Anderson, Poul - Novel 17

by Inheritors of Earth (v2. 1)

  He stood up.

  The girl asked him: "Is he dead?"

  Ah Tran said, "Yes."

  One of the young men asked, "What was that thing we felt up there? Did you feel it too?"

  "I did."

  "But you don't know what it was?"

  "I know."

  "Can we kill it? Or go around it? Does it live up there? Does it mean we'll never make it?"

  "I don't know yet."

  "Well, tell us what it is," another broke in. "We have a right to know."

  "No, you don't," Ah Tran said. He hurried toward the door without another word. Nobody tried to stop him or follow. He went into the room that served as his bedroom, locked both connecting doors, then lay down on the bed. He knew he ought to call Cargill; he should have done it as soon as he woke without wasting time trying to play messiah and bring back to life a man—or android—who was already thoroughly and irrevocably dead.

  But he knew what it was that had stopped them up there. He even knew its name.

  It was Karlton Ford.

  But, still, he did not get up to call.

  Twenty-Three

  As soon as the plane safely reached a straight and level course above the clouds, Alec turned in his seat and faced the pilot, who sat hunched behind the wheel, eyes rigidly-focused upon the thick glass of the forward windshield. Alec had to tap him gently on the shoulder to attract his attention.

  Cargill turned and smiled at Alec.

  "I have a right to know what's going on," Alec said.

  "Eh?" said Cargill. He cupped his ear and grimaced painfully. "I didn't catch that." He turned back and faced the windshield.

  The plane was a classic, battered, twin-engined jet. The noise of the engines thundered through the tiny cramped cockpit.

  Alec shouted: "I want to know what happened back there! At the house! If you didn't kill her, who did?"

  "Weren't you there?" Cargill was shouting too. "At the house, I mean." He smiled, then shook his head to indicate his confusion. "I was sure you—"

  "Now wait a—" Alec began.

  Cargill waved him silent. The small viewscreen in the center of the plane's control panel was flashing in a brilliant display of rainbow colors. Cargill reached out and removed the phone. The viewscreen failed to clear. Cargill began to talk, barely whispering. From what little Alec could overhear, they were being ordered to land immediately.

  Turning in his seat, Alec looked outside. Beneath lay a soft, plush, unbroken layer of lazy white clouds. They had left the ground flying east but he had no way of knowing where they were going now. North, south, east, west— didn't you always end up at the same place in the end? The Earth, after all, was a globe and that meant—

  He turned back. Cargill, apparently involved in a fierce dispute, was waving his arms angrily as he talked. The plane dipped and swayed as his attention wavered. The whole situation was very strange. Here Alec was—up above the clouds—going he didn't know where—and the funny thing was he couldn't ever recall agreeing to come.

  He remembered the drive—in an old diesel car—to the air terminal in Berkeley. He remembered Cargill leading him toward the plane. He recollected an angry debate before they had been granted permission to take-off. All of that was clear; what wasn't clear was why.

  Alec heard a click. Cargill had replaced the phone and was now chuckling softly to himself.

  "Now what?" Alec asked, remembering to shout.

  But Cargill, when he replied, spoke in a normal conversational tone. It irritated Alec to find he could easily hear every word quite clearly: "A fool. Wanted me to land. Because of the war, they seem to feel they now own the air itself. Fortunately, as was the case in Berkeley, my credentials managed to convince them of my legitimacy."

  "In other words, you lied to them."

  "Hardly. I merely insisted my business was urgent. Which it certainly is. I merely hope the various bodies we have left scattered around remain undiscovered until we have landed. I would hate to be shot out of the sky."

  "Then you better get a parachute," Alec advised. "They're sure to find Sylvia." He explained about the android project and his deadline.

  Cargill chuckled again. "Oh, that's no problem. Before speeding to your home, I contacted your general—an acquaintance of mine, incidentally—and informed him you were a traitor."

  "That was nice of you."

  "I suggested he send a squad of investigators to a certain place in Oregon. I told him that was your suspected hideout. Fortunately, I have visited the area in the past and can vouch for the presence of a cabin there. A refuge, in fact, from certain cares of the world." He smiled in recollection.

  "And he believed that story?"

  "Of course. Don't you?"

  "No, I don't.”

  "Well, frankly, my integrity has never been questioned before."

  "No, but---"

  "And I do not care to have it questioned now." Cargill suddenly found something of extreme interest down among the clouds. He leaned over in his seat, staring out his window. Alec looked out too, but could see nothing beyond the unbroken layer of white clouds. As usual, Cargill's thoughts were under stern control and nothing peeped out.

  When Alec turned back, Cargill was regarding him with an amused grin.

  "About Anna..." Alec began.

  "Fifteen minutes," Cargill said. He glanced down at the controls. "Twenty at the most."

  "I didn't ask—"

  "Ah Tran is particularly eager to meet you."

  "Who? That crackpot? Look here, is this—"

  "Of course it isn't."

  "Well---"

  "Look," Cargill said, waving at the interior of the plane. "Perhaps I'm wrong. But you are here, aren't you?"

  "Not by choice."

  "Oh, I see. You're accusing me of kidnapping."

  "No, of course not. But you did—"

  "Coercion? What kind? Physical? Mental? Spiritual?"

  "No, none of that. But I—"

  "Then I really don't think—" Cargill assumed a pained, hurt expression "—you ought to imply otherwise."

  "But I didn't."

  "First," Cargill went on, "you demand to know the truth. Then you tell me to shut up. Well, you can't have it both ways, Alec. Which is it?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "Then I suggest you listen." But instead of going on, Cargill turned and faced the window and looked out, humming softly to himself.

  Infuriated, Alec decided simply to sit and wait. When Cargill wanted to talk, he would. Until then, patience would have to serve. Cargill could deliver him over to Ah Tran or any other messiah of his choice but that didn't mean he would cooperate. And he didn't intend to. He knew his own version of the truth, and that would have to serve him for now.

  "I think we can beat them," Cargill said.

  "What?"

  Cargill shrugged and recommenced his melodic humming. Again, Alec restrained himself and was patient.

  Finally, Cargill said, "I told you the truth before."

  "Which time was that?" Alec asked, sarcastically.

  "When I said I didn't kill her. She deserves more credit than that."

  "If you didn't, who did? It wasn't me. I was out cold."

  "I know. I knocked you out."

  Cargill fell silent, either lost in thought or else pretending to be. The impenetrable density of his radiations did not change. Alec tried to remain patient but he couldn't do it any longer.

  "Well," he said. "Which is it? Either you're going to tell me about Anna or you're not."

  "I wish I could."

  "What's stopping you."

  Cargill glanced at the control panel, then shrugged. "Oh, nothing, I guess. But you must remember that I'm not a young man and, frankly, without going into details, women have long played a central role in my life. I have always attempted to know and, if and when possible, understand and sympathize with their race. It's hardly a simple process. Greater men than myself—I think of Tolstoy, Max Ophuls, Ibsen, Ste
rnberg, Henry James—have tried and failed. Women are—to me—to us—an alien species. One might even say—with only a hint of facetious-ness—that women were our first true supermen. I hope I'm not being patronizing when I say that I believe women—at their best—to possess all the worthier characteristics of men, plus several others that none of us will ever know. The point of all this—why I dare to bore you— is, of course, Anna. I want you to realize the significance of this remark: of all the women I have ever known or studied, she is the one I admire most."

  "But you killed her."

  "No," Cargill said. "I did not. I moved her body into the path of the flames in order to ensure that she received a fitting funeral. When I did that, she was already dead."

  "That's impossible. Don't tell me there was someone else there."

  "No."

  "Well, then-"

  For the first time, Cargill's radiations reached Alec clearly: anger.

  "She killed herself, you idiot."

  "Oh."

  "I received a report that she had reached the city but, because of this stupid war and my visit to your office, it was delayed reaching me. Nevertheless, I rushed to your home immediately. As I wound my way up the path leading to your doorstep, I spied the flames. I ran ahead as if a demon were pursuing my tail and broke into the house. I went straight into the garden. Neither of you—clearly being involved in more private matters—detected my approach. I crept up behind you and delivered the necessary blow with a stick."

  "But why me? You should have hit her."

  "So that, in response, she would shoot you?" Cargill shook his head. "Besides, I would never strike a woman. I met Anna eye-to-eye. I started to speak, to voice a plea. It did not prove necessary. She simply turned the weapon on her own face and squeezed the trigger. It was over in a moment and she was dead. It was an act of divine sacrifice."

  "Hardly." Alec laughed. "No one made her try to kill me."

  Once more, Cargill's anger flared. He glared at Alec. "You call yourself a Superior. Think before you speak. Didn't you hear a word of what I told you before? She was under the control of her father, an Inheritor. He made her try to kill you."

  "Then why didn't she?"

  "A good question." Cargill nodded his appreciation. "But the answer should be obvious: Anna defied them. She asserted her humanity in what was, perhaps, the only way open to her: through suicide. Can you say the same?"

  "You want me to kill myself?" Alec laughed.

  "I want you to assert your own freedom. Other ways of doing so are open to you—they weren't for Anna."

  "Such as?"

  "Ah Tran and I will show you a way."

  Alec said, "No," but this denial was by no means positive. What Anna had done—at least what Cargill claimed for her—could not fail to move him. She had sacrificed herself—in the face of dreadful odds—in order to save him. But why? What reason did she have for placing his life above her own? If he wished to lie, he could tell himself she had acted from motives of pure love. But he knew better: Anna hadn't loved him. Instead, he was beginning to understand that she had acted from more selfish motives. Anna had not saved him—no, she had saved herself. In dying, she had chosen to express her own freedom. And now Cargill wanted him to do the same. "All right, tell me what you want."

  "I simply want you to agree to save yourself—and the world as well."

  "You make that sound so simple. But how am I supposed to do it? By helping you and your friend, Ah Tran, I suppose. There's one thing wrong with that—Ah Tran is a fool. He—(Alec saw no point in continuing to conceal the truth)—doesn't understand reality. He tries to comprehend poetry through science. He tries to mix them together. He talks about souls in terms of ecosystems. That isn't just wrong—it's foolish."

  "And why is that?" Cargill asked, evenly.

  "Because when science and poetry are merged, the results are invariably a big mess." He gave Cargill some of the examples he had worked out for himself in the garden. Spoken aloud, the words somehow seemed less convincing but he refused to be diverted. "That's the way it is and not you or me or even Ah Tran can change it."

  Cargill started to smile but clearly decided to suppress the reaction. He said, "You're wrong—there is no difference."

  "Don't joke with me—please."

  "I wouldn't, Alec, and I'm not."

  "But don't you see? Science is concerned with the world as it is, while poetry conceives of an entirely different place, a world where things exist in the forms they ought to possess."

  "But the world—this world—does exist in the form it ought to possess. Science merely confirms the inspirations of poetry, when those inspirations are valid. It has to be this way. In what other possible state could our world exist?"

  "It isn't a place filled with love. It could be. It isn't beautiful or glorious or divine. It could be all of those. It could be a place without evil and ugliness and war and poverty and murder and hate and—"

  "In other words," Cargill said, and he laughed, "it could be an incredible bore. What you're stating is an adolescent fantasy—a sterile view of a lifeless heaven. It could be as you say, but who really needs it?"

  "Maybe I do—maybe the human race does."

  "Then you'll have to do something about it, because I won't, but from what you say, you won't either."

  "I've already found that world."

  "And you won't let anyone else try?"

  "Me?"

  "Why not? Isn't that what Anna was trying to do?"

  "I don't know. Anna is dead." Turning away from Car-gill, Alec looked out the window and noticed that the plane was at last descending through the clouds. A sea of fluffy, unreal whiteness surrounded the plane.

  "Let me explain," Cargill said. "I owe you that much." He told Alec about Ah Tran's experiments into the recreation of the mass racial consciousness of the species. "But, so far, he has always failed to reach his goal."

  "I'm not surprised."

  Then Cargill told about the circle of disciples, the spiritual conduit, and the death of Eathen.

  Alec smiled on hearing the last. "So that's what you want from me. You tried to use one freak and he died and now you want to use another freak—me. Android or superman, they're both the same to you and your messiah. Less than human, so why not sacrifice them? Anna too. She's dead."

  "She killed herself. To save you."

  "To save herself."

  "And you're afraid to do the same?"

  "I don't need to."

  "They are your fathers. Don't you owe the human race that much?"

  "If the Inheritors are my fathers and the human race my mothers, why should I choose one over the other?"

  "Anna did."

  "Quit bringing her up. She failed."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you afraid?"

  "Of what? Death? No---hardly."

  "The war has already begun," Cargill said. "I'm afraid there's nothing any of us can do about that. But it will not last forever. Someday, the fighting will be done. What kind of world are we going to have then, Alec? Is it going to be the world as it ought to be? Who will rule? Who should? The decision is yours, Alec. Make your choice. The Inheritors? Or mankind?"

  "So far man hasn't done so well. Maybe it's time to let someone else have a chance."

  "Ah, you supermen," Cargill said, shaking his head. "Such a common error. Man has not failed. The fact is that he has, instead, succeeded quite gloriously. Your view is limited only to those things that are wrong. You can see the war and privation, the killing and hate—but what about the successes, the accomplishments? You must realize that the human race is still barely in its childhood. Do we kill small boys because they have failed to accomplish adult aims? No. Don't we indeed allow these boys a chance to attain manhood, the opportunity to grow and develop and mature? What one boy is permitted, surely a whole race deserves as well."

  The plane had pierced the layer of clouds. Alec looked down, seeing—without
surprise—the vast blue wastes of the Pacific Ocean. From one side, a speck of land appeared, slowly expanding in size. Cargill took firm control of the plane. The land mass grew larger.

  Alec was thinking. Everything Cargill had told him was, he knew, only an echo of phrases he had once uttered himself. For years, he had lectured the Superiors on the duty they owed the human race.

  Had he come to reject all that? In the past few months, hadn't he experienced so much that the simple solutions of the past now seemed absurdly obsolete?

  But Cargill had given him an opening. Anna. Hadn't she chosen to act not from motives of ideal selflessness but rather from an understandable need to express her own personal freedom? Could he do any less than that? Succeed or fail, didn't he owe himself that much?

  Outside the window, a paved landing strip had materialized. The plane circled above. Cargill began to speak softly into the phone. The plane dipped, nose turned down, hurtling toward the earth below. A moment later, the wheels struck. The plane bounced, quivered, then rolled casually to a stop.

  Alec turned and touched Cargill on the shoulder and said, in a rush, "All right—you win—I'm going to try it."

  "I won?" Cargill asked.

  A small crowd was rushing the plane. Among the mass, Alec recognized Ah Tran's familiar, worn features. He smiled. Right on time. Cargill had got it down to the last possible second. So that was the reason for all those silly hesitations at the beginning of the voyage. Cargill didn't want Alec to have a chance to say no after he had once said yes. There was no time for changing his mind now.

  "We both won," Alec said.

  Cargill nodded and opened the door. He pointed at the crowd awaiting them.

  "Let's go," he said.

  Twenty-Four

  Alec Richmond sat in the center of the circle.

  What he wanted to do was ignore everything that existed outside or beyond the limits of his own self. It was not a simple process. There were twenty-four in the circle. Except for Ah Tran, he knew none of them, who or what or why they were. Physically—and he turned his head to make sure—each seemed a rather insubstantial reflection of the person beside him. Whether male or female—and most were female—white or black—and only one was black---young or old—and only Ah Tran could be called old—such distinctions as these did not matter. Each of the disciples radiated a portion of himself, so that—in spite of his wishes---Alec could not keep them out entirely. After a time, he quit trying. It wasn't wholly necessary—not yet. He shouldn't deplete his strength too soon. The best way of handling the situation would be to wait for the mass to form, for the gestalt to be fused into a secure whole, and then, in a rush, he could easily obliterate that which was not relevant and then allow them (or it) to enter. What happened after that was more difficult to determine in advance.