Anderson, Poul - Novel 17

by Inheritors of Earth (v2. 1)

  And he laughed—long, loud, sharp.

  Swiftly, he raised a hand and silenced the applause.

  "Please—no—wait!" he cried. "Permit me to finish, then express your pleasure. The point I wish to make is simply that the sheer, steep line of history is a myth. It does not exist. The truth is less complex and more complete. It lies—" he raised a hand (in spite of the distance, Alec could clearly see) and drew a circle in the air "—here. A closed line. A circle, repeating itself endlessly. So it is with the universe, with the individual man, and so it must also be with history itself. It is a cycle and not some mad slope of a mountain effortlessly rising infinitely higher until even the gods must laugh at the silliness and awkwardness of the conception.

  "A child is born nameless. Soon, he is provided by his makers with a firmer identity and is sent forth to view and experience the world. Yet the child is no greater at twenty years than he was at twenty months. When old age strikes, that is not a matter of declining, either. Remember: I speak to you not of the parabola but rather of the circle. As we grow old, this is the truth of our experience: the circle is simply closing—as it must. The result—inevitably— is death, the repetition of birth.

  "So it is with the individual man and so, too, is it with the universe man inhabits. In the beginning, matter existed, we are told, as a finite speck of awesome density. The result was an explosion of incredible power. The universe was thus shattered and born in a real sense, rushing outward to fill the void with light and life. But was this all? Will it end here? No, for we are also told that gravity will eventually gain control. The universe will contract. That dense, finite speck will be reborn. And the result—once more—the mighty bang. Again, we glimpse the existence of the circle. The cycle which can neither end nor begin.

  "The universe. The individual man. And what of nature, you may ask. What of evolution? Hasn't mankind evolved from forgotten ancestors who once roamed the plains of Africa? Survival of the fittest—we have heard this expression used endlessly to describe our plight. The process of weeding out, the separation of the fit from the unfit. In coming here today, did any of us have to take care to avoid the roving herds of Triceratops? When did any of us last see a living Mammoth or, for that matter, a Neanderthal? All of these creatures—gone, dead, extinct, unfit. And so, common knowledge has proclaimed, it is the same with history. Civilization also evolves. Failed conceptions are weeded out. Man struggles but he also rises. He ascends ever upward toward... toward... what...?

  "I deny this attitude. I call it a desecration. A parallel based upon truth—yes—but transformed—through the means of falsehoods of omission—into a lie. I do not deny evolution. Rather, I prefer to proclaim ecology. Not only natural selection but also natural balance. The circle." Again, he drew the symbol in the air. "The cycle. Here is history's real metaphor. The purpose of evolution—it is not as some believe an end to itself—has been to perfect the ecosystem. The purpose of history has been to perfect the human ecosystem—our own intraspecies ecosystem—the relation of individual man to man—in other words, civilization. We have progressed—I dare to use that term---inexorably toward a meaningful system of mutualism within ourselves. And while I do proclaim the possibility of perfection, I reject the conception that this is something new. Civilization, rather obviously, has existed since the dawn of civilization. Therefore, the cycle has too. The failure has been ours in failing to detect its presence. At my school in the Andes Mountains, my most brilliant disciples, laboring for many years, have succeeded in devising a series of illustrated charts that indicate and describe exactly how this mutualism exists in contemporary society. All of us have seen charts of the carbon and nitrogen cycles, of food chains and so forth. Come to me and I will show you the cycle of civilization itself.

  "So, knowledge is ours. We may no longer plead mere ignorance. But what of wisdom, which knowledge may grant but never require? If we are truly wise, I say, now is the moment to turn in fear. I speak to you of the possibility of rupture. It is a thing I fear more than Satan himself, for the two are one and the same—they share the same face. I wish to warn you of a great dark slouching beast come to rend the fabric of our frail mutualism." His voice began to rise, not shouting but rather chanting. Alec felt certain there were tears in his eyes. (But how could he know that?) "We must beware. We must be vigilant. We must protect ourselves, for if this beast slips past our careless gaze and moves beyond and behind us, it will turn and destroy us with savage unconcern. I warn you. I beg and implore you. My children—brothers, sisters, lovers— my fellow human beings—beware!"

  With that, the image faded. The stadium was no more. Alec sat in the garden. Anna and Eathen faced him.

  Alec whispered, "He knows."

  "What?" said Anna, who had not heard.

  "About us. He knows. That was what he meant. The whole speech was about us. The cycle—it excludes us. The great slouching beast—it is us."

  "No," said Anna, shaking her head as if possessed of a deeper and darker knowledge.

  "Yes," Alec insisted. "He mentioned both our names. How did he know? He called me a scientist. The android project is supposed to be secret. If he knows about that, he might know about anything. And Cargill—I saw him there too."

  "Inspector Cargill is a disciple," Eathen said.

  "What?" demanded Alec, turning on the android.

  But Anna stepped between them. She held up a hand, shielding Eathen, protecting him from Alec. "No," she said. "Go away. Let him alone."

  "But I—" For the first time, Alec realized that the android was radiating. The emotion he received was so powerful that he was unable to continue: fear—deep, dark, total, overwhelming fear. "I'm sorry," he said.

  Anna said nothing. She crouched above Eathen, speaking softly to him.

  Alec waited, then turned his back on them both, striding away between the dark trees. He made no attempt to glance back.

  Twelve

  It was far too cold out here for taking a walk. Alec had neglected to grab a coat when leaving the house and was now actually shivering from the chill. The sensible thing, if he wanted to do it, would be to turn right around this moment and hurry back to home and heat and bed. Sensible-yes—but he knew he wasn't going to do it. Sensibility was a state of mind that existed far beyond his present ability to accept. His feet kept moving—without conscious volition. Each additional step was a separate and individual motion. One—then another—and another. And, all this time, the house dwindled farther into the distance.

  Then he turned a corner on the path and couldn't see the house anymore. He was quite alone at last.

  Alec wasn't walking anyplace in particular. He neither possessed nor sought any definite destination. He was following the path down to the hovercraft terminal but didn't actually expect to reach that point. Fortunately, the path was quite well lighted. That would force any wild animals that might be lurking in the surrounding woods to keep their distance. Wild animals were afraid of light. But—wild animals? Here? White light shined down from the lowest branches of the trees. Wires ran along both sides of the path, linking the individual lights into a mass. The forest was otherwise thick and impenetrable. There weren't any wild animals out here. Men had driven them away centuries ago.

  Why was he out here? He had come as soon as he left Anna and Eathen in the garden. Wasn't there supposed to be a reason for this aimless walk? Ah—he remembered—it was so he could think. Well, he didn't want to think. What was there to think about? Anna? She was leaving him. The war? It was coming. Ah Tran? Eathen? Cargill? Sylvia? Work? The Inner Circle?

  That was what was wrong. There was too much to think about. He could walk twice around the world—superior mentality or not—and never complete all his thoughts.

  So he might as well go back home. That would be the sensible course. Yes. He had definitely made up his mind to do just that—only a few more steps—when, from the high woods to the left of the trail, he heard a low, anguished sound, a moan, like an anim
al in pain.

  But there weren't any animals out here.

  He stopped, extending his senses outward, sweeping the woods. He stood stock still. But, no—nothing. Then it must be an animal, no matter what, for animals do not radiate. But the moan had not sounded like any cry that an animal would choose to make.

  He was more than ready to go home now. He had actually begun to retrace his steps when the moan sounded again. There was a brief pause—silence—and then it came again. This time, it did not stop.

  It was human. Yes. No animal could make that cry. Only a man could suffer that much.

  He called out, "Who's there?" and stepped to the side of the path, following the sound of the moaning. He stepped away from the light. The woods swallowed him up. He couldn't see his feet. He tried to move confidently but stumbled almost at once, sprawling on his face. Quickly, he regained his feet, plunging forward. Squinting, he strained to penetrate the darkness. He pushed a clump of ferns aside and trudged ahead. The ground was very damp, as if following a heavy rain. Deep, unexpected pockets of mud grasped at his shoes. The ground made an ugly, sucking noise when he pulled his feet away from it. He could hear crickets singing peaceably. A flock of mosquitoes buzzed near his head. The moaning kept on—a continuous sound.

  "Are you all right? I'm coming. Can't you hear?"

  Such questions seemed senseless—ridiculous—but the casual sound of his own voice was reassuring. Finally, after a dozen yards of desperate, blind thrashing, he reached a narrow, snug trail. He stopped and listened. The moaning seemed to be coming from off to the left— not too far—perhaps another dozen yards. He turned that way, keeping cautiously to the trail. He thought it amazing the way, when you entered an apparently untrodden stretch of woods, there always seemed to be fresh trails to follow. How did the trails get there? Who or what made them? And why?

  His eyes were growing more accustomed to the dark. Wasn't it ironic that, as a Superior, he had been granted exceptional sensory abilities only in impractical ways? Why not superior vision or hearing or touch? Why did it have to be limited to the interior mind—to a painful, barely useful sort of empathy? He thought, We are incomplete supermen, but that glib phrase no longer seemed to be enough. We are accursed with this superiority. Wasn't that closer to the truth?

  He paused. The moaning was very close now. He listened sharply, depending wholly upon the information provided by his ears. The sound emanated from off the trail. This way. Using his hands, he searched the edge of the path, seeking an outlet. Ah. Here was a hole. Ducking down, he stepped carefully through a large gap in the foliage. A shallow recession. The moaning definitely came from here. It burned in his ears.

  Reaching into his trousers pockets, he found a few old kitchen matches. Not many. Enough, he hoped. He lit one. The dim glow barely penetrated the darkness. He stared at the ground, moving in a circle, searching for some sign. The moaning seemed to come from everyplace at once— he couldn't follow it.

  A shoe. Ah. Reaching down, he grabbed it up. The match flickered out. He held the shoe close to his face. It seemed incredibly heavy. No wonder—the foot was still in it. The body, however, was not—no, just the foot. His hands were all sticky. Blood. Pints and quarts and gallons of blood. He gagged. The moaning droned on. The sound seemed to be coming from the severed foot. He hurled the shoe far, far away into the dark depths of the woods.

  He lit a second match and forced himself to press more deeply ahead. He found the body—what remained of it— and crouched down. The match went out as he moved. He did not care to light another. He could see quite well enough. He placed his face close to the one on the body's head and squinted. Small eyes—dark—open. Skin that was barely discernible—dark—black. A Negro!

  That explained it. No wonder there hadn't been any radiations. Alec saw that he had made an error. This wasn't any man. Of course, it wasn't an animal either. It was Timothy Ralston—a Superior.

  "Oh, no!" Alec cried, letting the face go, backing off.

  Ralston had sensed Alec's approach along the path and erected a shield around his pain. It was a wise gesture, for Alec did not think he would ever have been able to come this far otherwise. Ralston must be suffering horribly, as much—no, more (Ralston was a Superior)—than Mencken that other time.

  With numb fingers, Alec searched under his arm. But he should have remembered: he didn't have the gun any more. Having used it once, he had disposed of it. If he wanted to help Ralston now, he would have to find cruder, less delicate means. But first there was something he wished to try. He lit another match and focused the glow directly on Ralston's lips.

  "Tim, can you tell me who did this to you?"

  Ralston's lips parted. They seemed to move. But no sound came out.

  "Who?" Alec repeated. "Was it them, the others?"

  Ralston nodded his head—once—sharply. But the gesture seemed to consume all his remaining energies. His eyes—which had been open until then—fell shut; he cried out in pain.

  The match was very warm against Alec's fingers. He asked—quickly: "Did you know him? The one who did this? His name?"

  Ralston nodded—yes—but again cried out. The match singed Alec's fingers and he dropped the stub.

  If there were only some way. But there wasn't. If Ralston let down the shield and opened his mind to radiate, then his pain would simply pour out, overwhelming everything rational. If they wanted to communicate, they would have to talk. But could they? What if the one who had done this had also cut out Ralston's tongue or severed his vocal cords?

  Alec moved his hands through the moist dirt below his knees, seeking the object he now required. He found one large rock but it felt much too smooth, like an egg. He crawled farther away, fingering the earth as he moved, and finally found exactly what he needed: a big, sharp, jagged rock.

  He came back to Ralston's side and laid the rock close to his face.

  "Tim—look here."

  Ralston's eyes moved. Alec could see that much. It no longer seemed quite as dark here as before. He glanced up. Directly overhead, the moon was shining.

  "I want you to try and tell me. Then I'll do it. But first you have to tell. Understand?"

  Ralston nodded.

  "Can you talk at all?"

  A headshake: no.

  "Then—tell me—was it Cargill?"

  No.

  "My wife—Anna?"

  No.

  "But it was someone I know?"

  Yes.

  "A Superior?"

  No.

  "Was it—?" He tried to think of another name. While he knelt there, Ralston suddenly shut his eyes. Alec shied back. Dimly, he could sense it coming. He clenched his hands and moaned with expectation. The barrier was falling. Now Ralston moaned too, a wail which grew louder and louder. Alec screamed as the anguish ripped through his mind. His hands flew up, the jagged rock clenched in between. He brought the rock down. Crash. Up—down. He couldn't stop. His own brain was on fire. Up—down. Again and again. He couldn't stop until—all at once—the pain vanished.

  That meant Ralston was dead.

  Alec fell across the body of his friend and lay there, panting, gasping, spent.

  At last, he staggered back to his feet, breathing hard. He realized he was still holding the rock. He didn't want it.

  He dropped it. Thud. The dead sound sickened him. He turned, trying to run, fell to his knees, then clawed his way back to the trail. Then he was able to stand upright again. He ran. Branches reached out and tore at his clothes. He veered off the trail a dozen times, falling, banging into trees or bushes, scraping his knees and hands, cutting his face. At last the path seemed to widen. He had reached the main trail. The lights shining down from the trees blinded him momentarily. He stumbled but caught himself before he fell. He laughed. He couldn't let himself stop now. No, sir. If he did that, he would never get started again. The house must be right ahead. He could almost see it. Full of sudden hope, he ran like a demon.

  Eventually, he crashed in
to the front door. His fingers trembling from the effort, he let himself in. The house seemed peculiarly dark and silent. Tentatively, he called:

  "Eathen? Anna?"

  He tiptoed down the corridor. A light was shining under Anna's door. He pressed his ear against the wood. From inside, he clearly heard voices. One was Anna and—yes— the other voice was Anna too. Her words were not clear.

  He drew back. Did he want to see Anna? What could he say to her? That it had happened again—that it had been worse this time than before?

  He moved down the corridor and went silently into his study. He dropped into a chair and sat there a long time, staring at the palms of his hands, studying all the blood he saw there. Whose was it? His? Or Ralston's?

  After a time, he became aware that the phone was ringing. He got up slowly and padded toward the living room. The light under Anna's door was gone. He did not stop to make sure she was sleeping.

  By the time he reached the phone, Eathen had appeared from someplace and answered it. Alec glanced past the android and saw Sylvia Mencken's face reflected on the viewscreen.

  "Is it for me?" he asked.

  Eathen nodded. He was staring at Alec.

  "Then let me have it." Alec came forward. His gaze met Eathen's directly—and locked. Suddenly, Alec realized that Eathen was radiating. He struggled to discover the meaning of this emotion. Then he had it: pity.

  He shoved Eathen aside and grabbed the phone.

  "Hello," he said.

  Thirteen

  Karlton Ford sat in a wicker chair in the center of a flat, green, clover infested meadow. His eyes were focused upon the clean blue sky. A white cloud drifted into his line of sight. In shape, the cloud perfectly resembled the figure of a mounted, charging horseman, sword raised in preparation for combat. As the cloud moved, the feet of the horse also moved, matching the motions of a galloping stallion. Ford observed the passing cloud sculpture with a fixed, analytic expression. When the cloud reached a point directly overhead, he frowned and looked down at the trampled grass beneath him.