by Bob Shaw
"You can't deny that doors have been improved by the addition of iron hinges and fittings," Toller said as he reached the enclosure. In general it was surprisingly similar to what an artisan from Land or Overland would have built for the same purpose. It was a rectangular three-element structure with one edge attached to the wall on each side of an entrance to the dome. The three faces ran from the floor to the underside of the first gallery, and were glazed from waist-level upwards.
Still arguing about historical developments in his home world's carpentry, Toller casually leaned against a corner of the enclosure and felt it shift slightly. He stood head and shoulders above all the aliens he had seen, and furthermore was built in much bulkier proportions, from which facts he estimated that his body weight was at least three times that of the average Dussarran. His physical power could be factorized upwards again, because of differences in muscle density, making him a force that Divivvidiv and his kind were unaccustomed to dealing with. There was a good possibility that a structure which a Dussarran saw as a formidable barrier could be breached by a single charge from Toller and Steenameert.
The alien captors had many undeniable advantages over the handful of Kolcorronians, but—Toller hoped—they were too sure of themselves, too complacent. Their best thinkers seemed to be expending their energies on remote abstracts, such as the dissolution of galaxies, while dismissing more immediate threats from close at hand. They were like high kings preparing defenses against global enemies, and all the while ignoring the body servant with the phial of poison or the smiling concubine with the slim dagger. . . .
"I concede the point about doors and door furniture, but that is. a special case," Steenameert said, nodding significantly as he tested a panel with his foot. "Metal has a natural function there, but it will always be out of place when you come to chairs and tables."
"We shall see what we shall see," Toller replied as they continued their leisurely circuit of the dome.
They had been imprisoned for an indeterminate time, only a few hours, but already Toller's impatient and turbulent nature was rebelling against the monotony of confinement. A telepathic voice with indefinable female undertones had directed him and Steenameert to particular cells on the first gallery. Toller had inspected his briefly and then, being uncooperative on principle, had announced that he did not like it and was going to use another. As the cells were identical, and did not even have doors, there was no reason to prefer one above any other, but the reaction he had hoped to provoke did not occur.
He had lain for a while on the spongy oblong that was his bed, but had quickly become bored and had tried to visit Vantara in her cell. His hope had been that her attitude towards him would have improved once she had learned from Jerene that it had been impossible for him to have arrived at the head of an army of rescuers. She had, however, remained aloof and uncommunicative in her little enclave— her cell was flanked by those of the other women. Trying to be philosophical about it, Toller had decided that being informed she was a prisoner millions of miles from home— instead of only a few thousand—was good enough grounds for any woman to lapse into a spell of depression.
Becoming even more restless, he had explored every gallery of the dome. It was big enough to accommodate twenty times as many captives as at present, but none of the featureless compartments showed any sign of previous occupation. Had the place been designed as a prison? Did the Dussarrans have such things as prisons? Or was the dome, with its sterile shadowless illumination, more the equivalent of a zoo? A birdcage?
The torrent of questions caused a stirring in Toller's memory. Just before he and Divivvidiv had parted company, possibly forever, the little alien's mental presence seemed to have been disturbed by a dark emotion. Toller had intuitively recognized it as guilt—and in retrospect that identification appeared more and more accurate. At the time Toller had wondered if he and Steenameert were being led away to be slaughtered, but his suspicions had been ill founded—so what had been causing the turmoil in Divivvidiv's alien soul?
There was also the matter of the Xa—that fantastic sea of living crystal—and the reason for its presence in the weightless zone between Land and Overland. Now that Toller's consciousness had been saturated with exotic concepts, now that strangeness had in a way become the norm, he could accept the notion that the Xa's function was to hurl an entire world into the heart of a galaxy which was millions of light years distant.
When he had first encountered the proposition it had been remote from the realities of life on the sister planets. It had been a conceptual soap bubble; a gossamer palace constructed from pale-tinted abstracts—but now everything was different!
He and Vantara and some loyal companions were imprisoned on that ill-fated world, and . . . and. . . .
Toller's brow wrinkled as other pertinent memories began to flicker behind his eyes. During his first antagonistic meeting with Divivvidiv the alien had told him that the intergalactic leap was due to take place in about six days' time. Had it been six days? Yes, that memory held true . . . and the flight to Dussarra had taken roughly four days . . . and more precious time had slipped away during the long fall from the edge of space. . . .
Icy sweat prickled through Toller's skin as he realized that the time available to the small band of lost Kolcorronians could conveniently be reckoned in hours.
Or perhaps only minutes. . . .
Chapter 15
The sight of black-clad, corpse-faced figures assembling behind the metal-and-glass screen came like the answer to a prayer.
Toller froze in mid-stride—trying to control the tumult in his mind, trying to think and at the same time not to think. His realization that the stupendous leap to a remote part of the universe had to take place in the very near future had filled him with pessimism. He needed a new hostage to give him even the faintest hope of escaping from Dussarra, but his off-hand way of mentioning the subject to Jerene had been a disguise for despair. His own society had faced its fair share of crises, and, although there were no real parallels, he could not imagine any official or scientific group on Overland deciding to visit a zoo at a comparable time.
And yet—in the aseptic and cheerless luminance of the dome—a few of the enemy were gathering, perhaps incautiously, perhaps making themselves vulnerable to a determined assault. The odds against a Kolcorronian success were vanishingly small, but the mere existence of odds—no matter how infinitesimal—was the only spur that Toller needed. . . .
He strode across the open floor to where Steenameert and two of the rankers—Mistekka and Arvand—were sitting cross-legged and engaged in discussion. The women looked up at him without moving, but Baten hurriedly got his feet as soon as he saw Toller's expression.
"Come on, Baten," Toller said in a low voice. "Keep your mind on whatever it was, but follow me—this may be our only chance." He looked down at the women. "Go at once and tell Vantara and Jerene to make ready to leave. We may have to move quickly."
He turned and walked towards the enclosure, which now held about ten Dussarrans, with Steenameert at his side. "We will take the right hand edge of the box . . . yes, the Kailian black grape does make the most distinctive wine . . . I think we can hit hardest coming from the right . . . but it contains too much acid for my taste. ..."
Blanking all structured thought from his mind, surrendering himself to a crimson rage, Toller broke into a fast, loping run. The side of the enclosure expanded in his vision and he saw white-orbed, grey faces turning in his direction. He was moving at high speed now and could hear Steenameert snorting as he strove to keep pace. The metal-and-glass structure filled his view, and the voice of instinct was screaming at him to halt or risk terrible injury.
Snarling like an animal, Toller hit the enclosure with his shoulder and felt the edge of it tear free from the wall of the dome. Steenameert impacted with it at almost the same instant, having chosen to launch himself feet first at a lower panel. The side of the enclosure crumpled and was driven inwards, trapping
several Dussarrans in the narrowing angle between it and the front wall. A huge pane of glass fell on Steenameert as he was scrambling to his feet, chilling Toller with images of brittle daggers, but the sheet remained intact and bounced harmlessly to the floor. Some of the Dussarrans were emitting thin mewing cries—the first sounds Toller had heard these aliens make with their mouths—as they backed away in obvious panic.
"Do not be in such haste about leaving," Toller shouted, his shoulder hard against the metal panel, keeping pressure on the trapped Dussarrans. "We have three of your number here and they may require medical attention."
He examined the haphazardly acquired captives. Two of them were still on their feet, held upright and immobile by the compressive force that he was exerting, their livid faces regarding him from a distance of inches. The third alien had dropped down to a crouching position inside the metal
sandwich, possibly unconscious or dead. As Toller glared ferociously at the pair who were standing, he made no attempt to disguise the revulsion inspired in him by their noseless faces and tremulous, black-lipped mouths. They maintained a petrified silence, but Toller's head was filled with a confused telepathic yammering. It was a mental distillation of pure fear—an exhilarating reminder that the Dussarrans were not a warrior breed—and therefore Toller saw it as a favorable omen as far as the hopes of his compatriots were concerned.
"See if the women are ready to proceed," he called out to Steenameert. "In the meantime I will persuade the scarecrows to listen to reason."
Steenameert nodded and darted away to where the female astronauts—Vantara among them—were clustered at the foot of a stair. Toller returned his attention to the scene within the enclosure. The aliens, all of them identical to his gaze in their scrappy dark garments, were poised near the doorway which led out of the dome. Their soupy body odor pervaded the confined space.
"Which of you is the leader?" Toller demanded. "Which of you nightmares can speak for the others?"
The aliens made no response. Seconds dragged by in which they did nothing but stare at Toller with eyes which were like black-holed chips of white porcelain. Although no telepathic voices were ranging words in his mind, he had no doubt that silent alarms were being transmitted to other Dussarrans— a thought which prompted him to reinforce his words with action.
"I see that a little firmness is called for," he said giving the aliens the peaceful smile with which he often prefaced an act of violence. It was a trait he had inherited from his grandfather, he had been told, and he had half-consciously cultivated it since his youth. Without further warning he changed his stance and abruptly redoubled the force he was exerting on the wall panel. The aliens caught between it and the front of the enclosure gasped aloud, their ashen faces contorting with pain, and Toller was almost sure he heard the fracturing of a fragile bone.
Stop that, you savage! One of the group by the exit took a step forward. There can be no excuse for such barbarism!
"Perhaps not," Toller replied, giving a slight bow, "but if you and your loathsome kin had not abducted my friends and penned them like beasts—which is your kind of barbarism— you would never have been exposed to my kind of barbarism. Do you see the principle involved? Or is the concept of natural justice cherished only by untutored Primitives?"
Primitive is an appropriate word for you, Toller Maraquine, came the alien's voiceless reply. Can you not understand that it is impossible for you to leave this world?
"And can you not understand that I will leave this world —one way or another? And if it should transpire that death is my only escape, I will take some of your kind along the same road." Toller glanced to his left and saw that the rest of the humans had reached the enclosure. To his surprise, Vantara was at the rear of the group and was looking at him with uncertain, troubled eyes.
"We are with you. Toller," Steenameert called out.
"Excellent!" Toller returned his attention to the alien speaker. "You were elected spokesman, so I am going to assume that you possess some degree of some importance. You therefore will have the honor of being my principal hostage. Come to my side!"
What if I refuse?
"I have scarcely begun to squeeze these fine specimens of Dussarran manhood, and already their puny bones are beginning to crack." Toller's two upright captives moved their heads anxiously as he shifted his weight.
II you kill my deputies you will lose what little advantage you have at this moment.
"That would only be the start of the killing," Toller said, longing for the reassurance of his sword. He had judged the
Dussarrans to be lacking in physical courage, but to his growing unease the alien confronting him was proving to be unexpectedly stubborn. In appearance he was not distinguished from his fellows—the multiplex costume of pendant dark-hued scraps seemed to be universal among the aliens—but this individual conveyed the impression of being much more resolute than Divivvidiv.
Perhaps ... An incredible idea began to flicker far back in Toller's consciousness. Can it be that fortune has delivered into my hands the best hostage of all? Could this unremarkable and unprepossessing figure be the King of all the Dussarrans? What was the title Divivvidiv had accorded him? Director! And what name? Zunnunun!
"Tell me, scarecrow," he said in a gentle voice, "what is your name?"
My name is of no relevance, the alien replied. I shall make one last appeal to your powers of reason. Your plan—if such an insane vision can be dignified with that word—is to force us to send you back whence you came by way of an instantaneous relocation unit. You and your followers would then return to one of your home planets, either by balloon or parachute. Is that a fair summation of your ambitions?
"I congratulate you, corpse-face!" The alien's refusal to divulge his name was a fresh inspiration and encouragement for Toller.
The plan can never succeed! The more rational members of your group have severe doubts about attempting it, and in that respect they display considerable wisdom.
Toller's eyes were again drawn to Vantara, but she lowered her head, refusing to meet his gaze.
I am not at liberty to go into details at this time, Toller Maraquine, the alien went on, but the fact is that all of you are very fortunate to be here on Dussarra. You must believe what I. . . .
"I believe that you are the King of all the Dussarrans," Toller shouted, giving way to a rage which was fuelled by subtle new fears. "This thing is going on far too long! Tell me your name right now, or—and I swear by my honor— I will crush these three until the blood spurts from their eyes!"
The alien figure brought a hand up to its concave chest. My name is Zunnunun.
"I thought so!" Toller glanced triumphantly at Vantara, Steenameert and the others. "I will now give. . . ."
You will do precisely nothing, Zunnunun cut in, silencing Toller with a curious ease. I had planned to study the psychological relationship between you and your chosen female, but I have come to realize that in an unmodified state you will either kill yourself or continue to cause more trouble than you are worth. Accordingly, I have made the decision to bring your existence to an end.
Toller shook his head and his voice was no longer human. "It would take more than you and the likes of you to kill me.
Oh, I have no intention of killing you. The Dussarran's psychic tone was now light, amused and confident. Your body will remain in perfect health—and will be useful to me in breeding experiments—but it will be inhabited by a different and more docile personality.
"You cannot do that!"
But I can! In fact, the process has already begun—as you will realize if you try to move. Zunnunun's mouth flowed into a ghastly parody of a smile. You were right when you began to suspect that our confrontation was going on too long. I was then assembling sufficient of my people to form a telepathic lens. That lens is now focused on your brain, and in a few seconds you will cease to exist.
Goodbye, Toller Maraquine!
Toller tried to hurl himself at the ali
en, but—as had been predicted—he found himself unable to move. And something was happening within his mind. There was an invasion, a loosening, a shameful but joyous sense of yielding, an acceptance of the fact that life as Toller Maraquine II had always been wearisome, and the time had come when he could—gladly—lay that burden down. . . .
Chapter 16
"Twelve ships! Is that all?" Daseene gave Cassyll Maraquine a reproving stare. "I was sure we could have done much better than that."
"I am sorry, Majesty, but the factory is hard-pressed even to prepare that number," Cassyll said, concealing his impatience over being required to repeat the same statements for the third time in an hour. "One of the major problems is the lack of reliable engines and parts."
"But I have seen hundreds of engines stacked in the old parade ground at Kandell. With my own eyes I have seen them. Stacked!"
"Yes, but they are the old-style brakka wood units, and they have been replaced by steel engines."
"Well, unreplace them in that case!" Daseene snapped, adjusting her coif of pearls.
"They won't fit into the new mountings." A veteran of many similar interviews with the Queen, Cassyll spoke in tones which were the embodiment of cool reasonableness. "It would take an excessive time to adapt one to the other, and many auxiliary components of the old engines are missing."
Daseene narrowed her eyes and leaned forward in her high-backed chair. "Sometimes, my dear Maraquine, you remind me of your father."
Cassyll smiled in spite of the oppressive heat in the audience room. "I appreciate the compliment, Majesty."
