These Savage Futurians

by Philip E. High

  The experts decided on a message without break in the macrocosm but with detectable intervals in the microcosm. The message was taped, reduced, retaped, reduced again and fed to the micro-robotic carriers.

  In a microcosmic world where airborne dust clouds drifted like asteroid belts, where every rain drop was a pear-shaped comet, they arrived and waited.

  They circled in hundreds about two meters from the mine screen and blinked. Tiny shutters opened and closed over light sources; inconceivably small transmitters began to beam regularly— “We are the instruments of macrocosmic intelligence.”

  Submicroscopic diaphragms repeated the message in sound —“to establish contact between our two widely divergent life-forms—”

  Blink—blink, blink—blink—“to establish friendly relations, and, if possible, a high degree of co-operation beneficial to both our races—”

  In less than an hour later a dull green cube appeared suddenly among the communication robots and began to blink back:

  “This vessel contains a recorded answer to your goodwill message.”

  They picked it up, after considerable effort, in the thumb-sized vessel which had brought the micro-robotics.

  As soon as they got it to the laboratory, however, it began to broadcast in standard Morse with such power that it was perceptible—albeit as continuous sound—on high frequency receivers.

  The experts recorded the sound, slowed it, re-recorded the slower version and slowed it again.

  Finally they broke it down to dots and dashes.

  THE INTELLIGENCES OF THE MICROCOSM (GELTHEA) WELCOME THE PEACE OVERTURES FROM THE MACROCOSM (MANKIND) AND APPLAUDS BOTH THEIR COMMON SENSE AND THEIR MATURE APPROACH TO AN ALARMING PROBLEM.

  ALTHOUGH THIS PROBLEM WAS ONLY INFERRED, THE GELTHEA APPRECIATE THE DANGERS INVOLVED WHEN TWO ADVANCED INTELLIGENCES FIND THEMSELVES SHARING THE SAME PLANET WHICH BOTH REGARD AS THEIR OWN.

  MANKIND, HOWEVER, NEED NOT CONCERN ITSELF FOR LONG WITH THIS PROBLEM AS WITHIN A SHORT PERIOD (MACROCOSMIC TIME) THE GELTHEA WILL HAVE VACATED THIS PLANET.

  WE ARE, RELATIVELY, AN OLDER RACE THAN YOUR OWN (THREE GENERATIONS PASS IN THE COURSE OF A MACROSECOND) AND EVOLUTIONARY TRENDS HAVE WROUGHT MANY CHANGES.

  ONE OF THESE CHANGES HAS BEEN A REDUCTION IN SIZE WHICH HAS OPENED UP VAST NEW FRONTIERS FOR US.

  TO ILLUSTRATE, YOU SEEK THE CONQUEST OF MACROSPACE. WE HAVE ALREADY CONQUERED MICROSPACE AND A VAST EXPANSION IS ALREADY IN PROGRESS.

  TO US THE EARTH NO LONGER HAS SUBSTANCE. IT IS SIMPLY SPACE, AND ITS ATOMS SO MANY STARS, SO MANY SUNS, SO MANY GALAXIES.

  WE WERE ABLE TO CONTACT YOU ONLY THROUGH OUR REMAINING INSTRUMENTS BUT, IN VIEW OF THE MATURITY OF YOUR APPROACH, FELT THAT YOUR MESSAGE COULD NOT BE IGNORED.

  BY THE TIME YOU RECEIVE, AND ACT UPON, OUR ANSWER WE SHALL BE GONE AND OUR CITY DESERTED. MANY OF OUR RECORDS AND TECHNICAL ACHIEVEMENTS HAVE BEEN PLACED IN A TIME-FIELD’ FOR POSTERITY.

  IT IS CLEAR THAT AVAILING YOURSELF OF THESE ASSETS IS WELL WITHIN YOUR TECHNICAL ABILITY AND WE WELCOME YOU TO AVAIL YOURSELVES OF ANYTHING WHICH MAY AID YOU.

  THE GELTHEA.

  The experts looked at one another, shaken.

  “Thank God we used some sense over this.”

  “I’ll say.” One of them had a note pad covered with figures. “If we had thrown a missile at them it would have taken approximately—their time—nine hundred years to get there. They could not only have stopped it, they could have landed on it, got inside and perhaps altered the control circuit so that it came back at us. We’ve had a damn narrow escape.”

  “Been a bit of a false alarm all the same.”

  “Has it? We’ve been presented with a technology several thousand years in advance of our own and the Island and the resistance groups are working together.”

  “You have a point there—nothing like an outside threat to bring a big family together. What would we have done without our specimen? By the way, where is Ventnor?”

  “He was here just now—no—wait a minute, didn’t someone come with a message.”

  Someone had come with a message. It was brief, crude and to the point and Ventnor was already leaving the base.

  Skeld, thinly disguised in a laboratory coat, watched him go and smiled thinly. Human nature didn’t change, the strongest of men had a weak spot, emotions to be exploited. Tell a man you had his woman, tell him to come and get her alone. It was simple. The man knew, of course, he was walking into a trap but couldn’t help himself.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” said a voice.

  Skeld stiffened, his hand jerking slightly towards his gun pocket. “Oh, it’s you, Hobart. Thought you were still a prisoner.” He smiled genially. “Glad to see you’ve got your freedom.”

  Hobart didn’t smile back. “I was never a prisoner. They simply relieved me of my weapons and let me wander around. You haven’t answered my question.”

  “Question? Oh, yes, security business, naturally.”

  “Whose security—mankind’s or Loom’s? There’s no damn censorship here, you know.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve thrown in your lot with these Gadgeteers.”

  “Let us say I’ve seen enough to know when I’ve made a fool of myself. I’ve been through that re-creator thing of theirs. I know what really happened.”

  “Mr. Skeld, I must remind you that you are still technically my subordinate. Kindly get out of my way, I have important business to attend to.”

  Hobart stood aside reluctantly then turned shaking his head almost knocking someone over. “Sorry! Good God, Matheson!”

  “Well, well, it’s been a long time.” Matheson’s mild grey eyes were neither friendly nor hostile.

  “Listen, I haven’t time to exchange pleasantries or recriminations. Something is going on.” He repeated his recent conversation with Skeld.

  “Is that all?”

  “No, it’s not all. Ventnor went striding out of the base about a minute before. He was as pale as death and looked worried out of his life. Skeld stood watching and was beginning to follow when I spoke to him.”

  Matheson’s eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t sound too good— What is it to you?”

  Hobart flushed. “All right, I was smug idiot, I don’t have to don sackcloth and ashes to prove it to myself or to you. Are we going to do something or not?”

  “We are—catch.”

  Hobart caught the gun deftly. “Hadn’t we better let the base know?”

  “I intend to but I must tell them to be careful. This smells like some sort of trap. If the whole base goes after him, the opposition will blast him down out of hand.”

  Ventnor, now a mile from the base, strode over the rough ground almost unaware of his surroundings. “If you wish to see your wife again come to Harthill Crossroads alone.”

  He knew what ‘alone’ implied. He knew that Gina was not on the base and he knew that had he informed the base he would have been held there for his own protection.

  There was no doubt that someone had her but he was fully alive to the fact that she was bait. He was walking into a trap.

  Strangely he felt no regret. If they died, they would die together—could he ask more than that? Beside this, however, was an overwhelming fury that she should be hurt, that they should dare-Half a kilometre behind, Skeld followed smiling to himself. It had been almost too easy. Occasionally he glanced back but he could see no sign of pursuit, not that he had really expected any.

  Ventnor strode on. Above, the sky was a clear pale blue, a lark sang, the grass was bright with buttercups but he saw none of it.

  He passed through the dust mounds which had once been Lenham, his mind filled only with one thought—haste. Not far now, Harthill Crossroads, where the assassin had been killed, where he, Ventnor, had been ‘buried’. Why there?

  He arrived forty minutes later.

  A slim, dark haired man sat crossed legged on the ground. He had a weapon but the weapon wasn’t pointing at Ventnor it was pointing at Gina.

/>   “Stay right where you are, my friend. Don’t move, don’t try anything and this won’t go off.”

  “Gina—Gina, darling, are you all right.”

  She stood unmoving but she smiled. “You shouldn’t have come, dearest.”

  “I had to come, you knew it.”

  “It’s a trap.”

  “I knew that too. I still had to come.”

  The man jerked the gun slightly. “Let us not become emotional, eh? Someone might move suddenly. This is an igniter gun or is the lady for burning?”

  Skeld arrived some minutes later, slightly short of breath. “Ah, so you have them, Gelden. Excellent! I’ve waited several years to catch up with you, Mr. Ventnor.”

  “May I take him?” asked Gelden, hopefully.

  “No, you may not—keep quite still. Mr. Ventnor—I like to go by the book, by routine. Since our specimen can no longer be ‘marked’ he must be disposed of in a routine manner.” He pointed. “An old friend of yours, I believe.”

  Ventnor followed the direction of the pointing finger and stiffened.

  He came striding steadily but unhurriedly across the grass—the dark suit, the round hat and the contrasting circle of white at the throat.

  “Yes, you recognize him, no doubt. It’s Padre 4, Mr. Ventnor. He, too, has been waiting a long time. He, too, has a duty to perform.”

  Ventnor felt a coldness inside him. He remembered the Padres in the villages, the people, the children, running for the huts as soon as they appeared.

  He remembered the pursuit from Gret, the Padre, feet apart, arms folded, staring down at him as he ran for his life.

  It had been the Padre who had stirred the village against him, the Padre had wanted him dead.

  Skeld sat down on a grassy mound. “He isn’t armed,” he said gently, “but then, Mr. Ventnor, neither are you. On the other hand, the Padre is very, very strong, too strong. Of course, you are a good deal faster but however fast you are the Padre will catch you. He’s tireless. When you’re tottering from fatigue he’ll still be striding behind you and, in the end, he’ll overtake you even if you have a fifty kilometre start.”

  Ventnor, although still frightened, was now coldly detached and in control of himself.

  “Were you born a small time sadist or did you have to educate yourself up to it.”

  Skeld flushed but he said easily, “Save your breath, you’re going to need it. Oh, and yes, play it heroic, your woman is watching. After all, you might save her, who knows—we shan’t.”

  Ventnor took a quick step forward but the other waved his gun. “Don’t lose the lady before you have to, sonny boy.”

  A minute later the Padre arrived and said: “Sir? you sent for me.”

  Skeld waved his hand. “Specimen/variant 225/9/446. You have your instructions.”

  The Padre turned his head slightly. “Specimen identified, sir; instructions, destroy.”

  The Padre turned, squat, brown-faced, expressionless, extended both hands and marched toward the specimen.

  Ventnor, although cold with terror, instinctively dropped to the half-crouch of his intensive judo-training. Carefully he measured his distance, weighed the balance of his opponent, then he stepped adroitly to one side, grasped the wrist and pulled.

  The Padre did a somersault and landed heavily on his back. There was, however, something frightening and un-human in the way he climbed to his feet and came plodding back expressionless and implacable.

  Ventnor, now fully conscious of what he was up against, forced his mind to icy detachment. He must keep clear of those hands, if the Padre once got a grip he’d never break it.

  He side-stepped again, kicking skilfully at the legs. The Padre went down again, this time on his face. Ventnor jumped high in the air and came down, heels first in the middle of the prone back.

  It was a move that would have killed a normal man. It would have broken the back and ruptured the internal organs. The Padre made a faint grunting sound, rolled over as Ventnor sprang clear and climbed unhurriedly to his feet.

  Skeld clapped his hands. “Quite a boy, aren’t you, Specimen? Keep going, you’ll get tired but the Padre won’t.”

  The Padre came forward and Ventnor threw him again. This time he went high in the air and came down on his head.

  The fall should have broken his neck but once more he climbed to his feet and came forward.

  Ventnor was now panting for breath and his face was streaked with lines of sweat.

  “Hot work, Specimen? Cheer up, its going to get hotter.” Skeld was chuckling, softly.

  Ventnor braced himself once more but before the other reached him, there was a curious thudding noise.

  The Padre staggered, raised his arms slowly in a grotesque suggestion of benediction and fell forward on his face.

  “What the hell!” Gelden was suddenly on his feet, gun drawn, peering nervously about him.

  Ventnor, panting from exhaustion, stared down uncomprehendingly at his opponent. In the middle of the black cloth was a jagged and blackened hole into which he could have inserted his clenched fist. There was, however, no blood, no charred flesh. Synthetic flesh had burned away like cloth and beneath this was a cage, a rib case of bright shining metal, a mess of fused circuits and fine wire—the Padre was a robot!

  “You were followed.” Gelden was crouched but poised like an animal. “You incompetent fool!” He raised his voice. “Listen you, out there, if you fire one shot or try and take us, we shall—” His shouting ended in a peculiar sigh and he rolled sideways and lay still.

  Skeld flung himself sideways, his face ashen. The gun which had appeared suddenly in his hand, was menacingly steady.

  “Don’t move, you two, or I’ll blast you down where you stand.” He shouted, finishing Gelden’s threat. “If you come in, I shall kill these two.”

  “No you won’t, Skeld.” The voice was Hobart’s. “If you kill your hostages you’ve no insurance. Not only that but I shall take immense pleasure in killing you personally. I propose shooting you slowly to pieces, starting at your feet.”

  “Now look, Hobart, I have no quarrel with you.”

  “You have a quarrel with everyone but yourself, Skeld. I’m coming in.”

  “Don’t do that.” The voice was a little shrill. “I shall blast you down.”

  “If you’re lucky. I’m somewhere in this long grass-where? Furthermore I have Matheson with me—somewhere —and to cheer you up, the base knows by now.”

  “Look, Hobart, give me a break, give me five minutes to get clear.” Beads of sweat stood out on Skeld’s forehead.

  “Better get moving now, I’m on my way.”

  “Blast you I” Skeld fired wildly at the long grass. Yellow flame gushed upwards; clods of earth rose in the air; there was a brief swirl of smoke and then he turned and ran.

  He ran until he was breathless, then he flung himself into a convenient hollow. As he did so, a hawthorn bush to his right suddenly vanished in a brief burst of vapor.

  He looked back twice. Keeping his head down, he fumbled a caller from his pocket. “This is Skeld. I’m in a spot; get a fix on me, for God’s sake. If you’re quick you can get Ventnor too. There’s only two men and a woman with him.” He paused to fire again over the rim of the hollow. “Don’t play—burn out the whole area and make sure.”

  A crisp voice said: “Message received, positioned fixed; we’re on our way.”

  Skeld raised the gun, fired four times, then made a crouching sprint for the next cover. He made it but a smoking crater appeared suddenly at his side as he flung himself behind a grassy mound.

  He lay still trembling and panting. Why didn’t the ship hurry!

  The ship did hurry. It came shrieking over the hills to his right, skin glowing redly from friction.

  “Slow her, we’re there.”

  “I know.” The pilot was already braking.

  “Fix,” said the detector man crisply. “Right below us— pick him up?”

  “Yes—no,
no. There’s a man and woman over there, must be the specimen.”

  “There’s a couple of men stalking Skeld as well.”

  “We’ll get the lot in one fell swoop, brother.”

  The detector man squinted downwards. “Shall we rub out that little group of primitives while we’re at it?”

  “What little group of primitives?”

  “In among that clump of trees there—can’t you see them? About six I should say, they seem to be carrying cross-bows.”

  “Ah, yes, I can just—cross-bows! Did you say cross-bows? Up! Get her up, gun it, lack it, get her up!”

  “But Skeld-”

  “To hell with Skeld. Those are not primitives, you blasted fool, they’re the Maidstone boys from Base 4—where the hell have you been these last two months? Gun her up, damn you.”

  The ship lifted its nose wrenchingly, began to arrow upwards. Inside someone switched on a magnifier screen. “Got them—Good God, they’re actually firing those things at us.”

  “No!” The voice was despairing. “Keep gunning it, Heald.”

  “You want this motor to blow? Every needle I’ve got is the wrong side of the red line already. This is a kite, not a missile.”

  “All right, all right! Horn, pick those arrows up on the screen, keep track of every damn one.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake, we’re already hitting all of Twelve hundred.”

  “Yes and piling on acceleration at a kilometre second, I know that—find those arrows or I’ll blast you down where you stand!”

  “Okay, okay.” Switches clicked. “Check—check-check— four arrows—check—falling behind at meter a second. In short, we’re out-running them.” He paled suddenly. “Say, those things are hitting all of fifteen hundred!” He made hasty calculations and when he spoke again, his voice was curiously hoarse. “They’re twenty-one kilometers from point of release, and only ten kilometers behind us—what the hell are they?”

  “Do I have to draw a diagram? They’re pursuit missiles. Do you think I’m pushing this ship over the edge for amusement?”