by E. C. Tubb
Niall said, quietly, "I know how you must be feeling, Earl. You're disappointed and think yourself cheated and it's never pleasant to be wrong. But don't blame the captain. He went where I told him and you supplied the coordinates. This is where they guided us."
The golden figures of Earth – a lie?
It was something Dumarest didn't want to believe. He had searched too long to be able to calmly accept that it had all been for nothing. He knew Earth existed. He was positive the coordinates had been genuine. Why had they found nothing but empty space?
Nadine said, urgently, "Believe them, Earl. It's exactly as they say."
The truth as she read it. But there had to be something more. Dumarest recalled a clue won from the past.
"Look for patterns," he ordered. "Try to find constellations which fit designs." He quoted the mnemonic. "The Ram, the Bull, the Heavenly Twins, and next the Crab the Lion shines the Virgin and the Scales. The Scorpion, Archer, and Sea Goat, the man who holds the Watering Pot, the Fish with shining scales."
Nadine didn't understand. "Earl?"
"The signs of the Zodiac," he explained. "As seen from Earth the night sky held constellations set in a ring of designs. In order they are Ram, Bull, Twins, Crab, Lion, Virgin, Scales, Scorpion, Archer, Goat, Pot, Fish. Twelve of them. They should be unmistakable."
Signposts in the sky standing like a ring of sentinels about Earth. Guardians now absent.
"Maybe they didn't look like what you say," suggested Badwasi. Impatient to find the promised world he had joined the others. "Can you remember them, Earl? You would have seen them when young. Animals, people, things. Stars shaped into images would be hard to forget?"
There had been no images. Dumarest thought back, remembering, seeing the sky as he had when a boy. An expanse of gleaming stars streaked by the ribbon of the galactic lens, dominated at times by the swollen orb of the moon. There had been no pictures of men and women, of artifacts and creatures suspended in the heavens.
"Try to remember," urged Badwasi. "If we can see them then this is where Earth used to be. If not then we are in the wrong place."
"Used to be," mused Niall. "That's a possibility. Maybe it has moved. The galaxy is rotating," explained the navigator. "The drift isn't fast but it's there and has to be taken into account. How old were the coordinates you gave me? A thousand years? Five?"
"I don't know," admitted Dumarest. "But they had to be very old."
"Which means we are at a point in space where Earth used to be a long time ago. A few thousand years isn't much in galactic terms but it could be the answer. All we have to do is plot a course which will compensate for the galactic drift. Don't worry, Earl. If Earth exists we'll find it."
Dumarest waited, staring bleakly at the screen. There was nothing he could do if the search should end in failure. Nothing but admit defeat and try again, but, if Earth was not found, there would be problems he would have to face. The Kaldari, disappointed, believing themselves to have been cheated, would demand vengeance for their dead. Even if they left him alive he would be stranded on some hostile world. Perhaps crippled, maimed, blinded, helpless to fend for himself. Capable only of waiting for death.
Irritably he dismissed the concept. To worry about an uncertain future was worse than stupid. The very fact such thoughts had intruded on his mind was proof that the search was costing him more than money and fatigue. He was losing the sharp edge of assessment which was essential if he hoped to survive.
"Soon," said Chapman. His tone betrayed what he expected to find. Another failure and the inevitable disappointment which could lead Dumarest to make demands backed by the threat of violence. The captain's hand rose to feel the flat hardness of the laser beneath his tunic. If such demands came he was ready to face them.
From his station Niall said, "Stand by, captain. Now!"
The field collapsed, the ship slowing, the screen blazing with a sudden rush of light. A glowing sun and, before them, a ball of blue and swirling white hanging like a jewel against the darkness of space. One attended by a sister globe, smaller, brightly silver with reflected light, marred and pocked to give the likeness of a skull.
"That's it!" Niall shouted his triumph. "By God, we've found it!"
Earth – and something else.
It came from behind the moon, a gleaming spindle which was suddenly before them, to hang, a bright fleck against the bulk of the planet. A vessel of unfamiliar pattern but Dumarest knew to whom it must belong.
To Chapman he said, "Order full battle alert. Move, damn you! Badwasi, get to your station and ready missiles!" Over the blare of the alarm he yelled, "Schell! Any contact?"
"No."
"Keep trying," snapped the captain. "Niall, what have you on that vessel?"
"Nothing. The design is one I've never seen before. But it's fast and looks armed. Let's hope it's friendly."
A hope Dumarest didn't share. The Cyclan had advanced technology and the ship had to be theirs. The fact that it was here, waiting, was proof they knew of the existence and location of Earth. Like a spider in a web they had waited for his arrival. Logic dictated they would communicate. He knew what they would demand.
"Dumarest.'The face portrayed on the comscreen was a model of sculptured perfection. "Earl Dumarest. Are you receiving me? Please respond."
"I am receiving you."
"We must talk in private. Use your communications shack." The communication was broken as Dumarest followed the instructions. Was resumed as he sat in Schell's chair. "You are wise to cooperate. We have matters to discuss."
Dumarest said, dryly, "I assumed that."
"You are astute. Incidentally I must congratulate you. The prediction that you would fall victim to the trap presented by the Evoy was of a high order of probability. By escaping you demonstrated your unusual abilities. I am confident we can arrive at a satisfactory arrangement."
"Who are you?"
"The representative of the Master Ryon, the Cyber Prime. Think of me as an extension. I suggest you consider the implications of what that means."
Not just an agent. Not an ordinary cyber as his appearance made obvious; the thin, skeletal features born of a stringent diet had yielded to a fuller, more rounded appearance graced with wide-set eyes, a sculptured nose, finely moulded lips. The beauty was incidental. The product of functional design.
A surrogate, he guessed. A creature manufactured as an experiment or to serve a specific purpose.
"Do you have a name?"
"I am Tryne. I am a product of the Cyclan laboratories. My body is stronger than that of any human. My brain is constructed of a sponge-metal alloy which emulates the cerebral cortex. On it can be impressed the memories, knowledge and directives of a human brain. Cellular laminates provide synaptic unions. The outward appearance can be altered as required. Need I explain to you what this means?"
The end of his special status. While the Cyclan had needed his secret they had taken care to guard his life. Now they had found an alternative way of extending their domain he had lost his unique importance. Or was that what he was meant to believe? The face on the screen could be the mask it seemed. The entire story designed to soften his resolution.
Dumarest said, "If I had nothing you wanted we would not be having this conversation. It is both illogical and inefficient to waste time and energy. Therefore I assume you want to obtain the correct sequence of the fifteen units forming the affinity twin."
"That is correct."
"If I refuse to give it to you?"
"Your ship and all it contains will be totally destroyed. I assure you the probability of that prediction is close to certainty. You are a gambler, Dumarest. Do not make the mistake of thinking this is a bluff."
"It would be illogical to kill me."
"We now have a viable alternative as you must have realized. It will serve until the sequence can be rediscovered. It is only a matter of time."
A long time, or it could be a day.
"A secret is usele
ss to a dead man," said Dumarest. "I'm willing to trade. It's yours for the ship and the lives of the crew. For myself, safety, power and wealth."
"Agreed."
"One more thing. Tell me about Earth."
"That would serve no purpose."
"What harm would it do? I was born on the planet." Dumarest leaned closer to the screen. "Logically you have no reason to refuse me."
"What has logic to do with you and Earth? To it you are a stranger. You stowed away when little more than a child on a ship which broke the proscription. Instead of evicting you the captain allowed you to work your passage. You stayed with him until he died. We know about you, Dumarest. Your wanderings, your search, your killings. You are a true product of your world. Yet what do you know about it? Your journeys were limited."
The truth and he had found nothing of paradise.
He said, "A monk told me Earth was anathema. He begged me not to find it."
"You should have taken his advice."
"Why should he have given it?"
"Because he thought it best." Tryne paused, then continued. "You have traveled, touched on a host of worlds, seen the brutality and depravity of petty rulers, their lust for power, their greed. Imagine that vileness multiplied, condensed, introduced into an overcrowded world. Logic, sanity, reason, restraint, all were denied. The entire planet was afflicted with a madness which defied belief and it led to a terrible end. The monk warned you against Earth because, to him, the planet is abomination."
"Diseased with an affliction which could still survive," said Dumarest. "He told me that, too. Does the Cyclan subscribe to that belief?" As the surrogate made no answer he quoted, "From terror they fled to find new worlds on which to expiate their sins."
The creed of the Original People. Did it hold the answer? Had they run from an insane world, the populace clashing in a frenzy of mutual destruction, the very air poisoned by lethal contamination? Had the Cyclan? Scientists escaping global catastrophe to establish the organization now spread across the galaxy. Promulgating the pursuit of logic and reason as the Church preached tolerance? Each, in their own way, working to ensure the survival of the human species.
Dumarest said, "What happened? Did something go wrong? An experiment get out of hand? A technology which devastated the world. Did all men originate on one planet? Was that planet Earth? Did the environment itself induce the lunacy you speak of? Is that why it was proscribed?"
Questions which gained no answers.
"You have one chance to save your life." The surrogate maintained the even modulation of tone which was the mark of every cyber, but the smoothness held an iron determination. "You must place yourself in our hands. Don a suit, leave your vessel and head to where we are waiting. You have seven minutes."
The ultimatum was no bluff. Yet the surrogate had made a mistake Instead of addressing him alone it should have spoken to the crew, offering riches in return for handing him over, bound and helpless. Or had it been a mistake? The Kaldari, curious, could have learned the value of his secret. An unwanted and unnecessary complication.
Chapman turned from his instruments as Dumarest returned to the bridge. "Well?"
"We're in trouble. They -"
"Why did they ask for you? How did they know your name?"
"I don't know. It doesn't matter. They want everything we have in return for our lives. We'll spend them wearing a collar. They want me to go over and talk."
"No!" Chapman was emphatic. "I don't like this. They know you and that makes for problems. They can talk to me direct."
"They want me." Dumarest snarled his impatience. "You don't trust me, but I've no time to argue. We can't afford to waste time."
"If you go you'll be giving them a hostage."
"That worries you?" Dumarest gave the captain no time to answer. "Let me get at the board." A button sank beneath his thumb. "Badwasi? Stand by. Have everything loaded and ready to fire. Mauger?"
"Here."
"Get ready." Dumarest checked the time. "You've got exactly four and a half minutes."
"Everything's set." The engineer added, "You want to see it go?"
"I'll be with Badwasi."
"What the hell's going on?" Chapman glared as Dumarest straightened from the screen. "You going out there?"
"No, but a suit is. One fitted with a bomb and a proximity fuse. The faceplate's been darkened and we've incorporated a device to emulate heartbeat and respiration. A recording," he explained. "If they listen they'll think it a man."
"You didn't just make it."
"No, but I thought we might need it." Dumarest headed towards the door. "I had it done hours ago."
"You knew they'd be waiting?"
"I guessed they might be."
More than guessed. He had sensed it, feeling a premonition so strong it was almost clairvoyant, one which had driven him to act as he had.
In the gunnery room Dumarest studied the other vessel, the planet against which it was framed.
"Earl!" Badwasi was sweating. "It's going to be damned close!"
Dumarest ignored the comment, concentrating on the screen. Earth – to the monk it represented abomination, but that had to be a judgment based on emotive reaction. The Cyclan would have a different frame of reference. Logic and reason would only accept conclusions based on solid evidence. They would have made a thorough investigation.
What were they protecting?
To Badwasi he said, "Check the missiles. We'll only have one chance."
If they tried to run, the shimmer of the Erhaft field would betray their intention and they would be fired on before it could be fully established. The other vessel could move faster in normal space. It would be able to dodge or destroy any missile aimed against it. But, if those in control could be distracted they could have a chance.
Thirty seconds left. Dumarest thumbed the intercom.
"Ready to go, Zoll. Pass out the suit."
It emerged looking like a man, one hunched over the jetting flames of twin, side-set reaction pistols. The flames died as, slightly off-course, the figure moved towards the Cyclan vessel.
"Listen." Badwasi increased the gain on a speaker. From it came the rasp of breathing, the pounding of a heart. "That should fool them."
"How did you pick that up?"
"Laser contact. The suit acts as a diaphragm and the beam reflects the deflections. It works both ways."
"Then talk to it," snapped Dumarest. "Pretend it's me in there. Use my name and act natural. Hurry!"
A time of tension in which the orb of the planet seemed to pulse as if a great, watching eye.
"That's it." Badwasi turned from his microphone. 'They're coming out. If they spot the beam they'll be warned."
More waiting, calculating, a gamble with life itself as the stake. The Cyclan would have predicted the possibility of a trap and could have set one of their own. Dumarest frowned, remembering. Why had the surrogate been willing to talk at such length? Why the specific time allowed for him to leave the ship? Seven minutes, barely enough time to don a suit and pass through the lock. No time to spare for thought or action. Why, at the end, nothing had been said as to the safety of the ship and the others.
Abruptly Dumarest knew the answer.
"Badwasi! Open fire!"
Dumarest heard a metallic crack, saw the gunnery officer spin on his feet, a hole in the back of his head, a ghastly pulp where his face had been. Another crack and he felt the impact of something which ripped at the side of his scalp, sending blood to gush down his face, blinding his eyes, smearing his tunic. More cracks echoed with spiteful violence as he lunged towards the panels.
The Cyclan had sent a cloud of non-metallic missiles from a point far to one side of the Geniat. A lethal rain which riddled the hull like a blast from a gigantic shotgun.
Air whined from the vessel, slowing as the inner coating of sealing compound blocked the apertures. An alarm blared as Dumarest clear his eyes. Buttons sank beneath his fingers and he felt the shudder as
missiles flared from their housing.
One expanded into a glowing ball of brilliance as it met a blocking missile. Another did no better as the men from the Cyclan vessel thrust the suit they had collected into the port. As a third missile wasted itself the Cyclan struck back.
The Geniat slewed as if kicked by a mighty boot, hull yielding, air gusting into the void together with a cloud of debris; the shattered bones and mangled flesh of those who had taken the brunt of the impact. Doors slammed, sealing compartments, saving the living at the expense of those hurt or already dead. A second hit would create total destruction. It never came.
The screens flared as, within the Cyclan vessel, the suit-bomb vented its energy. Like a stricken beast the ship jerked, darted to one side, turned into incandescent vapour as it ran into the missiles Dumarest blasted towards it.
"It worked!" Chapman had been too close to death and it showed. "Your plan worked, Earl. We got them, but they damned near got us. The hull damaged, equipment ruined, half the crew dead or injured. We've got to land and soon!"
Dumarest didn't hear him. Nor the voice of Nadine as she came to make her report. His whole attention was on the planet swelling before him in the screens. A white-mottled blueness wreathed by a diadem of stars.
Earth!
His search was over. He was home.
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