by Jack Vance
I returned to my study and leafed through some old maps. The house was silent-as if I were alone. I knew differently. Silent feet moved behind the walls, which were transparent to the eyes above these feet, but opaque to mine. Gauzy webs of artificial nerve tissue watched me from various parts of the room. I had only to make a sudden gesture to bring an anaesthetic beam snapping at me.
I sighed, slumped into my chair. I saw with the utmost clarity that never could I kill myself by my own instrumentality. Must I then submit to an intolerable existence? I sat looking bleakly at the nacreous wall behind which eyes noted my every act.
No, I would never submit. I must seek some means outside myself, a force of destruction to strike without warning: a lightning bolt, an avalanche, an earthquake.
Such natural cataclysms, however, were completely beyond my power to ordain or even predict.
I considered radioactivity. If by some pretext I could expose myself to a sufficient number of roentgens ...
I sat back in my chair, suddenly excited. In the early days atomic wastes were sometimes buried, sometimes blended with concrete and dropped into the ocean. If only I were able to-but no. Dr. Jones would hardly allow me to dig in the desert or dive in the ocean, even if the radioactivity were not yet vitiated.
Some other disaster must be found in which I could serve the role of a casualty. If, for instance, I had foreknowledge of some great meteor, and where it would strike...
The idea awoke an almost forgotten association. I sat up in my chair. Then, conscious that knowledgeable minds speculated upon my every expression, I once again slumped forlornly.
Behind the passive mask of my face, my mind was racing, recalling ancient events. The time was too far past, the circumstances obscured. But details could be found in my great History of Man,
I must by all means avoid suspicion. I yawned, feigned acute ennui. Then with an air of surly petulance, I secured the box of numbered rods which was my index. I dropped one of them into the viewer, focused on the molecule-wide items of information.
Someone might be observing me. I rambled here and there, consulting articles and essays totally unrelated to my idea: The Origin and Greatest Development of the Dithyramb; The Kalmuk Tyrants; New Camelot, 18119 A.D.; Oestheotics; The Caves of Phrygia; The Exploration of Mars; The Launching of the Satellites. I undertook no more than a glance at this last; it would not be wise to show any more than a flicker of interest. But what I read corroborated the inkling which had tickled the back of my mind.
The date was during the twentieth century, during what would have been my normal lifetime.
The article read in part:
Today HESPERUS, last of the unmanned satellites was launched into orbit around Earth. This great machine will swing above the equator at a height of a thousand miles, -where atmospheric resistance is so scant as to be negligible. Not quite negligible, of course; it is estimated that in something less than a hundred thousand years HESPERUS will lose enough momentum to return to Earth.
Let us hope that no citizen of that future age suffers injury when HESPERUS falls.
I grunted and muttered. A fatuous sentiment! Let us hope that one person, at the very least, suffers injury. Injury enough to erase him from life!
I continued to glance through the monumental work which had occupied so much of my time. I listened to aquaclave music from the old Poly-Pacific Empire; read a few pages from the Revolt of the Manitobans. Then, yawning and simulating hunger, I called for my evening meal.
Tomorrow I must locate more exact information, and brush up on orbital mathematics.
The Hesperus will drop into the Pacific Ocean at Latitude 0° (X 0.0" ± 0.1", Longitude 141° 12" 63.9" ± 0.2", at 2 hours 22 minutes 18 seconds after standard noon on January 13 of next year. It will strike with a velocity of approximately one thousand miles an hour, and I hope to be on hand to absorb a certain percentage of its inertia.
I have been occupied seven months establishing these figures. Considering the necessary precautions, the dissimulation, the delicacy of the calculations, seven months is a short time to accomplish as much as I have. I see no reason why my calculations should not be accurate. The basic data were recorded to the necessary refinement and there have been no variables or fluctuations to cause error.
I have considered light pressure, hysteresis, meteoric dust; I have reckoned the calendar reforms which have occurred over the years; I have allowed for any possible Einsteinian, Gambade, or Bolbinski perturbation. What is there left to disturb the Hesperus! Its orbit lies in the equatorial plane, south of spaceship channels; to all intents and purposes it has been forgotten.
The last mention of the Hesperus occurs about eleven thousand years after it was launched. I find a note to the effect that its orbital position and velocity were in exact accordance with theoretical values. I believe I can be certain that the Hesperus will fall on schedule.
The most cheerful aspect to the entire affair is that no one is aware of the impending disaster but myself.
The date is January 9. To every side long blue swells are rolling, rippled with cat's-paws. Above are blue skies and dazzling white clouds. The yacht slides quietly southwest in the general direction of the Marquesas Islands.
Dr. Jones had no enthusiasm for this cruise. At first he tried to dissuade me from what he considered a whim but I insisted, reminding him that I was theoretically a free man and he made no further difficulty.
The yacht is graceful, swift, and seems as fragile as a moth. But when we cut through the long swells there is no shudder or vibration-only a gentle elastic heave. If I had hoped to lose myself overboard, I would have suffered disappointment. I am shepherded as carefully as in my own house. But for the first time in many years I am relaxed and happy. Dr. Jones notices and approves.
The weather is beautiful-the water so blue, the sun so bright, the air so fresh that I almost feel a qualm at leaving this life. Still, now is my chance and I must seize it. I regret that Dr. Jones and the crew must die with me. Still-what do they lose? Very little. A few short years. This is the risk they assume when they guard me. If I could allow them survival I would do so-but there is no such possibility.
I have requested and have been granted nominal command of the yacht. That is to say, I plot the course, I set the speed. Dr. Jones looks on with indulgent amusement, pleased that I interest myself in matters outside myself.
January 12. Tomorrow is my last day of life. We passed through a series of rain squalls this morning, but the horizon ahead is clear. I expect good weather tomorrow.
I have throttled down to Dead-Slow, as we are only a few hundred miles from our destination.
January 13. I am tense, active, charged with vitality an awareness. Every part of me tingles. On this day of my death it is good to be alive. And why? Because of anticipation eagerness, hope.
I am trying to mask my euphoria. Dr. Jones is extreme! sensitive; I would not care to start his mind working at this late date.
The time is noon. I keep my appointment with Hesperus in two hours and twenty-two minutes. The yacht is coasting easily over the water. Our position, as recorded by a pin-point of light on the chart, is only a few miles from our final position, At this present rate we will arrive in about two hours and fifteen minutes. Then I will halt the yacht and wait...
The yacht is motionless on the ocean. Our position is exactly at Latitude 0° (X 0.0", Longitude 141° 12" 63.9". The degree of error represents no more than a yard or two. This graceful yacht with the unpronounceable name sits directly on the bull's eye. There is only five minutes to wait
Dr. Jones comes into the cabin. He inspects me curiously. "You seem very keyed up, Henry Revere."
"Yes, I feel keyed up, stimulated. This cruise is affording me much pleasure."
"Excellent!" He walks to the chart, glances at it. "Why are we halted?"
"I took it into my mind to drift quietly. Are you impatient?"
Time passes-minutes, seconds. I watch the chronometer
. Dr. Jones follows my glance. He frowns in sudden recollection, goes to the telescreen. "Excuse me; something I would like to watch. You might be interested."
The screen depicts an arid waste. "The Kalahari Desert, Dr. Jones tells me. "Watch."
I glance at the chronometer. Ten seconds-they tick off.
Five-four-three-two-one. A great whistling sound, a
roar, a crash, an explosion! It comes from the telescreen. The yacht rides on a calm sea.
"There went Hesperus," said Dr. Jones. "Right on schedule!"
He looks at me, where I have sagged against a bulkhead.
His eyes narrow, he looks at the chronometer, at the chart, at the telescreen, back to me. "Ah, I understand you now. All of us you would have killed!" "Yes," I mutter, "all of us." "Aha! You savage!"
I pay him no heed. "Where could I have miscalculated? I considered everything. Loss of entropic mass, lunar attractions-I know the orbit of Hesperus as I know my hand. How did it shift, and so far?"i
Dr. Jones eyes shine with a baleful light. "You know the orbit of Hesperus then?" "Yes. I considered every aspect" "And you believe it shifted?"
"It must have. It was launched into an equatorial orbit; it falls into the Kalahari."
"There are two bodies to be considered." "Two?"
"Hesperus and Earth."
"Earth is constant... Unchangeable." I say this last word slowly, as the terrible knowledge comes.
And Dr. Jones, for the first time in my memory, laughs, an unpleasant harsh sound. "Constant-unchangeable. Except for libration of the poles. Hesperus is the constant Earth shifts below." "Yes! What a fool I am!" "An insensate murdering fool! I see you cannot be trusted!" I charge him. I strike him once in the face before the anaesthetic beam hits me.
The World-Thinker
Through the open window came sounds of the city-the swish of passing air traffic, the clank of the pedestrian belt on the ramp below, hoarse undertones from the lower levels. Cardale sat by the window studying a sheet of paper which displayed a photograph and a few lines of type:
FUGITIVE!
Isabel May-Age 21; height 5 feet 5 inches; medium physique.
Hair: black (could be dyed).
Eyes: blue.
Distinguishing characteristics: none.
Cardale shifted his eyes to the photograph and studied the pretty face with incongruously angry eyes. A placard across her chest read: 94E-627. Cardale returned to the printed words.
Sentenced to serve three years at the Nevada Women's Camp, in the first six months of incarceration Isabel May accumulated 22 months additional punitive confinement. Caution is urged in her apprehension.
The face, Cardale reflected, was defiant, reckless, outraged, but neither coarse nor stupid-a face, in fact, illuminated by intelligence and sensitivity. Not the face of a criminal, thought Cardale.
He pressed a button. The telescreen plumbed into sharp life. "Lunar Observatory," said Cardale. The screen twitched to a view across an austere office, with moonscape outside the window. A man in a rose-pink smock looked into the screen. "Hello, Cardale."
"What's the word on May?"
"We've got a line on her. Quite a nuisance, which you won't want to hear about. One matter: please, in the future keep freighters in another sector when you want a fugitive tracked. We had six red herrings to cope with."
"But you picked up May?"
"Definitely."
"Keep her in your sights. I'll send someone out to take over." Cardale clicked off the screen.
He ruminated a moment, then summoned the image of his secretary. "Get me Detering at Central Intelligence."
The polychrome whirl of color rose and fell to reveal Detering's ruddy face.
"Cardale, if it's service you want-"
"I want a mixed squad, men and women, in a fast ship to pick up a fugitive. Her name is Isabel May. She's fractious, unruly, incorrigible-but I don't want her hurt."
"Allow me to continue what I started to say. Cardale, if you want service, you are out of luck. There's literally no one in the office but me."
"Then come yourself.**
"To pick up a reckless woman, and get my hair pulled and my face slapped? No thanks ... One moment. There's a man waiting outside my office on a disciplinary charge. I can either have him court-martialed or I can send him over to you."
"What's his offense?"
"Insubordination. Arrogance. Disregard of orders. He's a loner. He does as he pleases and to hell with the rule book."
"What about results?"
"He gets results-of a sort. His own kind of results."
"He may be the man to bring back Isabel May. What's his name?"
"Lanarck. He won't use his rank, which is captain."
"He seems something of a free spirit ... Well, send him over."
Lanarck arrived almost immediately. The secretary ushered him into Cardale's office.
"Sit down, please. My name is Cardale. You're Lanarck, right?"
"Quite right."
Cardale inspected his visitor with open curiosity. Lanarck's reputation, thought Cardale, was belied by his appearance. He was neither tall nor heavy, and carried himself unobtrusively. His features, deeply darkened by the hard waves of space, were regular and dominated by a cold directness of the gray eyes and a bold jutting nose. Lanarck's voice was pleasant and soft.
"Major Detering assigned me to you for orders, sir." "He recommended you highly," said Cardale. "I have a ticklish job on hand. Look at this." He passed over the sheet with the photograph of Isabel May. Lanarck scrutinized it without comment and handed it back.
"This girl was imprisoned six months ago for assault with a deadly weapon. She escaped the day before yesterday into space-which is more or less trivial in itself. But she carries with her a quantity of important information, which must be retrieved for the economic well-being of Earth. This may seem to you an extravagant statement, but accept it from me as a fact."
Lanarck said in a patient voice: "Mr. Cardale, I find that I work most efficiently when I am equipped with facts. Give me details of the case. If you feel that the matter is too sensitive for my handling, I will retire and you may bring in operatives better qualified."
Cardale said crossly: "The girl's father is a high-level mathematician, at work for the Exchequer. By his instruction an elaborate method of security to regulate transfer of funds was evolved. As an emergency precaution he devised an over-ride system, consisting of several words in a specific sequence. A criminal could go to the telephone, call the Exchequer, use these words and direct by voice alone the transfer of a billion dollars to his personal account. Or a hundred billion."
"Why not cancel the over-ride and install another?" "Because of Arthur May's devilish subtlety. The over-ride is hidden in the computer; it is buried, totally inaccessible, that it might be protected from someone ordering the computer to revealuate the over-ride. The only way the over-ride can be voided is to use the over-ride first and issue appropriate orders." "Go on."
"Arthur May knew the over-ride. He agreed to transfer the knowledge to the Chancellor and then submit to a hypnotic process which would remove the knowledge from his brain. Now occurred a rather sordid matter in regard to May's remuneration, and in my mind he was absolutely in the right"
"I know the feeling," said Lanarck. "I've had my own troubles with the scoundrels. The only good bursar is a dead bursar."
"In any event there follows an incredible tale of wrangling, proposals, estimates, schemes, counter-proposals, counter-schemes and conniving, all of which caused Arthur May a mental breakdown and he forgot the over-ride. But he had anticipated something of the sort and he left a memorandum with his daughter: Isabel May. When the authorities came for her father, she refused to let them in; she performed violent acts; she was confined in a penal institution, from which she escaped. Regardless of rights and wrongs she must be captured, more or less gently, and brought back-with the override. You will surely understand the implications of the situati
on."
"It is a complicated business," said Lanarck. "But I will go after the girl, and with luck I will bring her back."
Six hours later Lanarck arrived at Lunar Observatory. The in-iris expanded; the boat lurched through.
Inside the dome Lanarck undamped the port, and stepped out. The master astronomer approached. Behind came the mechanics, one of whom bore an instrument which they welded to the hull of Lanarck's spaceboat.
"It's a detector cell," the astronomer explained. "Right now it's holding a line on the ship, you're to follow. When the indicator holds to the neutral zone, you're on her track."
"And where does this ship seem to be headed?"
The astronomer shrugged. "Nowhere in tellurian space. She's way past Fomalhaut and lining straight out"
Lanarck stood silent. This was hostile space Isabel May was entering. In another day or so she would be slicing the fringe of the Clantlalan System, where the space patrol of that dark and inimical empire without warning destroyed all approaching vessels. Furthar it opened on a region of black stars, inhabited by nondescript peoples little better than pirates. Still farther beyond lay unexplored and consequently dangerous regions.
The mechanics were finished. Lanarck climbed back into the boat. The out-iris opened; he drove his craft through, down the runway, and off into space.
A slow week followed, in which distance was annihilated. Earth empire fell far astern: a small cluster of stars. To one side the Clantlalan System grew ever brighter, and as Lanarck passed by, the Clantlalan space-spheres tried to close with him. He threw in the emergency bank of generators and whisked the warboat far ahead. Someday, Lanarck knew, he would slip down past the guard ships to the home planet by the twin red suns, to discover what secret was held so dear. But now he kept the detector centered in the dial, and day by day the incoming signals from his quarry grew stronger.
