The Last Hurrah of the Golden Horde

by Norman Spinrad

An orderly appeared at the door. “Captain Peter Reed,” he said formally, “it is my honor to present Lazlo Horvath, Director of Maxwell.”

  A short, squat man, of about fifty, stalked into the room. He was dressed in a black uniform, with gold trim, encircled by a wide Sam Browne belt. He wore heavy black boots.

  Oh, no, thought Peter Reed, not one of them!

  Nevertheless, he rose politely, wryly aware of the plainness of his simple light-green coveralls. “Director Horvath.”

  “Captain Reed.”

  “My second, Roger Reed.”

  “Mr. Reed.”

  “Sit down, Director,” said the captain.

  Horvath perched himself on the edge of one of the chairs.

  “It has been a while since a starship visited Maxwell,” he said. His voice was deep and crisp.

  “Yes, I know. The trader Stargod, one hundred years ago.”

  For a moment, there was a flicker of puzzlement on Horvath’s tough face. “Ah, yes, the Stargod” he said smoothly. “Well, Captain Reed, what have you to offer?”

  “Several new concepts,” said Peter Reed, studying the Director. It was obvious that the man had let something slip. But what?

  “Such as?”

  “For one thing, an amusing new concept in drinks. Roger, the refreshments.”

  Roger Reed waved his hand, and a panel slid aside, revealing a pitcher of red liquid, and three glasses on a tray. He poured the drinks.

  Captain Reed smiled as he saw the perplexed look on Horvath’s face. The drink was made up of two different wines, one hot, one cold, kept separate by a new chemical technique so that one tasted alternately hot and cold liquid. It was a strange feeling.

  “Very amusing, Captain Reed,” said Horvath. “But surely you don’t expect Maxwell to pay good radioactives for such a parlor trick.”

  Reed grinned. The hot-and-cold liquid technique was just a come-on, of course. The really big commodity he had to sell was the force field.

  “Director,” he said, “as you know, traders don’t sell products, except radioactives, at times. What we sell is science, knowledge, techniques. Now the drink may be a parlor trick, but there can be practical applications of the technique.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps,” said Horvath shortly, “but what else do you have? Perhaps… perhaps you at last have the secret of Overdrive?”

  Peter Reed laughed. “Maybe I have the Philosopher’s Stone, as well?” He saw that Horvath was not amused. “I’m sorry, Director,” he said. “It’s just that we’ve never made port on any planet, in the eight hundred years that the Outward Bound has been in space, where they didn’t ask that question. No, we don’t have the secret of Overdrive. It is my opinion that there never will be an Overdrive. Man will never travel faster than light. It’s a chimera, a schizophrenic compulsion to leave the limiting realm of the real universe, to find a never-never land called Hyperspace, or what have you, where reality is suspended, and the Galaxy belongs to Man.”

  Horvath frowned. “A very pretty little speech,” he said. “So easy for you to say. But then, you are not under the heel of Earth. You starmen are by nature free agents. But we, we colonials, we know what it is to suffer the tyranny of time. Maxwell is fifty light-years from Earth. Therefore, since we were settled from Earth, from an Earth that was already sixty years ahead of us when we emerged from Deep Sleep, we will always be sixty years behind Earth, just as the outer ring will always be two hundred years behind. To you, an Overdrive would be just one more thing to peddle, although it would bring the best price in history. To us, an Overdrive would mean freedom.”

  “Of course, you are right, Director,” said Captain Reed. “Nevertheless, that doesn’t make Overdrive any more possible. However”—he noticed Horvath’s anticipation with satisfaction—“we do have something new, something big. I suppose they’ve been looking for this as long as they’ve been looking for an Overdrive—a force field”

  Horvath’s eyes widened. “A force field?”

  “Ah, you are interested.”

  “Of course. It would be idiotic to try and hide it. This, Maxwell wants.”

  “And what have you to offer?” asked Peter Reed softly.

  “One ton of thorium.”

  “Oh really, Director!” said Reed. “That’s all right for the hot-cold technique, but—”

  “Two tons!”

  “Come, come Mr. Horvath. A force field is the ultimate defensive weapon, after all. Two measly tons—”

  “Ten tons!”

  “Now, what are we going to do with all that thorium? Can’t you do better? We deal in knowledge, you know. Perhaps you have something in that area—”

  “Well,” said Horvath, his hard eyes narrowing, “there was another ship here, only three years ago.”

  “Oh?”

  “Colonizer, heading for the outer ring. Direct from Earth.”

  “So what?”

  “Well, captain, there was a passenger aboard.”

  “A passenger?”

  “Yes, a Dr. Ching pen Yee. Had to leave Earth quickly, so it seems, some kind of mathematical physicist. We’re holding him.”

  “I don’t see what this has to do with us,” said Peter Reed.

  Horvath smiled crookedly. “Grand Admiral Jacob ben Ezra is on his way to Maxwell. In fact, he’s decelerating already. Should be here in about a month.”

  Captain Reed stroked his nose. If Earth was sending ben Ezra himself after Dr. Ching, the man must be someone really important. Earth virtually never pursued a fugitive beyond the twenty-five light-year radius of the Integral Control Zone. And Horvath knew it.

  “So what are you offering?” he said slowly.

  “Ben Ezra can’t know that he was put off here,” said Horvath. “He’ll be eager to get away. I propose that I trade you Ching for the force-field theory.”

  “But neither of us knows whether Ching has anything of value,” said Reed, knowing that anyone who was being pursued by Jacob ben Ezra over fifty light-years must know something very valuable indeed.

  But Horvath knew it, too. “Come, captain. We both know that Earth would not send ben Ezra, unless Ching was very important indeed. Ching and one ton of thorium for the force field.”

  “Ching and three tons,” said Reed, with a little smile.

  “Ching and two tons.”

  Peter Reed laughed. “Ching and three tons for the force field and the hot-cold technique.”

  “Very well, captain,” said Horvath, rising and sticking out his hand, “you’ve got a deal.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “Have your men begin bringing up the thorium immediately,” said Reed, “and get your scientists up here quick, to learn the techniques. I certainly don’t want to be in this system when ben Ezra gets here.”

  “Of course not,” said Horvath, with a grin. “Rest assured, captain, I’m a very good liar. And believe me when I say it has been a pleasure doing business with you.”

  “The same, Director. Mr. Reed will show you to the air lock.”

  As Roger Reed opened the door, Horvath stopped and turned.

  “Captain,” he said, “one thing. If you ever do get hold of an Overdrive, Maxwell will match anyone’s price for it. You can write your own bill of sale.”

  Captain Reed frowned. “You know as well as I do, that we traders sell the same knowledge to every planet we touch.”

  Horvath eyed him thinly. “I am aware of the practice,” he said. “However, in the case of an Overdrive, Maxwell would make it well worth your while to make it an exclusive sale.”

  Reed shook his head, and grinned. “I’ll keep it in mind, Director,” he said.

  Grand Admiral Jacob ben Ezra finished his fourth cigarette of the morning. On a starship, with its own self-contained atmosphere to maintain, smoking was a hideous luxury. But Admiral ben Ezra was a man with privileges. A small, frail old man of eighty subjective years, he had been in space for over seven hundred objective years, and was something of a living
legend.

  Right now, he was nervous. He turned to his aide. “David,” he said, “can’t we cut a week or two off the time?”

  “No, sir,” replied the young commander. “We’re using maximum deceleration as it is. Photon sails, plus ion drive.”

  “What about using the atomic reaction rockets as well?” asked the admiral, knowing full well what the answer would be.

  “We just don’t have the reaction mass to spare,” said the commander. “Photon sails, of course, cost no fuel, and the ion rockets use very little, but with the ion drive going, and three weeks left till planetfall, we can’t use the rockets for even an hour. Besides—”

  “Besides, our course is already plotted, and we’d undershoot,” said ben Ezra. “David, David, don’t you know when an old man is talking just to let off steam?”

  The young commander fidgeted with embarrassment.

  “Nevertheless,” said the Grand Admiral, rubbing the end of his long nose, “I wish we could. It’s going to be a close thing.”

  “Why, sir?”

  Jacob ben Ezra lit a fifth cigarette. “The Outward Bound left Earth just about when we did. They’re scheduled to stop at Maxwell. No doubt, the SS-185 will put Ching off somewhere before they get to Toehold. My guess is that it’ll be Maxwell.”

  “So, sir?”

  Ben Ezra exhaled a great cloud of smoke.

  “Sorry, David,” he said. “Somehow, I’m beginning to find it difficult to remember that not everyone is as old as I am. The Outward Bound is one of the oldest tradeships around, in fact, if my memory serves me correctly, it was the first one built specifically for the purpose. Her captain is Peter Reed. He’s been in space longer than / have.”

  “Longer than you, sir?”

  Ben Ezra laughed. It was not the laugh of an old man. It felt good to laugh, especially under the circumstances.

  “Yes, my incredulous young friend,” he said, “longer than I have. Reed is one of the cleverest captains in space. Also, don’t forget, he has the force field to sell, this trip.”

  “You mean you think Maxwell will trade Ching for the force field? But, sir, once they find out why Ching’s out here, no one would trade him for anything”

  Jacob ben Ezra puckered his leathery lips. “You are assuming that Dr. Ching will talk. I doubt that very much. He knows that we’d follow him to Andromeda, if we had to. My guess is that he’ll figure his only hope is to change ships as often as possible, and not tell anyone why he’s on the run.”

  “Then why would Captain Reed accept him in trade?”

  “Because,” said the Grand Admiral, raising his bushy white eyebrows, “Reed is clever and experienced. He will know that anyone who is being pursued by us, all the way from Earth, is someone who has something of vital importance.”

  Jacob ben Ezra crushed his cigarette against the bulkhead. He shook his head violently.

  “If only he knew,” he said, “if only he knew.”

  The Outward Bound orbited low over Maxwell. She was an untidy spectacle—one great central cylinder, around whose girth the space gigs were clustered; three lesser cylinders, connected to the main body only by spars; the conning globe; and, far astern, the propulsion reactor, a dull black globe, behind which sprouted two sets of rockets—the small, almost inconspicuous ion drive, and the great reaction rockets, which fed off whatever reaction mass happened to be in the huge fuel tanks, located just forward of the reactor.

  To make the whole thing even more messy looking, the main cylinder and its auxiliaries were pocked with globes, tubes and blisters, looking for all the world like budding yeast under a microscope. Like Topsy, the successful tradeship just grew, adding a cylinder here, a globe there, a blister in another place, as the ship’s fortune waxed. In deep space, where friction was no factor, this wild messiness was a status symbol, a sign of prosperity.

  Now, Maxwellian ships were coming and going constantly, bringing thorium, food, water, scientists. They had one great navigational hazard to overcome. Four mile-long spars sprouted from amidships on the main cylinder. During acceleration away from a sun, or deceleration towards a sun, four immense triangles of ten-molecule-thick plastic would stretch from the spars, catching the energy of photon packets outward bound from light sources. By grams-per-square-yard, the solar sails provided negligible thrust, but cumulatively, over two square miles of surface area, they were good for a steady, if mild acceleration. Besides, the energy they provided was free.

  But now, since the spars were empty, and the ship was spinning about its central axis, the spars were the arms of a monstrous windmill, which the Maxwellian ships had to avoid.

  Captain Reed smiled as he watched the ships thread their way gingerly toward the Outward Bound. No doubt, there were simple ways of making the spars stationary while the ship spun, perhaps using the same circle-in-circle bearings that served to immobilize the conning globe. But no starship he had ever heard of had bothered to try. It was just too amusing watching the planethogs dodge the whirling spars.

  Well, this would be the last day they’d have to brave the whirlwind. The last of the thorium was aboard, the Maxwellians had their force field and hot-cold technique, and Ching would be coming aboard on the last ship.

  None too soon, either, thought Peter Reed. Ben Ezra will be here in another ten days. Ten days to get here, perhaps a week or two to break Horvath. Captain Reed had few illusions about that individual. Within three weeks, at the outside, Jacob ben Ezra would know that Ching pen Yee was aboard the Outward Bound.

  Ben Ezra would be able to close the gap to a week or less, at the next planetfall, Nuova Italia, only ten light-years away.

  But by that time, thought Reed, I’ll know whether Ching’s worth keeping. If he isn’t, ben Ezra can have him at Nuova Italia. But if he is… well, ben Ezra will probably have to take on supplies at Nuova Italia. We can get away from him once more, if we have to. But… he can catch us easily, and wherever we head, he can be there before us, with us only having a couple of days lead.

  We’ll jump off that bridge when we come to it, thought Captain Reed.

  “Dr. Ching is aboard,” came a voice from the communicator.

  “Good,” said Reed. “How soon can we break orbit?”

  “Everything’ll be secured in another three hours, Dad.”

  “Roger!”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “All right, Roger,” said the old man. “Make ready to break orbit as soon as possible. And send Ching to the reception room. Have Olivera there, too. In fact, stall Ching a bit, and have Manny get there a few minutes earlier. Tell him I’ll be right down.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But, Peter,” said Manuel Olivera, his dark eyes raised to the ceiling in supplication, “I am not a theoretical physicist. I am not a mathematician. I am a tinkerer, a librarian, a maker of stinks, a—”

  “Manny! Manny! Please!” said the captain. “I know the whole song and dance by now. Nevertheless, you are the Outward Bound’s chief scientist.”

  “Yes, yes,” said the small dark-skinned man excitedly, “but you know as well as I do that all that means is that I’m a glorified librarian. We—”

  “All right, all right. All I want you to do is be here, and pay attention. This Dr. Ching has something of value, I’m sure of it. And we may not have him very long. We’ve got to be quick, and—”

  “Dr. Ching pen Yee to see you, captain,” said an orderly.

  “Send him in.”

  Dr. Ching was a small, though well-built man of about sixty. His straight black hair was parted neatly in the middle. Only his shifting eyes betrayed his nervousness.

  “Thank you for accepting my passage, Captain Reed,” he said.

  “Not at all, Dr. Ching. Frankly, we hope you may be of value to us. As you know, the lifeblood of a tradeship is knowledge. We sell it, and we buy it. To be blunt, we have bought you from Maxwell. You get passage with us, for as long as you want, and in return, we expect you to share your knowledge
.”

  “But, captain,” said Ching nervously, “I am a mathematical physicist. You are engaged in the business of selling practical technological knowledge. We mathematical physicists are not noted for producing marketable knowledge.”

  Reed frowned. This Ching was cool, and he was scared. A tough combination to crack.

  “Please let Mr. Olivera and myself be the judge of that. By the way, I believe I’ve forgotten to introduce you. This is Manuel Olivera, our chief scientist.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Olivera,” said Ching smoothly. “Captain Reed, really you are wasting your time. I am purely a theorist.”

  Reed wondered if he should spring his knowledge of Admiral ben Ezra’s pursuit. He decided it could wait.

  “Suppose you just tell us what you’re working on?” he said.

  Ching fidgeted. “Mathematical theory,” he said.

  “Come now, Dr. Ching,” snapped Olivera, “we are not complete scientific ignoramuses, you know. What sort of theory?”

  “A development of a small corollary to the Special Theory of Relativity.”

  “Oh?” said Olivera. “Involving what?”

  Ching’s eyes flickered from focus to focus like a bird’s. “Involving… some work with transfinite substitutions,” he said vaguely.

  Olivera continued his pursuit. “Transfinite substitutions? Where? For what?”

  Ching laughed falsely. “Really, Mr. Olivera,” he said. “It’s all a complicated mathematical exercise. It amuses me to substitute infinite and transfinite numbers for some of the variables. As I said, nothing practical.”

  “Just why are you doing this?” snapped Olivera.

  “Really,” said Ching blandly, “that’s an unanswerable question. Indeed. Why do men climb mountains? Because they are there. Really, gentlemen, I’m quite tired. May I be excused?”

  Olivera was about to continue his sortie, but the captain waved him off.

  “Of course,” he said. “We will soon be leaving for Nuova Italia. In about two hours. We will have time to talk again, before we all go into Deep Sleep. By all means, rest up.”

  “Thank you, captain,” said Ching. An orderly was called, and he led Ching off.

  “Well, Manny?” asked the captain.