Anderson, Poul - Novel 17

by Inheritors of Earth (v2. 1)

  "You're welcome," said Astor, nodding his acceptance. Around the table, the others did the same, as though Alec's gratitude was to be shared equally.

  Astor stood, facing the entire council now. "But the purpose of this meeting is not to receive expressions of gratitude. Rather it is to take a glance at and then discuss the present international situation. I am pleased to be able to report—after considerable examination of the various nations concerned—that the world is closer to war at this point in time than at any other point in time in the remembered past."

  The pleasure this announcement brought to the majority of the assembled Superiors was openly expressed. Some smiled, waved their hand, laughed, giggled, murmured vague syllables of expressive joy. Alec sat silently and motionlessly, his thoughts under rigid control; they knew how he felt.

  "Now if you'll all please lean back," Astor said, "if you'll close your eyes, relax, and watch, I'll give you a brief resume of the present situation."

  Astor was the only Superior to have perfected this particular talent. It was this ability—more than anything else—which had allowed him to assume his place at the head of the Circle. Alec did as directed: leaning back, eyes shut, relaxed. In a moment, as if he were dreaming, a vision began to form in his mind. Bit by bit, the vision solidified, becoming more certain in color and texture. Soon, the picture was quite clear. He could see a long paved street. A caption at the bottom of the picture identified the scene as Vienna. Above, in the sky, the fierce growling of burning rockets drowning out the common noises of the street, an airplane slashed through the clouds. The people in the street paused and glanced up, many smiling at this loud manifestation of their collective power. A moment later, Vienna was gone; Berlin materialized instead. A huge army marched through wide streets, heels slapping out a rhythmic message. Tanks drifted languidly through the air, floating past the army, like fat ducks arranged for flight. Missiles rolled past. More planes painted the sky with noise. It was an awesome spectacle of determined might. After Berlin, similar scenes followed in neat progression: Paris, Madrid, Rome, Lisbon, Copenhagen. Then Astor's voice: "The civilized nations of Europe, in conjunction with their American allies, continue to mobilize." A Russian army streamed past. "Manpower, though limited, is strategically deployed. The most sophisticated legal modern weapons are produced and distributed. In each nation across the continent, the single word war rests lightly, familiarly, upon the lips of the people. The recent reduction in energy resources, the scarcity and continued expense of the most basic food items—these factors have combined to cause the average European citizen—particularly those past the age of conscription—to take a more militant stance than before. A recent, successful propaganda campaign—source unknown—(embarrassed but proud giggling greeted this allusion)—emphasizing the continuing upward spiral of primitive nation birthrates has had a powerful effect upon the development of a mature, pragmatic attitude toward final war. In fact, according to many leaders of finance and industry—whose thoughts are easily penetrated, I may say—war has reached the point of verging upon absolute necessity. Only the known strength of the other side stands in the way of immediate attack. Should war occur—and I mean at this moment—the armies of the primitive world would swarm across Europe like hordes of invading insects. In Japan and Australia, the situation is even more difficult."

  "Then why do you insist war is near?" asked a skeptical voice. The Russian army continued to stream past, an endless mass of green and brown.

  "Because of this," said Astor. The vision was transformed. The interior of a large plant—a factory. Machinery—piston and electric—pounded, whirred, shrieked. Churning motors sent bright sparks flickering through the air. Huge transparent plastic vats filled with thick colorful liquids sat here and there across the concrete floor. Alec nearly laughed: the vision was an adolescent fantasy. This was hardly the way it really was.

  But the primary vision—and this made Alec wish to laugh more than anything—the central element in the design—was the assembly line. Here, hooded and goggled men labored to mold separate human appendages into a whole man: hands, legs, heads, internal organs rolled down the conveyer belt. Alec groaned. Didn't Astor know any better? Or was this fantasy in fact deliberate? The scene—bright colors, huge shadows, flying sparks—was staggering in its impact, awesomely effective, an image from some gothic melodrama. Even Alec was not wholly unmoved by the vision.

  "What is this?" asked a voice, in hushed tones. "Heaven? Or hell?"

  "Neither," Astor said, without amusement. "This is our salvation: an android factory."

  The Circle was confused; Alec could clearly sense their puzzlement as the conveyor belt continued to turn through the bright factory. Was it possible they didn't know? Astor had never informed them?

  Abruptly, the vision faded. Alec opened his eyes, matching the gaze of the Superior who faced him across the table.

  "I thought androids were stupid house servants," this man said.

  Astor giggled. "Alec," he said. "I think you ought to be the one to tell them."

  "These androids, I believe, are soldiers," Alec said.

  "Go on."

  "I designed the model. They are foot soldiers, infantrymen, riflemen. Nothing complicated or difficult. The vision Astor showed you was an exaggeration. Production has not yet begun. The contract was only signed yesterday—the day before—whenever it was. The day Mencken was murdered."

  "So that's why the others killed him."

  "We thought it was another of their jokes."

  "Their warnings."

  "We thought they were just playing around." Alec could sense their suppressed anger. They were not happy with Astor for keeping them in the dark. But such a technique was just like him. Astor equated power with knowledge and preferred keeping both as much to himself as possible. Alec did not think his attitude was far from wrong.

  "So," said Astor, ignoring the gathering dissension, more amused by it than displeased, "the equation turns out brutally simple. We, the Superiors, will emerge from our time of trial ultimately victorious. How? This is the ironic part. Through the means of a species not only inferior to our own but also inferior to the dominant race on this planet: I refer, of course, to the android army. Such an army can lose and lose and lose and never stop coming. In a year's time—wouldn't you agree with that estimate, Alec?"

  "At the very most. More likely, six months."

  "In a year or less the first android divisions should be trained and ready to take the field. Kept in ignorance, the primitive world will be unaware of the menace until it is too late. Then, when the moment is ripe, a spark will ignite the general conflict. Full-scale war will rage across the globe." His voice, rising toward a crescendo, was filled with an ecstasy close to hysteria. "Armies will meet upon the battlefield, converge, clash. Cities will be destroyed. Entire nations engulfed by flames. The fighting will go on, the advantage rocking back and forth, the masses of the primitive world set against the android mercenaries of the civilized. Who shall win?" He laughed aloud. "That is the joke. No one will win—no one can—except" (another laugh, louder than before) "except us. After a year of war—two years at the most—the human race will turn in horror and fear, issuing a tearful plea for salvation. Perhaps they will ask their gods. It will be we who will answer. You. Me. Our race. The Superiors."

  "But this spark," said someone—it was Axel Jorgensen, "what if it doesn't come? What if they don't fight?"

  "Oh, that," said Astor, indicating with a wave how inconsequential it was. "That is already settled. The fuse lies in wait, ready to be fired. Shut your eyes again, please, and I will show you."

  With the others, Alec prepared himself to receive another vision. What came confused him at first. A jungle setting. Then, through the deep foliage, another factory, as lacking in reality as the other. Past a high barbed fence. Through thick concrete walls lined with lead. Men-flashes of yellow skin, narrow eyes—dressed in radiation-proof garments. A huge oblong object, like
an egg. It was a bomb. Alec knew. An atomic bomb.

  "This can't be real," Alec said. Atomic weapons had been banned decades ago, before the need for war had reasserted itself.

  "It isn't," said Astor.

  "Then-"

  "Look."

  In the vision, one man stepped forward. Slowly, carefully, dramatically, he removed his face mask.

  There was an audible gasp of surprised recognition. Alec contributed too. The face belonged to Thomas Mikoshai: a Superior, Inner Circle member.

  "You can't do this," Alec said, weakly.

  "The spark," Astor said, refusing to conceal his triumph. "You wanted it—there it is."

  The vision vanished. "Once the existence of this barbaric weapon becomes known— the location, by the way, is a jungle in Borneo—war will become inevitable. Our only problem is timing. We do not dare reveal this secret until the android army is prepared to take the field. Then, and only then, we can—"

  "No!" Alec cried. "The whole idea is inhuman."

  "Of course it is." Astor laughed and looked deliberately around the table. "Aren't we?"

  "Not in that way."

  "But it's your project," said one of the others. Jorgensen again. "You're not going to argue against it?"

  "Yes. I am. I didn't know about any of this—this bomb."

  "What did you think?" Astor asked. "I intended to use your army as a labor-saving device?" He chuckled loudly—for too long a time. "You could have refused the assignment."

  "But—" Astor knew why Alec had not refused. If he had, he would not be sitting here now. The android army had got him into the Inner Circle—but now he fully intended to argue against it. "You all know my feelings. I've expressed them to each of you before."

  "I had hoped," Astor said, "that your promotion might have affected your past immaturity. If I am wrong, I'm sorry. But you are a member of the Circle now—so speak."

  "I will. But I don't see that it will make any difference. I have only one question to ask. Is it necessary? Do we have to destroy them? Is this horrible war we're so casually discussing really necessary? Can't any of you see how much easier—how much better—it would be if we simply helped them? Not all human beings are—"

  "That was four questions," Astor said.

  Martinez said, "Help them? Do that, and we die like witches. We burn at the stake. They hate us—fear us. Only fools cannot learn the lessons that history teaches."

  "This isn't history," Alec said. "It's been a long time since any witch was burned."

  "But they have not changed," Martinez said. "The old fears have not left them. I walk down the street—any street, any city—and I feel it there. Fear, hate. Anything they cannot understand. And we, by definition, are creatures they can never understand."

  Alec fell back to his last and strongest ammunition. Another question: "And what about when it is over? When we have won?"

  Astor, understanding immediately, went rigid with tension: "What do you mean by that?"

  But Alec did not intend to stop until he was finished. Facing Astor, he plunged on: "Have all of you forgotten the most basic fact of all: we are doomed. All of us, sooner or later, are going to die. And afterward? Will there be another generation—further genetic freaks like ourselves? I don't know. Maybe there will be. But, if so, we will not be the ones to produce it. And what if there isn't? What if we are the last? Are we going to destroy the whole human race with nothing to substitute in its place? That is not only inhuman, it is monstrous. It is genocide conducted for no reason beyond brief and transitory power. That is why I say no. That is why I say we should drop this project right now, reveal ourselves selectively to humanity, and help them. In doing that…"

  "Don't." Astor sprang suddenly to his feet. "Don't talk about that—don't mention it!"

  "It's the truth," Alec said.

  "No! No, no, no!" Astor's face turned a deep and ugly red. He seemed to be choking. The others stood up too. Astor's eyes bulged, his lips trembled, his whole body shook. He seemed to be trying to speak but the words refused to come. Stunned, Alec remained in his seat, staring unbelievingly at this unhinged, incoherent creature which had materialized, half-standing, at the head of the table.

  Then Astor began to scream. His hands waved over his head, fists banging together, fingers tangling. Two of the others crept behind him. He continued to wail. Tears ran down his cheeks in wide streams, though he did not appear to be weeping. The two men leaped forward. They caught Astor by the arms. Two more went for his feet, dodging kicks. Astor was lifted up, laid on the table. The four men held him there, pinned. He continued to twist and turn, like a man in the grip of a fit—he continued to scream.

  Alec turned away from the sight.

  The man beside him—Timothy Ralston—an American Negro from Wyoming—said, "You should never have done that."

  Alec let his anger out: "It was the truth. What else was I supposed to do? If you people can't—"

  "It's his calculations," Ralston said, calmly. "You have to remember. He had everything figured out. It fit. Only one point eluded him. Our curse. When you brought it up, he reverted. The rest of us knew."

  "You mean this has happened before?"

  "Astor? Yes, of course. He is brilliant but—well—erratic. Someday, I'm afraid he won't make it back. We'll lose him."

  "And that's fine with me," Alec said. He had seen quite enough of the Inner Circle for one day. Upon the table, Astor was slowly calming down, though one foot continued to thrash and kick, like the instinctive motions of a dead chicken. "I'm going home."

  "I'll go with you," Ralston said.

  Alec went out into the corridor, refusing to look back. The hallway was plushly decorated, lighted in a soft golden hue. A hotel—yes—and an excellent one. He waited impatiently for the elevator. Ralston joined him inside. They rode down to the lobby together. Crossing that plushly carpeted room, Alec started laughing, then couldn't stop. It suddenly seemed so funny. For years he had wanted nothing from life more than a seat on the Inner Circle. And now—at long last—he had attained that cherished goal. And for what? To do what? His first meeting and he had already driven the chairman into reversion and been forced to flee himself in a fearful rage.

  Outside, he paused in front of the moving walkway—it was more than packed—and glanced up at the sky. The air was thick and black—the time seemed around midday— and he couldn't see the sun.

  He shook his head, blinked, then looked again. Massive skyscrapers, old and ruined, sprouted from every corner. Upon the walkway, the flocks of pedestrians, hurtling past, kept their eyes averted toward the pavement, as if fearful of catching a fateful glance of something they might not be able to forget. Suddenly, from behind, a massive woman in a heavy armored coat crashed into him. He nearly fell. The woman sped past and leaped gracefully upon the walkway. Someone screamed.

  Alec spun around, filled with sudden recognition: this wasn't San Francisco—it couldn't be—this was New York City.

  But how—?

  "Surprised?" asked Ralston.

  "Last night—" he had forgotten about the other Superior "—I know I was in San Francisco."

  "No," said Ralston. They both spoke complete English to avoid attracting attention. "That was days and days ago." He led Alec away from the walkway, back into the great shadow cast by the hotel awning. "The gas they bungled—the dose was too strong."

  "Days and days?" Alec murmured, vaguely.

  "A week at least."

  "But I have to get home." He reached for his purse. "I don't think I have—"

  "Oh, I'll be glad to loan you the fare. But first—well, I did follow you out here for a reason. There's something I want to know."

  "Whether I'm going to quit the project."

  "Yes," Ralston said.

  Alec shrugged. "I don't see what point it would serve. You—Astor—he'd only find someone else. My work is nearly done. The patent belongs to my employer—his daughter now. If I quit, you'd run me out of the Circle. That
wouldn't serve any point either."

  "Then you'll continue with your work?"

  "Yes." Sighing, Alec shook his head. "You can tell that to Astor, if you want."

  "No. This was for my own information. I am, you see, in charge of—well—call it our investigative wing."

  "You spy."

  "Investigate."

  "Use your own word."

  "And there is a connection between your present intentions and another matter that has recently come to my attention. I want to warn you." Leaning close, Ralston whispered into Alec's ear: "Don't trust Anna."

  "What?" Alec drew back as if stung.

  Ralston pulled him back down. "She has been associating with this detective—this Cargill. I know it for a fact but I haven't told the others yet. This investigation is something I'm conducting on my own. Astor doesn't know about it."

  "What?" Alec asked.

  Ralston shook his head but answered: "The others. I'm trying to find out who they are. And I'm close, Alec, very close. A few more weeks and I'll have them."

  "You think Anna's involved? That's incredible. I don't—"

  "Not Anna. Cargill. He's mixed up in this somehow."

  "How?"

  "I don't know. Yet. But I will. I just wanted to warn you."

  "But Cargill's investigating me. That's why he saw Anna."

  "Three weeks ago? That's when he visited your house-the first time."

  "And you don't know why."

  Ralston shook his head. "I don't but—" he radiated confidence, "—I will." He stepped back suddenly. "But I better go now. Here." He pressed Alec's hand. "This will buy you a ticket home." He turned away, waving one brown fist. "Astor may want me."

  "But, Ralston, I—" Alec started to pursue.

  Ralston was too quick. He darted toward the hotel. He called back: "Don't tell her!"

  Alec stopped, watching the other man disappear, swallowed up by the great bulk of the hotel. Then he hurried over to the walkway and leaped on board, refusing to concern himself with whom he might hit in the process. He landed safely, then let the walkway carry him. He didn't know if he was heading in the direction of the terminal and didn't care. He surrendered himself to this electronic destiny; it could carry him wherever it wished.