In front of Hampton Court Palace, this time only Lord and Lady Erris were waiting, with an equerry. The ship landed. The Harrions said goodbye to them.
Lord Erris greeted them. "Come," he said, "the Palace isn't far, and it'll be a pleasant walk. How did your day go?"
"You have a fantastic world," Molane answered. "Everything's on a grander scale than on Old Earth."
"So I understand," said Erris. "So I have gathered from The Book. And we intend to keep it that way. There shall be no ruined forests, no dessicated hillsides washing to the sea. Not here."
It was a criticism no man from Earth could answer, not even the New People. Molane gave a brief account of what they had been shown, and Kolali finished with a highly dramatized recital of Harrion's dragon-slaying.
At the Palace door, a tall man in clerical was awaiting them, and Erris introduced him as the Librarian Royal. The Librarian said simply, "Follow me," and led them through corridors hung with paintings.
"Here is the Library," he announced, throwing open two massive doors. They opened on an enormous hall lined with shelves and glassed book-presses, and filled with scholars' carrels. A surrounding balcony, beautifully paneled, led to more shelves; and they were told that this was only one of many rooms.
They walked through it to a final door, paneled also but giving access to a great fireproof vault. The door, inches thick, swung open. The Librarian stood aside for them to enter. In the vault's very center, in a case of gold and crystal, stood The Book.
There were twenty-nine volumes of it, rebound in vellum and stamped in gold.
"The last one," the Librarian said, "is the Index. I shall show you Volume I, but I cannot allow you to handle it."
Very reverently, he unlocked the case, took out the first volume, opened it to the fly-leaf. There was a name written there: Gurat Singh, Balliol College, and a bookseller's label: Basil Blackwood, Oxford.
"Our sant," said the Librarian, "bought it when he was a student, blessed be his Name!"
He turned to the title page, holding the book out so all could see:
THE ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITANNICA
A DICTIONARY
OF ARTS, SCIENCE, LITERATURE AND GENERAL
INFORMATION
ELEVENTH EDITION
Cambridge:
at the University Press
1910
"You see," the Librarian told them, "it was published during the very year of King Edward VII's death when the old British Empire was at the height of its power and glory, before the horrible wars of the Twentieth Century had brought chaos and destruction to Old Earth."
He replaced the volume, locked the case, and indicated to Lord Erris that he could take over. Then Erris led them off to a small throne-room, where the King-Emperor and his Queen said goodbye to them and wished them a pleasant trip home.
Only Lord Erris walked back with them to Lapis Lazuli, and he too bade them only a brief farewell.
Molane ordered the port closed, and they followed him into the wardroom. Lahaisa caught his momentary thought: No, we accomplished nothing, but thank the Guardians that we at least are immune to the excitements of these people and their barbarism!
"Lapis Lazuli," he said, "in your data banks do you have any information on an early Twentieth Century work called The Encyclopaedia Britannica, the Eleventh Edition?"
In seconds, she replied that, yes, she did.
"Scan it," said Molane, "and tell us if in your opinion a civilization such as the one we have just seen could possibly have been founded on it and on the largely untutored recollections of those disciples of Gurat Singh's who landed here?"
More seconds passed, and then the ship replied. "Yes, Molane, I think it could. Let me give you one example. That work of course says nothing about Einstein, but it has a great deal to say about James Clerk Maxwell, upon whose work much of Einstein's was based, and it gives certain of his basic equations. Does this make the point clear?"
"And what of the society that produced it?"
"It was a very proud society, Molane—in many, many ways justly proud. It had a great heritage."
There was a silence. Lapis Lazuli had, of course, recorded everything, and there would be plenty of time to discuss it.
It was Lahaisa who broke the silence. "Kolali!" she cried aloud. "Child, what's wrong with you? You're crying?"
"Kolali, Kolali! You shouldn't cry—don't you understand? We're going home."
He responded to the pain in her voice, but he did not run to her. Nor did his mind open to her anxious invitation.
"G-going home?" he choked. "I—I don't want to go home. I want to stay here, right here—and kill dragons—and—and be a soldier!"
Editor's Introduction To:
The Whirligig Of Time
Vernor Vinge
Government is miracle; but when the miracle goes wrong, what can be done? Government, Ben Franklin said, is like fire: a dangerous servant and a fearful master.
Still: one must, finally, rule through opinion.
Ortega y Gasset said it well:
"Even the man who attempts to rule through janissaries depends on their opinion and the opinion the rest of the inhabitants have of them."
"But the truth is, there is no ruling with janissaries. As Talleyrand said to Napoleon, 'You can do anything with bayonets, Sire, except sit on them.' Rule is not so much a matter of an iron hand, but a firm seat."
Orders are carried out because someone wants to carry them out. No matter how many are enslaved, some will remain free; and opportunity eventually comes to all.
The Whirligig Of Time
Vernor Vinge
The defense station high in the Laguna Mountains had been on alert since dawn. The clear fall day had passed without event, and now the dark was closing in over the pine-covered hills. A cool, dry wind blew among the trees, nudged at the deep layers of pine needles and slid around the defense station's armored cupolas. Overhead, between the dark silhouettes of the pines, the stars were out, brighter and more numerous than they could ever seem in a city's sky.
To the west, limning the dark Pacific, a narrow band of greenish yellow was all that was left of day, and the city was a fine thin dusting of light spread inward from the ocean. From the Laguna Mountains, eighty kilometers inland, the city seemed a surrealistic carpet of tiny glowing gems—the most precious of the treasures this station had been constructed to protect.
This was the last moment of comfortable tranquility that this land would know for many, many centuries.
The life in the forest—the birds asleep in the trees, the squirrels in their holes—heard and felt nothing; but deep within the station men looked out into space with microwave eyes, saw the tiny specks rising beyond the polar horizon, plotted their trajectories and predicted that hell would burn in heaven and on earth this night.
On the surface, concrete and steel cowlings whirred open to reveal the lasers and ABM's now tracking the enemies falling out of space. The birds fluttered nervously about their trees now, disturbed by the noises below, and a faint red light shone up from the holes in the ground. Yet from the next ridgeline over, the night would still have seemed silent, and the starlit pine forest undisturbed.
Halfway up in the northern sky, three new stars lit, so bright that a blue-white day shone on the forest, still silent. Their glare faded swiftly through orange to red and guttered out, leaving a play of pale green and gold to spread through the sky. Those pastel colors were the only visible sign of the immense fog of charged particles the explosions had set between ground radars and the missiles that were yet to come. The men in the station held their fire. The explosions had not completely blinded them—they still had a proxy view of part of the battle space from a synchronous satellite—but the distance to their targets was far too great.
In the skies to the north and east more miniature stars were visible—mostly defensive fires. The unnatural aurora spread from horizon to horizon, yet in the west the lights of the city glowed as placid
ly, as beautifully as before the end began.
Now the defenders' radars could pick up the enemy warheads falling out of the ionospheric fog that had concealed them. But not one of the incoming missiles was targeted on the city to the west—all were falling in toward the defense station and the ICBM bases in the desert to the east. The defenders noticed this but had no time to puzzle over it. Their own destruction was seconds away unless they acted. The station's main laser fired, and the pines and the hills flashed red by its reflected light. The ten-centimeter beam was a hundred-kilometer-tall thread of fire, disappearing only at the top of the sensible atmosphere where there was no more air to be ionized. Its sound, the sound of whole tons of air being turned into plasma, was a bone-shattering crack that echoed off the distant hills to sweep back and forth across the land.
Now there was nothing left asleep in the forest.
And when the beam itself was gone, there—high in the sky—hung a pale blue thread, with a knob of faintly glowing yellow and gold at one end. The first target, at least, had been destroyed; the beam was so energetic it created its own miniature aurora as it passed through the ionosphere, and the knob at the end of it marked a vaporized target.
Then the other lasers began firing, and the sky was crisscrossed by strange red lightning. The ABM's streaking from the hillside contributed their own peculiar roar to this local armageddon. The tiny rockets were like flecks of molten metal spewed up on rays of fire and smoke. Their success or failure was determined in the scant five seconds of their powered flight—five seconds in which they climbed more than thirty kilometers into the sky. The spaces above the hills were filled with bright new stars, and the more frequent—yet less impressive—glows that marked successful laser interceptions.
For seventy-five seconds the battle in the spaces over the defense station continued. During that time the men could do little but sit and watch their machines—the defense demanded microsecond reflexes, and only the machines could provide that. In those seventy-five million microseconds, the station destroyed dozens of enemy missiles. Only ten of the attacking bombs got through; bright blue flashes on the eastern horizon marked the end of the ICBM bases there. Yet even those ten might have been intercepted, if only the station had not held back its reserve, waiting for the attack that must sooner or later come upon the great city to the west.
Seventy-five seconds—and the city they waited to protect still lay glowing beneath the yellow-green sky.
And then, from the middle of the gleaming carpet that was the city, one more new star was born. In an astronomical sense, it was a very small star; but to itself and to what lay nearby, it was an expanding, gaseous hell of fission-fusion products, neutrons and x-rays.
In seconds the city ceased to be, and the defenders in the mountains realized why all the enemy missiles had been targeted on military installations, realized what must be happening to the larger cities all across the land, realized how much easier it had been for the enemy to smuggle his bombs into the nation's cities than to drop them in along ballistic trajectories.
From where the yacht floated, a million kilometers above the ecliptic and six million behind the Earth in its orbit, the home planet was a marbled bluish ball, nearly as bright as a full moon yet only a quarter the size. The moon itself, a couple of degrees further out from the sun, shone twice as bright as Venus. The rest of heaven seemed infinitely far away, misty sweeps at the bottom of an endless well.
By the blue-white sunlight, the yacht was a three-hundred-meter silver crescent, devoid of fins and aerials and ports. In fact, the only visible marking was the Imperial escutcheon—a scarlet wreath and a five-pointed star—just short of the nose.
But from within, a larger part of that hull was not opaque. Arching over the main deck it was as clear, as transparent as the air of a desert night; and the lords and ladies attending the Prince's birthday party could see the Earth-Moon system hanging just above the artificial horizon created by the intersection of deck and hull. The scene was lost on most of them. Only a few ever bothered to look up into the strange sky. They were the fifteenth generation of an aristocracy that regarded the entire universe as its just due. They would have been just as bored—or just as amused—on Luna or back at the Avstralijan Riviera on Earth.
In all the two-million-ton bulk of the yacht, perhaps only four or five people were really aware of the surrounding emptiness:
Vanja Biladze floated near the center of the yacht's tiny control cabin—he liked to keep it at zero gee—steadying himself with one hand draped negligently around a wall strap. His three-man crew sat belted down to control saddles before the computer inputs and the holoscreens. Biladze gestured at the gray-white cone that tumbled slowly across the central screen. "Do you have any idea what it is, Boblanson?" he asked the fifth man in the control cabin.
The little man called Boblanson had just entered the cabin from the kennels below decks, and he still looked a bit green about the gills. His rickets-bent hands held tightly to the wall straps as his balding head bobbed about in an attempt to focus on the screen. The three crewmen seemed as intrigued by this twisted dwarf as by what the long-range scope was throwing on their screen. The men were new to the Imperial yacht, and Biladze guessed they had never before seen a non-Citizen in person. Outside of the Preserves, about the only place one could be found was in the Emperor's menageries.
Boblanson's nearsighted eyes squinted for a long moment at the screen. The ship's computer had superimposed a reticle on the image, indicating the cone was about a meter wide and perhaps three meters long. Ranging figures printed below the reticle showed the object was more than two hundred kilometers away. Even at that range the synthetic aperture scope resolved a lot of detail. The cone was not a smooth, uniform gray but was scored with hundreds of fine lines drawn parallel to its axis. There were no aerials or solar panels protruding from the cone. Every fifteen seconds the base of the object rotated into view, a dark uninformative hole.
The little man licked his lips nervously. If it had been possible to grovel in zero gee, Biladze was sure that Boblanson would have done so. "It is marvelous, Your Eminence. An artifact, to be sure."
One of the crewmen rolled his eyes. "We know that, you idiot. The question is, would the Prince be interested in it? We were told you are his expert on pre-Imperial spacecraft."
Boblanson bobbed his head emphatically, and the rest of his body bobbed in sympathy. "Yes, Emimence. I was born in the Prince's Kalifornija Preserve. For all these centuries, my tribes have passed from father to son the lore of the Great Enemy. Many times the Prince has sent me to explore the glowing ruins within the Preserves. I have learned all I can of the past."
The crewman opened his mouth—no doubt to give his acid opinion of illiterate savages who pose as archeologists—but Biladze broke in before the other could speak. The crewman was new to the Court, but not so new that he could get away with insulting the Prince's judgment. Biladze knew that every word spoken in the control cabin was monitored by Safety Committee agents hidden elsewhere in the ship, and every maneuver the crew undertook was analyzed by the Safety Committee's computers. Citizens of the Empire were used to surveillance, but few realized just how pervasive the eavesdropping could be until they entered the Imperial Service. "Let me rephrase Kolja's question," said Biladze. "As you know, we're tracking back along Earth's orbit. Eventually—in another fifteen hours, if we hadn't stopped for this thing—we will be far enough back to encounter objects in trojan orbits. Now there is some reason to believe that at least a few of the probes launched into Earthlike orbits eventually wound up near Earth's trojan points—"
"Yes, Eminence, I suggested the idea," said Boblanson. So there is spirit in you after all, thought Biladze with surprise; perhaps the little man knew that the Prince's pets sometimes counted for more than an Imperial Citizen. And the fellow's education obviously went beyond the folk tales his tribe passed from generation to generation. The idea of looking for artifacts near the trojan points was cle
ver, though Biladze guessed that careful analysis would show it to be unpractical for at least two different reasons. But the Prince rarely bothered with careful analysis.
"In any case," continued Vanja Biladze, "we've found something, but it's nowhere near our destination. Perhaps the Prince will not be interested. After all, the chief reason for his excursion is to celebrate his birthday. We are not sure if the Emperor and the Prince and all the gentle people attending will really be too happy if we interrupt them with this matter. But we know that you have the special confidence of the Prince when it comes to his collection of pre-Imperial space probes. We hoped—"
We hoped you'd take us off the hook, fellow, thought Biladze. His predecessor at this job had been executed by the teen-age prince. His crime: interrupting the boy at dinner. For the thousandth time, Biladze wished he were back in the old-time Navy—where research had been disguised as maneuvers—or even back on Earth in some Gruzijan lab. The closer a Citizen came to the Centers of power, the more of a madhouse the universe became.
Imperial Stars 1-The Stars at War Page 17
