with dark, short-cropped, prematurely greying hair, and having a straight nose and a narrow, serious mouth—it (he) would not go entirely unnoticed in the streets. But neither would he attract too much attention. There seemed nothing especially unusual about him.
But his external appearance was entirely superficial, a cosmetic shell for Sith’s life-support system, and inwardly there was little or no similarity to a human being. Cut Bannerman or hit him on the nose and he might bleed. Tear off a finger (or indeed all of them) from one of his hands and you would get blood, bone, apparently human flesh—all of it synthetic, but close enough to pass merely cursory inspection. Cut him a good deal deeper in the trunk or a major limb, and there you’d find the grey fluids of an incredibly versatile microhydraulic system—which would not be recognised as such, but as “ichor”. There would be no time for analysis, because the fluid would rapidly devolve. Remove an eye and you’d find sensor membranes which a biologist might identify but never fathom; likewise within his ears and nostrils.
His chest cavity contained not only sufficient space for Sith’s upper body but also for energy receptors and a powerful converter. He was … neither a robot nor an android, for these were human terms describing types of mechanisms, and Bannerman wasn’t any kind of mechanism which human science could yet understand or even credit. He was a vastly efficient engine, composed in its entirety of fluids, whose only limitations lay in the strictures of its size and shape.
This, at least, is how a human scientist might have viewed him. But to Sith of the Thone …
By analogy, Bannerman was in fact something between a deep-sea diving suit and an aqualung, synthesised by Sith for his own use, and as cumbersome to him as the analagous mechanisms are to men. And being a brand-new model and as yet only partially tested, it was only to be expected that there would be minor problems.
For unlike the human body it imitated, the Bannerman construct wasn’t self-repairing. It could have been, but not within such rigid space limitations. In all honesty, Sith couldn’t blame the current malfunction on design alone; nor would he, for it was his design. But in fact Bannerman had taken several hard knocks, and it was doubtless these which had brought on the trouble.
First there had been the brief but vicious attack of those thugs in the alley in Edinburgh, and more recently the climbing, carrying, leaping into waterfalls and such, and finally Clayborne’s display of savagery. Add to all of this the aggravated wear and tear of high gravity, and … it shouldn’t have been difficult to foresee the development of small problems.
As for that other incident—the loss of a hand—that must not be forgotten either. Oh, the hand had been repaired easily enough, but not Sith’s pride. The man Turnbull had taken him by surprise that time, but that wouldn’t happen again. While carrying his unconscious body, Sith-Bannerman had removed and disposed of his gun.
Sith still felt anger that he had let a primitive get the better of him. But of course, that had been the fault of the construct: the fact that it so restricted him. Alas, but movement in the world of men were entirely impossible without it.
The world of men, yes … but for how much longer? While he programmed several small design modifications and instructed the synthesizer to carry out the required restructuring, Sith reflected on his mission: the discovery of new worlds for the ever-expanding Thone.
Sleeping in the womb of the synthesizer—and bearing with him a transmat receptor, for use if this world should prove habitable and available—he had crossed countless light-years of space. His findings would determine whether or not the planet was fit for Thone colonization. And in fact he’d discovered that given a minimum of geothermal engineering and perhaps a delicate realignment of orbit around the parent star, it could have been. Such measures would, of course, render the planet quite uninhabitable to all of its native species—wherein had lain the source of a bitter disappointment.
For it was a principle of the Thone never to threaten or in any way disturb higher life-forms, but to distance themselves from them and let them go their own ways in peace. The Thone were neitner mercenary nor greedy within the boundaries of their cause; they respected developing species to a point, that point depending upon their stage of development, and the likely route further development would take. A race inspired towards barbarism would probably receive short shrift, but not until it had been “tried” and found wanting beyond reasonable doubt.
These things being so, and the rules governing his investigations being strict and no-nonsense, Sith had soon concluded that indeed the peoples of Earth were sufficiently advanced as to preclude Thone interference: they had made this world their own, and had almost arrived at that stage of development beyond which Thone law and ethics forbade interference. And specifically forbade their destruction! A million years earlier it would have been different. Even three or four thousand years ago. But no longer. Oh, it could still be argued that they were borderline barbarians, but Sith had little or no doubt how the verdict would go—namely, in their favour.
That being so, he had set up and activated the transmat. The matter transmitter would not work in hyperspace, which meant that messages could not be transmitted while the synthesizer was in flight across the void. Now, however, having charted this world and categorised its inhabitants, he could send all relevant details to his nearest Higher Authority. Doubtless Earth would be struck from the list of possible habitats
; Sith would receive instructions to move on; his search would recommence at once.
But before he could use the transmat, an incoming message had reached him. And it was this:
The Grand Thone was retiring! The palace of the crystal pedestal was being made ready for a new occupant! The way was now open for Thones of merit to make their once-in-a-lifetime bids for the ultimate seat of power and authority! Sith had long declared himself an aspirant; his work for Thone expansion may have gone unrewarded, but it had not gone unrecognised; he had been short-listed!
He had been granted permission to use the transmat and journey to the palace of the pedestal, there to make the case for his own ascension to Grand Thonedom. The current Grand Thone would of course preside, and there were to be five other contenders. These were named, and Sith saw that he was up against five serious rivals. The choice would be made in (the equivalent of) three years’ time, when the presence of all six aspirants on the palace planet would be imperative … .
Sith had given the matter a little thought, and had then transmatted a simple answer: in all humility he would be there at the appointed hour. Following which, in something less than humility, he’d considered his position. To have been named as a candidate for Grand Thonedom! But … he knew he couldn’t win. Two of his opponents were elders, which would weigh heavily in their favour; two more were scientists of astonishing range, one of which descended from Lakkas himself, inventor of the synthesizer! Even the least of the five was arguably Sith’s equal—another locator and invigilator, like Sith himself.
Except … he might indeed stand a chance—could even possibly win—if only he could take home with him something of extraordinary value. And with that thought in mind, Sith had once more turned his sensors upon this new world, this Earth, to view it in a somewhat different light … .
For human minds were not the only devious ones in the universe, and now Sith was discovering that his could be one of the most devious of all.
Some weeks had then passed, during which Sith did very little. Eventually, emerging one. period from a brief state of voluntary stasis or sleep—and almost before he was fully awake and knew what he was about—he’d erased all of his records concerning Earth and its peoples and prepared to start afresh. Except that this time his findings would go against humankind, and indeed he would take home a singular prize for the Grand Thone. One which would doubtless make Sith the new, rightful, all-powerful occupant of the crystal pedestal.
He would take home a claim on the planet Earth itself!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
How long Gill’s nightmare descent of the escarpment lasted, lodged like a sheep tick on the back of the hunting thing and clinging there for his life, he would never be able to say. Long enough that he thought his arms were going to tear free of their sockets, but that even if they didn’t, it would make no difference for he’d never again be able to unclench his bloodless, nerveless fingers. Long enough that he lost all sense of direction and orientation; so that when he did finally succumb, lose his grip on the stinger, and slide unresisting down the curve of the thing’s segmented flank, it took some little time for the fact to dawn that instead of falling through space he had flopped down on his back in thick moss, and that the alien stars overhead were paling now in the fast-spreading light of a new dawn.
For the fact that he still lived, Gill hoarsely breathed his thanks to whichever gods applied here, before gritting his teeth and forcing his throbbing muscles to answer his call. From high overhead as he tremblingly, groaningly sat up, he could hear the ringing, echoing cries of his fellow castaways, calling down, “Halloo! Halloo!” But he hadn’t the wind or the spit in his dust-dry throat to try for an answer. Later, maybe … if there was to be a later.
For as he looked all about in the still-faint but rapidly improving light, he became aware of a massed cracking of twigs and dry branches, and he sensed the presence of some large bulk moving in the dawn. The short hairs stood up on the back of his neck as the sounds grew louder, apparently heading in his direction, and instinct told him that nothing remotely human made them. It could only be that something had sensed him here and was even now closing on him.
Gill got to all fours, tensed himself, held his breath. To the east a rolling bank of ground mist was gradually clearing, and this was the source of the sounds. In another moment something solid formed in the mist, taking on mass as it moved towards him. Then … Gill’s talent reasserted itself; he knew what the thing was; his gathered breath whooshed out of him and he slumped a little, gasping his relief. It was only the hunting machine, scuttling this way and that, proboscis to the valley’s floor, for all the world like some awesome hound tracking a scent. And the idea took hold: that was precisely what it was doing. Haggie’s scent, of course—and Angela’s.
Finally the thing turned towards the near-distant forest; its antennae moved atop its head, locking on something Gill could neither see nor hear; its faceted eyes glinted in the new, misty light and blinked away a film of moisture. And then it moved with renewed purpose, scurrying out from the shadow of the escarpment and towards the faintly stirring, dew-laden canopy of alien foliage. Heading, in fact, in the direction of the mansion, which Gill had little doubt was yet another manifestation of the House of Doors.
He climbed achingly to his feet. Where you go, my friend, he silently, grimly vowed, there go I!
Keeping a low profile and running through grass and soft mosses on legs which astonished him with their strength (where by rights there should be none), he gained on the alien machine until he was right behind it. Finally he was able to reach out, grab hold and cling to an armoured plate, draw himself up onto its back, and—
—the thing stopped dead in its tracks!
Eye stalks swivelled with all the agility of a chameleon, turning the faceted eyes through one hundred and eighty degrees and directing them to gaze upon Gill. Whether the thing recognised him or not it was difficult to say: it must have memory banks, he supposed. But if not as a person—and one it had seen before—certainly it recognised him as an unnecessary burden. It reared first to one side, then the other, tilting its carapace like some alien, crustacean bronco, trying to unseat him. Had he been some large clod of earth or a fallen tree, then the thing might have succeeded; but he was a thinking being and the hunter’s motions were too mechanical and contrived to fool him; he simply shifted his centre of gravity and stayed put. Now he would see how this creature (no, he reminded himself, this machine) coped with an intelligent clod of earth.
He did see, and at once. The great scythe stinger swivelled in its socket, bending its tip down towards him where he clung to the hunter’s plated back. Gill twisted his neck to look up and back at the stinger as it elongated itself towards his spine, and he thought: God, is it going to kill me? If so, he would guess that it wasn’t because the thing found him especially distasteful; and since he hadn’t threatened it, he could hardly be considered an enemy. Therefore, it could only be that he was an encumbrance, an impediment.
Jesus! he thought. I’m going to die because I got in its way once too often! Why the hell didn’t you do it back there, when we were coming down the damned cliff? But of course, the thing made no answer.
He released the base of the stinger and tried to throw himself from the thing’s back. But his jacket had snagged on one of its spiked plates. Tugging his sleeve until the material tore, Gill wrenched himself over onto his back. The tip of the stinger was now poised just six inches over his heart. Thick as Gill’s thumb, the chitin-plated point was indented at its tip like a navel. As his bulging eyes watched, the “skin” of the navel peeled outwards like the petals of a flower unfurling—and a hypodermic needle emerged, squirting liquid even as it stabbed home!
The needle passed through jacket, shirt, and vest, and into Gill’s chest. But the agent it used was so quick that he didn’t even feel its sting … .
It didn’t ditch me on the cliff—Gill’s resurfacing mind was still working on the problem�
��because it knew that to do so would be to kill me—which wasn’t its purpose. Its job concerns Haggie. Only Haggie.
And carrying his logic a step further: So if it didn’t desire to kill me then, why should it do so now? Answer: it shouldn’t. It hasn’t. Ergo, I’m not dead!
“Is he dead?” Varre’s voice with its faint French accent got through to him. Which was all the corroboration Gill needed. Someone was fumbling with his jacket; a hand groped around in the region of his heart, touching the sore spot where the needle had gone in.
Gill opened his eyes on blinding light, gurgled, “No, I’m not!” But his mouth felt like something had died in there.
They helped him to sit up. Varre, Anderson—who had been examining him—and Clayborne … but where was Turnbull? And where was Bannerman? Anderson saw the question written in Gill’s eyes, said: “Turnbull’s okay. He’s coming out of it. We found an easy way down, took turns carrying—or dragging—him. He’s a big man.”
Gill felt a sudden nausea welling inside. He gulped and a little bile entered his mouth, causing taste buds to react and fill it with sweet water. He spat the whole lot out. Then he looked around and saw Turnbull propped against the bole of a squat tree. He was still out but his colour had returned almost to normal.
“Where’s Bannerman?” Gill asked.
Anderson shrugged. “Gone missing. Haven’t seen him since last night when we got our heads down. What about Haggie and the girl—and that bloody nightmare?”
Clayborne helped Gill to his feet and he told them what he knew. Especially about the hunting machine. “So it’s just as Haggie said,” he finished. “It’s after him. Don’t ask me why, but it is. It’s not a bit interested in us. I would have been easy meat but it just put me to sleep.”
