Anderson, Poul - Novel 17

by Inheritors of Earth (v2. 1)

  Sylvia said, "Strawberry Hill."

  "The top of the hill or beside the lake?"

  "The lake. We can climb."

  Alec rarely visited the park on his own. Even Anna did not care for it. The existence of so much raw nature in the midst of the concrete city seemed somehow improper-artificial—filled with conflict.

  But, this time, as soon as he and Sylvia left the cab, he relaxed. It was another gorgeous day. A west wind, floating off the ocean, blew smooth and mild. Sylvia's feelings, as they reached him, were equally serene. He guessed she came here often.

  The lake where they had set down was a wide moat encircling a high, tree-studded hill. A fleet of electric runabouts gently stirred the waters. Sylvia, in silence, led Alec over a wooden bridge to the edge of the hill. A dirt road ran here, sloping upward as it circled the hill. "I like walking here," she said. "The hill and trees on one side—the boats and water on the other."

  He nodded in agreement. They moved up the dirt road. A bird, perched high in a tree, shrieked as they passed beneath. Alec shivered, reminded of the night before.

  At last Sylvia spoke: "I imagine I owe you an apology."

  "Oh, no," he said.

  "But I did ask if you had killed Father."

  "There's nothing wrong in asking that." A cluster of camera-laden tourists passed them. Alec felt their eyes. He was proud of himself, walking with such a beautiful woman. "Cargill thinks I did it. Why shouldn't you?"

  "Cargill?" She smiled and touched his hand reassuringly. "What makes you think that?"

  "The questions he asked me. That speech he made."

  "Oh, that was nothing. He doesn't suspect you."

  "Are you certain?"

  "Of course. I asked him. He told me you hadn't done it. Naturally, I had to know before going on with the rest."

  "The rest?"

  "The firm. Father's work. Perhaps you haven't thought of it, but I am your boss now. And I don't happen to know what you and he were doing."

  He hesitated before answering.

  "I have a card." She reached into a pocket of her gown and showed him a red badge.

  "How did you ever get that?"

  "Father," she said. "At one time he and I were very close but I'm afraid—the last few months—we drew apart. That's why I need to know what you were doing."

  "Androids," he answered, lowering his voice to a whisper, although they were quite alone.

  "I know that much."

  "A new model. Capable of being—well—soldiers. Ground soldiers. In the thick of battle."

  She laughed in appreciation. "How ingenious. An army that cannot be killed. How close were you to completion?"

  "The contract was signed yesterday. We've produced several prototypes and had intended to begin mass production as soon as the check cleared."

  Again, her hand went into her pocket. She waved a sheet of yellow paper at him.

  "Here it is."

  "You got it?" he asked, astonished.

  "You think I'm callous but—well, Father's work was all he had."

  "He died for it."

  "You think spies killed him?"

  He shook his head, determined to avoid the easy lie. "I hope you're not determined to continue his work."

  "But I am. Aren't you?"

  He shook his head. "I've given it a lot of thought. Did you know—I don't suppose you did—that Ted was having second thoughts himself? Two nights ago we had an awful argument. I think what happened was that Ted finally realized the significance of our work. With these androids, war is no longer an unthinkable proposition. It tips the scales—the balance of power—our way. Ted saw this and it frightened him. He knew what it would mean and it disgusted him."

  "But he signed the contract. I saw it."

  "Yes, because I made him."

  "You?"

  "Yes." Alec pointed at a wooden bench set against the high dirt cliff. "Why don't we sit down?" They were halfway up the hill. Another cluster of tourists sped past them.

  "Your father wasn't a strong man," Alec said.

  "No," she said. "But all of that is past. I'm going to take over the firm. And I want you to help me." Her grief had totally faded now. Instead, her thoughts were as analytical and calculating as any Cargill had had. But he could also tell that she was speaking the truth.

  "I don't know," he said.

  "It will make you rich."

  "I know that."

  "But I don't want to rush you. I'll give you a week. It will take that long for the government to intervene with the courts and see that the will is promptly settled."

  He had seen no way of bringing this up before, and there was no way now either—but keeping the truth from her did not seem fair. "You may be risking your life," he said.

  "But you told me—"

  "I said they weren't spies. They weren't. But these people..." There was no way he could explain any more fully.

  But Sylvia did not force him. She said, "I don't care. I'll tell you the truth, Alec. Yesterday—after the police called me—after I had come to the office and answered questions—I saw that contract sitting on Father's desk. I'll tell you the truth: nothing mattered to me after that. I want money, Alec. It's the oldest form of motivation there is. I've been poor. All my life. And this is my chance to escape. I won't pass it up. I know that means I'm selfish, but nothing else matters as much—androids, war, even my father's death. He gave me nothing while he was alive. It wasn't entirely his fault, perhaps, but he didn't. I think he owes me this chance."

  "I've been poor too," he admitted.

  "Then you can understand."

  "I was raised in a government home. My mother died giving me birth—I never knew my father."

  "I'm sorry," she said, with what seemed to be genuine feeling. And yet her thoughts were as calculating as ever.

  For the first time, Alec shied away from her. He stood up, saying, "I'll let you know my decision—in a week." But he thought he knew it already. He wasn't any less greedy than she—and not nearly so honest about it. He didn't want money—he could always find that. What he wanted— hadn't Cargill hinted as much?—was power.

  She handed him a slip of paper. "My address and number."

  "I'll walk you to a cab."

  "Thank you."

  In mutual silence, he led her down the hill.

  Six

  Whistling a rather discordant tune—he didn't know what—Alec Richmond closed the office door and stepped down the corridor. It was late and the walkway was not moving. After seeing Sylvia home, he had decided to come here to catch up on his work. Going home had no longer seemed important. Once here he had found it difficult to pull himself away. He had already missed dinner and then some. But if Anna was worried, why hadn't she called?

  He couldn't answer that question.

  "Stand right where you are," said a voice from behind.

  Alec froze, feeling in the pit of his back the hard pressure of something small and round. A disembodied hand moved around his chest, easily penetrating the folds of his jacket. With practiced fingers, the hand emerged, holding the same gun with which Alec had killed Ted Mencken. He had intended getting rid of the weapon. How stupid to be carrying it so openly.

  Alec started to turn around.

  "I wouldn't," said the voice. It was like a cold, confiding whisper.

  "Who are you? Do you want money?" But Alec knew that was too much to expect. Robbery was a rare event in this modern world. The chances of any particular man being robbed had recently been calculated at one in twenty thousand. Alec did not think he was lucky enough to be that man.

  In confirmation, the voice giggled with real delight. "I'm already richer than you'll ever be."

  "Then—" Alec knew it had to be one of them—one of the others. "Are you going to kill me right here?" The man—if that was what he was—radiated nothing.

  "What do you think?"

  "Did you kill Ted?"

  "Who?"

  "Ted Mencken. In that
room—back there—yesterday afternoon."

  "I thought you did it." But the voice laughed.

  "Please," Alec began, but he suddenly felt a powerful odor tickling at his nostrils. Tears filled his eyes. He couldn't breathe. He reached for his neck but before he could manage the maneuver his feet left the floor. He thought he was a cloud. It seemed silly. He was floating up—racing to embrace the moon.

  Then he did laugh.

  "Gas," he murmured aloud. But before he could finish the thought, he was falling straight down.

  He awoke relaxed, refreshed, as if he had spent a full night in unbroken dreamless slumber. A hot sun burned down brightly from above. He had to keep his eyes closed against the glare. There wasn't any wind. He tried to move his head but couldn't. Something was holding him. His hands—his arms—his legs....

  It was then he realized the yellow light wasn't the sun. He was inside a room, tied in a chair.

  "Turn that away," he said, speaking with difficulty. He cleared his throat and tried again: "I can't see."

  "Of course," said a voice. And the light did move slightly.

  Alec opened his eyes and looked down. He was perched upon the seat of a high chair, like those in which babies were sometimes fed. Far below he could see the faint pattern of a carpet. The light continued to dominate everything he could see. It turned his flesh—the carpet, the chair—turned everything yellow. Beyond the light, he could see nothing.

  The voice spoke from the darkness on the other side of the light. "We have a few questions to ask you, Alec. You will not mind answering, we hope."

  He suddenly realized that he was alive. They hadn't killed him—why? Questions? What could they possibly want to know? This voice wasn't the same as the one which had greeted him outside his office—when?—hours and hours ago. This voice was shrill, distorted, as if its owner were a man barely clinging to the edge of sanity. The tone of the voice frightened Alec more than anything.

  No. That wasn't true. There was something much worse. Realizing this, he had to bite his lip to keep from screaming out. The silence. Beyond the light. There were men out there—at least one, but undoubtedly more—he knew that. But their radiations. Although he strained and strained his superior senses, he could find nothing: not a thought, not a feeling.

  The voice spoke, casual sounds suspended in an utter void: "It will be better if you answer us."

  "Who are you?" Alec cried. "What do you want with me?" He tugged at the ropes that bound his wrists but they would not budge. "Tell me—please."

  "What?" the voice cried. "Tell you? No, no, it is you who must answer." Alec heard a sharp sound, like a man springing suddenly to his feet, filled with—what?—anger, no doubt. But he couldn't know that for certain. That was the awful part. This was much worse than being struck suddenly deaf or blind.

  "All right," Alec said. "I don't care. Kill me. Ask me questions. I—"

  "We will begin with the woman," said the voice.

  "Yes?"

  "The one you saw the day of your capture."

  "Yes, she—" A disembodied hand came hurtling out of the blackness and struck his face. Alec cried out, hearing someone giggle. Another voice laughed. Alec struggled to keep his tears from blinding his eyes. There was blood on his lips.

  "The questions," said the original voice.

  "Yes," Alec said.

  "Then tell us who this woman is."

  "Sylvia Mencken. The daughter of my employer, Ted Mencken. The man you—you killed."

  "A human?"

  "Sylvia? Yes. Of course."

  "And what did you tell her?"

  "Nothing in particular. We discussed the firm. It's hers now. She's my boss."

  The voice was growing increasingly frantic; hysteria was not far away. "But are you not aware that such intercourse is strictly forbidden? Your Inner Circle has decreed that—"

  "I couldn't very well wait for a vote," Alec said. "She asked to see me right away."

  "And you told her—everything?"

  "No."

  "You told her you were a Superior. The Inner Circle. Their program, plans. You told her everything, didn't you?"

  "No. Why should I-?"

  "Liar!" Again, the hand. Alec saw it coming this time and was able to throw his head aside. He took the blow on his cheek. The flesh stung.

  Inside Alec a terrible suspicion was growing. These men didn't intend to kill him, after all. They were not even the others. They were—

  "What did you tell the police?"

  Alec decided to act on his suspicion. Wasn't it better to know? "Everything," he said.

  "What?"

  "I told you—everything." And in his mind he conjured up a vision of his confession. Cargill sat across from him. His own hands waved like windmills as he spoke. "About the Superiors. The Inner Circle. Everything."

  "No! You-!"

  He shut down the vision. "If I'm the traitor you seem to think I am, doesn't that make sense? How can I be a traitor and keep my mouth shut all at the same time? Yes, I told Cargill everything. And Sylvia too. I tell everyone everything. I tell them all about you, Astor." And, saying this, he sat up as straight as he could and glared into the darkness, radiating as much hate as he had strength to create.

  He heard one of them shout out, but Astor's voice—no longer distorted—was amused: "You are much more intelligent than you once were, Alec."

  "I'm getting older. Now turn that light aside. And untie me."

  "So soon?"

  "Unless you still think I can't be trusted."

  "No. We never did. But, Alec, you should know better than to violate our decrees. We—"

  "Turn me loose, Astor."

  "Certainly, Alec." The harsh light went out. A faint glow—emanating from across the ceiling—came instead. The round, moon-like face of Samuel Astor was smiling at Alec. Another pair of hands attacked his ropes.

  "When I get loose, I ought to kill you."

  "But, Alec," said Astor. "Can't you understand? We had to know the limits of your deviation."

  "What deviation?"

  "That woman. She—"

  "How ridiculous can you get?" He sprang out of the chair, free now, and almost fell over. Standing on wobbly knees, he struggled to regain his balance.

  "This is standard procedure," Astor said, coming over and roping an arm past Alec's shoulders. He patted him on the back. "An investigation. A punishment for your transgression. But—I am pleased to add—an initiation rite as well. Welcome—" Astor suddenly stuck out his free hand "—to the Inner Circle."

  "What?" Alec mechanically accepted the proffered hand, shaking weakly. Turning away from Astor, he gave the room a close inspection. It was small—furnished in austere plastic—dully painted: a hotel room, no doubt. There were other men here too. He recognized Arthur Ramsey, second-in-command within the Circle. Antonio Martinez. Ernest Feralli. Axel Jorgensen. Chinua Nodawbe. Timothy Ralston. Chin Kao Lun. And the others. Yes, all of them were present: the entire Inner Circle.

  "Shortly before your arrival," Astor was announcing, "we cast our ballots. The selection—tentative upon your innocence of any major transgression—was quite unanimous. You are one of us now, Alec."

  Replacing his arm around Alec's shoulders, Astor steered him toward a connecting door. One of the others—Martinez—a small, light-skinned South American—opened the door and ushered them through. This room, not much larger than the first, was dominated by a long table; a dozen chairs had been neatly placed around it. Astor escorted Alec to a chair, then assumed his own place at the head of the table. One by one, the others drifted in and, when everyone seemed comfortable, Astor opened the meeting.

  If any stranger for any reason—deliberate or not—had managed to sneak close enough to overhear the conversation that now took place, he would have learned nothing. During the course of the meeting, no more than a dozen decipherable words would be spoken. If any Superior's thoughts became too complex to be communicated simply through feeling, then a grunt,
a half-word, a few casual sounds would be sufficient to get his meaning across in most instances.

  Without words, Astor began: "I want to say that Alec Richmond has consented to attend his first meeting today. As you may recall, he was elected to our council recently because of the superb work he has accomplished out in California. Before we begin the actual meeting, I think we ought to stand and welcome him properly to the Circle."

  This proved to be a signal for a brief orgy of handshaking, backslapping, friendly pats, and spoken congratulations. Alec came to his feet, accepting the plaudits as thickly as they arrived. The ceremony took only a brief moment. Soon, everyone was seated once more. Alec dropped down and clasped his hands upon the tabletop.

  Astor said, "You may think us callous, Alec, but we are aware of the recent death of your employer. He was a human, but he had helped us, and therefore we're sorry he died. Still, the incident in no way detracts from the essential nature of your work. We understand the project has in no way been harmed."

  "No," Alec said, keeping the fact of his ambiguous statements to Sylvia closely concealed. After all, he had never really intended to quit. Had he?

  "But—" Astor waggled an angry finger "—I must state that your failure to communicate with us following the incident severely damaged your application. If it hadn't been for the importance of the project... well, you might actually have been turned down. When we spoke to Anna, she of course explained everything. Understanding, we could forgive."

  "Anna told you."

  "She explained your—ah—your difficulty."

  He meant reversion. It wasn't a word any Superior cared to state specifically. Alec had difficulty concealing his surprised reaction. Anna must have thought quickly.

  Reversion indeed. He hadn't notified the Circle of Ted's death for a variety of reasons: lack of time, lack of interest, the fact that they would be of no help. But Anna had certainly saved him there. But if they had known the facts all the time, then why the stupid kidnapping, the absurd interrogation? He felt himself growing angry again and fought to control the emotion. This was hardly the time for an outburst of any kind.

  "Thank you," was all Alec could manage.