by Bob Shaw
"Why are you doing this?" Toller shouted at Greturk's back, giving voice to the queries which had been accumulating in sheltered bywaters of his mind ever since the escape from the dome. "What is it to you if others perish?"
Again the swinging beam of mental radiance. . . but faster this time ... a flaring whiplash of knowledge. . . .
Dussarran society has long been divided over the issue of relocating the planet. Despite various pronouncements from the Palace of Numbers about Ropes, many citizens have always doubted that they exist in actuality. We believe that other interpretations of the sub-space probe data could be just as valid. In any case, it is our opinion that intergalactic relocation is an intemperate response to the situation. We had, however, failed to bring Director Zunnunun round to our point of view, or to rally a majority of the public behind us.
The relocation seemed destined to take place without any concrete opposition—and then came the rumors that one of the sacrificial worlds was inhabited by a humanoid species. It was in an attempt to prevent the spread of that knowledge that Director Zunnunun insisted on the Xa station being designed in such a way that it could be governed by a single Decisioner.
His plan could well have succeeded had it not been for one unforeseen development. The Xa, of necessity, had to have some degree of consciousness to enable it to control its own growth, but the technologists had never before produced such an instrument on that scale. They were taken by surprise when, on reaching a certain level of complexity, the Xa developed self-awareness—a personality—and began to fear its own dissolution. It was during imperfectly screened exchanges between the Xa and Decisioner Divivvidiv that adepts here on Dussarra established beyond doubt that a burgeoning civilization would be annihilated as a result of the relocation —and that was sufficient to unite and mobilize the opposition parties.
The telepathic communication, as well as lodging a store of hard facts like pebbles in the forefront of Toller's mind, was luridly stained with anxiety and urgency. There was a despairing sense of time slipping away too quickly, of great
invisible doors of opportunity being slammed in his face. Toller tried to run faster to draw abreast of Greturk, but the alien was fleet of foot and easily kept ahead. They were now only forty or so paces from the tapering columns, and Toller saw that other green-dappled aliens were waiting at the center of the circle. There were at least six of them, some beckoning to the runners, others struggling to move a white box which was about the size of a small desk.
"Why are we running?" Corporal Tradlo called out from close behind Toller, her words punctuated with gasps. "What is to be gained by . . . wearing ourselves out... if naught can be achieved?"
Good question, Toller thought. It had just occurred to him that there was little point in escaping by means of the alien matter transmitter to a world which was about to be obliterated.
There is much that can be done, came Greturk's reply. The problem lies in doing it quickly enough.
"What can be done?" The question came from several of the humans simultaneously.
The white object you see being dragged on to the transfer plate by my brothers is a simplified version of the machine which was used to transport this world to its present location. The plan is to take it to Overland and use it to displace the planet by a short distance. A few tens of miles would be sufficient to destabilize the Xa and start its axis wandering. Under those conditions the relocation of Dussarra could not be attempted.
Toller stumbled to a halt at the edge of the green-lit circle, his gaze fixed on the white box. "How could that move an entire planet?" he said in tones of wonder. "It is much too small."
Even in a moment of crushing urgency there was a note of ironic amusement in Greturk's reply. How large must a fulcrum be, Toller Maraquine?
Before Toller could speak further there came a vast humming sound from directly above and curved rows of lights appeared far up in the gaudy darkness. The lights were in fixed positions with regard to each other, giving the impression they belonged to a huge skyship which was taking up its station overhead. The oppressive humming rose and fell at an increasing tempo, creating a sonic bludgeoning effect which numbed mind and body.
Run to the center of the plate! Greturk fussed and fluttered like a protective bird around the group of humans, goading them into motion. We have no more time!
Still holding Vantara's hand, Toller moved on to a circular area of coppery metal some ten paces in diameter. Steenameert and the three rankers crowded on to the disk with him, and the group coalesced with the knot of aliens who were gathered around the white box. . . .
And suddenly—without any physical sensation—the interplanetary leap took place.
The sights of the garish, light-fractured night of the Dussarran home planet vanished on the instant, and a mellow darkness closed in around the travelers. This is impossible, Toller thought, momentarily paralyzed with wonder, only then realizing that, although he had been forced to accept the idea of teleportation intellectually, in his heart there had lurked a conviction that it could not be done. There had not been so much as a twinge or a tingle anywhere in his body to inform him that he was being transported across millions of miles of space, and yet ... A single glance at the richly emblazoned age-old sky of the sister planets told Toller that he was standing in the peaceful grasslands of his home world.
Having grown up on Overland and spent his adult life navigating across its surface, Toller had the almost instinctive ability to use the companion world as a clock and compass. His brief look at Land, which was almost perfectly centered in the dome of the sky, established that he was on Overland's equator and possibly as little as fifty miles east of the capital
city of Prad. The fact that the great disk of Land was divided just about evenly into night and day sides showed that dawn would soon break—which confirmed what Greturk had said about the timing of the Dussarran relocation.
When he returned his attention to earthly matters he saw by the half-light that several of the aliens were kneeling by the white box. They had opened a small door in its side and one of them was making rapid adjustments to something in the interior. A moment later that alien slammed the door shut and sprang to his feet.
The impeller is now alive and will activate itself in four minutes! He spread his arms and made violent scooping movements with his hands, a signal which—even without telepathic aid—the humans readily understood. Withdraw to the safety line!
There was a general movement away from the machine. Toller felt slim hands urging him to hurry, and it came to him that these Dussarrans—in spite of their nightmarish appearance—were altruists of the highest order. They had gone to great lengths and exposed themselves to unguessable dangers with no motivation other than the desire to preserve the existence of a totally unknown culture. Toller was reasonably certain that he would not have behaved as well in parallel circumstances, and all at once he felt a rush of mingled emotions—respect and affection—towards the Dussarrans. He ran with the others, losing contact with Vantara on the way, and slowed to a halt when they did, some sixty yards away from the enigmatic white rectangle.
"Is this far enough?" he said to Greturk, trying to visualize the unleashing of forces of sufficient magnitude to disturb a world lumbering through space and time, massively complacent in its shadowy orbit.
This is a safe distance, Greturk replied. Had the impeller not been built illegally, and in great haste, it could have been shielded in such a way that there would have been no need to move away from it. Ideally, it would also have been constructed with widespread anchor points, in such a way that it could not be overturned. Director Zunnunun, by advancing the time of relocation, has forced us to fall back on exigency plans.
Toller frowned, his mind still overwhelmed by partially absorbed ideas and concepts. "What would happen to a man who was too close to the impeller when it . . . when it did what is required of it?"
There would be a conflict of geometries. Greturk's eyes sw
am like twin moons in the grey twilight. The constituent atoms of the man's body would be sliced into a billion times a billion layers. ..."
"I was told my grandfather died in such a manner," Toller said in a low voice. "It must have been instantaneous . . . and painless . . . but I don't think I want to emulate him to that extent."
We are safe while we stay at this distance from the machine, Greturk replied, looking all about him. Safe from the effects of the machine, anyway.
"How much time remains until the Xa is triggered?"
Greturk did not consult any kind of chronometer, but his response was immediate. Almost seven minutes.
"And only about three minutes remain until that thing . . . the impeller . . . does its work." Toller took a deep breath of satisfaction and glanced at the other humans. "It seems to me that we are quite safe. What do you say, my fellow Kolcorronians? Shall we prepare to celebrate our deliverance?"
"I'm ready for a few beakers of good Kailian black when you are," Steenameert cried out heartily, and the other humans—watched by silent aliens—cheered and waved their arms in agreement.
Toller was gratified beyond measure when Vantara moved through the gloaming to his side and put her hand in his. Seen in the nascent light of pre-dawn, her face was impossibly beautiful, and suddenly he felt that his entire life had been
nothing more than a prelude to this moment of supreme justification. He had been faced with a challenge worthy of the real Toller Maraquine, he had met every demand made of him without flinching, and now a time of reward lay ahead.. . .
"I have been so busy congratulating myself on my good fortune that I have given little thought to you and all your companions, to whom we owe so much," he said to Greturk. "Can you return safely to Dussarra?"
Returning home poses some problems for the present, but I have more serious worries at this time. Greturk continued to scan his surroundings as though every dimly-seen tuft of grass might conceal a deadly enemy. My principal fear is that Director Zunnunun will have set the Vadavaks upon us. We have, of course, done what we could to make pursuit difficult, but Zunnunun's resources are far greater than ours. . . .
"What are these Vadavaks?" Toller said. "Are they ferocious hunting beasts which cannot be eluded?"
No. Greturk's thoughts were shaded with something akin to embarrassment. They are Dussarrans who were born with a major defect in the areas of their brains which are concerned with perception and communication. They are incapable of direct communication with other Dussarrans. We regard the condition in much the same way as you regard deafness.
"But why should they be feared?"
They do not experience the reflux. They are capable of killing.
"You mean," Toller said, suddenly understanding Greturk's embarrassment, "they are something like me?"
To the ordinary Dussarran the taking of a life is the ultimate abhorrence.
"That may be less due to ethics than dread of the backlash." Toller knew he was in danger of offending the alien who had done so much for the group of fugitives, but he was unable to hold back his words. "After all, you noble Dussarrans were quite prepared to annihilate the entire population of my home world. Did that not offend your delicate sensibilities? Is killing all right as long as it is done at a remove?"
Many of us have put our own lives at risk to preserve your people, Greturk countered. We make no claim to be perfect, but. . . .
"I apologize for my ingratitude and shoddy manners," Toller cut in. "Look, if you are so worried about these Vadavaks appearing out of nowhere, can you not adjust the impeller's controls and cause it to act sooner? Four minutes seems an irksome length of time to wait."
We chose four minutes to allow for variables such as having to withdraw across difficult terrain. Now that the machine has been activated, its internal processes cannot be advanced or retarded. Neither can it be switched off and returned to an inert condition.
Steenameert, who had been paying close attention to the dialogue, raised a hand. "If the machine is immune to interference ... if it cannot be switched off . . . are we not already in an inviolable position? Is it not too late for the enemy to try to thwart us?"
Given sufficient time we could have rendered the impeller virtually immune to interference. Greturk's eyes flickered closed for a moment. As it is, it could be neutralized merely by turning it on its side. . . .
"What?" Steenameert shot Toller a perplexed glance. "Is that all it would take to stop it working?"
Greturk shook his head in a surprisingly human manner. The impeller would not be affected internally in any way, but unless it is in a horizontal attitude—with its line of action passing through or close to the center of the planet—its motive energies will be squandered.
"I—" Toller broke off as the faintest breath of coolness entered his mind, a feather-flick of unease so tiny and fleeting that it could have been a product of his imagination. He raised his head, separating himself from the discussion, and
took stock of his surroundings. Nothing seemed to have changed. The grassy plain reached out to a horizon which was made irregular by low hills to the north; a short distance away the white casing of the impeller glowed placidly through the pewter-colored light of early dawn; the incongruous group of Dussarrans and humans looked exactly as before —and yet Toller was vaguely alarmed.
On impulse he glanced up at the sky and there, centered on Land and almost touching the terminator on the planet's dark side, was a pulsing yellow star. He knew at once that he was looking at the Xa, thousands of miles above.
No sooner had he made the identification than a faint telepathic voice reached him—strained, enfeebled, tortured —wisping downwards from the zenith. Why are you doing this to me, Beloved Creator? Please, please do not kill me.
Feeling oddly like an intruder, Toller spoke quietly to Greturk. "The Xa is . . . unhappy."
It was fortunate for all of us that the Xa's increasing complexity allowed it to. . . . Greturk suddenly flinched, as if experiencing a spasm of pain, and spun to face the east. The other Dussarrans did likewise. Toller followed their concerted gazes and his heart lurched as he saw that the previously bare plain was now the setting for a party of about fifty figures clad in white. They were perhaps two furlongs distant, and above them was a fast-fading ellipse of greenish illumination.
The Vadavaks are upon us! Greturk took one futile step backwards. And so close!
Toller glared down at Greturk. "Are they armed?"
Armed?
"Yes! Armed! Do they carry weapons?"
Greturk had begun to shiver, but his telepathic response was clear and well controlled. The Vadavaks are equipped with enervators—instruments of social correction specially designed by Director Zunnunun. The enervators are black rods with glowing red tips. The slightest contact with one of the tips will cause intense pain and paralysis for several minutes.
"I have heard of more fearsome weapons," Toller sneered, squeezing Vantara's hand before releasing it and putting an encouraging arm around Steenameert's shoulder. "What do you say, Baten? Shall we teach these bumptious pygmies a lesson or two?"
Contact with one enervator rod causes pain and paralysis, Greturk added. The Vadavaks carry an enervator in each hand—and simultaneous contact with two rods causes pain and death.
'That is a more serious matter," Toller said soberly, staring at the blurred smear of white on a drab grey-green background which was the enemy's sole manifestation thus far. "How long does it take for death to occur?"
Five seconds. Perhaps ten. Much depends on the size and strength of the individual.
"Much could be achieved in ten seconds," Toller replied, a dryness developing in his mouth as he saw that the Vadavaks had already begun to advance at speed. "If only. . . ."
Your sword is in the possession of Director Zunnunun and can never be retrieved—but one of our number holoviewed it well enough for copying. Greturk nodded to one of the other Dussarrans who moved forward dragging a sack made of a se
amless grey material. We had hoped that the Vadavaks would not make contact with us—in which case we would have destroyed these weapons without ever showing them to you—but now we have no alternative.
The Dussarran opened the sack and Toller felt a surge of fierce gladness as he saw that it contained seven swords of the distinctive late Kolcorronian pattern. He dropped to his knees and eagerly reached for the familiar weapons.
Be careful! Greturk warned. In particular, do not touch the blades with your bare hands—they now have monomolecular edges which can never be blunted, and they will penetrate your flesh as easily as they would sink into fresh snow.
"Swords!" Jerene's rounded features bore an angry expression as she stepped forward. "What do we want with a collection of antiques? Could you not have copied our pistols?"
Greturk shook his head again. There was no time. . . their interior mechanisms were not readily visible to us ... all we could do in the limited time available was to produce five scaled-down versions of the sword for use by the smaller and weaker females of your race.
"That was most considerate of you," Jerene exclaimed sarcastically, "but you may be interested to learn that any woman here could. ..."
"The enemy has taken to the field!" Toller put all the power of his lungs into the shout. "Are we to squabble among ourselves or go out and do battle?"
He pointed to where the gleaming white motes which represented the Vadavaks were spreading across the field of view, becoming larger collectively and individually, each advancing speck developing arms and legs, a face, the capability of inflicting death. On the horizon behind the Vadavaks the sun was appearing as a needle-spray of blinding fire, casting a fateful and melodramatic glow over the natural arena in which the fates of three worlds were to be decided.
Toller took the sword of his fancy from the sack and tried it in his hand to make sure that the balance had not been disturbed by alien machinations. The feel of the familiar weapon was comforting—the spirit of his grandfather was with him again—but it was less reassuring than he had hoped and expected. Seven humans, only one of whom was trained with the sword, were going against at least fifty well-armed aliens. By all accounts, his fabled namesake would have gloried in such a situation—but, no matter how many versions of the forthcoming battle the present-day Toller conjured up in his mind, he could not find one in which there were no deaths among his companions. Some of them, if not all, were bound to die—and Toller could see no glory in that fact. It was degrading, brutal, depressing, obscene, terrifying. . . .
