Don Pendleton's Science Fiction Collection, 3 Books Box Set, (The Guns of Terra 10; The Godmakers; The Olympians)

by Don Pendleton

  “I understand,” Honor replied weakly. “But I can’t help wondering . .. suppose I slip us back into the negative column.”

  “You could do so ... for a time. There could be pain, suffering, and dense error ... but remember this, Honorkir. Be true to your image. It is your only guideline.”

  “Hadrin, I sense a ... a terrible .. . overlying . .. well, danger. There is a possibility, isn’t there, that the entire thing could fall apart.”

  Hadrin’s face moved into shadow. “You still seek guidelines,” he whispered. “If you persist, the law will shade your knowledge.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Even a geometer of geometers, Honorkir, possesses free will.”

  “There is a danger!” Honor cried.

  Hadrin was beginning to fade all over. “Take your woman, Honorkir, and return to your parallax.”

  “There is a great role in my interim, isn’t there!”

  “Too much is already said.” Honor could hardly see him now. “Go, Godmaker, and remember the image.”

  Barbara was running toward him, arms outstretched. “Pat!” she cried. “Don’t leave me!”

  And then they were joined together and moving swiftly across the infinite sea. Honor felt stunned, frightened, and exalted all at once. “I saw the image beyond the image, Barb!” he shouted. And then there was blackness.

  3: An Impress

  “This thing is a hell of a lot more complicated than I’d thought!” Honor told Milt Clinton. “Just when I thought I had a good handle on it, it starts crumbling away from me.”

  “Well keep it as simple as possible, will you,” Clinton said dismally. His gaze travelled to his wife, only partially visible through the kitchen doorway. The two women were banging around back there, putting a meal together. “God, there’s been a lot of surprising .. .” He checked his words and swiped at his nose with a halfballed fist. “Just tell me about the conspiracy,” he growled. “Start with Wenssler’s list, the one Barbara brought into my office yesterday.”

  “Hell... was that just yesterday?”

  Clinton nodded. “It was. Talk to me about those first six events. Tell me how they were engineered and how Wenssler tumbled to them.”

  “Oh hell,” Honor said with an impatient jerk of the head. “That wasn’t the beginning. It’s just a part of it, a part that fell out of Wenssler’s mathematics.”

  “Then where is the beginning?” Clinton asked sharply.

  Honor drummed his fingers on the table, reached for a cigarette, lit it, and blew the smoke over his boss’s head. “Most anything I’m likely to tell you will be just like that smoke,” he mused. “Right over your head.”

  “Try me. When did it start?”

  “Hell, it started with the microbes.”

  “With the what?”

  Honor grinned. “I’m not trying to snow you, Milt. Believe me, it’s awfully hard to make this sound believable.”

  “I said, try me.”

  “In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was—”

  “Aw shit, Pat!”

  “You said try you,” Honor said soberly, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m trying you. Anyway ... then ... the word took form and flat got out of hand. The process of evolution began throwing off all these errors, the random-selection idea, you know, and the Rogue got his start, long before civilized man came on the scene.”

  “You’re trying too damn hard, Pat.”

  “Get the straitjacket ready. You haven’t heard anything yet.”

  “Who the hell is the Rogue?”

  “You just said it, buddy, exactly. Two Gods, not one, starting out on equal terms, except that one began in heaven and the other began in hell. The one in heaven started it all, because he was nothing but an image. He gave birth to himself, through a geometric projection, the idea being that free will and random selection would take him where he needed to go—Omega, see, creation fulfilled. Except that he’s not being fulfilled. His cast-off errors began building a mirror-image on the other side of things, see, only that mirror-image is distorted and misshapen like these trick mirrors in the arcades. It’s built of runaway projections, rejected errors, and all the lousy misfits of a random-selection evolution. Then the frigged-up mind of man entered the equation and—”

  “Tell me about the conspiracy, Pat,” Clinton said heavily.

  “I’m getting there. So, see, man reared up with his precious consciousness of self and saw how things were going. Only, he saw only the one half of the equation, the Rogue half, see, and he fell on his knees and said, yeah, that’s God all right, and he’s been worshipping the Rogue ever since. That’s the conspiracy, old buddy.”

  “You’re outta your God damned mind,” Clinton muttered.

  “You said try. I’m trying. Look, dammit, the Rogue, the world, the whole damned material universe together is no more than a wart and it’s getting more troublesome all the time and pretty soon it’s going to eat itself, and then where will we be, huh, the victims of the conspiracy, where the hell will we be?”

  Honor had run out of breath. He sucked in another supply and plunged on before Clinton could protest. “The hell of it is, Milt, we could fix things if we only would. And we have to, can’t you understand? Hadrin and Octavia and all the others, especially those in the shadows, are depending on us. They’re stuck with us, see, we’re all stuck. After five billion years in this field, we’re stuck with it. Oh sure, hell, he can go on and start again, just scrub it all out, see, and start another one, another field, but when he scrubs the field, he scrubs us. And that means Hadrin and Octavia and everybody who’s been projected into this field. That’s why I saw, see, behind the image. It’s the image of doom, buddy, and don’t think Hadrin doesn’t know it’s there. That’s what he meant by free will in the geometer of geometers. That image of doom was co-created, Milt, right along with the image of fulfillment. It’s an automatic destruct button—a doom machine, old buddy, wired up to the whole cracklin’ universe, the final word in insurance. He can’t let the Rogue take over, see, cause then maybe all the geometers everywhere would split and then God, that would even be the end of God himself.”

  Clinton was staring at his young cohort with a sick look. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s some conspiracy, all right.” He flicked an almost panicky glance toward the kitchen, mumbling, “I wish the girls would hurry it up. I’m hungry as hell.”

  Honor, fully wound up, was showing no signs of tiring. “Wenssler’s list, now, that’s just an extension of the basic problem. This crap has been going on for centuries, and getting worse all the time. Didn’t you ever think it funny the way the ‘good guys’ never really win, Milt?- It’s true, you know. Every guy who ever really stepped out front and tried to grab the bull by the horns ended up getting gored. Didn’t he? Scan down through history and look at ’em. Every damn time. That’s the damned Rogue’s work, see. The son of a bitch has become so powerful that guys like Hadrin have to sit there at the geometer night and day, trying their best to stir up even a flicker of understanding. Well, he flicked my flicker all right. But now I don’t know what the hell to do about it. I don’t know which way to go. And, hell, he won’t give me a hint, hell no. I wonder if he wants me to transfigure! That would be his out, wouldn’t it. Sure, hell, transfigure, bail out, get the hell out of the field and let the Rogue take the hindermost. And then we’ll start all over again in some other field. Oh no, hell no! Another five billion years? Back to the microbes and the slimy damn mollusks? For God’s sake, Milt, I couldn’t take that again!”

  “We’re having beef tips,” Clinton murmured. “And hot biscuits with honey. If they ever get it fixed.” He crossed his legs, carefully avoiding Honor’s eyes, and reached for a cigarette.

  “You think Jack Wilkins is a good guy? Okay, sure, and so how about the two Kennedys, and Martin

  King? How about, hell, Abraham Lincoln? What did they ever get but gored, eh? It happens to all of ’em. It couldn’t
matter less whether you get nailed to a cross, or hung from a banyan tree, or shot between the eyes, or symbolically slain through public disgrace. That isn’t the point. The point is that nobody has been strong enough yet to really take on the Rogue.”

  “Look, Pat, uh .. ”

  “I know, you’re worried about Wenssler’s list. I’m getting to that. The guy who looks out for number one, and plays it cool, and makes no waves, that guy usually makes out okay. Right? The wave makers, good or bad, they’re the ones who get gored. Right? Sure, happens every time. The Kennedys, King, Wilkins. Wave- makers, right? High Nines, Milt. Sure. Surprises you, eh? There are other nines, too, plenty of them. Gored, too, every damn one. Even the low ones. The Low Nines, Milt. Think of Hitler, eh? Mussolini. Wave- makers. Gored by their own damn God! Right? He plays no favorites. Make waves, get gored.”

  “I’ll bet supper is ready.”

  “Waves resolve things, Milt. They stir the pot, separate the truth from the error, get people moving. That always hurts the Rogue. Anything hurts the Rogue gets gored damn quick. You’re worried about Wenssler’s list. Hell, it’s simple, simple as pie. Those guys were wave-makers, Milt. Psychic wave-makers. Yeah. Surprises you, eh? Wilkins is psychic. You know who else is on that list, too, don’t you. Hell yes. Yours truly, that’s who. Eighth man out. They screwed up, Milt. They should have made me the fifth man out, and maybe old Hadrin would have even slipped into a negative. Okay. So I’m going to get gored. I accept that. But I’m going to make some waves in the meantime, old buddy.”

  “Shut up, Pat.”

  “Huh?”

  “You think I’m insane, don’t you.”

  “I said, shut the hell up. I admit I was wondering about it ... at first. But then I tumbled to what you’re doing. Why’re you double-talking me, Pat?”

  “I’m not double-talking, Milt. I’m serious as hell. What this world needs for survival is a resurgence of the Don Quixote idea. Yeah. We need a world full of guys like that. Fight the impossible fight, see. Stand up for what’s right, and fight like hell for it. We’ve all got to make waves, Milt.”

  Clinton sighed. “You’ve got to start making sense, Pat. We’re friends, yeah, and so you can waltz me around this way ... for awhile. But .. .” Clinton scratched the side of his nose. “Well, I got a call just before I dragged you out of bed.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.. The President has had a, uh, miraculous recovery.”

  Honor nodded his head. “It worked, then. Great.”

  “I want to know how it worked. So do some other people. It’s way over my head now, Pat, and you’re going to have to start talking sense. What was that machine you mentioned?”

  Honor chuckled. “That was just a figure of speech. There has to be a machine, eh? If I could produce some sort of diabolical machine, they’d believe me. Is that it?”

  “You telling me there isn’t one?”

  “Yes, I’m telling you that. I’ll tell you something else, though. Everything happens through a process of natural law, and can be explained quite precisely in terms of scientific certainty. The problem is, no one has come up with a scientific understanding of some of our so-called phenomena. That is what Wenssler was working on.”

  “Just tell me how that shielding saved the President, Pat. You have to tell me, you know. What was he being shielded from? Who is behind the conspiracy? How are they doing it?”

  Honor released a loud sigh. “I gave you the whole damn story, Milt, just as simply as I know how.”

  Clinton was glaring silently at his young associate when Dorothy appeared in the doorway and announced dinner. Clinton waved his acknowledgement, cleared his throat noisily, and told Honor: “Well you’d better start thinking of something simpler. We have a command performance coming up in just . . .” He glanced at his watch, “ . . . two hours and ten minutes.”

  “Whose command?” Honor asked quietly.

  “The President. It seems that you’ve made quite an impression on him. Wants to talk to you. I suggest that you talk straighter than you did to me.”

  “I made no impress on you, Milt?”

  “Yeah, you impressed me all right,” Clinton answered glumly. “You impressed me clear outta my skull.”

  “I believe I’ll try to look up your image next time I go over,” Honor said musingly.

  Clinton rose hastily to his feet and moved toward the dining room. “You disgrace us in front of the President,” he growled, “and there won’t be any image to look for. Rogue God, for Christ’s sake. That’s nutty, Pat.” He drew up short at the dining room door and gawked at his wife. He’d never seen her looking so radiantly animated, so lovely. He inspected her critically as he moved on to the table. “What’ve you done to yourself?” he asked her, still gawking.

  “Nothing,” she bubbled happily. Her eyes flashed to Barbara as she added, “We’ve just been having some fascinating girl-talk.” She giggled. “Sit down, Barbara- Three, and pass the biscuits.”

  Barbara giggled back. “I still want that recipe, Dorothy-Three.”

  “Three? Three what?” Clinton turned to Honor with a sigh of resignation. He did not bat an eye when the platter of biscuits floated unsupported along the length of the table. “Three what?” he asked Honor calmly.

  “It’s one of the nicer laws,” Honor replied matter-of-factly. “Woman is the root center of truth. Conscious man is nine. Conscious woman is three.”

  A biscuit floated onto Clinton’s plate. It opened itself to receive the honey already moving toward it. Dorothy was giggling. “Sex is the first octave to either side of freedom,” she told her husband.

  “Okay,” Clinton said. “So I’m impressed.”

  4: Executive Touch

  The radiation vault had been turned into a very appealing Executive Suite. Jack Wilkins sat upright on the hospital bed. Papers were scattered about, evidence that the President was back to work already. He nodded gravely at Patrick Honor and said, “I wanted to personally thank you, Pat, for your remarkable if, uh, unorthodox suggestion. They tell me that I was down for the final count. How much longer must I remain sealed up in here?”

  Honor had expected the direct approach; Jack Wilkins operated in that fashion. “I believe Wenssler gave us the clue to that answer, Mr. President.”

  Wilkins’ eyebrows formed sharp vees. “June 15th?” Honor nodded. “Yes sir, that would be my recommendation.”

  “What’s going on, Pat? What does the shielding have to do with my recovery?”

  Honor looked uncomfortably at Milt Clinton. His gaze roamed to the nurse and to the several members of the White House staff who were present. “It has been suggested, sir,” he replied, “that I not attempt to answer such questions.”

  “Suggested by whom?” Wilkins snapped.

  Honor rocked gently on the balls of his feet. “It’s pretty far-out stuff, Mr. President.”

  The Presidential gaze went immediately to an aide who stood alongside the bed. “Mr. Honor and I will speak privately,” he commanded.

  “I’d like for Mr. Clinton to stay,” Honor requested. The aide received an acquiescing nod from the President.

  The room was already beginning to clear. The aide was the last man out, insistently escorting the nurse to the corridor outside.

  “Sit down, gentlemen,” Wilkins said.

  Honor took a chair directly opposite the President. Clinton dropped onto a lounge along the wall. Wilkins was closely scrutinizing Honor. He smiled suddenly and said, “I understand you’re to be my son-in-law.” Honor’s jaw dropped and he said, “Sir?”

  The President chuckled. “Angie has eyes for you, Pat.”

  “She’s a sweet kid,” Honor murmured.

  “That ‘sweet kid,’ Pat, has very carefully checked you out ... marital status, the whole bit. She’s decided that you are waiting for her. I’d say you’d better be on your guard. Angie can be a very determined young lady.”

  Honor realized that the President was trying to get thi
ngs on a personal, informal footing. He grinned and replied, “Angie’s a ray of sun around the executive offices, Mr. President. We’re always glad to see her come in.”

  “She’s been the light of my life, since her mother died,” Wilkins mused. “Well ... let’s get down to cases. Tell me about this ‘far out’ theory of yours.”

  Honor said, “It’s not a theory, sir. Maybe it would be better if you were to ask direct questions. I’ll answer them the best I can.”

  Wilkins stared at him for a moment, then flicked a glance to Clinton. “I understand that Curt Wenssler is recovering,” he observed quietly. “Did you know Wenssler before his, uh, breakdown?”

  Honor shook his head. “No sir.”

  “I knew him,” Wilkins confided. “Since long before we began funding the PPS program.” He sighed. “Let’s drop the pussy-footing yik-yak, Pat. I have been in close contact with Wenssler from the very beginning of the program. He has had my unqualified support. Now ... as I understand it ... you were assigned to the program only yesterday. According to my information, you have never shown any interest nor predisposition toward the psychic sciences. Suddenly you come on like Blackstone the Magician. I want to know what you’ve stumbled onto. I want to know what you know, Honor.”

  Honor stole a quick look at his chief. “I, uh, made contact with Professor Wenssler’s protégé,” he replied slowly. “A Miss Barbara Thompson. You know her?”

  Wilkins nodded. “I know of her. Wenssler has been her guardian since the death of her father.”

  “Yes sir. Well ... I was on the scene when Wenssler transfigured low. Barbara was very—”

  Honor doggedly held his ground, though feeling very strong disapproval from the couch behind him. “Professor Wenssler did not have a breakdown, sir. He experienced a transfiguration. But to the low side. Does that make sense to you?”

  The President stared silently at Honor through a long moment of thoughtfulness. Then he sighed and said, “Maybe it does, Pat. Go ahead with the story.”