The Best of Jack Williamson

by Jack Williamson

  Lord had posted his two gunmen on either side of the ravine, with orders to shoot any stranger at sight. He himself stood warily on the bank of the little gorge, watching Cameron. When Doyle had completed his call to the life-craft, Lord sent him and me to search the house.

  “Look for weapons,” he rapped. “Find out all you can, for our report to Hudd. Make it quick.” His nasal voice was shrill with dread. "When the craft comes, we re getting out of here.”

  Doyle tramped in bitter silence until we were out of earshot, and then let flow a savage stream of low-voiced military profanity.

  “That unprintable fool!” he finished. “Those poor farmers could have told us all we want to know, in five minutes—but that blood-thirsty fool had to butcher them!”

  He kicked angrily at a pebble.

  “I’m sorry about your friend Cameron.” He gave me a sympathetic look. "Lord doesn’t like him. You know the sort of report he’ll make. Cameron’s done for. He was just too independent.”

  VI

  Rory Doyle and I came up to the dwelling. The long, low building seemed all of one piece, a solid part of the hillside. It was apparently made of the same soil-concrete as the dam—differently colored in different rooms, the walls smooth and warm to the touch.

  The furnishings gave an effect of sturdy and comfortable simplicity. The whole house seemed to tell of a warm, free, spacious sort of life—a cold shadow fell across it, when I thought of its builders and owners, lying slaughtered in the gully.

  Hastily, we explored the inviting living room, the workshop where a handsome table stood half-finished in a clutter of plastic dust and shavings, the big kitchen fitted with shining gadgets to manufacture dishes and synthetic staples on the spot, the cold locker stored with a rich abundance of frozen foods.

  We found no identifiable weapons. Nor any good reason, that I could see, why men had fled the cities and abandoned their old way of life. Instead, it was another mystery that we found.

  “They must have been very nearly self-sufficient.” Peering about file silent rooms, Doyle tried to reconstruct the lives of the murdered couple. “I think they built and furnished this house, with their own hands—everything has the look of good, careful workmanship; they were adding a new room, which isn’t roofed yet. Evidently they grew or manufactured their own food. That little machine in the shed is grinding a hopperful of leaves and sticks into something like cloth, very beautiful and strong. All these gadgets must use a lot of power.”

  His puzzled eyes came back to my face.

  “But where does the power come from?”

  I had to shake my head.

  “The house isn’t wired,” I told him. "Each gadget seems to generate its own current—without any batteries or generator or anything else that makes sense to me. Just like that machine at the dam.”

  On a table in the living room we found a telephone instrument, cradled on a little black plastic box that had no wires attached. Doyle picked it up impulsively, then reluctantly set it back again.

  “We could call,” he said. “Perhaps we could just ask what we want to know. But Mr. Lord doesn’t want it done that way.”

  We heard the roar of jets, then, and hurried back to the ravine. Doyle had brought a blanket from the house, which he spread decently over the two bodies. Sinking slowly upon an inverted mushroom of blue electric fire, the life-craft landed a hundred yards below the dam. Scorched weeds smouldered about the bright fins that held it upright.

  On the bank of the little gorge, Lord turned from watching Cameron, to question Doyle. But when Doyle merely shook his head, with an empty-handed shrug, Lord went back to shout at Cameron:

  “On the double, now. Time to go. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Cameron came up out of the ravine, carrying something in his hand. It was a piece of thick copper wire, shaped into a double coil of oddly-shaped loops at odd-seeming angles and held in shape with a transparent plastic rod.

  “This is it,” he said.

  The hushed elation of his low voice told more than his words. I stared at him—for something, I thought, had somehow transformed him. His emaciated body had grown proudly straight. His hollowed face was smiling, illuminated with a stem joy which almost frightened me.

  “Well?” Lord retreated as if afraid of Cameron’s blue eyes. His sleek black head made a quick nod, to bring his two gunmen back from the ends of the unfinished dam. “What is it?”

  Cameron held up that bit of wire on the plastic rod, with both his hands. His face had a look of solemn awe—as if the thing in his hands had been, perhaps, some unique and long-sought bit of priceless, ancient art

  “Speak up,” Lord rapped nervously.

  Cameron looked up at Lord again, with no awe at all. His blue eyes showed a sudden glint of ironic amusement Yet still he held that bit of wire as if it were a precious thing.

  “It’s what we’ve all been looking for.” Cameron’s voice held the quick ring of triumph. “The reason men abandoned Fort America. Why they deserted the cities. What happened to the Directorate, and to Tyler.”

  Cameron’s eyes turned sardonic.

  “It’s also what is going to happen to the task force,” he added softly. “To Mr. Julian Hudd. And even to you, Mr. Lord.”

  Lord’s sleepy yellow eyes slitted dangerously.

  “I’ll tolerate no further insubordination,” he snapped savagely. “Tell me what you’ve got.”

  Cameron turned to Doyle and me. Angrily, Lord hauled out his automatic, and then slowly thrust it back again. I suppose that even he could see the folly of extinguishing the source of information. Perhaps he was a little awed by Cameron. But he still intended, I knew, to get his revenge.

  Cameron ignored his sullenly boiling fury.

  "Chad, you remember that little gadget we called an induction furnace? Well, we were on the right track—if I hadn’t been afraid of blowing up the Great Director. And this is the thing we were looking for.”

  Generously, he gave me far too much credit. I had known, of course, that the device was something more than a furnace—for it made atomic changes in the metal samples we fused, while it somehow generated power. That much I had known, and held my tongue about it. But I had really understood neither his effort nor his goal.

  From me, Cameron turned impulsively to Doyle.

  "Captain, may I have a word with you?”

  “Of course.” Doyle raised his red brows in puzzlement. “What about?”

  “This.” Cameron lifted the thing in his hands. “I’ve always admired you, Captain. I trust you now.” He beckoned with his head, toward the end of the dam. “Let me tell you what this things means to you—and all of us.” He glanced aside at the simmering, suspicious little Squaredealer, adding: "Listen for just ten minutes, Captain, and you’ll be free of Lord and his sort.”

  Confusedly, Doyle shook his head.

  “Careful, Cameron.” I knew he was no friend of Lord’s, yet his voice was shocked. “Watch yourself. You sound like treason.”

  Cameron gave him a brief, sardonic grin.

  "If there is such a thing, any longer.” His low voice turned grave again. “Though I imagine that this little device has repealed a lot of the old laws.” He glanced at the twisted wire, and regretfully back to Doyle. “I wish you’d listen, Rory. But I know how you feel. I’ll save your life if I can.”

  Little Lord was quivering with white-lipped fury. His hand hovered close to his gun. Yet caution or curiosity must have tempered his wrath, for he gestured sharply to halt his black-clad gunmen.

  “Explain this strange behavior, Cameron,” he snapped. “Before I have to shoot you down.”

  Cameron turned back to him.

  “No, I don’t think you’ll do that, Mr. Lord,” he murmured very softly. “Because you’re an anachronism, now, along with the dinosaur and the atom bomb. Technological advancement has passed you by.”

  Lord’s narrow, sallow face turned dark. Still, however, he seemed to want the secret
of that piece of twisted wire more than he wanted Cameron’s life. He nodded furtively to his gunmen, who began edging aside to Cameron’s right and left.

  “What’s that gadget?” he snarled.

  Cameron had turned to me.

  “You’ll come with me, won’t you, Chad?” His low voice had a tremor of anxious appeal. “There’s a job we have to do, with this.” He moved the little device. “It’s not too dangerous —if we’re lucky. I need you, Chad.”

  I wanted to go with him—wherever he was going. But I could see the two bleak-faced men moving warily to get behind him, I could see Lord’s wolfish snarl and the cold menace of his yellow eyes, I could remember the SBI and all the cruel art of intensive interrogation. Somehow, that bit of wire and plastic had made Cameron seem a bolder and bigger man, but still I hadn’t felt the power of it.

  Miserably, I shook my head.

  “That’s all right, Chad.” He gave me a brief, cheering grin. "Perhaps I’ll have a better chance alone. I’ll do my best to save you.”

  “You, stand still!” Lord shouted, and sharply ordered his gunmen: “Shoot for the knees, if he tries anything.”

  Cameron turned back to him, soberly.

  “Better call them off, Mr. Lord.” Something in his low voice sent a shiver up my spine. “It’s time for you to think of your own skin, now. Because it’s dear that you made error when you butchered that man and girl. You aren’t safe here—or anywhere.”

  The little Squaredealer must have heard that something in Cameron’s voice, for his sallow face tinned a sickly yellow-gray. His perspiring arm gestured again, uneasily, to hold his gunmen back. He blinked apprehensively.

  “I'll be back,” Cameron said. “But I advise you not to follow.”

  He dropped into the ravine, up beyond the dam.

  Lord hesitated for a long second, pale and breathless.

  “Get after him,” he screamed at last. “Shoot him in the legs.”

  He didn’t lead the pursuit, however, and his men weren’t eager. That same something in Cameron’s voice must have made them doubt that it was really wise to follow. They ran uncertainly along the rim of the little gorge, firing a few wild shots.

  Ahead of them, something flashed. Its terrible brightness made us duck and shield our eyes, even in the full daylight. The detonation came instantly—a single, terrific report. A green tree, beside the ravine, shattered into smoking, whistling fragments.

  Lord and his two men followed no farther. As soon as the burning splinters stopped falling, they scrambled up off their faces and hastily retired.

  “Unprintable leather merchant!” gasped the little Squaredealer. “He’ll regret this.” He made a rather fearful gesture toward the life-craft. “On board!” he shouted. “We’re getting out of here.”

  VII

  We tumbled through the valves, and Lord ordered Captain Doyle to blast away at full thrust. Before Doyle could reach his bridge, however, the signal officer shouted down the ladder-well:

  “Captain Doyle! I’ve just got contact with the Great Director. Mr. Hudd is on the screen. He wants a full report, at once, sir.”

  The earth’s intervening mass had cut off microwave transmission since we dropped over the bulge of it before we landed; now, however, the planet’s rotation had brought the flagship back above the horizon. We climbed hurriedly into the little television room.

  Gigantic on the screen, Hudd boomed his question:

  “What’s the story, Lord?”

  “A crisis, Mr. Hudd!" Lord looked damp with sweat, and his voice turned shrill. “We’re in danger. I request permission to blast off at once, and make our full report at space.”

  "What's the crisis?”

  Lord gulped uncomfortably. “Your smart feather merchant got away.”

  Hudd’s great, blue-jowled face was furrowed with sudden concern.

  "Then 111 take your full report, Mr. Lord,” he said decisively. “Right now.”

  "But Cameron has a weapon,” Lord protested desperately. "Something that strikes like lightning—”

  “Then the entire task force may be in peril,” Hudd cut in. “Now let’s have it—at once.”

  Lord talked rapidly, while sweat burst out in great bright drops on his narrow face and soaked dark blotches into his uniform. Hudd listened gravely, now and then turning to Doyle or me with a sharp question.

  It was Doyle who told him how Lord and the two guards had shot the couple named Hawkins. Hudd’s heavy, sagging jaw hardened at the news. When the report was finished, he must have started his habitual nervous drumming—his hands were hidden below the screen, but the speaker brought a worried rapping.

  "You made two blunders.” His small, troubled eyes peered accusingly at Lord. “You let Cameron get away with the vital information I sent you for. And you killed those people before they had a chance to talk. I’m afraid you have gravely compromised our objectives, Victor—and your own future.”

  All his swagger gone, Lord twisted and cringed before the steady eyes of Hudd. Still perspiring, he seemed to fawn and cower like a punished dog, as the loud, aggressive voice of his master continued:

  “We must take bold, immediate action, Victor, to restore the situation.”

  “Right, Mr. Hudd,” Lord said eagerly. “Shall we blast off, now?”

  “You will remain where you are,” Hudd said. "Get in touch with the inhabitants, if you can. Offer apologies and compensation for the killing. Stall for time. Find out all you can about the weapons, the military establishment, and the government of the inhabitants.”

  Lord gulped uneasily, nodding.

  “Post a reward for Cameron.” Hudd’s big mouth set hard. “My mistake, to trust him. Get hold of him. Use extreme interrogation. Make him talk, then liquidate him. He has gone too far.”

  Hudd shook his head regretfully.

  “Too bad,” he added. “I always liked him.”

  I felt cold and ill. Hudd’s loud words had struck me like numbing blows. That harsh command was no surprise to me, but it brought me a dull sickness of regret, because I had failed Cameron when he asked me to go with him. Lord was protesting again:

  “Mr. Hudd, I think we’ll be attacked—”

  “I’ll support you," Hudd assured him, and turned to speak to his signal officer: “Change the scramble code—we don’t know who is trying to listen."

  The unseen officer on the flagship droned out a code number, repeating each digit. Our officer droned it back. The screen darkened, flickered. Then the image of Hudd came back, huge and resolute, declaring:

  “Whatever happens, Victor, I intend to restore the Directorate. I am taking prompt action, to that end. The Valley Forge and the Hiroshima are proceeding to the moon. They will land a new garrison, with the necessary repairs to bring Fort America back into effectiveness. The Yorktown, theRio Plata and the Leningrad will stand by, spaced on an orbit ten thousand miles from the earth, to relay communications and bombard any targets we discover.

  “With the Great Director, I’m coming to earth.”

  Lord licked his thin, colorless lips.

  “You’re too daring, Mr. Hudd,” he protested shrilly.

  “It took audacity to establish the Directorate.” The great boom of Hudd’s voice in the speaker visibly startled Lord. “It’s worth audacity to restore it. I’m coming, at full thrust, to take personal command.”

  Lord remained aboard the life-craft that night. His uneasy fancy must have dwelt upon the fused metal we had found beside that skeleton in the weeds and the sudden bolt that struck that tree as Cameron fled. Perhaps he thought of the two still bodies in the gully; no doubt he peopled the dark valley with vengeful enemies.

  My own imagination, I know, was busy enough. Staring out into the thickening night, I felt myself the helpless spectator of stupendous forces sweeping grandly toward collision.

  On one side, there was the Atomic Age itself, expressed in the rekindled might of Fort America, in the fine discipline of the task force, in s
leek guided missiles, in the determined sagacity of Mr. Julian Hudd.

  On the other side, there was that unknown power that had swept the old garrison from the moon and driven men from the cities and destroyed the Directorate. All I had seen of it was a piece of twisted wire, a blasted tree, and the change in Jim Cameron. But that was enough—I waited for the fireworks.

  After dark, Captain Doyle volunteered to go back to the house.

  “Mr. Hudd wants us to get in touch with the inhabitants,” he reminded Lord. “And we saw some kind of telephone." With evident reluctance, Lord agreed.

  “If you contact anybody, call for the government,” he ordered. “Offer a reward for Cameron.” His sleepy eyes glittered cunningly. "If anybody mentions those two dead peasants, we’re holding them—alive—for Cameron’s return.”

  Doyle went down through the valves, accompanied by the signal officer to help him work the strange radiophone. They were lost in the pale moonlight among the young apple trees. They didn’t come back.

  After an hour, Lord sent me after them, with one of his gunmen for escort. Soft lights came on of themselves, when I opened the door. I tried to call Doyle’s name, and found that my voice had gone to a grating whisper. Walking through the silent rooms, we found nobody.

  The little radiophone, oddly, was also gone.

  At midnight, Hudd called again. At the news of Doyle’s apparent desertion, he muttered forebodingly:

  “It’s something pretty sinister, that takes so true a man.”

  The interstellar cruiser landed, just at dawn.

  The thunder of it woke me out of a nodding doze. Moving groggily to a port, I saw a glare that burned all color out of the valley, so that everything was black or blinding white. I had to cover my smarting eyes. The wind rocked the life craft on its stabilizers, and the earth shuddered.

  When the thunder ceased and that cruel light was gone, I saw the cruiser standing two miles down the valley. Dark smoke billowed up about the base of it from the green woods burning. Its tall peak, towering out of the night in the valley, was already incandescent with sunlight.