Golden Age of Science Fiction Vol XII

by Various

  The low-ceilinged room was crowded with men. Rynason didn’t know many of them by name, but he recognized a lot of the faces. The men of the Edge, though they lacked money, education, often brains and usually ethics, at least had the quality of distinctiveness: they didn’t fit the half-dozen convenient molds which the highly developed culture of the inner worlds fitted over the more civilized citizens of the Terran Federation. These men were too self-interested to follow the group-thoughts which controlled the centers of empire, and the seams and wrinkles of their faces stamped a rough kind of individuality even more visually upon them.

  Of them all, the man who was instantly recognizable in any crowd like this was Rene Malhomme; Rynason immediately saw the man in one corner of the room. He stood six and a half feet tall, heavily muscled and a bit wild-eyed; his greying hair fell in disorder over his dirty forehead and sprayed out over his ears. He was surrounded by laughing and shouting men; Rynason couldn’t tell from this distance whether he was engaged in one of his usual heated arguments on religion or in his other avocation of recounting stories of the women he had "converted". He waved a black-lettered sign saying REPENT! over his head—but then, he always did.

  Rynason found Manning in the back, sitting under a cheap print of a Picasso nude with cold light trained on it in typically bad taste. He had a woman with him. Rynason recognized her—Mara Stephens, in charge of communications and supplies for the survey team. She was a strange girl, aloof but not hard, and she carried herself with a quiet dignity. What was she doing with Manning?

  He passed a waiter on his way to the table and ordered a drink. Malhomme saw him as he passed: "Lee Rynason! Come and join me in repentance! Give your soul to God and your money to the barman, for as the prophet sayeth, lo, I am dry! Join us!"

  Rynason grinned and shook his head, walking past. He grabbed one of the light-metal chairs and sat down next to Mara.

  "You wanted to see me," he said to Manning.

  Manning looked up at him to apparent surprise. "Lee! Yes, yes—sit down. Wait, we’ll get you a drink."

  So he was in that kind of a mood. "I’ve got one coming," Rynason said. "What’s our problem today?"

  Manning smiled broadly. "No problem, Lee; no problem at all. Not unless you want to make one." He chuckled goodnaturedly, a tacit statement that he was expecting no such thing. "I’ve got good news today, by god. You tell him, Mara."

  Rynason turned to the girl, who smiled briefly. "It just came over the telecom," she said. "Manning has a good chance for the governorship here. The Council is supposed to announce its decision in two weeks."

  Rynason looked over at Manning, his face expressionless. "Congratulations. How did this happen?"

  "I’ve got an inside track; friend of mine knows several of the big guys. Throws parties, things like that. He’s been putting in a word for me, here and there."

  "Isn’t this a bit out of your line?" Rynason said.

  Manning sat back, a large man with close-cropped dark hair and heavy features. His beard was trimmed to a thin line along the ridge of his jaw—a style that was popular on the inner worlds, but rarely seen here on the Edge. "This is my line," he said. "God, this is what I was after when I took this damned job. Survey teams are a dime a dozen out here, Lee; it’s no job for a man."

  "We’ve got sort of a special case here," Rynason said evenly, glancing at Mara. She smiled at him. "We haven’t run into any alien races before that were intelligent."

  Manning laughed, and took a long swallow of his drink. "Twenty-six lousy horsefaces—now there’s an important discovery for you. No, Lee, this is peanuts. For that matter, they may be running into intelligent aliens all over the Edge by now—communication isn’t so reliable out here that we’d necessarily know about it. What we’ve found here isn’t any more important than all the rubble and trash the Outsiders left behind."

  "Still, it is unique so far," Mara said.

  "I’ll tell you exactly how unique it is," Manning said, leaning forward and setting down his glass with a bang. "It’s just unique enough that I can make it sound important in my report to the Council. I can make myself sound a little impressive. That’s how important it is; no more than that."

  Rynason pursed his lips, but didn’t say anything. The waiter arrived with his drink; he threw a green coin onto the table which was scooped up before it had finished ringing to a stop, and sat back with the glass in his hand.

  "Is that your pitch to the Council?" he asked. "You’re telling them that Hirlaj is an important archaeological area and that’s why you should get the governorship?"

  "Something like that," Manning nodded. "That, and my friend at Seventeenth Cluster headquarters. Incidentally, he’s an idiot and a slob—turns on quadsense telemuse instead of working, drinks hopsbrau from his own sector. I can’t stand him. But I did him a few favors, just in case, and they’re paying off."

  "I think it’s marvelous the way our frontier policy caters to the colonists," Mara said quietly. She was still smiling, but it was an ironic smile which suddenly struck Rynason as characteristic of her.

  He knew exactly what she meant. Manning’s little push for power was nothing new or shocking in Terran frontier politics. With the rapid expansion of the Edge through the centuries, the frontier policy of the Confederation had had to adapt itself to comparatively slipshod methods of setting up governments in the newly-opened areas. Back in the early days they’d tried sending out trained men from each Cluster headquarters, but that had been foredoomed to failure: travel between the stars was slow, and too often the governors had arrived after local officialdoms had already been established, and there had been clashes. The colonists had almost always backed the local governments, and there were a few full-scale revolts when the system had been backed too militantly by Cluster headquarters.

  So the Local Autonomy System had been sanctioned. The colonists would always support their own men, who at least knew conditions in the areas they were to govern. But since this necessarily limited the choice of Edge governorships to the roustabouts and drifters who wandered the outworlds, the resulting administrations were probably even more corrupt than they had been under the old system of what had amounted to centralized graft. The Cluster Councils retained the power of appointing the local governors, but aside from that the newly-opened worlds of the Edge were completely under their own rule. Some of the more vocal critics of the Local Autonomy System had dubbed it instead the Indigenous Corruption System; it was by now a fairly standard nickname in the outworlds.

  The system made for a wide-open frontier—bustling, wild, hectic, and rich. For the worlds of the Edge were untamed worlds, raw and forbidding, and the policy of the Councils was calculated to attract the kind of men who not only could but would open these frontiers. The roustabouts, the low drifters of the spaceways … men who were hard and strong from repeated knocks, who were looking for a way to work or fight their way up. The lean and hungry of the outworlds.

  Rynason glanced across the table at Manning. He was neither lean nor hungry, but he had that look in his eyes. Rynason had been around the Edge for years—his father had travelled the spacers in the commercial lines—and he had seen that look on many men, in the fields and mines, in the spaceports, in the quickly-tarnished prefab towns that sprang up almost overnight when a planetfall was made. He could recognize it on Manning despite the man’s casual, self-satisfied expression.

  "You don’t have to worry about the colonists here," Manning was saying to the girl. "I‘ll treat ‘em decently. There’ll be money to be made here, and I can make it without stepping on too many toes."

  Mara seemed amused. "And what would happen if you had to step on them to make your money? What if Hirlaj doesn’t turn out to have any natural resources worth exploiting—a whole civilization has been here for thousands of years? What if the colony here starts to falter, and the men move on?"

  Manning frowned at her for a moment, then gave a grunting laugh. "No chance of that. It’s like Lee
was just saying—this planet is an important discovery—we’ve got tame aliens here, intelligent horsefaces that you can lead around with a rope on their necks. That alone will draw tourists. Maybe well set up an official Restricted Ground, a sort of reservation."

  "A zoo, you mean," Rynason interrupted.

  Manning raised an amused eyebrow at him. "A reservation, I said. You know what reservations are like, Lee."

  Rynason glared at the heavier man, then subsided. There was no point in getting into a fight over if’s and maybe’s; in the outworlds you learned quickly to confine your clashes to tangibles. "Why did you want to see me?" he said.

  "I want your preliminary report completed," Manning said. "I’ve got to have my complete report collated and transmitted within the week, if it’s to have any effect on the Council. Most of the boys have got them in already; Breune and Larsborg have promised theirs within four days. But you’re still holding me up."

  Rynason took a long swallow of his drink and put it down empty. The noise and smell of the bar seemed to grow around him, washing over him. It might have been the effects of the tarpaq in the drink, but he felt his stomach tighten and turn slightly when he thought of how Earth’s culture presented itself, warped itself, here on the frontier Edge. Was this land of mercenary, slipshod rush really what had carried Earthmen to the stars?

  "I don’t know if I’ll have much to report for at least a week," he said shortly.

  "Then give me a report on what you’ve got!" Manning snapped. "If nothing else, turn in your transcripts and I’ll do the report myself; I can handle it. What the hell do you mean, you won’t have much to report?"

  "Larsborg said the same thing," Mara interjected.

  "Larsborg said he’d have his report ready in a couple of days anyway!"

  "I’ll give you what I’ve got as soon as I can," Rynason said. "But things are just beginning to break for me—did you see my note this afternoon?"

  "Yes, of course. The part about this Tedron or whatever his name was?"

  "Tebron Marl. He’s the link between their barbaric and civilized periods. I’ve only begun to get into it."

  Manning was waving for more drinks; he caught a waiter’s eye and then turned back to Rynason. "What’s this nonsense about some damned block you ran into? Have you got a crazy horse on your hands?"

  "There’s something strange there," Rynason said. "He tells me this Tebron was actually supposed to have communicated with their god, or whatever he was. It sounds crazy, all right. But there’s more to it than that, I’m sure of it. I wanted time to go into it further before I made my report."

  "I think you’ve got a nut alien there, boy. Don’t let him foul you up; you’re one of my best men."

  Rynason almost sneered, but he managed to bring it out as a grin. The role of protective father did not sit well on Manning’s shoulders. "We’re dealing here with a remarkably sane race," he pointed out. "The very fact that they have total recall argues against any insanity in them. There’ve been experiments on the inner worlds for over a century now, trying to bring out total recall in us, and not much luck so far. We’re a sick, hung-up race."

  Manning slapped his hand down on the table. "What the hell are you trying to do, Lee? Are you trying to measure these aliens by our standards? I thought you had better sense. Total recall doesn’t necessarily mean a damn thing in them—but when they start telling you straightforward and cold that they’ve talked with some god, and then they throw what sounds like an anxiety fit right in front of you…. Well, what does it sound like to you?"

  Rynason accepted one of the drinks that the waiter banged down on the table and took a sip. He felt lightheaded. "It would have been an anxiety fit if Horng had been human," he said. "But you’re right, I do know better than to judge him by our standards. No, it was something else."

  "What, then?"

  He shook his head. "I don’t know. That’s the point—I can’t give you a decent report until I find out."

  "Then, dammit, give me an indecent report! Fill it out with some very learned speculations, you know the type…." Manning stopped, and grinned. "Speaking of indecent reports, what have we turned up on their sex lives?"

  "Marc Stoworth covered that in his report yesterday," Mara said. "They’re unisexual, and their sex life is singularly boring, if you’ll pardon the expression. At least, Stoworth says so. If it weren’t I’m sure he’d tell us all about it."

  Manning chuckled. "Yes, I imagine you’re right; Marc is a good boy. Well look, Lee, I’ve told you the position I’m in. Now I’m counting on you to get me out of this spot. I’ve got to transmit my report to Council within a week. I don’t want to pressure you, but you know I’m in a position to do it if I have to. Dammit, give me a report."

  "I’ll turn something in in a few days," Rynason said vaguely. His brain was definitely fuzzy now from the tarpaq.

  Manning stood up. "All right, don’t forget it. Trick it out with some high-sounding guesses if you have to, like I said. Right now I’ve got to see a man about a woman." He paused, glancing at Mara. "You’re busy?"

  "I’m busy, yes." Her face was studiedly expressionless.

  He shrugged briefly and went out, pushing and weaving his way through the hubbub that filled the bar. It was dark outside; Rynason caught a glimpse of the dark street as Manning went through the door. Night fell quickly on Hirlaj, with the suddenness of age.

  Rynason turned back to the table, and Mara. He looked at her curiously.

  "What were you doing with him, anyway? You usually keep to yourself."

  The girl smiled wryly. She had deep black hair which fell to her shoulders in soft waves. Most of the women here grew their hair down to their waists, in exaggerated imitation of inner-world styles, but Mara had more taste than that. Her eyes were a clear brown, and they met his directly. "He was in a sharp mood, so I came along as peacemaker. You don’t seem to have needed me."

  "You helped, at that; thanks. Was that true about the governorship?"

  "Of course. Manning seldom brags, you should know that. He’s a very capable man, in some ways."

  Rynason frowned. "He could be a lot more useful on this survey if he’d use his talents on tightening up the survey itself. He’s forcing a premature report, and it isn’t going to be worth much."

  "Is that what’s really bothering you?" she asked.

  He tried to focus on her through the haze of the noisy bar. "Of course it is. That, and his whole attitude toward these people."

  "The Hirlaji? Are they people to you?"

  He shrugged. "What are people? Humans? Or reasoning beings you can talk to, communicate with?"

  "I should think people would be reasoning beings you could relate to," she said softly. "Not just intellectually, but emotionally too. You have to be able to understand them to communicate that way—that’s what makes people."

  Rynason was silent, trying to integrate that into the fog in his head. The raucous noise of the bar had faded into an underwater murmur around him, lost somewhere where he could not see.

  Finally, he said, "That’s the trouble with them, the Hirlaji. I can’t really understand them. It’s like there’s really no contact, not even through the interpreter." He stared into his drink. "I wish to hell we had some straight telepathers here; they might work with the Hirlaji, since they’re telepathic anyway. I’d like to make a direct link myself."

  After a moment he felt Mara’s hand on his arm, and realized that he had almost fallen asleep on the table.

  "You’d better go on back to your quarters," she said.

  He sat up, shaking his head to clear it. "No, but really—what do you think of that idea? What if I had a telepather, and I could link minds with Horng? Straight linkage, no interpreter in the middle. I could get right at that race memory myself!"

  "I think you need some sleep," she said. She seemed worried. "You’re getting too wrapped up in this thing. And forget about the telepathers."

  Rynason looked at her and grinned. "
Why?" he said quietly. "There’s no harm in wishing."

  "Because," she said, "we’ve got three telepathers coming in the day after tomorrow."

  THREE

  Rynason continued to smile at her for several seconds, until her words penetrated. Then he abruptly sat up and steadied himself with one hand against the edge of the table.

  "Can you get one for me?"

  She gave a reluctant shrug. "If you insist, and if Manning okays it. But is it a good idea? Direct contact with a mind so alien?"

  As a matter of fact, now that he was faced with the actual possibility of it, he wasn’t so sure. But he said, "We’ll only know once we’ve tried it."

  Mara dropped her eyes and swirled her drink, watching the tiny red spots form inside the glass and rise to the surface. There was a brief silence between them.

  "Repent, Lee Rynason!" The words burst upon his ears over the waves of sound that filled the room. He turned, half-rising, to find Rene Malhomme hovering over him, his wide grin showing a tooth missing in the bottom row.

  Rynason settled back into his chair. "Don’t shout. I’m going to have a headache soon enough."

  Malhomme took the chair which Manning had vacated and sat in it heavily. He set his hand-lettered placard against the edge of the table and leaned forward, waving a thick finger.

  "You consort with men who would enslave the pure in heart!" he rumbled, but Rynason didn’t miss the laughter in his eye.

  "Manning?" he nodded. "He’d enslave every pure heart on this planet, if he could find one. As a matter of fact, I think he’s already working on Mara here."

  Malhomme turned to her and sat back, appraising her boldly. Mara met his gaze calmly, raising her eyebrows slightly as she waited for his verdict.