The Fugitive Worlds

by Bob Shaw

  "A question before we leave, and before you reply think of the warnings I gave you," he said to the alien, glancing around the strange and inhospitable room. "Will the very fact of your quitting this place alert or in any way give advantage to those who will oppose us?"

  II is most unlikely, the alien replied. The entire facility is operating automatically. It is most unlikely, at this stage, that anybody on Dussarra will try to communicate with me in person.

  "Most unlikely? Is that all the assurance you can give?"

  You demanded the truth.

  "Fair enough." Toller nodded to Steenameert and the trio moved towards the door by which they had entered the room. The alien progressed confidently, sliding his feet on the perforated floor, while Toller and Steenameert walked with a top-heavy roll as though balancing on narrow beams. When they reached the pressure lock Divivvidiv unclipped the grey metallic box of his personal propulsion unit from the wall. He began to fasten it to his waist with gleaming clamps.

  "Leave that," Toller ordered.

  But you have seen it before. Divivvidiv spread his hands in an oddly human gesture. It is only my transporter.

  "A device which gives you the speed of an arrow—I seem to remember that you approached with uncanny speed when Baten and I were trapped in your glass cage." Toller prodded the box with his sword, sending it drifting away from the alien. "It would be quite pointless for you to burden yourself with the temptation to try escaping—especially as I intend to escort you to my ship in regal style."

  Toller unfastened a coil of thin rope from his belt, passed the free end around Divivvidiv's body and tied it with a hard-drawn knot. He pulled Divivvidiv into the pressure lock with him and Steenameert, and signaled the alien to operate the controls, which resembled blue tablets set in the seamless grey wall. The inner door slid shut in magical silence, and a few seconds later the outer hatch opened to give a view of the metallic grey plain and glittering crystal sea beyond it. Icy air billowed inwards. Toller drew his scarf up over his mouth and nose, glad to be escaping from the oppressive architecture of the station's interior, and went forward into the familiar skyscapes of the weightless zone.

  The sun had moved closer to Overland, and in doing so had crossed the datum plane, rising above the artificial horizon created by the vast disk which Toller now knew to be an incomprehensible machine. Rays of sunlight, striking billions of crystals at a shallow angle, created barricades of prismatic fire which dazzled the eye. So great was the brilliance that even Overland, a hemicircle of luminance which spanned the sky directly above, was dim and ghostly in comparison.

  Toller paid out his line a short distance, activated his propulsion unit and set off for the Inner Defense Group with Divivvidiv being dragged in an undignified slow spin in his wake. The trio flew out over the rim of the alien station, the sound of their exhausts greedily absorbed by the surrounding void. Toller kept silent during the flight and concentrated on remembering all the steps involved in taking a spaceship outside the air bridge. During his two obligatory training sessions everything had seemed very simple and obvious, but that had been years in the past and now the complexities appeared enormous.

  The group of wooden vessels eventually showed up in the

  brilliance ahead as small yellow, orange and tan silhouettes which did not assume any proper coloration until Toller had swung in a curve past them and got the sun behind him. Close by was the skyship in which he had made the ascent, its balloon beginning to look puffy and wrinkled as the gas inside it contracted through loss of heat. At the planetary surface the weight of the collapsing envelope would have expelled the gas, but in the absence of gravity the balloon simply puckered like the skin of some moribund creature of the deeps.

  Toller shut down his microjet and coasted to rest, twitching the line to bring his silent prisoner into place beside him. Steenameert expertly drifted himself to a halt nearby, a few yards above the fantastic conglomeration of huge crystals. Two miles away across the burning sea the alien station was outlined like a castle against the darkest part of the sky, where occasional meteors made furtive dashes to oblivion.

  "A rare sight, Baten," Toller said. "One that not many can claim to have seen. One that you will no doubt remember."

  "I expect I will, sir," Baten replied, a puzzled expression appearing in his eyes.

  "I want you to take two messages back with you—one for my father and one for Queen Daseene. I have no time to write them out, so I want you to listen carefully and—" Toller broke off as Steenameert violently crossed and uncrossed his arms in a gesture of disagreement.

  "What are you saying to me?" the younger man cried out. "Have I not served you well?"

  It was Toller's turn to be puzzled. "Nobody could have done better. I intend to include a citation in my message to the Queen so that you. ..."

  "Then why are you dismissing me at this most crucial moment in the venture?"

  Toller pulled down his scarf and smiled. "I am moved by your loyalty, Baten, but things have reached a pass at which I have no right to expect anything further from you. The voyage to the intruders' home world will almost certainly result in my death—I am not deluding myself on that score —but that is an acceptable prospect to me because it is a matter of my personal honor. Having set out with the avowed intention of rescuing the Countess Vantara, I could never return to Prad and admit that I had abandoned the attempt simply because—"

  "And what about my personal honor?" Steenameert demanded, his voice trembling with emotion. "Do you think that honor is a prerogative of the aristocracy? Do you imagine that I could ever hold my head up again, knowing that I had cravenly forsaken my duty at the first whiff of danger?"

  "Baten, this goes beyond duty."

  "Not for me." Steenameert's voice had a new edge of hardness which made it almost unrecognizable. "Not for me!"

  Toller paused for a few seconds, his eyes prickling painfully. "You may accompany me to Dussarra on one condition."

  "You have but to name it, sir!"

  "The condition is that you cease addressing me as 'sir'. We will go into this thing as private citizens, leaving the Sky Service and all its ways behind us. We will undertake the venture as friends and equals—is that understood?"

  "I..." Steenameert's new-found assertiveness seemed to have deserted him. "That would be difficult for me . . . for one of my upbringing. . . ."

  "Your upbringing counted for little a moment ago," Toller interrupted, grinning. "It is a long time since I have been chastised so vigorously."

  Steenameert gave a sheepish grin. "I fear I may have lost my temper."

  "Keep hold of it until we reach Dussarra—then you may say good riddance to it forever." Toller turned his attention to his alien captive. "What do you say, greyface?"

  I say it is not too late for you to abandon this pointless exercise, Divivvidiv replied, breaking a long silence. Why don't you try to use what little intelligence you have?

  "He hasn't understood a word of our discourse," Toller said to Steenameert. "And he calls us Primitives!"

  Without speaking further Toller activated his propulsion unit and maneuvered himself and the alien close to the nearer of the spaceships. The varnished, straight-grained timbers of the hull glowed in the sunlight with warm shades of brown. The ship had been assembled in the weightless zone from five cylindrical sections hauled up from Overland by skyship. It was four yards in diameter—and in the past had been regarded by Toller as a massive structure—but now, in comparison with the alien station, it seemed totally inadequate for its purpose. Reminding himself that his grandfather had successfully crossed the interplanetary void in a similar vessel, Toller thrust his doubts aside.

  He examined the circlet of crystal which bound the ship to the glassy plain, and turned again to Divivvidiv. "Is there any strength in that manacle? Is there likely to be any damage to the ship if I simply blast off?"

  The crystal will fracture easily.

  "Are you sure? Perhaps it would be
better if you were to instruct the being in the machine to release its hold."

  It is best if I do not communicate with the Xa at this time. The alien's face was hidden behind a reflective visor, but to Toller his words carried conviction. Remember that I will be with you inside that barbaric contraption—it is in my interests to see that no harm befalls it.

  "Very well," Toller said, unfastening from his belt the coil of rope which tethered the alien and allowing the end to drift free. "My fellow Primitive and I have certain chores to carry out which demand our uninterrupted attention. I am going to leave you here for a short time—with a request that you do not stray. You will comply?"

  I promise not to move an inch.

  Toller had made his request with mock courtesy, knowing that the alien was incapable of changing his position, and had not expected a reply which seemed to match his own style of humor. It occurred to him, fleetingly, that the little exchange might have had some significance for the future if there had been any prospect of normal contact between the Dussarran and Kolcorronian cultures. As it was, he had more pressing concerns on his mind.

  The rear section of the vessel was actually a specially designed skyship in which the customary square gondola had been replaced by a cylindrical spaceship section. Folded within it was a full-size balloon which gave crewmen the capability of taking the section down to a planetary surface and of rejoining the mother ship while it waited aloft. Toller had no use for the detachable module in the forthcoming mission because descent by balloon was both conspicuous and painfully slow.

  "What do you think, Baten?" he said as they drifted in the thin cold air. "Is it worth trying to rid ourselves of the tail section? We have plenty of jacks, and 1 have no relish for the idea of lugging an extra engine and all those extra control mechanisms."

  "The sealing mastic has been there a long time," Steenameert said doubtfully. "It will have worked its way into the leather seals, the wood, the pegs, the lashings ... It will be like basalt. Even with jacks it could take four or five men to separate the section from the main hull, and there's no telling what damage would be done in the process. On top of that, we would have to shorten all the control rods and reconnect them to the permanent engine. . . ."

  "To cut a long story short," Toller put in, "we should take the ship as it is. Very well! If you will be so kind as to retrieve our supply of parachutes and fallbags, I will inspect the ship —and then we will be on our way."

  The flight to Dussarra produced little in the way of surprises for Toller.

  Practically all that was known about the business of travelling to destinations beyond the Land/Overland pair came from notes made by liven Zavotle, who had been a member of the single historic expedition to Farland. Toller had studied abstracts from the notes during his training and was relieved to find them corresponding well with practical experience. He had enough to occupy his thoughts without any waywardness on the part of the ship or the cosmic environment.

  The surrounding sky became black, exactly as predicted, and a short time later the ship warmed up, making it necessary for those on board to remove their insulated suits. According to the long-dead Zavotle, the bitter coldness of the weightless zone between the twin worlds was caused by atmospheric convection, and when a ship escaped into vacuum it was free to accept the sun's bountiful heat. Also as predicted, the meteor display—a permanent feature of the home worlds' night skies—could no longer be seen. Zavotle's explanation was that the meteors were still present, hurtling through space at unimaginable velocities, and that they only became visible on encountering a planet's atmosphere. The possibility of the ship being destroyed between heartbeats by an unseen rocky projectile was one that Toller did not care to dwell on.

  He discovered that the steering of the spaceship was the single most demanding task, somewhat akin to balancing a pole on the end of a finger. The pilot's station on the topmost deck was equipped with a low-power telescope mounted parallel to the ship's longitudinal axis. It was necessary to keep the instrument's crosshairs fixed on a reference star, and doing so required close concentration and skilful balancing with the lateral jets.

  Steenameert, in spite of his lack of experience, soon proved himself better at the job than Toller and, furthermore, claimed to enjoy long spells at the controls. That arrangement suited Toller quite well, giving him what he needed most— time in which to try assimilating all that had happened in a few crowded hours. He would lounge for lengthy periods in a restraint net on the circular top deck, sometimes half-asleep, sometimes watching Steenameert and Divivvidiv.

  The latter had been highly apprehensive during the first hours of the flight, but had gradually regained his composure as it became evident that the ship was not going to explode. He, too, spent much of his time in a restraint net, but not in repose. Dussarra, he had explained, was only eight million miles away from the twin worlds and preceding them in a closely matching orbit. Those facts simplified the parameters of the flight, but nevertheless the relevant calculations were arduous for one who was not a professional mathematician and working without computational aids.

  At times Divivvidiv, using a pencil held oddly in slim grey fingers, made notes on a pad supplied to him by Toller. He gave frequent instructions to Steenameert about firing or closing down the main engine, or centering the astrogational crosshairs on a new target. Intermittently he went into a trance-like condition in which, Toller assumed, he was using telepathy or unknown senses to monitor the ship's spatial relationship with its destination. Another necessary assumption was that the alien was not communing with others of his species and setting up a trap for his captors.

  It was in the interests of all concerned to complete the flight as quickly as possible, but Toller had been astonished when Divivvidiv—after less than an hour of assessing the ship's performance—had predicted a transit time of three to four days, with an allowance for certain variables. When Toller tried analyzing the figures he found himself having to accept the notion of travelling at speeds of well over 100,000 miles an hour, and he promptly abandoned the calculations. The bars of sunlight coming into the ship through the portholes seemed unmoving; the whorled and spangled universe outside was as serene and changeless as ever—so it was

  better to forget about the chilling dreamworld of mathematics and imagine himself gently drifting from one island to another in a glassy black sea.

  One of the traits Toller shared with his grandfather was impatience—even a few days of forced inactivity being enough to unsettle him. He had read liven Zavotle's log of the Farland flight in its entirety and could recall a related passage word for word. Our captain has taken to quitting the control deck for long periods. He spends hours at a time in the middle sections, wedged in place at a porthole, and seems to find some kind of solace in these reveries in which he does nothing but stare into the depths of the universe.

  Feeling oddly furtive and self-conscious. Toller occasionally emulated his grandfather, going down into the strange netherworld of the ship where the narrow rays of light from the ports created confusing patterns of shadow among the internal struts and the bins which housed supplies of power crystals, firesalt, food and water. He would position himself in a narrow space between two storage lockers, and simply allow his thoughts to drift while he gazed through the nearby porthole. The sound of the main engine was stronger there, the smell of the hull's tarred canvas lining more noticeable, but he could think better in the solitude.

  Inevitably, his thoughts often turned to the mysteries and dangers of the near future. It seemed incredible that not very long ago he had bemoaned the dearth of adventure in his life, the lack of any opportunity to prove himself worthy of his illustrious name. Now he was engaged in a venture which, although honorable, was so desperate that even the old Toller Maraquine might have counseled against it, one for which—try though he might—it was almost impossible to foresee a successful outcome.

  The idea had come to him in an instant of total despair and he had s
eized on it gratefully and with manic certitude, seeing a clear-cut way through all the barriers and pitfalls of circumstance. It had all seemed so perfect. He could not be teleported to the alien planet in pursuit of his loved one— therefore he would fly there in a Kolcorronian ship and take the whole of Dussarra by surprise. Divivvidiv averred he was an unimportant member of his society and consequently without value as a hostage, but his claim was belied by his being in sole command of the great midpoint station. The stage was all set for a hero—armed with naught but daring, imagination and a trusty blade—to astound and confound the might of an alien world. There would be the swift, unseen descent by fallbag and parachute to a point near the enemy capital . . . the clandestine penetration of the alien leader's citadel . . . the bargaining sessions in which Toller held the upper hand ... the reunion with Vantara . . . the return to Overland by way of teleporter and skyship or parachute . . . the idyllic, aureate future with Vantara by his side. . . .

  You fool The recriminations would sometimes come with the same devastating psychic force as the original preposterous idea, and in those moments Toller would writhe and almost moan aloud with self-loathing. Only one element of the bizarre situation remained changeless amidst the turmoil of his thoughts, giving him the resolve he needed to see the matter through. He had vowed to himself and to others that he would make his way to Vantara's side, and—that being the case—he had no option but to press forward, regardless of how slight the chances of success might be, even if it transpired that certain death lay ahead. . . .

  Viewed from a height of more than four thousand miles, the home world of the alien intruders looked remarkably similar to Land and Overland. The cloud cover consisted of the same patterns of broad flowing rivers breaking up into vortex streams or isolated whirlpools. It was only when Toller made his eyes refocus that he saw through the filigrees of shining vapor to the planetary surface and realized that the proportion of land masses to oceans was lower than he would have expected. The predominant color was blue, with only