by Hogan, James
common than divided them, and could work together regardless of what they were
or where they came from, just as the true inquirers from Kroaxia and Carthogia
could work together without cognizance of the borders between their nations.
Lumian ways would spread across Robia and bring an end to the reign of
ignorance, superstition, and fear; no longer would beliefs be imposed by dictate
or intimidation . . . and instead, knowledge and reason would prevail.
Or so Thirg had believed.
But the Wearer had deceived him and taken advantage of his trust. All of the
promises and reassurances had been as devious and as self-serving as the
practiced rhetoric of a trained prosecutor in the court of the High Council of
Kroaxia. It seemed, then, that the appeal of reason was not so universal after
all; possibly it was as rare among the worlds beyond the sky as was Kleippur
among Robia's rulers, and the domain of reason as small a portion of the
universe as Carthogia was of Robia. Thirg had to concede that he knew of no law
of nature which said it had to be otherwise. Therefore, he told himself, partly
in consolation, perhaps it was a mistake to feel he had been wronged, for the
concept of "wrongness" was surely subjective—an expression of the limits that
the majority of robeings placed upon desirable behavior, within robeing society,
as judged through robeing eyes, on the basis of robeing teaching and experience.
No valid basis could exist for extrapolating identical, or even comparable,
ethical codes to beings from other worlds. So no compelling evidence could lead
Thirg to conclude that the Wearer had deliberately "wronged" him—Thirg's
behavior might simply have been considered hopelessly naive and infantile by
Lumian standards. But the thought didn't make him feel very much better. He was
still bitterly disappointed.
They climbed some shallow steps to the rear terrace of the main building and
were about to enter the hallway outside the Council Chamber when the sentries at
one of the courtyard's side entrances opened the gate to admit a mounted
messenger. The messenger's steed crossed the yard at a gallop and halted below
the terrace. Kleippur, who had been about to enter the door, looked back over
his shoulder then turned and strode to the head of the steps, followed by
Dornvald, while the entourage parted to let them through. "Speak," Kleippur said
to the messenger. "What is your news?"
"Tidings from General Yemblayen," the messenger replied, his words coming fast
with urgency. "The Waskorians have crossed our lines and are heading toward
Menassim."
Alarmed murmurs broke out among the others on the terrace. "How many and how
armed?" Dornvald snapped. "Was there a battle? Where, and what were our losses?
What is the condition of Yemblayen's force?"
The messenger shook his head. "Your pardon, sir, but you misunderstand. There
has been no battle. General Yemblayen opened his lines to allow the Waskorians
free passage. They have agreed willingly to travel under Carthogian escort and
are approaching Menassim peacefully, led by their prophet, Ezimbial."
"Ezimbial . . . leading them peacefully?" Kleippur stared in disbelief. "Have
you been imbibing uranium salts, messenger?"
"'Tis true, 'tis true," the messenger insisted. "They are seized by a new faith
that renounces all war and killings. They speak of Carthogians as brothers and
are proceeding to the Lumian camp to return the Lumian weapons, which the
Waskorians say they no longer have use for."
A frown darkened Dornvald's face. "They are heading toward Menassim with their
Lumian weapons? It is a trick! What madness could have possessed Yemblayen?"
"The Waskorians have entrusted the weapons to their escorts and bear no other
arms."
Kleippur stared for a few seconds longer, then shook his head helplessly: "New
faith? . . . Renouncing war? Where did this come from? Do you know anything
more?"
"The Waskorians speak of a Divine One whom they call Enlightener, who was
brought down into their land by shining angels from the sky to preach the
Lifemaker's commandments to the world," the messenger answered. "He came with
disciples, some of them former Kroaxian cavalry troopers; others are from
Xerxeon, where all the villagers have been converted. Chief among the disciples
is a baptizer called the Renamer, who was previously Captain Horazzorgio of the
Kroaxian Royal Guard."
Dornvald gasped. "Horazzorgio, a baptizer? What kind of miracleworker is this
Enlightener?"
"Indeed the Waskorians tell of wondrous miracles that accompanied the
Enlightener's coming," the messenger said. "Of fires that burned in the sky,
rocks that melted, streams that boiled, objects that levitated, and holy dragons
bearing shining angels from above."
Dornvald's eyes twinkled suddenly at the mention of dragons. "And what of our
forward scouts and observers?" he asked. "What have they had to say about all
these miracles and dragons?"
The messenger remained expressionless. "Nothing, sir. But many reports were
received of what sounds like the same Lumian flying vehicle being very active in
the areas where the miracles were supposed to have occurred, and at about the
same times."
"I see," Dornvald said. He stepped back from the balustrade and turned to catch
Kleippur's eye. Kleippur was smiling, as were the others behind him. Then
Dornvald too started grinning.
And Thirg too smiled—at first faintly and disbelievingly, then broadly, and
finally he clapped Lofbayel heartily on the back and laughed out loud. Who the
Enlightener might have been, he had no idea ... but he thought he knew well
whose the flying vehicle had been, and who the real miracle-worker was at the
back of the whole business.
Up in the Orion, Gerold Massey walked angrily out of an elevator in Globe II and
turned to follow the corridor leading to the day quarters used by Zambendorf's
team. He had talked to a number of the mission's scientists and other
professionals about the situation and had managed to galvanize some of them into
crackling, dynamic action sufficient to lodge a formal protest with Leaherney.
And that was it. The protest had been rebuffed amid a tangle of expertly
contrived obstructions, denials, technicalities, and bureaucratic obfuscations,
and a demand for unrestricted access to the Earth communications link politely
but firmly refused. Having thus done all they could, the protesters had
expressed their regrets to Massey—all in a very decent and civilized way,
naturally—and returned to their various interests and duties. Even more galling
was the thought that while he, Massey, was the professional psychologist,
everything had happened exactly as Zambendorf had predicted. "We both understand
what makes people tick, Gerry," Zambendorf had said. "The difference is that I
accept it but you won't."
Massey reached the door of the suite, knocked, and waited while Thelma checked
on a viewer inside to see who it was before letting him in. "No good," he told
her, tossing out his hands as he stamped inside. "Leaherney was expecting it. He
&nb
sp; was all set up. Anyway, apart from Dave Crookes and Leon Keyhoe, Graham
Spearman, Webster, and a couple of others who do seem genuinely concerned, they
weren't that interested. Nothing about all this affects anything that's really
close to them."
Thelma seemed unsurprised. "You had to give it a try though," she said. "Forget
it for a minute and come take a look at this." She led him into the suite and
sat in front of the screen she had been watching when he arrived.
Massey moved behind the chair to look over her shoulder. The screen looked down
on a procession of Taloids dressed in flowing white robes and wearing garlands
of some kind—probably pieces of metal strung on wire—around their necks. Some of
them were carrying banners that bore Taloid inscriptions, and others were
beating on or blowing into what looked like musical instruments while the rest
swayed rhythmically as they marched. Flanking both sides of the procession were
uniformed cavalrymen that Massey recognized as Genoese, moving at a slow walk
and leading pack animals loaded with bundles of Terran rifles and submachine
guns, ammunition boxes, and grenade packs. Behind the files of cavalry, other
Taloids were gathered along the roadside to watch. "Is this a view from Karl's
flyer?" Massey asked.
Thelma nodded. "Uh-huh. It's coming in live."
"What's happening? Where's it from?"
"The road to Genoa," Thelma told him. "It's all over with the Druids. They're on
their way to Genoa Base to give all the hardware back. Moses went over real
big."
Massey shook his head slowly as he watched, and found that he was smiling. "I
don't know . . . I've never heard of anything so crazy," he muttered. "I
wouldn't have given it a snowball's chance in hell."
"Arthur and Galileo called a little while ago," Thelma said. "They seem pretty
pleased with it all too."
"Have you got a line to the flyer?" Massey asked her.
Thelma nodded and touched a button below the screen. "Hello, Hornet. Anybody
down there?" she said.
"What's new?" Clarissa's voice replied.
"Oh, Gerry Massey's just arrived. I think he wants to offer his
congratulations," Thelma said.
"I wouldn't have believed it," Massey called over her shoulder.
"That's why we've always given you problems," Clarissa answered. "You
underestimate your opposition."
"Maybe I do. Anyhow, is Karl there?"
"Hang on."
A few seconds of silence went by. Then Zambendorf's voice said, "Hello, Gerry.
Well, what do you think of our little show down here?"
"I'm impressed. I gather Arthur and Galileo are more than satisfied with the
service they're getting too."
"We always try to give our customers their money's worth," Zambendorf replied.
"How did things go with Leaherney?"
"No good—pretty much the way you predicted."
"Mmm . . . a pity," Zambendorf murmured. Then his voice perked up. "Anyway,
never mind. I think we've proved our secret weapon sufficiently to move on to
the next phase."
"What next phase? I thought this was it. The Druids won't be causing any more
trouble, and Arthur's happy with the outcome. What else do you want?"
"All very satisfying, I agree, but I still have a large personal score to settle
with friend Caspar, Dan Leaherney, and the good people back on Earth who thought
I was just another puppet they could buy," Zambendorf said. "What you've seen
has been just the dress rehearsal, Gerry. The real performance is about to
begin."
"Karl." A note of suspicious dread crept into Massey's voice. "What are you
talking about?"
"This is the most devastating thing since the H-bomb," Zambendorf's voice said,
sounding exuberant. "First Moses, then a squadron of Paduan cavalry, after that
an entire Taloid village . . . and now a whole tribe. It's snowballing down here
like nothing you've ever seen."
"So? . . ."
"Next we bag the whole Paduan army, which is on the march toward Genoa right
now, and then we import the complete operation right into Padua and dump it in
Henry's backyard!" Zambendorf exclaimed, chortling. "Imagine if the whole Paduan
nation told Leaherney where to stuff his military aid ... and later on, maybe,
the whole of Titan. What a way to screw GSEC, Ramelson, the politicians—all of
them!"
"But ... but you don't have enough people to do something like that," Massey
objected.
"What do you mean, not enough people? We've got Moses, and Lord Nelson with his
cavaliers down here, plus a lot more from the village . . . and now I don't know
how many thousand Druids from this latest addition. I told you, Gerry—the whole
thing's snowballing."
"Yes, I know, but what I meant is you've only got a twelve-man Hornet flyer down
here. You don't have the transportation capacity to move enough bodies into
Padua fast enough to trigger a real revolution. See what I mean? You need the
right critical mass. Otherwise it'll all just fizzle out."
"Oh, that's all under control," Zambendorf said breezily. "Just as soon as we—"
Thelma cut him off. "Karl, don't go into all that right now. Gerry doesn't know
about it yet. I haven't had a chance to—"
"Know about what?" Massey demanded. A cold, creeping feeling deep down inside
somewhere told him that his worst fears were about to come true.
"You wouldn't want to know about it," Thelma told him. "Now, why don't you
just—"
"I want to know about it. What's going on? What is it that you haven't had a
chance to tell me about yet? ..."
"Tango Baker Two to Control, launch sequence completion confirmed and BQ
checking at zero-three-five. I have fourteen on beta-seven and a clear six-six.
Transferring to local."
"Roger, Tango Baker Two. BQ vector confirmed and delta repeater reading green.
Orion Control standing down. Have a good trip."
"Roger. Out." Andy Schwartz, captain of the surface lander that had just begun
its descent from the Orion, checked his instruments once more and settled back
in his seat. Course was set on automatic to a reentry window that would bring
them down onto a shallow descent from seventy degrees east, direct into the
ground base at Padua, and trim was adjusted for the heavy-load cargo of
materials and machinery. No passengers were aboard this trip—apart from the two
Special Forces troopers who had missed their flight through an admin foul-up and
were hitching a ride down to rejoin their unit.
Most of the soldiers that Schwartz and his crew had flown to the surface lately
had been instructors being sent to train Paduans in weapons-handling. The "base"
at Padua was just a couple of pads and some landers parked at an isolated
location among some hills well away from the city, apparently because its
existence had not been revealed to the general Paduan population by their
leaders—not at all like the situation at Genoa. Not even the Paduan army had
been let in on the secret; the rank and file received their weaponry training
from a small, select corps of Paduan instructors who were the only ones who ever
actually met Terrans. Schwartz didn't know what t
o make of it all.
"Have they shipped any girls down to Padua Base yet?" the copilot asked casually
from the seat next to him.
"No chance, Clancy."
"Maybe you could use the break, Clancy," Mike Glautzen, the flight engineer,
suggested from his station behind them. "I read somewhere that occasional
abstinence is good for your health."
"Baker needs to try something that's good for his health," Hank Frazer muttered
as he tapped commands into a touchboard below the displays at the Communications
Officer's position across the aisle from Glautzen.
"I read somewhere that too much health's bad for you," Baker said.
"Causes cancer, huh?" Schwartz murmured.
"Doesn't too much of anything always cause something?"
"How about too much moderation?" Frazer said.
"It causes excess-deficiency," Baker said. "That's real bad."
Glautzen sniggered. "Gonna have to get used to that for a while, Clancy. No
parties when we get to Padua—just work, man."
Baker frowned down at his instrument for a second. "Say, I've had a great idea,
guys," he said, turning his head to look back over the seat. "How about the
latest swingers' with-it thing, straight from Southern California?"
"What's that?" Glautzen asked.
"An inflatable-doll-swapping party! It's all the rage with—" Baker broke off as
he saw the large, black soldier, clad in Special Forces camouflage combat
dress—one of the lander's two illicit passengers— entering through the door at
the rear. "Hey, you're not supposed to be up front here, pardner," he warned.
"You're supposed to stay back in your seat, belted down till we're on the pad."
"Get outta here, willya," Schwartz said, glancing back. "If you wanna see the
flight deck, that's fine—but not until after we touch down, okay?"
Joe Fellburg eased himself fully inside the door and leveled his machine
carbine. His teeth shone pearly white against his skin as he flashed an amiable
grin. A moment later Drew West, also wearing combat dress and holding a .45
automatic, entered behind him and moved away from the door to cover the crew
from a different angle. "Now let's all be friendly and sensible about this,"
Fellburg suggested. "Just do like we say, and you'll all be fine. Now switch the
H-twenty-seven to F range and lock onto a surface transmission that you'll pick
