by Ben Bova
“What do you mean, play ball?”
“Where is your next big rally, Reverend Wilson?”
“Anaheim.”
The young man nodded. “Yes. We’ve already been in contact with the stadium management there.”
“What right do you have…?”
“It’s very simple, Reverend. A panic at one of your rallies could kill hundreds of people. Maybe thousands. None of us wants that to happen. Right?”
Willie nodded slowly.
The young man took a deep breath. “Then what you have to tell your followers is that the lights in the sky are completely natural, that they’re caused by the spacecraft that’s approaching us, and that there is no supernatural meaning behind the lights whatsoever. You must disassociate the lights in the sky from the voice of God.”
“But that’s not possible,” Willie said.
“Yes, it is. You’ll have to say it.”
Willie glanced up at his brother, then looked back at the man from the Justice Department. “You’re interfering with the Lord’s work.”
“You work for the Lord, sir. I work for the Attorney General.” He hesitated, then added, “And we all work for the IRS.”
It was sunset before Stoner emerged from his office building. He stood at the entrance for a moment and looked out through the fringe of palms across the street toward the flaming sky. Then he turned and headed for the Post Exchange.
An hour later, showered, dressed in clean slacks and pullover shirt, he walked from the BOQ to the hotel, only to find that Jo wasn’t there. With a shrug, he went to the computer building, then to the Officers’ Club. She wasn’t in either place.
Where the hell could she be? he wondered. The clock behind the club bar showed it was well past seven. She said she was going for a swim; if anything had happened to her the whole island would be buzzing with it.
He made his way past the hardy group of regulars who lined the bar and sat wearily in the same corner booth he and Markov had used before.
She couldn’t have forgotten, he knew. She just decided not to show up. Cold anger seeped through him. She’s probably with McDermott.
No matter where Cavendish walked, no matter how far he decided to go or which direction he decided to go in, his feet kept returning him to the hospital.
It was dusk now, and as he leaned against the bole of a palm across the tennis courts from the hospital’s blocky shape, he could see lights going on in the windows.
I’ve got no will of my own, he whimpered deep within himself. They’re controlling me, making me walk and talk like some bloody animated doll.
He sagged against the tree. The pain wasn’t so bad at the moment, but nothing could make it go away altogether. Only obedience to their commands alleviated the agony.
“Damned clever of them,” he muttered to himself. “If they devoted as much effort to bettering their blasted economy as they do to controlling people’s minds, they wouldn’t need their blasted KGB.”
The pain wasn’t so bad now. Maybe I could get some food down, he thought. Or sleep! He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Sleep. What a luxury that would be.
Cavendish never saw Schmidt raise his window, lean out over its edge and drop the two floors to the sandy soil at the base of the hospital wall. The young man was fully dressed, his eyes glittered wildly, and in his buttoned shirt pocket were only two of the capsules that Cavendish had given him a few hours earlier.
Markov felt like a sailor returning home from a shipwreck. He was stiff-kneed with muscle strain, sticky with salt and sand, and sunburned painfully on his face and high forehead.
Every muscle ached. He had rowed the damnable outrigger canoe for hours while Jo sat grinning at him. If it hadn’t been for the brightness of the aurorae and the lights from the buildings on Kwajalein, Markov knew they would have drifted out to sea in the nighttime darkness and perished in the watery wilderness.
Now he clumped up the front stairs of his own little bungalow, crossed the uneven cement porch and pushed through the front door. It was not yet nine o’clock but it felt like four in the morning to Markov. Maria will be surprised to see me home so early, he thought.
She was not in the front room. He shrugged, and the movement under his shirt made him realize that his neck and shoulders were also sunburned.
With a sigh that looked forward to nothing more than collapsing face down on his bed, he opened the bedroom door.
Maria gaped at him, startled, shocked. The suitcase on her bed beside her was filled with strange electronic controls. A tiny glowing screen was flickering with a jagged trace of light, like an EKG.
But it was the expression on her face that stunned Markov. Guilt, anger, fear were all there. Her mouth was open but no sound issued from it. Her eyes stared at him and he could see all the way into her soul through them. She looked the way Lucifer must have looked when he realized that God had opened the pits of hell for him.
“What are you doing?” Markov bellowed. “What is this?”
All pain forgotten, he advanced on his wife. She got up from the bed, backed away from him, confusion and shame written across her face.
Markov looked from his wife to the suitcase of electronic gear. He grabbed the suitcase and raised it over his head.
“Don’t!” Maria screamed, and leaped at him.
He hurled the suitcase against the nearest wall. It split in two under the impact of the cement.
“You don’t know what you’re doing!” Maria screeched, clawing at him.
He pushed her away and she bounced onto the bed. Markov stepped over to the electronic equipment. One baleful red light was still on. In a cold fury he smashed his sandaled foot against it. Glass shattered and plastic buckled. Again and again he stomped the suitcase until nothing was left but unrecognizable shards of glass and circuit boards.
Maria was round-eyed. “You…you’ve destroyed a vital piece of state property.”
“Be silent, woman,” he growled, “and be grateful that I don’t do the same to you. I don’t know what that equipment was for, but it was for no good, I can see that much.”
Staring at the smashed equipment, Maria broke into sobs. “They’ll kill us both, Kirill. They’ll kill us both.”
“Then let them!” Markov snapped. “Perhaps we’d be better off dead.”
* * *
I reject as worthless all attempts to calculate from theoretical principles the frequency of occurrence of intelligent life forms in the universe. Our ignorance of the chemical processes by which life arose on earth makes such calculations meaningless. Depending on the details of the chemistry, life may be abundant in the universe, or it may be rare, or it may not exist at all outside our own planet. Nevertheless, there are good scientific reasons to pursue the search for evidence of intelligence with some hope for a successful outcome…. The societies whose activities we are most likely to observe are those which have expanded, for whatever good or bad reasons, to the maximum extent permitted by the laws of physics.
Now comes my main point. Given plenty of time, there are few limits to what a technological society can do. Take first the question of colonization….
FREEMAN DYSON
Disturbing the Universe
Harper & Row
1979
* * *
CHAPTER 33
Stoner sat alone in the corner booth, feet up on the opposite bench, a half-empty bottle of champagne sitting in a plastic bucket on the table.
Some big night, he said to himself. You sure are having a wild time, old buddy.
The club was filling up with the after-dinner crowd. Somebody had put blaring disco music on the stereo, and people had to shout to hear themselves over it. A few people came over to Stoner’s table from time to time, but he quickly and firmly shooed them away.
Maybe I ought to go over to McDermott’s trailer and see if she’s really there, Stoner thought. But what if she is? Then what do you do? Drag her off by the hair of her head?
&
nbsp; He yanked the bottle from its icy water and poured his plastic glass full. The champagne looked pretty flat. California stuff, he guessed, peering at the label. Christ, not even that: New York State. He dunked the bottle back into its bucket so hard that some of the ice water splashed on him. Blinking, Stoner swung his feet to the floor.
Hell, I can’t even get drunk when I want to.
The front door of the club banged open so hard that the crash made everyone jump. Stoner saw Schmidt standing framed in the doorway, shoulders hunched and head lowered as if he were going to ram a wall.
For a moment all conversations stopped. The disco music blared inanely on, and Schmidt’s heavy, open-mouthed breathing seemed to match the music’s thumping beat.
Stoner turned back to his champagne. The club filled with talk again. People moved, laughed, drank. But Schmidt, burning eyes fixed on Stoner, pushed his way past the crowd at the bar, heading for the corner booth.
“It’s all your fault,” he said to Stoner.
Stoner looked up at him.
“You can sit there and drink champagne,” Schmidt said, his words only slightly slurred, “and keep us here in this godforsaken hole.”
“What are you talking about?” Stoner asked.
“Sure, you drink champagne and wait for the Nobel Prize while the rest of us rot away!” the young astronomer said, his voice rising.
“Sit down,” Stoner said, “and stop making a fool of yourself.”
“I’ll show you who’s a fool!” Schmidt shouted.
He grabbed Stoner by the shirt and yanked him out of the booth as easily as a child lifts a toy. Stoner felt his shin scrape against the table’s edge and then he was completely off his feet and thrown to the floor.
Everything in the club stopped. Even the music.
“Champagne!” Schmidt screamed, slapping the bottle and its plastic bucket off the table.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Stoner bawled, scrambling back to his feet. No one in the club moved, they all stood frozen, wide-eyed, watching the two of them.
Turning on him, Schmidt roared, “It’s all your fault!” and leaped at Stoner, grabbing him by the throat. His thumbs were like steel against Stoner’s windpipe. Stoner gagged, couldn’t breathe.
Instinctively, Stoner locked his hands together and swung both arms hard inside Schmidt’s wrists, ripping the younger man’s hands away from his throat.
“You’re crazy,” he croaked raggedly.
But Schmidt, his eyes afire, screamed back, “You want to steal everything from me.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Stoner saw the club door swing open again and Jo stepped in, hair still glistening wet. Her mouth dropped open as she saw the two men confronting each other.
Schmidt swung at Stoner and he saw the punch coming but he was too surprised and slow to avoid it. The Dutchman’s heavy fist caught him on the cheek and spun him around. He crashed into the booth’s table and sprawled over it. Schmidt was on him before Stoner could turn over, both knees on his back, pounding his head and shoulders with bunched fists.
“Your fault! Your fault!” Schmidt screamed with each blow.
Stoner felt himself starting to black out and knew that Schmidt would go on pounding him to death while all the rest of them watched. By the time they got past their shock it would be too late to help. With raw animal instinct he jammed one foot against the back of the bench and pushed the two of them off the table. They fell heavily to the floor and he broke free of Schmidt’s insane grip.
For an instant the two men crawled away from each other. Stoner saw the younger man’s eyes. He’s crazy! Schmidt’s hair was matted over his face, eyes dilated, mouth hanging open, gasping for breath, snarling at him. Stoner could taste blood in his own mouth and every muscle of his body throbbed with pain.
He’ll kill me! Stoner’s mind shrieked at him. He’ll kill me if I let him.
Schmidt scrambled to his feet as Stoner did. Stoner backed away a short step, and felt the heel of his shoe touch the champagne bottle. The floor was wet where he stood.
Focus, Stoner heard his old instructor hiss at him. Focus your strength and speed.
Snarling, Schmidt rushed. Stoner sidestepped, kicked at his kneecap and sent him sprawling across the slippery mess on the floor.
Schmidt got up immediately, as if he couldn’t feel the pain, as if there were no pain. His face had somehow been gashed along one cheek and blood dripped down his neck, into his collar. White showed all around his eyes and his lips were pulled back to bare his teeth.
Again Schmidt leaped. Stoner tried to avoid him again, but the younger man’s outflung arm caught him neck high and they both went slamming against the club wall. Stoner pushed Schmidt away and tried to get to his feet. Schmidt grabbed the empty champagne bottle and hefted it like a club.
Backing away, knees bent, hands out defensively, Stoner heard his instructor’s voice again: The martial arts are not a game! You are not trying to score points, you are trying to save your life!
Schmidt advanced toward him, brandishing the bottle. A low growl came from his throat. Stoner watched the young man’s feet as he came closer, forcing himself to concentrate on what he must do, calming his breathing rate, putting his body in balance.
Nobody’s going to lift a finger to help, he saw with a strangely detached part of his mind. They either figure this is a private grudge or they’re scared of getting hurt.
Schmidt swung the bottle in a wild overhand sweep. Stoner ducked under it and leaned all his weight into a punch to Schmidt’s diaphragm. Then he grabbed him and spun him into the wall.
Schmidt turned and swung again wildly but Stoner blocked it with a forearm and kicked him through the partition between booths. The wood splintered and screeched as the young astronomer’s body shattered it.
Stoner stood over Schmidt’s prostrate body and let the breath sigh out of him. He saw Jo still standing at the doorway and now Reynaud was beside her, insanely dressed in gray Navy pajamas, with his arm in a light sling. The others in the club were edging toward him now, timidly approaching.
But Schmidt started climbing slowly to his feet, the bottle still firmly in his hand, a grisly smile on his bleeding face. Everyone froze into stillness.
Jesus Christ! Stoner gaped. He’s like Frankenstein’s monster. Nothing stops him.
Schmidt giggled like a schoolboy pulling the wings off a fly and came at Stoner again.
Stoner buried the fear and pain he felt and did what had to be done. Block, kick, punch to the side of the head. Schmidt sagged to his knees. Stoner grasped the wrist of his right hand, yanked the arm out full length and kicked Schmidt’s ribs. The bottle fell from his hand. Ribs cracked audibly. Stoner chopped a vicious knife-edge blow to Schmidt’s neck and he went down on his face.
The crowd surged in closer.
“Don’t get near him!” Stoner panted. “He’s crazy.”
And Schmidt slowly climbed back to his feet. The crowd gasped and backed away. His ribs must be broken from that kick, Stoner knew. What in hell is going to stop him?
His face set in a hideous death’s-head rictus, Schmidt charged again at Stoner, who met him with a front kick to the abdomen and a hammer blow to the shoulder. Schmidt’s collarbone cracked.
Break him down, Stoner told himself. Go for the bones. Chop him down like a fucking tree.
It seemed like an eternity. Stoner worked automatically blank-minded, remorselessly, until Schmidt lay inert on the wooden floor, as still as death.
Reynaud pushed his way through the onlookers with his one good arm, Jo trailing behind him.
“You’ve killed him!” Reynaud cried, sinking to his knees beside Schmidt’s prostrate form.
“I don’t…think so,” Stoner panted. “Hope not. I couldn’t…he went…berserk…”
Jo was staring at him. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m okay,” he said. “Get an ambulance…for the kid. I had to hit him…pretty hard.”
“But
you…”
The adrenaline was wearing away and every muscle in Stoner’s body was starting to scream.
“Just get me back to my room,” he mumbled, heading for the door. “I just want to lie down.”
But there were four uniformed shore patrolmen at the door. Stoner collapsed into their arms.
Cavendish woke up slowly, blinking and struggling to clear the fog of sleep from his brain. He shivered with cold. For long moments he had no recollection of why he was sitting slumped against the bole of a big palm tree, legs folded painfully under him, across the tennis courts from the island’s hospital.
Gradually he remembered. He remembered Schmidt and the wild untrue words he had poured into the young man’s ear. Shame burned through him. They’re controlling me, he told himself. They’ve stolen my soul.
He looked out across the tennis courts. It was dark and no one was in sight. Leaning against the tree, he pulled himself up to his feet.
His legs were afire with pins and needles, but his head felt clear. The pain is gone! His hands flew to his face, his scalp, as if they had a will of their own, probing, searching, trying to find from touch if he were deluding himself and the pain was really lurking in there somewhere, hiding, waiting to come back in even more terrifying force.
“It’s gone,” Cavendish whispered shakily to the night shadows. “Truly gone…as completely as if someone had turned off a switch.”
A switch. “Quite,” he said to himself. “A switch that they can turn on again just as easily, whenever they decide they want more from me.”
He pulled his trembling hands away from his head. Despite their tremor, inwardly he felt quite calm. His mind was his own again—at least for a little while.
And with a clarity that comes only when all distracting thoughts have been burned away, Cavendish at last realized what he had to do.
The only person who makes slavery possible, he had once read somewhere, is the slave himself.
And with that brilliant, blazing clarity of vision that had suddenly been granted him, Cavendish saw how he could end his own slavery.
