Anderson, Poul - Novel 17

by Inheritors of Earth (v2. 1)

  Somewhere—unseen—a brass band played poorly. The tune was one of Ah Tran's own compositions—a new hymn. Alec had been too busy the past few months to take much notice of this new cult. Ted had occasionally mentioned Ah Tran to him but never gone into details. As far as Alec was concerned, prophets and messiahs came and went; the Inner Circle endured. It was the latter that demanded the whole of his attention.

  Silence. The band ceased playing. The crowd held its breath. Alec leaned forward on the edge of the bench, intrigued in spite of himself, leg muscles tense, throat dry. The atmosphere of eager anticipation was infectious.

  Now, at the far end of the boulevard, a dim object materialized—a faint pinprick of motion. The object slowly grew. Soon, it was identifiable as an automobile—an old roofless model—a convertible. He could even hear the rumbling roar of the old piston engine. One man drove while another stood upon the rear seat. This man, as the automobile rolled forward, swung back and forth like a pendulum, bowing and waving at the severed portions of the crowd. Ah Tran. Yes—it had to be. The crowd's response was muted, strangely meager. Only a few waved. None cheered or shouted or applauded. Once the car had passed, most turned silently and went away.

  As the procession came steadily forward, Alec expected the scene to change. At any moment, he expected to find himself in another place—perhaps floating in the air—dangling above the crowd. But he remained where he was: in the middle of the street. The car came closer, so close now that he could easily make out the scratches and dents in the hood and fenders. Were they going to make him remain here to be run over and crushed beneath these tons of rumbling steel? What sort of amateur production was this? Hadn't Anna said this was a network presentation? What could be wrong? The car was nearly on top of him now. He found it impossible to convince himself of the difference between reality—which this wasn't, could not be—and sheer illusion. He tried to gain his feet. He wanted to run away. His shoes were glued to the concrete. He tried to shout, threw a hand in front of his eyes, screamed, cried out. The chrome bumper gleamed inches away. No, no, no!

  The car stopped. If he had wished—if it had been at all possible—he could have reached out and touched the warm steel.

  A door slammed. He heard footsteps—soft, pattering bare feet. He was bathed in cold sweat.

  Then Ah Tran appeared. A small man, barely five feet, dressed in a black hoodless cowl. Very dark, wrinkled skin—a bald smooth skull. He could have been any kind of man, any race.

  He stopped before the bench and bowed to Alec. His lips moved, forming words. The actual sound seemed removed in time from the mechanical gesture: "How are you?"

  "Fine," Alec lied, too startled for anything else.

  "Then," said Ah Tran, "I have something for you. A gift."

  "But—" Alec began, hoarsely.

  Ah Tran sternly waved him silent. Smiling ambiguously, he reached around his neck and removed a gold medallion the size and shape of a large eye. Handling the object with extreme care—as if it were fragile—he passed it over to Alec. "I was told to offer this to you," Ah Tran said.

  "Told?" Alec asked. A part of him insisted that all of this was impossible, it could not be happening, that he was in reality thousands of miles from this place. But the medallion looked and felt real; he could see Ah Tran as clearly as day. His mind would not accept these protests.

  Ah Tran slowly raised a hand. "Please—no questions."

  "But-"

  Again, the uncertain smile. "Please." Turning suddenly, Ah Tran headed back toward the car, slipping quickly around the side and disappearing from view. Alec heard a door slam. The engine began to cough.

  He ignored these extraneous sensations and peered down at the medallion. Inscribed upon the upturned face was the profile of a man, carefully detailed, shaded. Alec studied this picture intently and recognition dawned slowly.

  The face was his own.

  He turned the medallion over, expecting to find an explanation here, but the second side was smooth, blank. Puzzled, he turned back to the face and held the medallion between his thumb and forefinger, moving it against the dim evening sunlight.

  There were words printed here. A small grouping of block letters above the top of his own face. He struggled to read the inscription. THE MEEK, it said. He blinked, seeing THE MEEK SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH.

  That was all. That single, brief, utterly banal slogan. What was the idea? Whose joke was this? Whose lie? It was not the meek who were fated to prevail, it was the strong, the powerful, the superior. That was nature's unchangeable law. Burning with frustration and rage, Alec thrust the medallion deep in his fist, threw back his arm and hurled it high above the crowd.

  The moment the medallion faded from view—a tiny dot against the blank gray sky—the scene was gone. He was back in the garden again. Anna sat across from him, slumped down, face hidden in her hands. He jumped to his feet, pointed a finger, and cried: "You! You did that! What was the idea?"

  He loomed above her, knowing she would soon raise her eyes and laugh in his face. A petty laugh, triumphant. But she said nothing, did not move. Suddenly, her face turned up. Their eyes met. He saw something in her expression, a thing painful and haunting, that caused his anger to recede.

  "What is it?" he asked, abruptly concerned.

  She shook her head, sadly at first, then faster, faster, until her long hair lashed at her cheeks. She leaped at him. Before he could protect himself, her long fingernails slashed down, raking his face. He screamed, reached out, grabbed her wrists. As usual, her strength was enormous. Her feet stamped on his. Howling, he danced back, refusing to release her wrists. There was blood on his face. Anna spit at his eyes.

  "Eathen!" he cried, hoping the android was lurking near. "Eathen—hurry—the garden!"

  Anna was shouting too, drowning his cries. It was not help she wanted. He tried to understand what she was saying. Suddenly, she relaxed, nearly falling, dangling in his grip, as limp as death. Her eyes went shut.

  "What did you see?" he whispered. "Tell me what."

  Her eyes opened. She grinned. "You!" she cried. "I saw you!"

  "What?" He shook her. "What do you mean? Tell me!"

  She broke loose, springing away, landing on the balls of her feet like a jungle cat—a panther. She spun away, seeking escape, but just as she did, Eathen emerged from the bushes behind. He held a hypodermic needle in his hand. In a fluid practiced motion, he stepped forward and grabbed Anna. Unconcerned with her clawing fingers and snapping teeth, he drove the needle deep into her bare thigh. She groaned, cried out, then went limp and lifeless.

  Eathen held her up.

  "It's about time," Alec said. "Where were you?" He dropped back to the bench and wiped at the blood on his face.

  "I had to mix the potion," Eathen explained.

  "Well, take her inside," Alec said. "Put her to bed. I have to leave early tomorrow."

  Eathen nodded and picked Anna up, holding her as though she were a child and he her father. "Will you wish me to wake you, sir?"

  "That won't be necessary." He did not expect to be sleeping tonight. "Just go away and leave me alone."

  "Yes, sir," said Eathen.

  Three

  Through the transparent wall of his study, Alec Richmond was allowed a serene view of the central garden. A fat bush—carefully stripped of thorns—it was a white rose, he thought—was centered behind the glass; it succeeded in interrupting but not in any way desecrating the natural view. He often came here to the study late at night to sit and work and think and watch. The garden rarely moved him when he was actually out in it, but at a greater distance the bright foliage did produce an attitude of stately beneficence, a collective tranquillity, which was both relaxing and—as far as work was concerned—inspirational. He had completed the android designs in this very room. Eathen—the fruit of his work—had been presented to him here. He had been working here last night when Ted Mencken called to say that General Hopkins had agreed to issue a contract. Succes
s, he recalled. That was what he had told Ted: we are now successful.

  That recollection made him smile. The truth was that success now seemed the most hollow of words. What did it mean? In the garden nothing could be seen—not even shadows—for the real moon and stars were hidden by the dome and the artificial lights had been extinguished. Even the white rose—naked without its thorns—could barely be seen. He turned his chair away from the wall. Now he sat facing another wall lined with tapes and books, technical works concerning every known field of human science, a handful of histories and biographies, perhaps a dozen novels. Four of the novels—old frail paperbacks smelling of dust and age—sat on a small table beside his elbow. During the past hour, he had read all four, moving mechanically from one to the next. The words had drifted weakly through his mind. Each refused to connect with the one following; concepts had emerged abstract but senseless. He knew he needed something stronger than any book. Liquor? Drugs? He used neither. All that was left to him was himself: poor, frail Superior. He concentrated his attention there.

  He could read a book as fast as the pages could be turned. He could feel another man's radiated emotions as if such qualities were bright signs printed for any person to read. He could do higher mathematics with a speed approaching that attained by more primitive computers. It was true: he could do this and that and the other. And, why not? He was Alec Richmond—a Superior. But what was the use? The point? Where did all of these talents lead? His greatest accomplishment so far was producing a flesh-and-blood machine capable of committing legal murder with speed and precision. His employer was dead. His wife verged on sheer looniness. And himself? All he could do was sit alone in a dark room and feel sorry for himself.

  This was more of the same. Self-pity: the most common of human frailties next to jealousy. Well, sometimes he felt jealous too, and there was no purpose served by being ashamed of these base reactions. If he was indeed a little bit human, maybe he ought to admit it. Self-pity? Well, there were good reasons.

  Years before, the Inner Circle had chosen to reject the term superman in favor of Superior (always capitalized). A superman, it was said, and Alec never quite understood this, conjured up visions of an overly muscled creature dressed in brightly colored long underwear. But—in spite of that—whatever it meant—he thought it was the more proper term. They were superior, yes, but many extraordinary men were that too. They were supermen, a new race, as far removed from simple Homo sapiens as that form of life had exceeded the ape.

  But we pay the price, he thought. We are a tiny minority submerged within a vast majority. We are alone, fearful, paranoid. Our very existence is a deep, dark secret.

  And that was without even mentioning the key factor, that supreme point around which all their existence necessarily revolved.

  We are supermen, Alec thought, but we are incomplete supermen.

  Was it a sign, a curse, a price? Perhaps it had to be that way. He could dimly recall, as a young boy, only faintly aware of his own painful heritage, reading an old novel about superior mutants. What had it been? In the book? Long tendrils—that was it—growing out of the skull of each mutant. That had been their sign. Well, the Superiors suffered from no such outward manifestation. By and large, they were handsome and healthy but otherwise no different from any human. Their sign—their curse—the price they paid for superiority—lay deep inside.

  It was called sterility.

  In all of recorded time—since the first two Superiors had met nearly a half-century past—no child (not one) had been born to them. The Inner Circle said this would pass in time. They were very optimistic about the situation. But—as with other official positions—Alec was skeptical. The Inner Circle said, We must wait until our race has matured, then we shall flood the earth with our children. Alec smiled. It wasn't maturity—it was fate.

  Nor was that all. There was reversion to consider too. Anna suffered from this but she was not alone. Fits of madness. Irrationality. Insanity. Crimes perpetrated. Murder. Suicide. Why? If they were superior, why couldn't they at least control their baser instincts?

  Alec remembered how the Inner Circle had once distributed a list of various famous people who had died childless. Alec, without amusement, had protested the project; he suggested a second, contrary listing: all of those men and women throughout history who had committed mass murder, who had died in asylums, who had been burned as witches. These were just as likely to be historical Superiors as all the great childless men and women whose names could be discovered.

  But they would not admit that. His protest had gone unanswered. The Inner Circle—under Astor's direction—had a simple solution for everything, even madness.

  Reversion was exactly what the term implied. Since Superiors were supermen who had not quite yet achieved maturity, then ugly vestiges of humanity undoubtedly lingered on. It was this buried curse that rose up and usurped the careful functioning of the Superior mind. It took control. Madness—murder—suicide. This was another price to be paid, but once maturity was attained—that same distant goal again—then real inward peace would reign.

  Or consider the case of the others—the ones who had murdered Ted Mencken. The Inner Circle position concerning the existence of the others was sheer wish-fulfillment fantasy. For years—ever since the Superiors had first discovered each other—they had been plagued by a series of inexplicable incidents. Strange accidents. Vicious murders—like Ted's. It soon became clear that someone—or something—was behind all this. Who? What? Men who had somehow stumbled upon the secret of the Superiors and were determined to crush them? Was it the government, acting officially but in secret? Or was it something worse—uglier—something alien? The Inner Circle made no effort to answer these questions. When Astor heard about Ted, he would no doubt react as he always did, shaking his head and saying what a horrible thing it was. But the others? Astor would laugh. That was pure myth—a horror story—there was no such thing. The accidents, incidents, murders? Sheer coincidence, nothing more.

  Sheer stupidity, Alec thought, nothing more. But Astor and the Circle were scared. He couldn't blame them. Thinking of Ted, he was scared too.

  Then he heard a scream.

  He stopped dead and stood up.

  The scream came again.

  Oh. He sat back down. Only Anna. She often awoke like this—driven from a drugged sleep by unseen demons she would never describe.

  She screamed again.

  This time he moved. Where was Eathen? He stepped into the corridor with deliberate lack of haste. Anna's room was close-by. She was still screaming, her shrill terror penetrated his defenses, causing him to walk faster than he wished.

  When he reached the bedroom door, it stood open. He remained in the corridor and peered inside. The room was very dark. He could sense her radiated fear but it was softer now, more subdued. He thought he could hear a voice.

  Suddenly, Eathen filled the doorway.

  Alec made a move to enter the room but Eathen reached out with a wide arm and blocked his way.

  "She is sleeping," he said.

  "She wasn't a minute ago." Alec glared at the arm in front of him. "Get out of my way."

  "She said she didn't want you."

  "She said that?"

  "Yes, sir," Eathen replied, coldly. "She dreamed about you and didn't want to see you."

  "But she's sleeping now." Alec fought to maintain his dignity in front of the android. But he couldn't help hating them—Anna and Eathen—his wife and son. "Are you sure? She won't wake up again?"

  "She is resting peaceably now."

  Alec confirmed this observation. He sensed Anna. She was radiating a strong contentment now, a sense of peace.

  "All right," he said, turning away from the dark room. "Go back in and stay with her."

  "I intend to, sir." But Eathen did not move.

  "Then do it," Alec said.

  "Yes, sir."

  But still Eathen did not vacate his position at the doorway until Alec's dim footste
ps had disappeared down the soft, carpeted hallway.

  Four

  His preconceptions shattered, Alec Richmond sat, turning his thumbs with mild impatience. He would have preferred getting out of here—was bored by the waiting—and yet it was, he had to admit, completely different from what he had expected.

  Before coming here, if asked, he would have imagined the offices occupied by the Homicide Division of the San Francisco Police Department as an ugly, dreary place—a dirty, stained floor—battered, torn furniture—inhabited by dim, lumbering men engaged in squalid combat with an even drearier bunch of alleged murderers. Not that there were many of these. Crimes of passion tended to flourish during times of societal stress and change. An atmosphere of uncertainty—almost one of ambiguity—a lack of firm bearings had to exist before the average man could be plunged into that most passionate of crimes: murder. But, for the last few decades, American society had been a paragon of stability. Only the handful of remaining outcasts, a few thieves, pimps, prostitutes, or con-men, had a chance to experience those base emotions necessary as a prelude to murder. Alec had seen all the available statistics; more importantly, he had his talent—he knew what people were feeling when he passed them on the street. The average man—or woman—simply did not care enough about anything to kill.

  Where his preconceptions had most been violated, however, was not in the polished floors or the bright walls or the plush furniture but in the people. Here he sat—like a child in a government home—surrounded by women.