“I do not know, Simon,” said Fernandez. “I had gathered this many, we were barricaded behind two smashed cars, and when I saw their artillery pull away I led a rush here. Maybe there are some partisans left besides us, but I doubt it.”
Hollister tackled the emergency control box which opened the gate from outside. It would be nice if he didn’t have to blast—Yes, by Heaven! It hadn’t been locked! He jammed the whole score into the chamber, closed the outer door and started the pumps.
“They can get in, too,” said Fernandez dubiously.
“I know. Either here or by ten other entrances. But I have an idea. All of you stick by me.”
The anteroom was empty. The town’s civilians must be huddled in the inner compartments, and all the cops must be outside fighting. Hollister threw back his helmet, filling his lungs with air that seemed marvelously sweet, and led a quick but cautious trot down the long halls.
“The spaceship is supposed to have arrived by now,” he said. “What we must do is take and hold the radio shack. Since the police don’t know exactly what our plans are, they will hesitate to destroy it just to get at us. It will seem easier merely to starve us out.”
“Or use sleepy gas,” said Fernandez. “Our suits’ oxygen supply isn’t good for more than another couple of hours.”
“Yes … I suppose that is what they’ll do. That ship had better be up there!”
The chances were that she was. Hollister knew that several days of ferrying were involved, and had timed his attack for hours after she was scheduled to arrive. For all he knew, the ferries had already come down once or twice.
He didn’t know if he or anyone in his band would live to be taken out. He rather doubted it; the battle had gone worse than expected, he had not captured the city as he hoped—but the main thing was to get some kind of report back to Earth.
A startled pair of technies met the invaders as they entered. One of them began an indignant protest, but Fernandez waved a rifle to shut him up. Hollister glanced about the gleaming controls and meters. He could call the ship himself, but he didn’t have the training to guide a boat down. Well—
He pulled off his gloves and sat himself at the panel. Keys clattered beneath his fingers. When were the cops coming? Any minute.
“Hello, freighter. Hello, up there. Spaceship, this is New America calling. Come in.”
Static buzzed and crackled in his earphones.
“Come in, spaceship. This is New America. Come in, damn it!”
Lights flashed on the board, the computer clicked, guiding the beam upward. It tore past the ionosphere and straggled weakly into the nearest of the tiny, equally spaced robot relay stations which circled the planet. Obedient to the keying signal, the robot amplified the beam and shot it to the next station, which kicked it farther along. The relayer closest to the spaceship’s present position in her orbit focused the beam on her.
Or was the orbit empty?
“ … Hello, New America.” The voice wavered, faint and distorted. “Evening Star calling New America. What’s going on down there? We asked for a ferry signal three hours ago.”
“Emergency,” snapped Hollister. “Get me the captain—fast! Meanwhile, record this.”
“But—”
“Fast, I said! And record. This is crash priority, condition red.” Hollister felt sweat trickling inside his suit.
“Recording. Sending for the captain now.”
“Good!” Hollister leaned over the mike. “For Main Office, Earth, United Nations Inspectorate. Repeat: Main Office, U.N. Inspectorate. Urgent, confidential. This is Agent A-431-240. Repeat, Agent A-431-240. Code Watchbird. Code Watchbird. Reporting on Venusian situation as follows—” He began a swift sketch of conditions.
“I think I hear voices down the hall,” whispered Barbara to Fernandez.
The Latin nodded. He had already dragged a couple of desks into the corridor to make a sort of barricade; now he motioned his men to take positions; a few outside, the rest standing by, crowded together in the room. Hollister saw what was going on and swung his gun to cover the two technies. They were scared, and looked pathetically young, but he had no time for mercy.
A voice in his earphones, bursting through static: “This is Captain Brackney. What d’you want?”
“U.N.I. business, Captain. I’m besieged in the GCA shack here with a few men. We’re to be gotten out at all costs if it’s humanly possible.”
He could almost hear the man’s mouth fall open. “God in space—is that the truth?”
Hollister praised the foresight of his office. “You have a sealed tape aboard among your official records. All spaceships, all first-class public conveyances do. It’s changed by an Un-man every year or so. Okay, that’s an ID code, secret recognition signal. It proves my right to commandeer everything you’ve got.”
“I know that much. What’s on the tape?”
“This year it will be, ‘’Twas brillig and the slithy toves give me liberty or give me pigeons on the grass alas.’ Have your radioman check that at once.”
Pause. Then: “Okay. I’ll take your word for it till he does. What do you want?”
“Bring two ferries down, one about fifty kilometers behind the other. No arms on board, I suppose? … No. Well, have just the pilots aboard, because you may have to take twenty or so back. How long will this take you … Two hours? That long? … Yes, I realize you have to let your ship get into the right orbital position and—All right, if you can’t do it in less time. Be prepared to embark anyone waiting out there and lift immediately. Meanwhile stand by for further instructions … . Hell, yes, you can do it!”
Guns cracked outside.
“Okay. I’ll start recording again in a minute. Get moving, Captain!” Hollister turned back to the others.
“I have to tell Earth what I know, in case I don’t make it,” he said. “Also, somebody has to see that these technies get the boats down right. Diego, I’ll want a few men to defend this place. The rest of you retreat down the hall and pick up some extra oxy bottles for yourselves and all the concentrated food you can carry; because that ship won’t have rations enough for all of us. Barbara will show you where it is.”
“And how will you get out?” she cried when he had put it into English.
“I’ll come to that. You’ve got to go with them, dear, because you live here and know where they can get the supplies. Leave a couple of suits here for the technies, pick up others somewhere along the way. When you get outside, hide close to the dome. When the ferry lands, some of you make a rush to the shack here. It’s right against the outer wall. I see you’re still carrying some dynamite, Garcia. Blow a hole to let us through … . Yes, it’s risky, but what have we got to lose?”
She bent to kiss him. There wasn’t time to do it properly. A tommy gun was chattering in the corridor.
Hollister stood up and directed his two prisoners to don the extra suits. “I’ve no grudge against you boys,” he said, “and in fact, if you’re scared of what the cops might do to you, you can come along to Earth—but if those boats don’t land safely, I’ll shoot you both down.”
Fernandez, Barbara, and a dozen others slipped out past the covering fire at the barricade and disappeared. Hollister hoped they’d make it. They’d better! Otherwise, even if a few escaped, they might well starve to death on the trip home.
The food concentrate would be enough. It was manufactured by the ton at Little Moscow—tasteless, but pure nourishment and bulk, normally added to the rest of the diet on Venus. It wouldn’t be very palatable, but it would keep men alive for a long time.
The technies were at the board, working hard. The six remaining rebels slipped back into the room; two others lay dead behind the chewed-up barricade. Hollister picked up an auxiliary communication mike and started rattling off everything about Venus he could think of.
A Guardian stuck his head around the door. Three guns barked, and the head was withdrawn. A little later, a white cloth on a rifle barrel was w
avered past the edge.
Hollister laid down his mike. “I’ll talk,” he said. “I’ll come out, with my arms. You’ll have just one man in sight, unarmed.” To his men he gave an order to drag the dead into the shack while the truce lasted.
Karsov met him in the hall. He stood warily, but there was no fear on the smooth face. “What are you trying to do?” he asked in a calm voice.
“To stay out of your mines,” said Hollister. It would help if he could keep up the impression this was an ordinary revolt.
“You have called that ship up there, I suppose?”
“Yes. They’re sending down a ferry.”
“The ferry could have an accident. We would apologize profusely, explain that a shell went wild while we were fighting you gangsters, and even pay for the boat. I tell you this so that you can see there is no hope. You had better give up.”
“No hope if we do that either,” said Hollister. “I’d rather take my chances back on Earth; they can’t do worse there than treat my mind.”
“Are you still keeping up that farce?” inquired Karsov. But he wasn’t sure of himself, that was plain. He couldn’t understand how an Un-man could have gotten past his quiz. Hollister had no intention of enlightening him.
“What have you got to lose by letting us go?” asked the Earthman. “So we tell a horror story back home. People there already know you rule with a rough hand.”
“I am not going to release you,” said Karsov. “You are finished. That second party of yours will not last long, even if they make it outside as I suppose they intend—they will suffocate. I am going to call the spaceship captain on the emergency circuit and explain there is a fight going on and he had better recall his boat. That should settle the matter; if not, the boat will be shot down. As for your group, there will be sleep gas before long.”
“I’ll blow my brains out before I let you take me,” said Hollister sullenly.
“That might save a lot of trouble,” said Karsov. He turned and walked away. Hollister was tempted to kill him, but decided to save that pleasure for a while. No use goading the police into a possible use of high explosives.
He went back to the shack and called the StarEvening again. “Hello, Captain Brackney? U.N.I. speaking. The bosses down here are going to radio you with a pack of lies. Pretend to believe them and say you’ll recall your ferry. Remember, they think just one is coming down. Then—” He continued his orders.
“That’s murder!” said the captain. “Pilot One won’t have a chance—”
“Yes, he will. Call him now, use spacer code; I don’t think any of these birds know it, if they should overhear you. Tell him to have his spacesuit on and be ready for a crash landing, followed by a dash to the second boat.”
“It’s still a long chance.”
“What do you think I’m taking? These are U.N.I. orders, Captain. I’m boss till we get back to Earth, if I live so long. All right, got everything? Then I’ll continue recording.”
After a while he caught the first whiff and said into the mike: “The gas is coming now. I’ll have to close my helmet. Hollister signing off.”
His men and the technies slapped down their covers. It would be peaceful here for a little time, with this sector sealed off while gas poured through its ventilators. Hollister tried to grin reassuringly, but it didn’t come off.
“Last round,” he said. “Half of us, the smallest ones, are going to go to sleep now. The rest will use their oxygen, and carry them outside when we go.”
Someone protested. Hollister roared him down. “Not another word! This is the only chance for all of us. No man has oxygen for much more than an hour; we have at least an hour and a half to wait. How else can we do it?”
They submitted unwillingly, and struggled against the anesthetic as long as they could. Hollister took one of the dead men’s bottles to replace the first of his that gave out. His band was now composed of three sleeping men and three conscious but exhausted.
He was hoping the cops wouldn’t assault them quickly. Probably not; they would be rallying outside, preparing to meet the ferry with a mobile cannon if it should decide to land after all. The rebels trapped in here would keep.
The minutes dragged by. A man at the point of death was supposed to review his whole life, but Hollister didn’t feel up to it. He was too tired. He sat watching the telescreen which showed the space field. Dust and wind and the skeleton cradles, emptiness, and a roiling gloom beyond.
One of the wakeful men, a convict, spoke into the helmet circuit: “So you are U.N.I. Has all this been just to get you back to Earth?”
“To get my report back,” said Hollister.
“There are many dead,” said one of the Latins, in English. “You have sacrificed us, played us like pawns, no? What of those two we left back at Last Chance?”
“I’m afraid they’re doomed,” said Hollister tonelessly, and the guilt which is always inherent in leadership was heavy on him.
“It was worth it,” said the convict. “If you can smash this rotten system, it was well worth it.” His eyes were haunted. They would always be haunted.
“Better not talk,” said Hollister. “Save your oxygen.”
One hour. The pips on the radarscopes were high and strong now. The spaceboats weren’t bothering with atmospheric braking, they were spending fuel to come almost straight down.
One hour and ten minutes. Was Barbara still alive?
One hour and twenty minutes.
One hour and thirty minutes. Any instant—
“There, señor! There!”
Hollister jumped to his feet. Up in a corner of the screen, a white wash of fire—here she came!
The ferry jetted slowly groundward, throwing up a blast of dust as her fierce blasts tore at the field. Now and then she wobbled, caught by the high wind, but she had been built for just these conditions. Close, close—were they going to let her land after all? Yes, now she was entering the cradle, now the rockets were still.
A shellburst struck her hull amidships and burst it open. The police were cautious, they hadn’t risked spilling her nuclear engine and its radioactivity on the field. She rocked in the cradle. Hollister hoped the crash-braced pilot had survived. And he hoped the second man was skillful and had been told exactly what to do.
That ferry lanced out of the clouds, descending fast. She wasn’t very maneuverable, but the pilot rode her like a horseman, urging, pleading, whipping and spurring when he had to. She slewed around and fell into a shaky curve out of screen range.
If the gods were good, her blast had incinerated the murderers of the first boat.
She came back into sight, fighting for control. Hollister howled. “Guide her into a cradle!” He waved his gun at the seated technies. “Guide her safely in if you want to live!”
She was down.
Tiny figures were running toward her heedless of earth still smoking underfoot. Three of them veered and approached the radio shack. “Okay!” rapped Hollister. “Back into the corridor!” He dragged one of the unconscious men himself; stooping, he sealed the fellow’s suit against the poison gases outside. There would be enough air within it to last a sleeper a few minutes.
Concussion smashed at him. He saw shards of glass and wire flying out the door and ricocheting nastily about his head. Then the yell of Venus’ wind came to him. He bent and picked up his man. “Let’s go!”
They scrambled through the broken wall and out onto the field. The wind was at their backs, helping them for once. One of the dynamiters moved up alongside Hollister. He saw Barbara’s face, dim behind the helmet.
When he reached the ferry, the others were loading the last boxes of food. A figure in space armor was clumping unsteadily toward them from the wrecked boat. Maybe their luck had turned. Sweeping the field with his eyes, Hollister saw only ruin. There were still surviving police, but they were inside the city and it would take minutes for them to get out again.
He counted the men with him and estimated the n
umber of food boxes. Fifteen all told, including his two erstwhile captives—Barbara’s party must have met opposition—but she still lived, God be praised! There were supplies enough, it would be a hungry trip home but they’d make it.
Fernandez peered out of the air lock. “Ready,” he announced. “Come aboard. We have no seats, so we must rise at low acceleration, but the pilot says there is fuel to spare.”
Hollister helped Barbara up the ladder and into the boat. “I hope you’ll like Earth,” he said awkwardly.
“I know I will—with you there,” she told him.
Hollister looked through the closing air lock at the desolation which was Venus. Someday it would bloom, but—
“We’ll come back,” he said.
When the People Fell
CORDWAINER SMITH
The late Cordwainer Smith—in “real” life Dr. Paul M. A. Linebarger, scholar, statesman, and author of the definitive text (still taught from today) on the art of psychological warfare—was a writer of enormous talents who, from 1948 until his untimely death in 1966, produced a double-handful of some of the best short fiction this genre has ever seen—“Alpha Ralpha Boulevard,” “A Planet Named Shayol,” “On the Storm Planet,” “The Ballad of Lost C’Mell,” “The Dead Lady of Clown Town,” “The Game of Rat and Dragon,” “The Lady Who Sailed The Soul,” “Under Old Earth,” “Scanners Live in Vain”—as well as a large number of lesser, but still fascinating, stories, all twisted and blended and woven into an interrelated tapestry of incredible lushness and intricacy. Smith created a baroque cosmology unrivaled even today for its scope and complexity: a millennia-spanning Future History, logically outlandish and elegantly strange, set against a vivid, richly colored, mythically intense universe where animals assume the shape of men, vast planoform ships whisper through multidimensional space, immense sick sheep are the most valuable objects in the universe, immortality can be bought, and the mysterious Lords of the instrumentality rule a hunted Earth too old for history … .
Worldmakers Page 9
