“Our plan, decided on soon after we learned of the Humans’ existence,” Srtes’ voice droned on, “was to make an early contact. If the Humans proved a race whose physical and mental strength equaled or surpassed our own, prudence would indicate that we seek peace. If we found them weak, we would exterminate them, and take over their world. The dominant factor in our decision was to be our study of the specimen we brought back, and how he conducted himself in the Big Run. We have all seen the results of that experiment.” Srtes looked about the room. “Are we all agreed that the only wise course—in view of our observations—is to do everything in our power to establish peaceful relations with the Earthmen?”
There was no dissenting vote.
“When our envoys leave for Earth an honored place will be made for our visitor,” Srtes added.
* * * *
The meeting was over, and the fateful decision had been made. For the next great tide much of my work would consist in reporting the tearing down of the Big Run.
The alien had believed it to be one of our cities. It was a great deal of work, constructing the Big Run to test one alien specimen, but the results had proven the effort warranted. Now it could be disposed of.
Perhaps this very day we would begin dismantling the giant testing maze.
INFINITY’S CHILD
Originally appeared in If, May 1952.
The sense of taste was always first to go. For a week Buckmaster had ignored the fact that everything he ate tasted like flavorless gruel. He tried to make himself believe that it was some minor disorder of his glandular system. But the eighth day his second sense—that of feeling—left him and he staggered to his telephone in blind panic. There was no doubt now but that he had the dread Plague. He was glad he had taken the precaution of isolating himself from his family. He knew there was no hope for him now.
They sent the black wagon for him.
In the hospital he found himself herded with several hundred others into a ward designed to hold less than a hundred. The beds were crowded together and he could have reached to either side of him and touched another ravaged victim of the Plague.
Next to go would be his sense of sight. Hope was a dead thing within him. Even to think of hoping made him realize how futile it would be.
He screamed when the walls of darkness began to close in around him. It was the middle of the afternoon and a shaft of sunlight fell across the grimy blankets on his bed. The sunlight paled, then darkened and was gone. He screamed again. And again.
He heard them move him to the death ward then, but he could not even feel their hands upon him.
Three days later his tongue refused to form words. He fought a nameless terror as he strove with all the power of his will to speak. If he could say only one word, he felt, the encroaching disease would have to retreat and he would be safe. But the one word would not come.
Four horrible days later the sounds around him—the screams and the muttering—became fainter, and he faced the beginning of the end.
At last it was all over. He knew he was still alive because he thought. But that was all. He could not see, hear, speak, feel, or taste. Nothing was left except thought; stark, terrible, useless thought!
Strangely the awful horror faded then and his mind experienced a grateful release. At first he suspected the outlet of his emotions had somehow become atrophied as had his senses, and that he was peaceful only because his real feelings could not break through the numbness.
However, some subtle compulsion within him—some power struggling in its birth-throes—was beginning to breed its own energy and he sensed that it was the strength of that compulsion that had subdued the terror.
He was at peace now, as he had never been at peace before. For a time, he did not question—was entirely content to lie there and savor the wonderful feeling. He had lost even the definition of fear. No terror now from the slow closing of the five doors; no regrets; no forebodings. Only a vast happiness as he seemingly viewed life, suffering, and death as a man standing on a cliff looking out over a great misty valley.
But soon came wonder and analysis. He looked backward and thought: It was a world, but not my world. These are memories but not my memories. I lived them and knew them—yet none of them belongs to me. Strange~—this soul-fiber with which I think—the last function left to me—is not a soul-fiber I have ever known before.
And he knew.
I have never existed before this moment.
He could not prove it nor explain it there in the dark house of his thinking. But he knew it was true.
He wondered if he had taken over the body and mind—complete with all the mental trappings—of some other being. Or whether he had been just now conceived, full-blown and with memories of a synthetic past perhaps implanted also in the minds of those with whom he was supposed to have come in contact. He did not know. He was only sure that, before this moment, he had not been.
With the realization came the certainty that he would not die. The force he felt within him—he was not certain whether it was a part of himself, or the evidence of an outside control—was too powerful.
The inner spontaneity gathered strength until it became a striving, persistent vital force, a will of imperious purpose. It moved him and he moved his tongue and spoke. “I will not die!” he shouted.
Some time later he grew aware that his sense of hearing had returned. He heard a voice say, “He was in the last stages about an hour ago, before he spoke. I thought I’d better call you.”
“You did right,” a second voice answered. “What’s his name?”
“Clifford Buckmaster.” They’re talking about me, he thought. Like a burst of glory, sight returned. He looked up and saw two men standing beside his bed. The older man wore a plain black suit. The younger was dressed in the white uniform of a doctor.
“He can see now,” the older man said. His was a voice Buckmaster disliked.
“It looks as if he’s going to recover,” the doctor said. “That’s never happened before. Do you want me to leave him here with the dying ones?”
“No. Wheel him into your office. And leave us alone there. My name is James Wagner. You have, of course, heard of me. I am the Director of Security.”
Buckmaster still rested in his hospital bed. They had screwed up the back until he sat almost straight. In his mouth there was a slight tang and he knew the sense of taste returned. When he was able to feel again he would be entirely well. Yes, he’d heard of Wagner before. He nodded.
“And I know who you are,” Wagner said. “You are one of the Underground that is trying to overthrow the General. That is correct, is it not?”
Almost with surprise Buckmaster felt Wagner’s words register in his mind. His implanted memories were still strange to him. But he recalled them quickly.
Twenty years before, in 1979, the great Atomic War had ended. In the beginning the two giants faced each other across the separating oceans. No one was certain who sent the first bomb across in its controlled rocket; each side blamed the other.
The methods of each were terrible in their efficiency. The great manufacturing cities were the first to go. After them went the vital transportation centers.
Striving mightily for an early advantage each country forced landing armies on the enemy’s shores. The armies invaded with their hundreds of thousands of men—and the bombings continued.
The colossus of the western hemisphere had set up autonomous launching stations, so that if and when their major cities had all been bombed, their ruling bodies decimated and scattered—even if there were no longer any vestiges of a central authority-—the launchings would continue.
The autonomous units had been a stroke of master planning, so ingenious that it was logical the giant of Eurasia had devised a similar plan.
* * * *
By the time the bombs had all been used, or their stations rendered incapable of functioning, the major cities were blackened, gutted, inoperative masses of destruction. Soon the inva
ding armies no longer received orders, or supplies of rations and arms. When this happened they knew governments they represented had ceased to exist. They were forced to live by the ingenuity of their commanders and their ability to forage. They could not even capitulate; there was no one to whom they could surrender.
Those armies with weak commanders fell apart and one by one their men died at the hands of hostile natives, or hunger.
The armies under strong commanders, like General Andrei Koski, of the Eurasian command, carved themselves a place in their new environment.
Koski had landed with a force of seventy thousand on the east coast of old Mexico. His army was different from the other invaders only in a secret weapon which they brought with them. The weapon’s appearance was simple but it carried the potentiality of destruction for a world.
Acting under previous orders from his government, Koski began moving northward, and was soon cutting a swath a hundred miles wide up the west bank of the Mississippi. By the time he reached the southern border of Minnesota he realized from what he saw on all sides that for all practical purposes the war was over. His only choice now was to find a means of, survival for himself and his men.
When Koski reached Duluth he circled the city. Almost miraculously it had escaped the bombs. Its population was only a little over two hundred thousand, and Koski still retained nearly fifty thousand hardened fighting men.
However, Duluth, Koski found, was governed by Earl Olson, an ex-brigadier and a man equally as strong as himself. The city was fortified, and garrisoned by a force of well trained civilians who would fight to their death to defend their city and families. And they were well led by Olson.
Koski knew he could capture the city if he decided to, but the price would be too dear. He moved on along the lakeshore and took over the city of Superior. Here he entrenched himself solidly and set up an efficient military government.
By law every woman in the city still capable of bearing children was forced to take two husbands, at least one of which must be a Ruskie, as the invaders were called by the natives. In this way Koski insured a plentiful supply of children, most of whom would be loyal to him.
A bonus of ten thousand dollars was offered to any woman from the outlying districts who would move to Superior and take two of its citizens in marriage. After the first hesitation, the girls and young women and widows flocked in from their barren farms and hamlets.
By the end of twenty years the city had grown to near one hundred fifty thousand.
Duluth in the meantime grew to three hundred thousand. Earl Olson ruled absolutely, but wisely and well. Between the two cities an alert truce held through the years and mutually advantageous trade flourished.
Koski, in his city, held all authority in his own tight grip, administered by his former officers and backed by the undeviating loyalty of his soldiers. His rule was stern and when necessary, bloody. It might have been bloodier except for the threat of intervention by Olson.
There are always men who fret under the hand of tyranny and the Underground had gradually risen until it grew into a powerful organization. Its demands were for a representative government chosen by vote of the people. This, of course, Koski refused. As a consequence the Underground formed an active resistance, with the avowed purpose of killing Koski. A retaliatory blood bath was prevented only by the threat of intervention by Olson, who had many friends in the Underground, especially his brother-in-law, Lestef Oliver.
But right now none of this seemed very important to Buckmaster. Not important enough for him to bother answering.
“Answer when you’re spoken to!” Wagner roared.
For a moment Buckmaster deliberated not replying. Just how unusual was the difference he had discovered in himself? Could he be hurt by someone like Wagner? He decided to wait until later to put it to the test.
“What do you want me to say?” he asked.
“I’m going to lay my cards on the table,” Wagner said. “I want you to come over to our side.”
Still not very interested, Buckmaster asked “Why should I?”
“I think I can give you some very good reasons. In fact, unless you’re a bigger fool than I think you are, I can convince you that it is the only wise thing to do. Because of your relatively smaller numbers, the Plague has caused havoc in your Underground.”
“Yes,” Buckmaster answered, “But we will have a vaccine before long.” He knew this was purely bluff.
“Possibly.” Wagner pulled his cheeks up but his eyes remained chilled and cold. He had the trick of smiling mirthlessly, “But even if I were to grant you that, we estimate that already nearly half of your organization is dead from the Plague. There will be more before you can do anything. The rest we can hunt down at our leisure. So you see, even if we let you live, you’d soon be a man without a party.”
“We could start all over again if we had to.” The first signs of feeling came back with a twinge of pain at the tip of the little finger on his left hand.
“I doubt it very much.”
“What would I be expected to do?” Buckmaster asked.
“Simply this. Go back among your former comrades and act normal. But let me know what they’re planning. In time we’d get them anyway, but with your help, the job will be easier—cleaner, let us say.”
“In other words, you want me to act as the Judas ram?”
“Call it what you like,” Wagner’s eyes narrowed. “Just remember that you’ve nothing to lose.”
“And after?”
“You can name your own price. Within reason, of course.”
“And if I refuse?”
Wagner laughed. It wasn’t necessary for him to answer. Buckmaster had seen the results of Wagner’s sadism in the past. Whatever else might be mystifying to him he knew one thing: The instinct of self-preservation was still as strong as ever. He did not want to take the chance that the extraneous will he felt within him would be strong enough to combat what Wagner would try to do to him.
“Let’s say I agree,” he said.
“What comes next?”
“Can you move your limbs yet?” Wagner asked.
Buckmaster flexed his fingers and lifted his arms. “I believe I’m strong enough to walk,” he said.
“By the way,” Wagner inquired, “have you any idea why you didn’t die?” Buckmaster shook his head. “Well, no matter. Lie back and relax. Now look into my eyes. Concentrate on the right one.”
Buckmaster knew what was coming now. Mind contact!
Subtly he felt the first tentative probe of Wagner’s thought antenna. One part of his brain accepted it passively, but another part used the probe as a bridge.
Wagner’s thoughts seemed unguarded. Buckmaster easily read everything there. He had to hide his surprise at what he learned. Things that Wagner, by no process of logic would ever reveal to him. Reflections concerning the Plague. Remembrances of snatches of conversation with the General. Wagner’s relations with women. Sex occupied many of his thoughts. The fear of Olson was there, in spite of Wagner’s brave words earlier.
Then Buckmaster read about himself in Wagner’s mind and was certain something was wrong here. He saw that Wagner had no intention of ever letting him live, no matter how useful he might be. There was death for himself as soon as that usefulness was over.
“Damn it,” Wagner cursed, “relax. Let your mind open up to me. Are you deliberately trying to get yourself back in trouble by being stubborn?”
Then he knew. The contact had been one-way. He had read Wagner’s mind because Wagner had not realized he could do it, and had not thrown up a guard.
Cautiously Buckmaster let fragments of careful thoughts escape. The moment he lowered the barriers of his mind he felt Wagner’s power beat against him, wave upon wave. The sensation was frightening.
Wagner seemed satisfied. Buckmaster could read very little in his mind now.
“Done” Wagner said. “Now, one last warning. Don’t try to double-cross me, or you’ll regr
et the day you were born.”
Buckmaster’s choices of action were very few. He doubted that he could make it but at least he should try to get to Duluth.
At the toll bridge across the arm of the lake he bought a ticket. Nobody bothered him. He breathed easier as he rested against the iron railing waiting for the gate to open; then stopped breathing as a tall man—one of the Ruskies—leaned over beside him and said, “It won’t work friend.”
Buckmaster tore up his ticket. Strangely, there was a sense of relief. The force—the presence within him—whatever it was, wanted him to return to his friends. It didn’t compel him, it used no coercion. It merely presented good reasons for doing so. He could do more good there than by fleeing, it suggested. And, so strongly as almost to blot out all other emotions, was the implanted desire—an urgent compelling command—to stay and kill Koski.
As Buckmaster started back, the thought struck him: Was he merely a pawn being moved by this inner power? Did he no longer have freedom of action? Was his will still his own?
* * * *
Wagner was annoyed to receive the summons from Koski. He fumed inwardly as he mounted the stairs to the General’s second floor receiving room. It was always humiliating to be summoned like a common officer when he was in fact the ruler of the city.
Koski had slipped badly during the past few years but Wagner knew better than to put the old figurehead out of the way. He needed the power of that prestige until he had made his own position impregnable.
Originally Wagner had been an unlettered lad from the steppes. When he had been made Koski’s orderly, he had used his native cunning and slyness to ingratiate himself with the old commander. Soon Koski had made him his personal adjutant. From that advantageous position of trust it had been relatively simple for him to use his insidious talents to secure advantages for himself.
During the process of organizing Superior’s government Wagner had used his influence to get his own adherents appointed to key posts. By the time Koski began to succumb to the ravages of senility, Wagner held the most powerful position in the city—that of Security Administrator.
The 19th Golden Age of Science Fiction Page 7
