Asimov’s Future History Volume 13

by Isaac Asimov

  He was sure of it.

  And now this Rik was in the thick hands of a man who pretended to be a Florinian patriot but was actually a Trantorian agent.

  Terens felt the bitterness of his anger in the back of his throat. Of course this Baker was a Trantorian agent. He had had no doubt about that from the first moment. Who else among dwellers in the Lower City would have the capital to build dummy radar ovens?

  He could not allow Rik to fall into the hands of Trantor. He would not allow Rik to fall into the hands of Trantor. There was no limit to the risks he was prepared to run. What matter the risks? He had incurred the death penalty already.

  There was a dim gleam in the corner of the sky. He would wait for dawn. The various patroller stations would have his description, of course, but it might take several minutes for his appearance to register.

  And during those several minutes he would be a Townman. It would give him time to do something that even now, even now, he did not dare let his mind dwell upon.

  It was ten hours after Junz had had his interview with the Clerk that he met Ludigan Abel again.

  The Ambassador greeted Junz with his usual surface cordiality, yet with a definite and disturbing sensation of guilt. At their first meeting (it had been a long time ago; nearly a Standard Year had passed) he had paid no attention to the man’s story per se. His only thought had been: Will this, or can this, help Trantor?

  Trantor! It was always first in his thought, yet he was not the kind of fool who would worship a cluster of stars or the yellow emblem of Spaceship-and-Sun that the Trantorian armed forces wore. In short, he was not a patriot in the ordinary meaning of the word and Trantor as Trantor meant nothing to him.

  But he did worship peace; all the more so because he was growing old and enjoyed his glass of wine, his atmosphere saturated with mild music and perfume, his afternoon nap, and his quiet wait for death. It was how he imagined all men must feel; yet all men suffered war and destruction. They died frozen in the vacuum of space, vaporized in the blast of exploding atoms, famished on a besieged and bombarded planet.

  How then to enforce peace? Not by reason, certainly, nor by education. If a man could not look at the fact of peace and the fact of war and choose the former in preference to the latter, what additional argument could persuade him? What could be more eloquent as a condemnation of war than war itself? What tremendous feat of dialectic could carry with it a tenth the power of a single gutted ship with its ghastly cargo?

  So then, to end the misuse of force, only one solution was left, force itself.

  Abel had a map of Trantor in his study, so designed as to show the application of that force. It was a clear crystalline ovoid in which the Galactic lens was three-dimensionally laid out. Its stars were specks of white diamond dust, its nebulae, patches of light or dark fog, and in its central depths there were the few red specks that had been the Trantorian Republic.

  Not “were” but “had been.” The Trantorian Republic had been a mere five worlds, five hundred years earlier.

  But it was a historical map, and showed the Republic at that stage only when the dial was set at zero. Advance the dial one notch and the pictured Galaxy would be as it was fifty years later and a sheaf of stars would redden about Trantor’s rim.

  In ten stages, half a millennium would pass and the crimson would spread like a widening bloodstain until more than half the Galaxy had fallen into the red puddle.

  That red was the red of blood in more than a fanciful way. As the Trantorian Republic became the Trantorian Confederation and then the Trantorian Empire, its advance had lain through a tangled forest of gutted men, gutted ships, and gutted worlds. Yet through it all Trantor had become strong and within the red there was peace.

  Now Trantor trembled at the brink of a new conversion: from Trantorian Empire to Galactic Empire and then the red would engulf all the stars and there would be universal peace — pax Trantorica.;

  Abel wanted that. Five hundred years ago, four hundred years ago, even two hundred years ago, he would have opposed Trantor as an unpleasant nest of nasty, materialistic and aggressive people, careless of the rights of others, imperfectly democratic at home though quick to see the minor slaveries of others, and greedy without end. But the time had passed for all that.

  He was not for Trantor, but for the all-embracing end that Trantor represented. So the question: How will this help Galactic peace? naturally became: How will this help Trantor?

  The trouble was that in this particular instance he could not be certain. To Junz the solution was obviously a straightforward one. Trantor must uphold the I. S. B. and punish Sark.

  Possibly this would be a good thing, if something could definitely be proven against Sark. Possibly not, even then. Certainly not, if nothing could be proven. But in any case Trantor could not move rashly. All the Galaxy could see that Trantor stood at the edge of Galactic dominion and there was still a chance that what yet remained of the non-Trantorian planets might unite against that. Trantor could win even such a war, but perhaps not without paying a price that would make victory only a pleasanter name for defeat.

  So Trantor must never make an incautious move in this final stage of the game. Abel had therefore proceeded slowly, casting his gentle web across the labyrinth of the Civil Service and the glitter of the Sarkite Squiredom, probing with a smile and questioning without seeming to. Nor did he forget to keep the fingers of the Trantorian secret service upon Junz himself lest the angry Libairian do in a moment damage that Abel could not repair in a year.

  Abel was astonished at the Libairian’s persistent anger. He had asked him once, “Why does one agent concern you so?”

  He half expected a speech on the integrity of the I. S. B. and the duty of all to uphold the Bureau as an instrument not of this world or that, but of all humanity. He did not get it.

  Instead Junz frowned and said, “Because at the bottom of all this lies the relationship between Sark and Florina. I want to expose that relationship and destroy it.”

  Abel felt nothing less than nausea. Always, everywhere, there was this preoccupation with single worlds that prevented, over and over again, any intelligent concentration upon the problem of Galactic unity. Certainly social injustices existed here and there. Certainly they seemed sometimes impossible to stomach. But who could imagine that such injustice could be solved on any scale less than Galactic? First, there must be an end to war and national rivalry and only then could one turn to the internal miseries that, after all, had external conflict as their chief cause. And Junz was not even of Florina. He had not even that cause for emotionalized shortsightedness.

  Abel said, “What is Florina to you?”

  Junz hesitated. He said, “I feel a kinship.”

  “But you are a Libairian. Or at least that is my impression.”

  “I am, but there lies the kinship. We are both extremes in a Galaxy of the average.”

  “Extremes? I don’t understand.”

  Junz said, “In skin pigmentation. They are unusually pale. We are unusually dark. It means something. It binds us together. It gives us something in common. It seems to me our ancestors must have had long histories of being different, even of being excluded from the social majority. We are unfortunate whites and darks, brothers in being different.”

  By that time, under Abel’s astonished gaze, Junz stumbled to a halt. The subject had never been sounded again.

  And now, after a year, without warning, without any previous intimations, just at the point where, perhaps, a quiet trailing end might be expected of the whole wretched matter and where even Junz showed signs of flagging zeal, it all exploded.

  He faced a different Junz now, one whose anger was not reserved for Sark, but spilled and overflowed onto Abel as well.

  “It is not,” the Libairian said in part, “that I resent the fact that your agents have been set upon my heels. Presumably you are cautious and must rely on nothing and nobody. Good, as far as that goes. But why was I not informed as s
oon as our man was located?”

  Abel’s hand smoothed the warm fabric of the arm of his chair. “Matters are complicated. Always complicated. I had arranged that any report on an unauthorized seeker after Spatio-analytic data be reported to certain of my own agents as well as to you. I even thought you might need protection. But on Florina —”

  Junz said bitterly, “Yes. We were fools not to have considered that. We spent nearly a year proving we could find him nowhere on Sark. He had to be on Florina and we were blind to that. In any case, we have him now. Or you have, and presumably it will be arranged to have me see him?”

  Abel did not answer directly. He said, “You say they told you this man Khorov was a Trantorian agent?”

  “Isn’t he? Why should they lie? Or are they misinformed?”

  “They neither lie nor are they misinformed. He has been an agent of ours for a decade, and it is disturbing to me that they were aware of it. It makes me wonder what more they know of us and how shaky our structure may be altogether. But doesn’t it make you wonder why they told you baldly that he was one of our men?”

  “Because it was the truth, I imagine, and to keep me, once and for all, from embarrassing them by further demands that could only cause trouble between themselves and Trantor.”

  “Truth is a discredited commodity among diplomats and what greater trouble can they cause for themselves than to let us know the extent of their knowledge about us: to give us the opportunity before it is too late, to draw in our damaged net, mend it and put it out whole again?”

  “Then answer your own question.”

  “I say they told you of their knowledge of Khorov’s true identity as a gesture of triumph. They knew that the fact of their knowledge could no longer either help or harm them since I have known for twelve hours that they knew Khorov was one of our men.”

  “But how?”

  “By the most unmistakable hint possible. Listen! Twelve hours ago Matt Khorov, agent for Trantor, was killed by a member of the Florinian Patrol. The two Florinians he held at the time, a woman and the man who, in all probability, is the field man you have been seeking, are gone, vanished. Presumably they are in the hands of the Squires.”

  Junz cried out and half rose from his seat.

  Abel lifted a glass of wine to his lips calmly and said, “There is nothing I can do officially. The dead man was a Florinian and those who have vanished, for all we can prove to the contrary, are likewise Florinians. So, you see, we have been badly outplayed, and are now being mocked in addition.”

  Seven: The Patroller

  RIK SAW THE Baker killed. He saw him crumple without a sound, his chest driven in and charred into smoking ruins under the silent push of the blaster. It was a sight that drowned out for him most of what had preceded and almost all that had followed.

  There was the dim memory of the patroller’s first approach, of the quiet but terribly intent manner in which he had drawn his weapon. The Baker had looked up and shaped his lips for one last word that he had no time to utter. Then the deed was done, there was the rushing of blood in Rik’s ears and the wild screaming scramble of the mob swirling in all directions, like a river in flood.

  For a moment it negated the improvement Rik’s mind had made in those last few hours of sleep. The patroller had plunged toward him, throwing himself forward upon yelling men and women as though they were a viscous sea of mud he would have to slog through. Rik and Lona turned with the current and were carried away. There were eddies and subcurrents, turning and quivering as the flying patrollers’ cars began to hover overhead. Valona urged Rik forward, ever outward to the outskirts of the City. For a while he was the frightened child of yesterday, not the almost adult of that morning.

  He had awakened that morning in the grayness of a dawn he could not see in the windowless room he slept in. For long minutes he lay there, inspecting his mind. Something had healed during the night; something had knit together and become whole. It had been getting ready to happen ever since the moment, two days before, when he had begun to “remember.” The process had been proceeding all through yesterday. The trip to the Upper City and the library, the attack upon the patroller and the flight that followed, the encounter with Baker — it had all acted upon him like a ferment. The shriveled fibers of his mind, so long dormant, had been seized and stretched, forced into an aching activity, and now, after a sleep, there was a feeble pulsing about them.

  He thought of space and the stars, of long, long, lonely stretches, and great silences.

  Finally he turned his head to one side and said, “Lona.”

  She snapped awake, lifting herself to an elbow, peering in his direction.

  “Rik?”

  “Here I am, Lona.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Sure.” He couldn’t hold down his excitement. “I feel fine, Lona. Listen! I remember more. I was in a ship and I know exactly —”

  But she wasn’t listening to him. She slipped into her dress and with her back to him smoothed the seam shut down the front and then fumbled nervously with her belt.

  She tiptoed toward him. “I didn’t mean to sleep, Rik. I tried to stay awake.”

  Rik felt the infection of her nervousness. He said, “Is something wrong?”

  “Sh, don’t speak so loudly. It’s all right.”

  “Where’s the Townman?”

  “He’s not here. He — he had to leave. Why don’t you go back to sleep, Rik?”

  He pushed her consoling arm aside. “I’m all right. I don’t want to sleep. I wanted to tell the Townman about my ship.”

  But the Townman wasn’t there and Valona would not listen. Rik subsided and for the first time felt actively annoyed with Valona. She treated him as though he were a child and he was beginning to feel like a man.

  A light entered the room and the broad figure of the Baker entered with it. Rik blinked at him and was, for a moment, daunted. He did not entirely object when Valona’s comforting arm stole about his shoulder.

  The Baker’s thick lips stretched in a smile. “You’re early awake.”

  Neither answered..

  The Baker said, “It’s just as well. You’ll be moving today.”

  Valona’s mouth, was dry. She said, “You’ll not be giving us to the patrollers?”

  She remembered the way he had looked at Rik after the Townman had left. He was still looking at Rik; only at Rik.

  “Not to the patrollers,” he said. “The proper people have been informed and you’ll be safe enough.”

  He left, and when he returned shortly thereafter he brought food, clothes and two basins of water. The clothes were new and looked completely strange.

  He watched them as they ate, saying, “I’m going to give you new names and new histories. You’re to listen, and I don’t want you to forget. You’re not Florinians, do you understand? You’re brother and sister from the planet Wotex. You’ve been visiting Florina —”

  He went on, supplying details, asking questions, listening to their answers.

  Rik was pleased to be able to demonstrate the workings of his memory, his easy ability to learn, but Valona’s eyes were dark with worry.

  The Baker was not blind to that. He said to the girl, “If you give me the least trouble I’ll send him on alone and leave you behind.”

  Valona’s strong hands clenched spasmodically. “I will give you no trouble.”

  It was well into the morning when the Baker rose to his feet and said, “Let’s go!”

  His last action was to place little black sheets of limp leatherette in their breast pockets.

  Once outside, Rik looked with astonishment at what he could see of himself. He did not know clothing could be so complicated. The Baker had helped him get it on, but who would help him take it off? Valona didn’t look like a farm girl at all. Even her legs were covered with thin material, and her shoes were raised at the heels so that she had to balance carefully when she walked.

  Passers-by gathered, staring and gawkin
g, calling to one another. Mostly they were children, marketing women, and skulking, ragged idlers. The Baker seemed oblivious to them. He carried a thick stick which found itself occasionally, as though by accident, between the legs of any who pressed too closely.

  And then, when they were still only a hundred yards from the bakery and had made but one turning, the outer reaches of the surrounding crowd swirled excitedly and Rik made out the black and silver of a patroller.

  That was when it happened. The weapon, the blast, and again a wild flight. Was there ever a time when fear had not been with him, when the shadow of the patroller had not been behind him?

  They found themselves in the squalor of one of the outlying districts of the City. Valona was panting harshly; her new dress bore the wet stains of perspiration.

  Rik gasped, “I can’t run any more.”

  “We’ve got to.”

  “Not like this. Listen.” He pulled back firmly against the pressure of the girl’s grip. “Listen to me.”

  The fright and panic were leaving him.

  He said, “Why don’t we go on and do what the Baker wanted us to do?”

  She said, “How do you know what he wanted us to do?” She was anxious. She wanted to keep moving.

  He said, “We were to pretend we were from another world and he gave us these.” Rik was excited. He pulled the little rectangle out of his pocket, staring at both sides and trying to open it as though it were a booklet.

  He couldn’t. It was a single sheet. He felt about the edges and as his fingers closed at one corner he heard, or rather felt, something give, and the side toward him turned a startling milky white. The close wording on the new surface was difficult to understand though he began carefully making out the syllables.

  Finally he said, “It’s a passport.”

  “What’s that?”