by Paul Preuss
His companions grinned and shook their heads. Sparta sniffed the black beer and declined to drink. Blake stuck his face into the foam far enough to get a mustache, but he only pretended to sip. Meanwhile Yevgeny was pouring the contents of his mug down his open throat; he slammed the empty mug on the steel bartop and raised four fingers imperiously.
“No you don’t,” Blake shouted. “Not for me.”
“What’s for you? When it’s your turn again, I let you know.”
“Yevgeny, one question before we get out of here–”
“What’s that, my feeble friend?”
“After all your years on Mars, why do you still have that awful accent? I mean, does that help your credibility with the comrades or something?”
Yevgeny reared back, affronted–
–and when he leaned down to push his face up to Blake’s there was fire in his eyes and his bushy brows were poised to fly right off his forehead. “Why, whatever could have motivated you to cast aspersions upon my perspicacity, Mr. Redfield?” His voice was pitched to carry no farther than Blake’s ears. “Did you suppose that I was some sneaking impersonator like yourself?”
“You old fox”–Blake broke up laughing–“You did it.”
“Did . . .it?” The eyebrows climbed higher.
“Told the truth. And you still never used an article.”
“Article?” Yevgeny straightened up and roared. “What is such thing as article?”
Sparta and Blake hunched against the wind, pushing their way along the shuttleport’s sandy streets.
“Your place or mine?” he asked. “Or am I presuming?”
“How about your cubicle at the hive? A luxury hotel gets so boring.”
“Knowing you, you might mean that.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I won’t . . .” At that moment she gasped and stumbled against him, clutching herself with both arms as if she’d been struck under the heart.
Blake grabbed her. “Ellen! What’s wrong? Ellen!” She went limp in his arms and collapsed; he lowered her slowly to the sand. She stared at him through her glass faceplate, but her open mouth made no sound.
She could be the greatest of us
She resists our authority
The lights over the operating table were arranged in a circle, like the rolling pictureless videoplates at the Park-Your-Pain, like the spotlights that ringed the Martian plaque.
The rank smell of onions threatened to suffocate her. Her mind’s eye involuntarily displayed complex sulfur compounds as the circle of lights above her began to swirl in a golden spiral.
Blake was with her. She’d been conscious enough to insist on it before she would let them operate. They put him at her left shoulder, where he could hold her hand in both of his.
William, she’s a child
As the darkness closed in she clutched Blake’s hand harder, clinging to it to keep from falling.
To resist us is to resist the Knowledge
She was sliding under. She was falling up into the spiral.
She lost her grip on Blake’s hand. Around her shapes swarmed in the maelstrom.
The shapes were signs. The signs were the signs of the plaque. The signs had meaning.
The meaning sprang at her. She tried to call out, to shout a warning.
But when the blackness closed over her, only one image remained, an image of swirling clouds, red and yellow and white, boiling in an immense whirlpool, big enough to swallow a planet. She left herself then, and fell endlessly into them. . . .
The medicos didn’t let Blake see what was going on; they protected his assumed squeamishness with a curtain of fabric that screened Sparta’s body from the neck down.
The cut was bloodless and swift; the microtome scalpel paralyzed the edges of the wound as it sliced through skin and muscle and membrane. Sparta lay open from breast-bone to navel.
“What the hell is this stuff?” the young surgeon muttered angrily, his voice muffled inside his clearfilm sterile suit. He caught his assistant’s nervous glance toward Blake. He growled and said, “Biopsy. I want to know what it is before we close.”
At his terse orders they pulled her open and held her open with clamps; he went in with scalpel and scissors and tongs. He removed as much of the slippery, silvery tissue as he could reach, working with quick precision around the blood vessels and packed organs.
Sheets of the stuff lay on the tray like a beached jellyfish, trembling and iridescent.
By the time the surgeon had cleaned the last accessible speck of it from beneath the muscular canopy of Sparta’s diaphragm, the technician had returned with a laser-spectrometer analysis and a computer-generated graph: the substance was a long-chain conducting polymer of a kind neither the technician nor the surgeon had ever encountered before.
“All right, we’d better close. For now. I want this woman under intensive surveillance until we hear what the research committee makes of this.”
The healing instruments passed over the wound, reknitting the severed blood vessels and nerves, resealing the skin, salving the flesh with growth factors that would erase all signs of the scar within a few weeks.
With Blake walking beside the gurney, still holding Sparta’s unfeeling hand, they wheeled her out of the operating theater. The surgeon and his assistants tidied up and left soon after.
A man stood in the darkness of the gallery above the theater, peering down through its glass roof. Blue eyes glittered in his sun-blackened face, and his iron-gray hair was cut to within a few millimeters of his scalp. He wore the dress-blue uniform of a full commander of the Board of Space Patrol; there were not many ribbons over his breast pocket, but those he wore testified to supreme courage and deadly skill.
The commander turned to an officer who stood farther back in the shadows. “Get hold of that readout, then wipe the machine’s memory. This information is not to go to any hospital committee.” His voice was gravel, the texture of waves beating on a rocky beach.
“What of those who operated on her, sir?”
“Explain it to them, Sharansky.”
“You know what surgeons are like, sir. Especially young ones.”
Yes, he knew. Surgeons like that bright young guy had saved his life more than once. All they wanted in return was worship. “Try explaining first. If they don’t see the point . . .” He fell silent.
Sharansky let the silence stretch for several seconds before she said, “Understood, sir.”
“Good for you. If you have to go that far, watch the dosage,” he growled. “We don’t want them to forget how to do what they’re good at.”
“Yes sir. And Inspector Troy, sir?”
“We’ll get her out of here tonight.”
“Mr. Redfield, sir?”
The commander sighed. “Sharansky, if I didn’t like your cousin Proboda so much, I’d bust you for that stupid stunt. Vik may be a dumb hero, but you’re just plain dumb.”
“Sir! Is stupid right word? Maybe miscalculation . . .”
“Bull. You didn’t like the guy and you don’t like the unions. You had three I.D.’s in your pocket and you gave him the one you knew would get him in trouble.”
She drew herself up stiffly. “I thought to create diversion, sir. Away from inspector Troy’s investigation.”
“The next lie will be your last in this service, Sharansky.”
She didn’t answer for a long time. Then she said, “Understood, sir.”
“Good.” For a moment he favored her with a freezing stare. “Humans are funny, Sharansky, they need funny things,” he said, and then abruptly turned away. “She’s definitely a human being, despite what they tried to do to her. And whatever you or I think of this guy Redfield, right now she needs him.”
Epilogue
Thus the Martian plaque was returned to Mars. Two years later . . .
On a country estate southwest of London an elegant middle-aged man in a shooting outfit stalks the autumn woods. Beside him, not far away, is his host,
an older gentleman, Lord Kingman. Slender shotguns rest easily in the two men’s arms; their bag is a small but varied one–three grouse, four rabbits, and a couple of pigeons–and contrary to the dark forecasts of their colleagues, both their dogs are still alive, questing eagerly ahead through the aromatic underbrush.
Nothing about the younger man, whose closest associates call him Bill, betrays the complexity of his thoughts or the ambiguity of his feelings upon this occasion. For all the world he could be just another aristocratic English shooter out for a genteel bit of small-animal slaughtering.
As for Lord Kingman, with his leonine head of gray hair he is an even more imposing figure of mature manhood. Until the moment he sees the gray squirrel.
The squirrel sees the men at the same moment. Perhaps it knows it is marked for immediate execution as a result of the damage it has done to the trees on the estate; perhaps it has already lost close relatives to Kingman’s gun. Whatever its reasons, it wastes no time in observation, but in three leaps reaches the base of the nearest tree and vanishes behind it in a flicker of gray.
The effect on Kingman is electrifying; his gun comes up as quickly as if the dogs had flushed a pheasant. He keeps his gun aimed at that part of the trunk where he expects the squirrel to reappear and begins ever so slowly to circle the tree, step by cautious step.
The dogs must be used to this sort of thing; they immediately go off and settle among the ferns, resting their chins on their paws, where they peer up at Kingman in resignation and wait for the drama to play itself out.
For his part, the best Bill can do is keep out of Kingman’s line of fire, staying as quiet as possible while circling with him.
The squirrel’s face appears for a moment round the edge of its shield a dozen feet from the ground and Kingman instantly lets off a blast, then pumps and ejects and aims again in a swift and practiced series of motions–he is an excellent shot–but he holds his fire, for his target has vanished. Sawdust drifts from the rip in the bark where the squirrel’s head had been (rather more damage to the tree than the squirrel could have done, Bill thinks), but no small body tumbles to the ground.
Though they continue to circle, Kingman with his gun leveled hopefully, they never see the squirrel again.
Kingman is very thoughtful as they walk back across the lawn toward the magnificent old house. “That tree-rat!” he says with sudden vehemence (he has always called them tree-rats, he has earlier confided to Bill, on the grounds that people are too sentimental to condone the shooting of dear little squirrels). “Reminded me of a very peculiar experience I had year before last.”
Bill is pretty sure he knows what is coming, and he doesn’t want to hear it. Kingman’s circumstances are awkward, but there is nothing Bill can do for him–or so he would protest if asked–and he hopes Kingman won’t put him in the position of refusing a host’s request.
He is saved, temporarily at least, by the appearance of two other shooters, Jurgen and Holly, just coming around the far side of the house. The two of them were hunting the western half of the estate while Bill and Kingman took the east. From the looks of things the west will be devoid of bird life for years to come; Jurgen, shouting a hearty “Hola,” brandishes what looks to be several generations of a once-populous grouse family, strung up in bunches by their feet.
Holly is trim and deadly looking in spotless doeskin jodhpurs and a white silk blouse. A silver-chased under-and-over rests in the crook of her arm, and two of Kingman’s hounds stalk at her heels. Perhaps she has given her kills to Jurgen to carry for her, or perhaps she has simply let them lie where they fell, preferring not to soil her shooting outfit.
For Jurgen’s shooting jacket is covered with blood and feathers; that and the fierce grin that stretches his ruddy cheeks make him look quite the fell huntsman–which he is, although his hunting is usually not done in the woods. He yells at Kingman in his too-jolly, German-accented notion of British upper-class speech: “Simply marvelous place you’ve got here, Lord Kingman. Very good of you to have us.”
Kingman glances at his companion, pained. “Nothing, really,” he mutters, by which Bill suspects he means that if it were up to him, he’d have nothing to do with bloody Jurgen and his ilk. But Kingman is no longer the ruler of his own fate. “Let’s give these to the cook, shall we?”
“I’ll be going on up then,” Holly says. “Until this evening.” She waves with two fingers and ascends the curving stone stairs to the wide back porch; Jurgen follows her, his gaze resting heavily on her swaying hips.
Kingman leaves the dogs with the kennel keeper and goes in through the kitchen entrance; he and Bill hand their victims to Mrs. McGrath, who receives them without too much enthusiasm–all that bird shot to be dug out–and then they part company.
Bill walks slowly up the broad staircase to his rooms. He checks his watch. The business meeting is set for six o’clock–an exploratory affair this first evening, with the hard choices deferred until tomorrow. Dinner is to be promptly at eight. Whatever his failings as a strategist, Bill reflects, Kingman knows how to do things in a civilized way.
Before anything else there is the ceremony, of course. There are few better places for it; the sanctuary at Kingman’s, while small, is one of the oldest surviving in the Athanasian Society, the earlier ones on the Continent having been destroyed in the Terrors. The vaulted ceiling is patterned with the Starry Cross in gold leaf on blue–and a remarkably accurate rendition it is, given that Europeans were unfamiliar with the southern skies when this crypt was built.
Jurgen reads the dedication. A stranger would be surprised to see how the man’s intelligence shines through his lumpishness when he is in the grip of the Knowledge. Finally they all speak the Words of Affirmation–“All Will Be Well”–and drink from the Chalice, in this case an iron vessel, a Hittite piece which is the crown of Kingman’s collection.
They exchange their robes for regular clothing and reassemble in the library, beneath oak shelves filled with a good many real printed books bound in tooled leather. Besides the four of them who fancy themselves shooters–Kingman and Bill attired rather tweedily, Jurgen in something that looks like an American cowboy outfit, and Holly again in white, this time a pristine cotton sari befitting a maharani–the other members of the executive committee present are Jack and Martita.
Jack, who has the look of an aging fighter, is as usual dressed like a Manhattan banker. Martita is as naturally pale as Holly is dark and like her seeks the maximum effect from contrast, on this occasion by wearing a rough-woven woolen outfit that sets off her fine gold hair.
Although Martita’s costume is paramilitary, her combativeness is genuine. “We have come some way from the debacles of the last two years, but not far enough,” she announces, as the butler is still bringing drinks. “Our program–largely your program, Bill, but correct me if I’m wrong”–she gives him an arch stare–“failed pathetically in execution, however sensible it may have seemed at the time.”
“I hardly think it’s necessary to rehearse old misfortunes. We are all thoroughly familiar with the relevant issues,” Bill replies, too stiffly. Is anything less dignified than wounded dignity?
Martita will not be put off. “I think we could all benefit from a thorough review of our predicament . . .”
“For Knowledge’s sake, why do you think we’re all here?” Bill grumbles.
“. . . in order to assess any new plan with essential objectivity,” she finishes.
“Get it off your chest, darling,” says Jurgen, peering openly at her splendid chest.
Martita ignores him. “We failed in our first attempt to create an intermediary . . .”
“Now that is very old history,” Bill mutters.
“. . . and the latest efforts are untested.”
“They will be tested soon,” Bill replies. “In plenty of time.”
“We have failed to conceal the identity of the home star,” she goes on, “and we have failed to maintain the confidentiality of the
sacred texts.”
“As to the identity of the home star, our fears were groundless, but no one can be blamed,” Jack says with his customary directness. “No one knows exactly where it is and no one will, unless and until there’s a signal.”
“That is not her point,” Holly puts in. Her self-satisfied serenity can set one’s teeth on edge–and has occasionally, Bill muses, driven him to the edge of violence. Nevertheless she is a logical person. “The point is our failure, a costly failure that has drawn attention to what we had hoped to hide.”
“I agree with Jack,” Jurgen says. “The home star is doing well enough at hiding itself.”
“And immediately afterward, the debacle of the texts . . .” Martita continues–but then allows her words to trail off. No one fills the silence.
An angel chooses that moment to pass. The angel of death, no doubt.
Some call them the Free Spirit. Some call them Athanasians. Their attempt to destroy all existing copies of what the public has come to know as the Culture X writings–and to eliminate anyone who might have been able to reconstruct them from memory–was a bold and necessary effort, nor was it a complete failure. In the attempt Bill and his companions learned much that was necessary and might not otherwise have come to light.
They learned from the texts themselves. Some of what they learned was in the Knowledge, but some was not. Some that was in the Knowledge had been misinterpreted.
Yet against these gains, Bill reflects, what they lost by their ill-conceived venture was undeniably greater.
Kingman, who has contributed nothing to the conversation so far except to direct the butler with minute nods and tilts of his leonine head, abruptly speaks. “It was a peculiar experience, very peculiar indeed. That damned tree-rat this afternoon–remember, Bill?–brought it vividly to mind.”
Jurgen sees it coming, as Bill had earlier, and tries to head Kingman off. “Lord Kingman, the particulars of your experience are quite illuminating, ja, but the agenda possibly precludes . . .”
