Anderson, Poul - Psychotechnic League 23

by The Pirate (v1. 1)

  He chose a city near the edge of morning, that he might have a long daylight. A mole jutted from its waterfront into an emerald-and- sapphire bay. Sonic beams declared it to be of reinforced concrete, as firm as the day it was dedicated. He landed there, and presently walked forth. A grav sled would have taken him faster and easier, but part of his aim was to get to know somewhat about those who were departed. His ship, all systems on standby, fell behind him like a coppery cenotaph.

  He didn’t worry about the safety of the environment. Murdoch had proven that for him. What had still to be learned was mere detail: for instance, what imported crops would do well?

  Any number, Trevelyan felt sure. It was a rich and generous planet. No doubt it had been more so before the catastrophe, but it remained wonderful enough, and nature was fast healing the wounds.

  The bay glittered and chuckled between golden-green hills. At its entrance began an ocean; coming down, he had identified fantastically big shoals of marine plants and animals. No birds rode the wind that rumpled his hair. Most, perhaps all vertebrates were extinct. But lower forms had survived the disaster. Insects, or their equivalent, swarmed on delicate wings that often threw back the sunlight in rainbows. Silvery forms leaped from the water. The wind smelled of salt, iodine, and life.

  Overhead wandered some clouds, blue-shadowed in a dazzlingly blue heaven. At this season, the supernova was aloft by day, invisible. Disaster, Trevelyan thought with a shudder. How little had Earth’s ancient astrologers known of how terrible a word they were shaping!

  But the day was sunny, cool, and peaceful. He walked shoreward, looking.

  The watercraft had sunk or drifted free of their rotted lines. However, the shallower water inshore was so clear that he could see a few where they lay, somewhat preserved. The gracious outlines of the sailboats did not astonish him; that demand was imposed by natural law. But his eyes stung to think that the dead had loved sloops and yawls as much as he did. And they had put bronze figureheads on many, whose green-corroded remnants hinted at flowers, wings, flames, anything fair and free. A large ship had drifted aground. It had been iron-hulled and, judging from the stacks, steam-propelled. But it, no, she had also been designed to look like a dancer on the waves.

  He neared the quay. A row of wooden warehouses (?) was partly moldered away, partly buried under vines. Nevertheless he could make out how roofs once swept in high curves that the doorways matched. A rusting machine, probably a crane, was decorated at the end of its lifting arm with a merry animal face.

  He stood for some while before an arch at the head of the mole. Here the dwellers had represented themselves.

  Their art was not photographic. It had a swing of line and mass that woke a pulse in Trevelyan, it was not quite like anything he had ever seen before. But the bipeds with their long slim six-fingered hands, long necks and long-beaked heads, came through to him as if still alive. He almost thought he could hear their stone cloaks flap in the wind.

  Walking further into the city, he began to find their bones.

  Carrion eaters had seldom or never disturbed them. Dust blew in, settled on pavement, became soil; seeds followed, struck frail roots that gradually crumbled brick and concrete; bushes and vines grew over that first carpet and up the walls; those kinds of trees that survived extended their range into the domains of trees that had not, and beyond that into farm and town. But the invasion was slow. The wilderness had all the time in the world. It was in full occupation of the shoreward edges of this city, and reducing the next line, but as yet just a few forerunners and— Trevelyan thought with a hurtful smile—sappers had won this near the waterfront.

  The buildings of granite, marble, and masonry rose tall, washed by rain and sunlight, little damaged by weather, only occasional creepers blurring their outlines. Like the relief sculpture on their walls, they leaped and soared, not as man-built skyscrapers do but in that peculiar rhythm which made their heights seem to fly. They were colonnaded, balustrated, many-windowed, and kept some of the coloring that once softened their austerity.

  Trevelyan wondered at the absence of parks or gardens. His observations from altitude had suggested a deep-reaching love of landscape and care for it. And floral motifs were about the commonest decorations. Well, the dwellers had not been human; it would take long to get some insight into what their race psyche might have been. Maybe they enhoyed the contrast of art and openness. If this place was typical, every city was a delight to live in. At some economic sacrifice, the dwellers had avoided filling their air and water with noise, dirt, and poison. To be sure, they were lucky that no heating was required. But as far as Trevelyan had been able to ascertain, industrial plants were widely scattered outside urban limits, connected by railways. There were no automobiles, though that was probably within the technological capabilities. Instead, he found the depictions, and some bones, of large quadrupeds that served like horses; he also identified the hulks of what appeared to have been public vehicles with primitive electric motors. It was hard to tell after four hundred years, but he at least got the impression that, while theirs was a productive and prosperous civilization, the dwellers had not created overly much trash either. They could have foreseen the problem and taken steps. He’d like to know.

  Not that they were saints. He came upon statues and dimmed murals which showed combat. Twice, above inscriptions he would never interpret, he saw a being dressed in rags bursting chains off himself; no doubt somebody put those chains on in the first place. But most often he found imagery which he read as of affection, gentleness, work, teaching, discovery, or the sheer splendor of being alive.

  He entered courtyards, walked past dried pools and fountains, on into the buildings. Few had elevators, which was suggestive since the culture could have supplied them. He noted that the shafts of the wide circular staircases would easily accommodate grav lifts. The murals indoors were scarcely faded;-their vividness took some of the grief off him. Nevertheless, and although he was not superstitious or even especially religious, he knocked on the first door he came to.

  Every door was sliding or folding, none bore locks or latches, which again implied unusual traits. The majority of apartments had been deserted. Cloth had decayed, metal tarnished, plaster cracked, and dust fallen centimeters thick. But the furnishings remained usable by humans, who were formed quite like the dwellers. Clean and patch up; restore the water supply; make do with the airily-shaped oil lanterns, if need be, and a campstove since the original owners didn’t seem to have cooked anything; throw padding over chairs, divans, beds, intricately grained floors: and you would be altogether comfortable. Soon power would become available, and you could change the place around until it was ideal.

  Early in the game, though, you’d better get rid of those pictures, papers, enigmatic tools, and shelves ful of books. They could be disturbing to live with.

  As the hours passed, Trevelyan did find skeletons in a few apartments. Either these individuals had died by surprise, like those he infrequently noticed in the streets, or they desired privacy for their final day. One lay in a kind of chaise longue, with a book upon what had been the lap. Twice he found small skeletons covered by a large one. Did the mother understand that death was coming from the sky? Yes, she could see it up there, a point of radiance too brilliant to look near, surrounded by the auroras it evoked in this atmosphere. Probably she knew that death was everywhere. But she was driven by the instinct of Niobe.

  When he discovered the ossuary, Trevelyan decided there must be several, and this was how the average dweller had elected to go. It was in a large hall—theater? auditorium? temple? The most susceptible must already have died, and radiation sickness be upon the rest. In man it approaches its terminus with nausea, vomiting, hair coming out, internal bleeding, blood from the orifices and eyes, strengthless- ness, fever, and delirium. Doubtless it was similar for the dwellers.

  Outside were the remnants of several improvised coal furnaces. Their pipes fed into the sealed hall, carbon monoxide
generators. Bones and rusted weapons nearby suggested the operators had finished their task and then themselves. The door was the single tightly fastened one Trevelyan had encountered, but being wooden it yielded to his boot in a cloud of punk. Beyond lay the skeletons of adults, hundreds of them, and many more young, and toys, games, cups, banners, musical instruments—I don’t know what they did at that party, Trevelyan thought, but if we humans had the same guts, we’d tell the children that Carnival came early this year.

  He walked back out into the bright quiet. Something like a butterfly went past, though its wings were fairer than anything evolved on Earth. Being a little of an antiquarian, he said aloud: “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away; I will not bless the name of the Lord. But I will remember. Oh, yes, I will remember.”

  He had not gone much further toward the middle of town when he heard a thunder rumble. Looking up past the towertops, he saw the great shining form of Campesino descend. She came between him and the sun and covered him with her shadow.

  Reflexively, he took shelter in a doorway. One hand dropped to his pistol. With a sour grin at himself, he activated the tiny radio transceiver in his tunic pocket. On the standard band, he heard Murdoch’s voice: “Cordy ahoy! Respond!”

  The empty speedster made no reply. A drone and a quivering went through the air as Campesino balanced on her gravs.

  “You!” Murdoch barked. “We picked up your tachyons halfway to here. We followed you down by your neutrinos. Don’t try bluffing us about having a friend in reserve. You’re alone, and we’ve got a cyclic blast zeroed in, and I want to speak with you.”

  More silence in the receivers. Trevelyan felt the sweat on his ribs, under his arms, and smelled it. He could not foretell what would happen. At best, he had sketched behavior patterns Murdoch might adopt and responses he might make. His plan amounted to creating a situation where he could improvise—whether successfully or not.

  A barely distinguishable background growl: “No one inside, I'd guess. Exploring the city?”

  “Could be,” Murdoch said. “Odd they’d leave their boat unguarded.”

  “A trap?”

  “Well—maybe. Don’t seem Cordy style, but maybe we better keep clear.”

  Trevelyan did in fact wish Campesino to set down elsewhere, making Genji less of a hostage. He decided to push matters, trod forth and shot a flash from his gun into the air. It crackled. Ozone touched his nostrils.

  “Look! Below! You, do you read us?”

  Trevelyan saw no sense in giving away the fact that he could listen. He might gain some slight advantage thereby; and Cosmos knew, with that metal stormcloud hanging above him, he needed whatever help he could get. He waved and jogged off toward the city center, where he had noticed a plaza from above.

  After a conference he couldn’t make out, the others did what he would have done in their place. Campesino opened a hatch and discharged a grav sled wifh a man or two aboard. Not carrying missiles, she could give them no effective armament. But they would hover near Genji and cry warning of anything suspicious. The ship herself dropped behind the towers. When she landed, the ground trembled and echoes boomed slowly from wall to wall.

  Trevelyan switched off his radio speaker, turned on the transmitter, and hastened his trot. Once he accidentally kicked a skull. It rolled aside with a dry clatter. I’m sorry, he thought to it. That being not altogether alien to him had felt this street underfoot, sunwarmth reflected off cataractlike facades, muscle movement, heartbeat, breath. The city had lived around the being, with friends, loves, traffic, music, pleasure . . . did the race laugh? / may be joining you soont he added, and scorned himself for the juvenilism.

  He emerged not on a square but a golden rectangle. Grassy growth was thrusting up and apart those blocks which had paved it, but the rains of four centuries had not quite washed out the grooves worn by generations of feet. The enclosing buildings were lower here. Their lines bespoke tranquility rather than excitement, though three of them held the fragments of dazzling stained-glass windows. Numerous skeletons lay prostrated before one. Campesino rose brutal from the plaza center.

  Several men and not-men waited, guns at the ready. They were a hard-looking gang. Murdoch stood at ease, Faustina tensed beside him. Both wore black coveralls with silver ornamentation. Her hair glowed in the light. Trevelyan approached at a reduced pace, hands well away from his pistol.

  “Mike!” the adventurer bawled. He threw back his head in laughter that made his moustaches vibrate. “Why the chaos didn’t I expect you’d be the one?”

  “Who else with you?” Faustina said.

  Trevelyan shrugged. “Who with you?” he countered.

  “You’ve seen our roster,” Murdoch said. “I figured you’d refuse to board, afraid we’d grab you, so I came out.” He jerked a thumb at the sheer hull behind. “Got a full complement inside at alert stations.”

  Trevelyan achieved a smile. “What makes you expect trouble, Juan?” he asked in his mildest voice.

  Murdoch blinked. “Why . . . you dogged us clear from Earth—”

  “No, think,” Trevelyan said. “Space is free. The Coordination Service investigates where it can, but forbids violence to its agents except under extreme necessity. You know that as well as I do.”

  The guards around shifted stance, muttered among themselves, flicked eyes from side to side. Trevelyan virtually felt the unease in them.

  “For example,” he drawled, “You’re breaking the law here, first by not reporting a discovery—” “We’ve only just made it!’ Faustina said. Red stained the white cheekbones. Her fists were clenched. He studied her for a moment, thinking with compassion: She's afraid I'll take away her glory —her chance to rake in money until she can lose the fear of being poor that was ground into her, and with caution: In an aggressive human personality, fear begets ruthlessness.

  “Please let me finish,” he said. “I’m not interested in lodging charges, nor would my superiors be. The offense probably occurs hundreds of times a year, and seldom matters. Out of necessity, the Service operates on the old principle that the law should not concern itself with trifles,”

  She stepped back, breathing hard, lips pulled away from teeth, but plainly bemused. Murdoch’s massive features had grown immobile. “Continue,” he said.

  “You’ve committed a more important breach of law by tampering with and destroying material of scientific value.” Trevelyan kept his tone amiable and a faint smile on his mouth. “I refer to that island city. But the planet is such an archaeological and biological Gol- conda that we’ll overlook your indiscretion, we’ll put it down to an amateur’s forgivable enthusiasm, in exchange for the service you’ve done to civilization by bringing this world to our knowledge. You’ll remember an agent like me has authority to issue pardons in minor cases. I’ll write you one today, if you wish, and recommend you for next year’s Polaris Medal into the bargain.”

  He offered his hand. “Stop worrying,” he said. “Let’s have a drink and go home together.”

  Murdoch did not take the hand. The big man stood for a while, staring, and the silence of the dead grew and grew. He broke it with a whisper: “Are you serious?”

  Trevelyan dropped pretense. He said in a hardened voice, while his nerves felt the surrounding guns: “It’s an honest offer. You already have Good Luck to make your living off. Be content with that.”

  “Good Luck?” Faustina cried. She swept one arm in a taloned arc. “You idiot! This is Good Luck!”

  “I kept hoping it wasn’t,” Trevelyan said low.

  “What do you figure I had in mind?” Murdoch demanded.

  “Obvious,” Trevelyan sighed. “Here was your real discovery. But how to exploit it? You couldn’t get a patent, because the Union would forbid colonization until the scientists finished their researches. Considering the distance, and the shortage of personnel, and the vast amount there is to study, that would take at least a hundred years, probably longer. In fact, the odds are we’d put a
secrecy seal on the’coordinates for a decade or two, to keep unqualified visitors away until a big enough enterprise got started and the scientists could do their own guarding.”

  “Scientists!” Faustina nearly shrieked.

  “What a means to a fortune, though!” the coordinator said. “You could offer an utterly desirable home, complete with every facility for hundreds of millions of people, at a price the ordinary colonial can afford. You stood to become one of the wealthiest humans that ever lived.

  “Well, you went looking for a world we wouldn’t disallow. What you turned up isn’t particularly good. But it’s no worse than some which have been settled, and at least doesn’t have a population already squeezing its meager resources. People would buy your real estate there, if the preliminary work had been done for them and the cost was not beyond their means.

  “Some you actually would take to the marginal planet—say when an agent like me happened to be around. You’d lose money on them. But it wouldn’t matter, because most would be shipped here, where entire cities cost you practically nothing. They’d write home. Your ships would carry the overjoyed mail, maybe censoring it a wee bit to keep us Cordys from getting wind of your enterprise too soon. Not that we’d be likely to, when we’re run off our feet with urgent cases, and when few people on those thousands of entire worlds give us any active cooperation. You could carry on for a number of years, I’m sure, before the discrepancies got so glaring that we investigated.”

  “What’d you do after you learned?” Murdoch asked.

  “Nothing,” Trevelyan said. “How could we displace tens of thousands, maybe millions of men, women, and children, who’d come in good faith, started a good new life, put down roots, begun bringing forth a new generation? It’d be a political impossibility, a moral one, maybe a physical one. They’d fight for their homes, and we couldn’t bomb them, could we?

  “You personally would be subject to—in theory, confiscation of your properties and imprisonment of your body. In practice, you’d have put both where we couldn’t touch them without more effort and killing than it was worth. You’d have rigged the colonial government and its constitution early in the game to make you something like the Founding Father president of Good Luck. They’d fight for you, too. So, rather than violate its own prohibition on conquest—for the sake of scientific and aesthetic values that’d already been ruined—the Union would accept what you’d done to it.”