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“What’s going on?” Sherikov demanded. “Why am I sealed off from
reading the current odds?”
“I'm sorry,” Reinhart said in a voice of apology so genuine that it
stunned Sherikov. He motioned the police aside. “Come with me.
I’ll tell you all I know. Hopefully you can spin some sense
out of this quandary.”
The doors opened for Reinhart's badge and they entered. Behind
them the doors shut and the ring of police formed outside. “What
brings you away from your lab?” Reinhart asked.
Sherikov shrugged. “Several things. I wanted to see you. I called
you on the vidphone and they said you weren’t available. I thought
maybe something had happened. What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you in a few minutes.” Reinhart called Kaplan over. “Here
are some new items. Feed them in right away. I want to see if the
machines can total them.”
“Certainly, Commissioner.” Kaplan took the print outs and placed
them on the OCR intake belt. The machines hummed into life.
“We’ll know soon,” Reinhart said, half aloud.
Sherikov shot him a keen glance. “We’ll know what? Let me in on it.
What’s taking place?”
“We’re in trouble. For twenty-four hours the machines haven’t given
any reading at all. Nothing but a blank. A total blank.”
Sherikov’s features registered disbelief. “But that isn’t possible.
Some odds exist at all times.”
“The odds exist, but the machines aren’t able to calculate them.”
“Why not?”
“Because a variable factor has been introduced. A factor so big, so
unexpected that the
machines can’t handle it. They can’t make any predictions from it.”
“Can’t they reject it?” Sherikov said slyly. “Can’t they just -- just
ignore it?”
“No. It exists, as real data. Therefore it affects the balance of
the material, the sum total of all other available data. To reject
it would be to give a false reading. The machines can’t reject any
data that’s known to be true.”
Sherikov pulled moodily at his black beard. “I would be interested
in knowing what sort of factor the machines can’t handle. I thought
they could take in all data pertaining to contemporary reality.”
“They can. This factor has nothing to do with contemporary reality.
That’s the trouble. Histo-research in bringing its time bubble back
from the past got overzealous and cut the circuit too quickly. The
bubble came back loaded -- with a man from the twentieth century. A man
from the past.”
“I see. A man from four centuries ago.” The big Pole frowned. “And
with a radically different Weltanschauung. No connection with our
present society. Not integrated along our lines at all. Therefore
the SRB machines are perplexed.”
Reinhart grinned. “Perplexed? I suppose so. In any case, they can’t
do anything with the data about this man. The variable man. No
statistics at all have been thrown up -- no predictions have been made.
And it knocks everything else out of phase. We’re dependent on the
constant showing of these odds. The whole war effort is geared
around them.”
“The horse-shoe nail. Remember the old poem? ‘For want of a nail the
shoe was lost. For want of the shoe the horse was lost. For want of
the horse the rider was lost. For want -- ’”
“Exactly. A single factor coming along like this, one single
individual, can throw everything off. It doesn’t seem possible that
one person could knock an entire society out of balance -- but
apparently it is.”
“What are you doing about this man?”
“The Security police are organized in a mass search for him.”
“Results?”
“He escaped into the Albertine Mountain Range last night. It’ll be
hard to find him. We must expect him to be loose for another
forty-eight hours. It’ll take that long for us to arrange the
annihilation of the range area. Perhaps a trifle longer. And
meanwhile -- ”
“Ready, Commissioner,” Kaplan interrupted. “The new totals.”
The SRB machines had finished factoring the new data. Reinhart and
Sherikov hurried to take their places before the view windows.
For a moment nothing happened. Then odds were put up, locking in
place.
Sherikov gasped. 99-2. In favor of Terra. “That’s wonderful! Now
we -- ”
Those odds vanished. New odds took their places. 97-4. In favor of Centaurus. Sherikov groaned in astonished dismay. “Wait,” Reinhart
said to him. “I don’t think they’ll last.”
The odds vanished. A rapid series of odds shot across the screen, a
violent stream of numbers, changing almost instantly. At last the
machines became silent.
Nothing showed. No odds. No totals at all. The view windows were
completely blank.
“You see?” Reinhart murmured. “I can't let anyone see these odds,
fluctuating so rapidly; it would send the entire war effort into a
frenzy”
Sherikov pondered. “Reinhart, you’re too Anglo-Saxon, too impulsive.
You need to be more Slavic. This man will be captured and destroyed within two
days. It is impossible for this man to avoid detection any
longer than that. You said so yourself. Meanwhile, we’re all working night and
day on the war effort and too busy to be looking at these odds the
way you do. The warfleet is waiting near Proxima, taking
up positions for the attack on the Centaurans. All our war plants
are going full blast. The whole Terran population has been
mobilized. Our eight supply planets are pouring in raw material for
our Therapy Chaplains to crunch. All this is going
on day and night, even without these odds showing. They don't
need to see them; they just need to hear you say what they are.
Days before the attack
comes this man will certainly be dead, and the SRB machines will be able
to show odds again.”
Reinhart considered. “But it worries me, a man like that out in the
open. Loose. A man who can’t be predicted. It goes against science.
We’ve been making statistical reports on society for almost four centuries
now.
We have saturated thousands of gig files of data. The machines are able to predict what
each group will respond at what acceleration in a given situation.
But this man is beyond all prediction. He’s a variable. It’s
contrary to science.”
“The indeterminate particle.”
“What’s that?”
“The particle that moves in such a way that we can’t predict what
position it will occupy at a given second. Random. The random
particle. kind of like watching a computer factor the value of pi.”
“Exactly. It’s -- it’s unnatural.”
Sherikov laughed sarcastically. “Don’t worry about it, Commissioner.
The man will be captured and things will return to their natural
state. You’ll be able to predict people again, like laboratory rats
in a maze. By the way -- why is this room guarded?”
“I don’t want anyone to know the machines show no totals. It’s
dangerous to the war effort.”
“Margaret Duffe, for example?”
Reinhart nodded reluctantly. “They’re too timid, these
parliamentary chaplains. If they discover we have no accurate SRB odds they’ll want
to shut down the war planning and go back to waiting.”
“Too slow for you, Commissioner? Laws, debates, council meetings,
discussions…. Saves a lot of time if one man has all the power. One
man to tell people what to do, think for them, lead them around. It
is much easier and with the right man at the helm, much more
effective.”
Reinhart eyed the big Pole critically. “That reminds me. How is
Icarus coming? Have you continued to make progress on the control
turret?”
A scowl crossed Sherikov’s broad features. “The control turret?” He
waved his big hand vaguely. “I would say it’s coming along all
right. We’ll catch up in time.”
Instantly Reinhart became suspicious. “Catch up? You mean you’re still
behind? That's why you were trying to butter me up.”
“Well... Somewhat. A little. But we’ll catch up.” Sherikov retreated toward
the door. “Let’s go down to the cafeteria and have a cup of coffee.
You worry too much, Commissioner. You need to take things more in your stride.”
“I suppose you’re right. I can’t seem to get this --
indeterminate particle
-- out of my mind.”
“Has he done anything yet?”
“Nothing important. Rewired a child’s toy. A toy vidsender.”
“Oh?” Sherikov revealed an immediate interest. “What do you mean? What did he do?”
“I’ll show you.” Reinhart led Sherikov down the hall to his office.
They entered and Reinhart locked the door. He handed Sherikov the
toy and roughed in what Thomas had done. A strange look crossed Sherikov’s face. He found the studs on the box and depressed them.
The box opened. The big Pole sat down at the desk and began to study
the interior of the box. “You’re sure it was the man from the past
who rewired this?”
“Of course. On the spot. The box was damaged in some rough house playing. The variable
man came along and the boy asked him to fix it. He fixed it, all
right.”
“Incredible.”
 Sherikov’s
weak eyes were only an inch from the wiring. He grabbed up the
mags and looked again.
“Such tiny relays. How could he -- ”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Sherikov got abruptly to his feet, closing the box
carefully. “Can I take this along? To my lab? I’d like to analyze it
more fully.”
“Of course. But why?”
“No special reason. Let’s go get some coffee, or some of your
go-juice if you prefer.” Sherikov headed toward
the door. “You say you expect to capture this man in a day or so?”
“Kill him, not capture him. We must eliminate him in such a way that
he can't come back. We’re in the process of setting up a cross-bombing
pattern to level the entire Albertine range. He must be destroyed,
within the next forty-eight hours.”
Sherikov nodded absently. “Of course,” he murmured. A preoccupied
expression still remained on his broad features. “I understand
perfectly. What's one more man, more or less in the eternal
scheme of things.”
Thomas Cole crouched over the fire he had built, warming his hands.
It was almost morning. The sky was turning violet gray. The mountain
air was crisp and chill. Thomas shivered and pulled himself closer to
the fire.
The heat felt good against his hands. His hands. He gazed down at
them, glowing yellow-red in the firelight. The nails were black and
chipped. They were good hands; the fingers were long and tapered
thin. He respected them, although in many ways he didn’t understand them.
Thomas was deep in thought, meditating over his situation. He had
been in the mountains two nights and a day. The first night had been
the worst. Stumbling and falling, making his way uncertainly up the
steep slopes, through the tangled brush and undergrowth --
But when the sun came up he was safe, deep in the mountains, between
two great peaks. And by the time the sun had set again he had fixed
himself up a shelter and a means of making a fire. Now he had a neat
little box trap, operated by a plaited grass rope and pit, a notched
stake. One rabbit already hung by his hind legs and the trap was
patiently
waiting for another victim.
The sky turned from violet gray to a deep cold gray, a metallic
color. The mountains were silent and empty. Far off some place a
bird sang, its voice echoing across the vast slopes and ravines.
Other birds began to sing. Off to his right something crashed
through the brush, an animal pushing its way along.
Day was coming. His second day. Thomas got to his feet and began to
unfasten the rabbit. Time to eat. And then? After that he had no
plans. He knew instinctively that he could keep himself alive
indefinitely with the tools he had retained, and the genius of his
hands. He could kill game and skin it. Eventually he could build
himself a permanent shelter, even make clothes out of hides. When
winter came --
But he refused to be thinking that far ahead. Planning for the
future could worry you to death. Thomas stood by the fire,
staring up at the sky, his hands on his hips. He squinted, suddenly
tense. Something was moving. Something in the sky, drifting slowly
through the grayness. A black dot.
He stamped out the fire quickly. What was it? He strained, trying to
see. A bird?
A second dot joined the first. Two dots. Then three. Four. Five. A
fleet of them, moving rapidly across the early morning sky. Toward
the mountains.
Toward him.
Thomas hurried away from the fire. He snatched up the rabbit and
carried it along with him, into the tangled shelter he had built. He
was invisible, inside the shelter. No one could find him. But if
they had seen the fire --
He crouched in the shelter, watching the dots grow larger. They were
planes, all right. Black wingless planes, coming closer each moment.
Now he could hear them, a faint dull buzz of outraged particulates, increasing until the
ground shook under him.
The first plane dived. It dropped like a stone, swelling into a
great black shape. Thomas gasped, sinking down. The plane roared in an
arc, swooping low over the ground. Suddenly bundles tumbled out,
white bundles falling and scattering like seeds.
The bundles drifted rapidly to the ground. They landed. They were
men. Thomas was struck dumb, they were men in uniform and they were
searching for him.
Now the second plane was diving. It roared overhead, releasing its
load. More bundles tumbled out, filling the sky. The third plane
dived, then the fourth. The air was thick with drifting bundles of
white, a blanket of descending weed spores, settling to earth.
On the ground the troops were forming into squads under their
chaplains. Their shouts
carried to Thomas, crouched in his shelter. Fear leaped through him.
They were landing on all sides of him. They had known exactly where
he was and now, he was cut off. The last two
planes had dropped men in quadrants behind him.
He got to his feet, pushing out of the shelter. Some of the troops
were making sure the fire, the ashes and coals were completely out.
A cry of voices rang behind him, beside him, before him.
Then one tall, monstrous man walked straight
to him and paused, hands on his hips. "Thomas," he said.
"Why don't you come with us."
It was all he could do to keep from crying. "How did you find
me?"
"Believe me, it was simple.
I'll show you when I get you home."
Thomas nodded. "All right.
I'm your pigeon."
Peter
Sherikov was confused by the idiom, but shook it out of the way and
extended his hand in welcome. "I’m taking you to the other
side of the world, Thomas.” He glanced suddenly up at the sky.
“Saddle up, The Security
police will be starting their demolition attack in a few hours. We
want to be all the way home when demolition begins.”
Thomas Cole sank, huddled in a heap on the floor, his head sunk down
against his chest. He did not stir. His bent body seemed more
elongated and stooped than ever, his hair tousled and unkempt, his
chin and jowls a rough stubbled gray. His clothes were dirty and
torn from crawling through the brush. His skin was cut and
scratched; open sores dotted his neck and cheeks and forehead. He
said nothing. His chest rose and fell. His faded blue eyes were
almost closed. He looked quite old, a withered, dried-up old man.
Sherikov waved one of the guards over. “Have my doctor brought up
here. I want this man to have a complete checkup. He may need intravenous
injections. He may not have had anything to eat for awhile.”
Thomas said nothing.
Sherikov laughed. “Buck up! You have no reason to feel bad.” He
leaned toward Thomas, jabbing an immense finger at him. “Another two
hours and you’d have been roasted dead, out there in the mountains. You know
that?”
Thomas nodded.
“You don’t believe me. Look.” Sherikov leaned over and snapped on
the vidscreen mounted in the wall. “Watch, this. The operation
should still be going on.”
The screen lit up. A scene gained form.
“This is a confidential Security channel. I had it hacked several
years ago -- for my own protection. What we’re seeing now is exactly
what's being
piped in to Eric Reinhart.” Sherikov grinned. “Reinhart arranged
what you’re seeing on the screen. Pay close attention. You were
right there, two hours ago.”
Thomas turned his head toward the screen. At first he could not make out what
was happening. The screen showed a vast foaming cloud, a vortex of
particulate streaming motion. From the speaker came a low rumble, a deep-throated roar.
After a time the screen shifted, showing a slightly different view.
Suddenly Thomas stiffened.
He was seeing the destruction of a whole mountain range.
The picture was coming from a ship, flying above what had once been
the Albertine Mountain Range. Now there was nothing but swirling
clouds of gray smoke and columns of particulates and larger pieces
of debris, a surging tide
of restless material gradually sweeping off and dissipating in all
directions.
The Albertine Mountains had been disintegrated. Nothing remained but
these vast clouds of debris. Below, on the ground, a ragged plain
stretched out, swept by fire and ruin. Gaping wounds yawned, immense
holes without bottom, craters side by side as far as the eye could
see -- Craters and debris. Like the blasted, pitted surface of the
moon. Two hours ago it had been rolling peaks and gulleys, brush and
green bushes and trees.
Thomas turned away, sick of the senseless attack.
“You see?” Sherikov snapped the screen off. “You were down there,
not so long ago. All that noise and smoke -- all for you. All for you,
Mr. Variable Man from the past. Reinhart arranged that, to finish
you off. I want you to understand that. It’s very important that you
realize that.”
Thomas said nothing.
Sherikov fastened a stern gaze upon him until Thomas raised his head
and stared back. "I saved your worthless life, and I want a
pound of flesh back."
Sherikov reached into a drawer of the
desk before him. He carefully
brought out a small square box and held it out to Thomas. “You wired
this, didn’t you?”
Thomas took the box in his hands and held it. For a time his tired
mind failed to focus. What did he have? He concentrated on it. The
box was the children’s toy. The inter-community vidsender, they had
called it.
“Yes. I fixed this.” He passed it back to Sherikov. “I repaired
it. It was very badly broken and I fixed it.”
"You did good."
Sherikov gazed down at him intently, his large eyes bright. He
nodded, his black beard and cigar rising and falling. “Good. That is
the kind of work you will be doing for me."
"I, I am not a slave," said Thomas.
Peter Sherikov stared at him for a
long moment, failed to break the gaze. "No?"
"No, definitely not. I want to be paid!" Thomas
insisted fiercely. "I want to be paid all I'm worth."
"How much is that?"
"A meal, a couple of bits."
Sherikov and everyone else in the
room burst into a gale of laughter. Wiping his tears away
Sherikov nodded, then grinned.
"You are worth far more than that, my friend. "I think you
will be
worth six or seven bits along with three hearty meals per day -- and if you perform as I ask you to, that
is how much I will pay you, and more than that. Here is the
doctor, go with him, then come back here. This guard will go
with you to show you the way back. He will be your personal
assistant for as long as you need him. Then, you can walk
alone, anywhere in here that you want to go.."
Thomas seemed to shrivel up.
"And what happens if I want to go outside?"
Sherikov turned on the vid screen
again and black smoke was still roiling into the sky. "I want
you to understand that you are free here, but I wouldn't go out
alone, if I were you, Thomas."
Limp and unprotesting, Thomas Cole
sucked in his breath and shakily rose to his feet, allowing the doctor to take hold
of his arm and help him up.
After Thomas had been released by the medical department, Sherikov
joined him in his private dining room, a floor above the actual
laboratory.
Sherikov settled down in his comfortable reinforced chair with a
sigh. “It’s good to be back.” He signaled to one of his guards.
“Bring in two breakfast meals, with real coffee and real maple syrup.”
When the meals arrived Thomas sat
silently across the table from Sherikov. His old clothing
had been taken away and new clothing issued him. He had beeb shaved and
rubbed down. His sores and cuts were healed, his body and hair
washed. He looked much healthier and younger, now. But, he
wasn't made for the clothing; it bit and binded in so many places he
was distinctly uncomfortable. he was still
stooped and tired, his blue eyes worn and faded. He listened to Sherikov’s account of the world of
2336 AD without comment.
“You can see,” Sherikov said finally, "that
your appearance here has been very upsetting to our program. Now
that you know more about us you can see why Commissioner Reinhart
was so interested in destroying you.”
Thomas nodded, but only because he was totally bewildered.
“Reinhart, you realize, believes that the failure of the SRB
machines is the chief danger to the war effort. But that is
nothing!” Sherikov pushed his plate away noisily, draining his
coffee mug. “After all, wars can be fought without statistical
forecasts. The SRB machines only describes potentials. They’re nothing more than
mechanical onlookers. In themselves, they don’t affect the course of
the war. We make the war. They only analyze.”
Thomas nodded.
“More coffee?” Sherikov asked. He pushed the plastic container
toward Thomas. “Have some.”
Thomas accepted another cupful gratefully. “Thank you.”
“You can see that our real problem is another thing entirely. The
machines only do figuring for us in a few minutes that eventually we
could do for our own selves. They’re our servants, tools. Not some
sort of gods in a temple which we go and pray to. Not oracles who
can see into the future for us. They don’t see into the future. They
only make statistical predictions -- not prophecies. There’s a big
difference there, but Reinhart doesn’t understand it. Reinhart and
his kind have made such things as the SRB machines into gods. But I
have no gods. At least, not any I can see.”
Thomas nodded, sipping his coffee.
“I’m telling you all these things because you must understand what
we’re up against. Terra is hemmed in on all sides by the ancient
Centauran Empire. It’s been out there for centuries, thousands of
years. No one knows how long. It’s old -- crumbling and rotting.
You might even say corrupt and venal. But it holds most of the galaxy around us, and we
can’t break out of the Sol system. I told you about Icarus, and
Hedge’s work in ftl flight. We must win the war against Centaurus.
We’ve waited and worked a long time for this, the moment when we can
break out and get room among the stars for ourselves. Icarus is the
deciding weapon. The data on Icarus tipped the SRB odds in our
favor -- for the first time in history. Success in the war against Centaurus will depend on Icarus, not on the SRB machines. You see?”
Thomas nodded.
“However, there is a problem. The data on Icarus which I turned over
to the machines specified that Icarus would be completed in eight
days. More than half that time has already passed. Yet, we are no
closer to wiring up the control turret than we were then. The turret
baffles my best technicians.” Sherikov grinned ironically. “Even I have tried my
big, thick hands
at the wiring, but with no success. It’s intricate -- and small. There
are too
many technical bugs not worked out. We are building only one model, you
understand. If we had many experimental models worked out before --
”
“But this is an experimental model,” Thomas asked.
“Yes. And built from the designs of a man dead fourteen years -- who isn’t here
to correct us. We’ve made Icarus with our own hands, down here in
the labs. And he’s been giving us plenty of trouble.” All at once Sherikov got to his feet. “Let’s go down to the lab and look at
him.”
They descended to the floor below, Sherikov leading the way. Thomas
stopped short at the lab door. He was stunned.
“Quite a sight,” Sherikov agreed. “We keep him down here at the
bottom for safety’s sake. He’s well protected. Come on in. We have
work to do.”
In the center of the lab Icarus rose up, the gray squat cylinder
that someday would flash through space at a speed of three thousand
times that of light, racing toward the heart of Proxima Centaurus, over
four light years away. Around the cylinder groups of men in uniform
were laboring feverishly to finish the remaining work.
“Over here. The turret.” Sherikov led Thomas over to one side of the
room. “It’s guarded privately. Centauran spies are swarming everywhere on
Terra. With their hacking computers they peer into everything. But so do we. That’s how we get
information for the SRB machines. There are Spies in both systems.”
The translucent globe that was the control turret reposed in the
center of a metal stand, an armed guard standing at each side. They
lowered their weapons as Sherikov approached.
“We don’t want anything to happen to this,” Sherikov said.
“Everything depends on it.” He put out his hand for the globe. Half
way to it his hand stopped, striking against an invisible presence
in the air.
Sherikov laughed. “The invisible wall is still on. Please Shut it off.”
One of the guards pressed a stud at his wrist. Around the globe the
air shimmered once and then cleared.
“Now.” Sherikov’s hand closed over the globe. He lifted it carefully
from its mount and brought it out for Thomas to see. “This is the
control turret for our enormous friend here. This is what will slow
him down when he’s inside Centaurus. He slows down and re-enters
this universe.”
But Thomas was not listening. He had taken the globe from Sherikov and
was turning it over and over, running his hands over it, his face
close to its surface. He peered down into its interior, his face
rapt and intent.
“You can’t see the wiring. Not without lenses.” Sherikov signalled
for a pair of micro-lenses to be brought. He fitted them on Thomas’s
nose, hooking them behind his ears. “Now try it. You can control the
magnification. It’s set for 1000X right now. You can increase or
decrease it.”
Thomas gasped, swaying back and forth. Sherikov caught hold of him.
Thomas gazed down into the globe, moving his head slightly, focusing
the glasses.
“It takes practice. But you can do a lot with them. Permits you to
do microscopic wiring. There are tools to go along with the lenses, you understand.” Sherikov paused, licking his lip. “We can’t get it done correctly. We’ve tried robots, but there are too many decisions
to be made. Robots can’t make decisions. They just react.”
Thomas said nothing. He continued to gaze into the interior of the
globe, his lips tight, his body taut and rigid. It made Sherikov
feel strangely uneasy.
“You look like one of those old fortune tellers,” Sherikov said
jokingly, but a cold shiver crawled up his spine. “Better hand it
back to me.” He held out his hand.
Slowly, Thomas returned the globe. After a time he removed the
micro-lenses, still deep in thought.
“Well?” Sherikov demanded. “You know what I want. I want you to wire
this thing up.” Sherikov came close to Thomas, his big face hard.
“You can do it, I think. I could tell by the way you held it -- and the
job you did on the children’s toy, of course. You could wire it up
right, and it must be functioning within five days. Nobody else can
do this.”
Thomas did not answer.
Sherikov became impatient. “Well? What do you say?”
“What happens if I don’t wire this control for you? I mean, what
happens to me?”
“Thomas, my friend. The only reason you are safe now is that
Commissioner Reinhart thinks you’re dead, killed when the Albertine Range was
scorched. If he had any idea I had saved you -- . What I am
saying is, you may have to stay here forever if you can't do this.
You will be comfortable, but --”
“I see.”
“I'm sorry. You are a man dumped out of your own time, through
no fault of your own. I can't help you with that. I
didn't do it, I can't send you back; I don't even know if you can be
sent back. Nonetheless, I am asking you to wire it up so that
it functions correctly. If you succeed, you will be a hero
here and I firmly believe (without guaranteeing it) that you
will be sent back to your own time continuum.”
Thomas shrugged, his face dark and brooding.
“What do you think? Can you, will you try?”
“I can fix anything,” said Thomas Cole in a voice that was rock
solid and confident.
Sherikov beamed happily. "How,
uh, how quickly do you think you can do this?"
"Oh, as busy as this is, a couple of
hours at least."
Sherikov quit beaming. He shook
his head and began pacing back and forth, flinging inquisitive
glances at Thomas. In the end he stopped. "I will work
beside you myself then, Thomas."
Three days later Joseph Dixon slid a
podrive across the desk to his boss.
“Here. Your immediate attention, sir.”
Reinhart picked the podrive up slowly. “What is it? You came all the
way here to show me this?”
“That’s right.”
“Why didn’t you just vidscreen it?”
Dixon smiled grimly. “Perhaps You’ll understand when you decode it. It’s
from Proxima Centaurus.”
“Centaurus!”
“Our counter-intelligence service. They sent it directly to me. Here,
I’ll pop it in the decoder for you. Save you the trouble.”
Dixon came around behind Reinhart’s desk. He leaned over the
Commissioner’s shoulder and slipped the podrive into the computer's
top slot. According to
our agents on Armun, the Centauran High Council has called an
emergency session to deal with the problem of Terra’s impending
attack. Centauran relay couriers have reported to their High Council
that the Terran bomb Icarus is virtually complete. Work on the bomb
has been rushed through final stages in the underground laboratories
under the Ural Range, directed by the Terran physicist Peter
Sherikov.”
“Well, we were hoping for that, Dixon. Are you actually surprised the Centaurans know about the bomb? They have spies swarming over
every inch of Terra.
That’s no news.”
“There’s more.” A new picture came up. “The Centauran relay couriers reported that Peter
Sherikov brought an expert mechanic out of a previous time continuum
to complete the wiring of the turret!”
Reinhart staggered back in his chair, he was holding on tight to the desk. He closed his
eyes, gasping.
“The variable man is still alive,” Dixon murmured. “I don’t know
how. Or why. There’s nothing left of the Albertines. And how the
hell did the man get half way around the world?”
Reinhart opened his eyes slowly, his face twisting. “Sherikov! He
must have removed him before the attack. I told Sherikov the attack
was forthcoming. I gave him the exact hour. He had to get help -- from
the variable man. He couldn’t meet his promise otherwise.”
Reinhart leaped up and began to pace back and forth. “I’ve already
informed the SRB machines that the variable man has been destroyed.
The machines now show the original 7-6 ratio in our favor. But the
ratio is based on false information.”
“Then you’ll have to withdraw the false data and restore the
original situation.”
“No.” Reinhart shook his head. “I can’t do that. The machines must
be kept functioning just as it is. We can’t allow them to jam again. It’s too
dangerous. If Duffe should become aware that -- ”
“What are you going to do, then?” Dixon picked up the print out.
“Surely you don't tend to leave the machines loaded with false data. That’s treason.”
“The data can’t be withdrawn! Not unless equivalent data exists to
take its place.” Reinhart paced angrily back and forth. “I
was so certain that man was dead. He
must be eliminated -- at any cost.”
Suddenly Reinhart stopped pacing. “The turret. It’s probably
finished by this time. Correct?”
Dixon nodded slowly in agreement. “It would seem that with the variable man helping, Sherikov has completed work well ahead of schedule.”
Reinhart’s gray eyes flickered. “Then he’s no longer of any use -- even
to Sherikov. We could take a chance…. Even if there were active
opposition….”
“What’s this?” Dixon demanded. “What are you thinking about?”
“How many guard units are ready for immediate action? How large a force
can we raise without notice?”
“Because of the war we’re mobilized on a twenty-four hour basis.
There are seventy air units and about four hundred surface units. The
balance of the Security forces have been transferred to the line,
under military control.”
“Men?”
“We have about five thousand men ready to go, still on Terra. but most
of them are in the process of being transferred to military
transports."
“Missiles?”
“Fortunately, the launching tubes have not yet been disassembled.
They’re still here on Terra. In another few days they’ll be moving
out for the Colonial fracas.”
“Then they’re available for immediate use?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Reinhart locked his hands, knotting his fingers harshly
together in sudden decision. “That will do exactly. Unless I am
completely wrong, Sherikov has only a half-dozen air units and no
surface cars. And only about four hundred men. Some defense shields,
of course -- ”
“What are you planning?”
Reinhart’s face was gray and hard, like stone. “Send out orders for
all available Security units to be unified under your immediate
command. Have them ready to move by four o’clock this afternoon.
We’re going to pay a visit,” Reinhart stated grimly. “A surprise
visit. On Peter Sherikov.”
“Stop here,” Reinhart ordered.
The surface car slowed to a halt. Reinhart peered cautiously out,
studying the horizon ahead.
On all sides a desert of scrub grass and sand stretched out. Nothing
moved or stirred. To the right the grass and sand rose up to form
immense peaks, a range of mountains without end, disappearing
finally into the distance. The Urals.
“Over there,” Reinhart said to Dixon, pointing. “See?”
“No.”
“Look hard. It’s difficult to spot unless you know what to look for.
Vertical pipes. Some kind of vent. Or periscopes.”
Dixon saw them finally. “I would have driven past without noticing.”
“It’s well concealed. The main labs are a mile down. Under the range
itself. It’s virtually impregnable. Sherikov had it built years ago,
to withstand any attack. From the air, by surface cars, bombs,
missiles -- ”
“He must feel safe down there.”
“No doubt.” Reinhart gazed up at the sky. A few faint black dots
could be seen, moving lazily about, in broad circles. “Those aren’t
ours, are they? I gave orders -- ”
“No. They’re not ours. All our units are out of sight. Those belong
to Sherikov. His patrol.”
Reinhart relaxed. “Good.” He reached over and flicked on the
vidscreen over the board of the car. “This screen is shielded? It
can’t be traced?”
“There’s no way they can spot it back to us. It’s non-directional.”
The screen glowed into life. Reinhart punched the combination keys
and sat back to wait.
After a time an image formed on the screen. A heavy face, bushy
black beard and large eyes.
Peter Sherikov gazed at Reinhart with surprised curiosity.
“Commissioner! Where are you calling from? What -- ”
“How’s the work progressing?” Reinhart broke in coldly. “Is Icarus
almost complete?”
Sherikov beamed with expansive pride. “He’s done, Commissioner. Two
days ahead of time. Icarus is ready to be launched into space. I
tried to call your office, but they told me -- ”
“I’m not at my office.” Reinhart leaned toward the screen. “Open
your entrance tunnel at the surface. You’re about to receive
visitors.”
Sherikov blinked. “Visitors?”
“I’m coming down to see you. About Icarus. Have the tunnel opened
for me at once.”
“Exactly where are you, Commissioner?”
“On the surface.”
Sherikov’s eyes flickered. “Oh? But -- ”
“Open up!” Reinhart snapped. He glanced at his wristwatch. “I’ll be
at the entrance in five minutes. I expect to find it ready for me.”
“Of course.” Sherikov nodded in bewilderment. “I’m always glad to
see you, Commissioner. But I -- ”
“Five minutes, then.” Reinhart cut the circuit. The screen died. He
turned quickly to Dixon. “You stay up here, as we arranged. I’ll go
down with one company of police. You understand the necessity of
exact timing on this?”
“We won’t slip up. Everything’s ready. All units are in their
places.”
“Good.” Reinhart pushed the door open for him. “You join your
directional staff. I’ll proceed toward the tunnel entrance.”
“Good luck.” Dixon leaped out of the car, onto the sandy ground. A
gust of dry air swirled into the car around Reinhart. “I’ll see you
later.”
Reinhart slammed the door. He turned to the group of police crouched
in the rear of the car, their weapons held tightly. “Here we go,”
Reinhart murmured. “Hold on.”
The car raced across the sandy ground, toward the tunnel entrance to
Sherikov’s underground fortress.
Sherikov met Reinhart at the bottom end of the tunnel, where the
tunnel opened up onto the main floor of the lab.
The big Pole approached, his hand out, beaming with pride and
satisfaction. “It’s a pleasure to see you, Commissioner. This is an
historic moment.”
Reinhart got out of the car, with his group of armed Security
police. “Calls for a celebration, doesn’t it?” he said.
“That’s a good idea! We’re two days ahead, Commissioner. The SRB
machines will be interested. The odds should change abruptly at the
news.”
“Let’s go down to the lab. I want to see the control turret myself.”
A shadow crossed Sherikov’s face. “I’d rather not bother the workmen
right now, Commissioner. They’ve been under a great load, trying to
complete the turret in time. I believe they’re putting a few last
finishes on it at this moment.”
“We can view them by vidscreen. I’m curious to see them at work. It
must be difficult to wire such minute relays.”
Sherikov shook his head. “Sorry, Commissioner. No vidscreen on them.
I won’t allow it. This is too important. Our whole future depends on
it.”
Reinhart snapped a signal to his company of police. “Put this man
under arrest.”
Sherikov blanched. His mouth fell open. The police moved quickly
around him, their tubes up, jabbing into him. He was searched
rapidly, efficiently. His gun belt and concealed energy screen were
yanked off.
“What’s going on?” Sherikov demanded, some color returning to his
face. “What are you doing?”
“You’re under arrest for the duration of the war." he paused.
"Men, ship Commander Sherikov to my office under arrest."
Sherikov shook his head, dazed. “I don’t understand. What’s this all
about? Explain this to me, Commissioner. What’s happened?”
Reinhart almost spit on him. For a moment he simply glared at
Sherikov, then he motioned for the prisoner to be removed from the
area. Then he signaled to a platoon of police. “Get ready. We’re going into the
lab. We may have to shoot our way in.”
Suddenly,
Sherikov dashed past them. He reached the wall, running head down, energy beams flashing
around him. He struck against the wall -- and vanished through it.
“Down!” Reinhart shouted. He dropped to his hands and knees. All
around him his police dived for the floor. Reinhart dragged himself
quickly toward the door then through a grenade down the tubes.
From all sides an inferno burst, a flaming roar of death surging
over them, around them, on every side. The surface room was alive with
blazing masses of destruction, bouncing from wall to wall. They were
caught between four banks of power, all of them open to full
discharge. It was a trap -- a death trap.
Reinhart reached the hall gasping for breath. He leaped to his feet.
A few Security police followed him out, the rest were gone, melted. Behind them, in the flaming
room, the rest of the company screamed and struggled, blasted out of
existence by the leaping bursts of power.
Reinhart assembled his remaining men. Already, Sherikov’s guards
were forming. At one end of the corridor a snub-barreled robot gun
was maneuvering into position. A siren wailed. Guards were running
on all sides, hurrying to battle stations.
The robot gun opened fire. Part of the corridor exploded, bursting
into fragments. Clouds of choking debris and particles swept around
them. Reinhart and his police retreated, moving back along the
corridor.
They reached a junction. A second robot gun was rumbling toward
them, hurrying to get within range. Reinhart fired carefully, aiming
at its delicate control. Abruptly the gun spun convulsively. It
lashed against the wall, smashing itself into the unyielding metal.
Then it collapsed in a heap, gears and loose bearings spilling out, whining and spinning
away.
“Come on.” Reinhart moved away, crouching and running. He glanced at
his watch. Almost time. A few more minutes. A group of lab guards
appeared ahead of them. Reinhart fired. Behind him his police fired
past him, violet shafts of energy catching the group of guards as
they entered the corridor. The guards spilled apart, falling and
twisting. Part of them settled into dust, drifting down the
corridor. Reinhart made his way toward the lab, crouching and
leaping, pushing past heaps of debris and remains, followed by his
men. “Come on! Don’t stop!”
Suddenly from around them the booming, enlarged voice of Sherikov
thundered, magnified by rows of wall speakers along the corridor.
Reinhart halted, glancing around.
“Reinhart! You haven’t got a chance. You’ll never get back to the
surface. Throw down your weapons and give up. You’re surrounded on all
sides and sealed in. You are a mile, under the surface.”
Reinhart threw himself into motion, pushing into billowing clouds of
particles drifting along the corridor. “Are you sure, Sherikov?” he
grunted.
Sherikov laughed, his harsh, metallic peals rolling in waves against
Reinhart’s eardrums. “I can kill you with no remorse whatsoever,
Commissioner. I’m sorry you found out about
the variable man. I admit we overlooked the Centauran espionage as a
factor in this. But now that you know about him -- ”
Suddenly Sherikov’s voice broke off. A deep rumble had shaken the
floor, a lapping vibration that shuddered through the corridor.
Reinhart sagged with relief. He peered through the clouds of debris,
making out the figures on his watch. Right on time. Not a second
late.
The first of the hydrogen missiles, launched from the Council
buildings on the other side of the world, were beginning to arrive.
The attack had begun.
At exactly six o’clock Joseph Dixon, standing on the surface four
miles from the entrance tunnel, gave the sign to the waiting units.
The first job was to break down Sherikov’s defense screens. The
missiles had to penetrate without interference. At Dixon’s signal a
fleet of thirty Security ships dived from a height of ten miles,
swooping above the mountains, directly over the underground
laboratories. Within five minutes the defense screens had been
smashed, and all the tower projectors leveled flat. Now the
mountains were virtually unprotected.
“So far so good,” Dixon murmured, as he watched from his secure
position. The fleet of Security ships roared back, their work done.
Across the face of the desert the police surface cars were crawling
rapidly toward the entrance tunnel, snaking from side to side.
Meanwhile, Sherikov’s counter-attack had begun to go into operation.
Guns mounted among the hills opened fire. Vast columns of flame
burst up in the path of the advancing cars. The cars hesitated and
retreated, as the plain was churned up by a howling vortex, a
thundering chaos of explosions. Here and there a car vanished in a
cloud of particles. A group of cars moving away suddenly scattered,
caught up by a giant wind that lashed across them and swept them up
into the air.
Dixon gave orders to have the cannon silenced. The police air arm
again swept overhead, a sullen roar of jets that shook the ground
below. The police ships divided expertly and hurtled down on the
cannon protecting the hills.
The cannon crews forgot the surface cars and lifted their snouts to meet
the attack. Again and again the airships came, rocking the mountains
with titanic blasts.
The guns became silent. Their echoing boom diminished, died away
reluctantly, as bombs took critical toll of them.
Dixon watched with satisfaction as the bombing came to an end. The
airships rose in a thick swarm, black gnats shooting up in triumph
from a dead carcass. They hurried back as emergency anti-aircraft
robot guns swung into position and saturated the sky with blazing
puffs of energy.
Dixon checked his wristwatch. The missiles were already on the way
from North America. Only a few minutes remained.
The surface cars, freed by the successful bombing, began to regroup
for a new frontal attack. Again they crawled forward, across the
burning plain, bearing down cautiously on the battered wall of
mountains, heading toward the twisted wrecks that had been the ring
of defense guns. Toward the entrance tunnel.
An occasional cannon fired feebly at them. The cars came grimly on.
Now, in the hollows of the hills, Sherikov’s troops were hurrying to
the surface to meet the attack. The first car reached the shadow of
the mountains….
A deafening hail of fire burst loose. Small robot guns appeared
everywhere, needle barrels emerging from behind hidden screens,
trees and shrubs, rocks, stones. The police cars were caught in a
withering cross-fire, trapped at the base of the hills.
Down the slopes Sherikov’s guards raced, toward the stalled cars.
Clouds of heat rose up and boiled across the plain as the cars fired
up at the running men. A robot gun dropped like a slug onto the
plain and screamed toward the cars, firing as it came.
Dixon twisted nervously. Only a few minutes. Any time, now. He
shaded his eyes and peered up at the sky. No sign of them yet. He
wondered about Reinhart. No signal had come up from below. Clearly,
Reinhart had run into trouble. No doubt there was desperate fighting
going on in the maze of underground tunnels, the intricate web of
passages that honeycombed the earth below the mountains.
In the air, Sherikov’s few defense ships were taking on the police
raiders. Outnumbered, the defense ships darted rapidly, wildly,
putting up a futile fight.
Sherikov’s guards streamed out onto the plain. Crouching and
running, they advanced toward the stalled cars. The police airships
screeched down at them, guns thundering.
Dixon held his breath. When the missiles arrived --
The first missile struck. A section of the mountain vanished, turned
to smoke and foaming gasses. The wave of heat slapped Dixon across
the face, spinning him around. Quickly he re-entered his ship and
took off, shooting rapidly away from the scene. He glanced back. A
second and third missile had arrived. Great gaping pits yawned among
the mountains, vast sections missing like broken teeth. Now the
missiles could penetrate to the underground laboratories below.
On the ground, the surface cars halted beyond the danger area,
waiting for the missile attack to finish. When the eighth missile
had struck, the cars again moved forward. No more missiles fell.
Dixon swung his ship around, heading back toward the scene. The
laboratory was exposed. The top sections of it had been ripped open.
The laboratory lay like a tin can, torn apart by mighty explosions,
its first floors visible from the air. Men and cars were pouring
down into it, fighting with the guards swarming to the surface.
Dixon watched intently. Sherikov’s men were bringing up heavy guns,
big robot artillery. But the police ships were diving again.
Sherikov’s defensive patrols had been cleaned from the sky. The
police ships whined down, arcing over the exposed laboratory. Small
bombs fell, whistling down, pin-pointing the artillery rising to the
surface on the remaining lift stages.
Abruptly Dixon’s vidscreen clicked. Dixon turned toward it.
Reinhart’s features formed. “Call off the attack.” His uniform was
torn. A deep bloody gash crossed his cheek. He grinned sourly at
Dixon, pushing his tangled hair back out of his face. “Quite a
fight.”
“Sherikov -- ”
“He’s called off his guards. We’ve agreed to a truce. It’s all over.
No more needed.” Reinhart gasped for breath, wiping grime and sweat
from his neck. “Land your ship and come down here at once.”
“The variable man?”
“That comes next,” Reinhart said grimly. He adjusted his gun tube.
“I want you down here, for that part. I want you to be in on the
kill.”
Reinhart turned away from the vidscreen. In the corner of the room
Sherikov stood silently, saying nothing. “Well?” Reinhart barked.
“Where is he? Where will I find him?”
Sherikov licked his lips nervously, glancing up at Reinhart.
“Commissioner, are you sure -- ”
“The attack has been called off. What's left of your labs are safe. So is your
life. Now it’s your turn to come through.” Reinhart gripped his gun,
moving toward Sherikov. “Where is he?”
For a moment Sherikov hesitated. Then slowly his huge body sagged,
defeated. He shook his head wearily. “All right. I’ll show you where
he is.” His voice was hardly audible, a dry whisper. “Down this way.
Come on.”
Reinhart followed Sherikov out of the room, into the corridor.
Police and guards were working rapidly, clearing the debris and
ruins away, putting out the hydrogen fires that burned everywhere.
“No tricks, Sherikov.”
“No tricks.” Sherikov nodded resignedly. “Thomas Cole is by himself.
In a wing lab off the main rooms.”
“Thomas?”
“The variable man. That’s his name.” The Pole turned his massive
head a little. “Do you find it strange that he has a name?”
Reinhart waved his gun. “Hurry up. I don’t want anything to go
wrong. This is the part I came for.”
“He can't escape from that room, so hold your horses. You must remember something, Commissioner.”
“What is it?”
Sherikov stopped walking. “Commissioner, nothing must happen to the
globe. The control turret. Everything depends on it, the war, our
whole -- ”
“I know. Nothing will happen to the turret. Let’s go.”
“If it should get damaged -- ”
“I’m not after the globe at the moment. I’m interested only in -- in
this Thomas Cole.”
They came to the end of the corridor and stopped before a metal
door. Sherikov nodded at the door. “In there.”
Reinhart moved back. “Open the door.”
“Open it yourself. I don’t want to have anything to do with this
murder.”
Reinhart shrugged. He stepped up to the door. Holding his gun level
he raised his hand, passing it in front of the eye circuit. Nothing
happened.
Reinhart frowned. He pushed the door with his hand. The door slid
open. There was a man inside, his hands raking frantically
over the walls, searching for a way out. Reinhart, stubbed his
weapon forward and sizzled Thomas Cole to death in a violet wave of
murder. He turned and glanced at Peter Sherikov's small
laboratory. He glimpsed a workbench, tools, heaps of equipment,
measuring devices and sneered.
When the first missile struck, Thomas stopped work and sat listening.
Far off, a distant rumble rolled through the earth, shaking the
floor under him. On the bench, tools and equipment danced up and
down. A pair of pliers fell crashing to the floor. A box of screws
tipped over, spilling its minute contents out.
Thomas listened for a time. Presently he lifted the transparent globe
from the bench. With carefully controlled hands he held the globe
up, running his fingers gently over the surface, his faded blue eyes
thoughtful.
The globe was finished. A faint glow of pride moved through the
variable man. Wiring the turret globe was the finest job he had ever done.
The deep rumblings ceased. Thomas jumped
down and hurried across the room to the door with the turret in his
arms. For a
moment he stood by the door listening intently. He could hear noise
on the other side, shouts, guards rushing past, dragging heavy
equipment, working frantically.
A rolling crash echoed down the corridor and lapped against his
door. The concussion spun him around. Again a tide of energy shook
the walls and floor and sent him down on his knees.
The lights flickered and winked out.
Thomas searched for a flashlight. Power failure.
He could hear crackling flames. Abruptly the lights came on again,
an ugly yellow, then faded back out. Thomas bent down and examined the
door with his flashlight. A magnetic lock. Dependent on an
externally induced electric flux. He grabbed a screwdriver and pried
at the door. For a moment it held. Then it fell open.
Thomas stepped warily out into the corridor. Everything was in
shambles. Guards wandered everywhere, burned and half-blinded. Two
lay groaning under a pile of wrecked equipment. Fused guns, reeking
metal. The air was heavy with the smell of burning wiring and
plastic. A thick cloud that choked him and made him bend double as
he advanced.
“Halt,” a guard gasped feebly, struggling to rise. Thomas pushed past
him and down the corridor. Two small robot guns, still functioning,
glided past him hurriedly toward the drumming chaos of battle. He
followed.
At a major intersection the fight was in full swing. Sherikov’s
guards fought Security police, crouched behind pillars and
barricades, firing wildly, desperately. Again the whole structure
shuddered as a great booming blast ignited some place above. Bombs?
Shells?
Thomas threw himself down as a violet beam cut past his ear and
disintegrated the wall behind him. A Security policeman, wild-eyed,
firing erratically. One of Sherikov’s guards winged him and the
weapon
skidded to the floor.
A robot cannon turned toward him as he made his way past the
intersection. He began to run. The cannon rolled along behind him,
aiming itself uncertainly. Thomas hunched over as he shambled rapidly
along, gasping for breath. In the flickering yellow light he saw a
handful of Security police advancing, firing expertly, intent on a
line of defense Sherikov’s guards had hastily set up.
The robot cannon altered its course to take them on, and Thomas
escaped around a corner.
He was in the main lab, the big chamber where Icarus himself rose,
the vast squat column.
Icarus! A solid wall of guards surrounded him, grim-faced, hugging
their weapons and protection shields. But the Security police had
not penetrated here. Thomas held the turret in front of him
and walked straight to Icarus. The guards moved out of his way
and Thomas began installing the turret.
Then he activated the force field generator. He
leaned out and spoke to the guards. "Raise Icarus to the
surface."
Thomas clicked on the screen. A vibration leaped through him that
snapped his jaw shut and danced up his body. He staggered away,
half-stupefied by the surging force that radiated out from him. The
violet rays struck the field and were deflected harmlessly.
He was safe, and invisible.
He hurried on down the corridor, past a ruined gun and sprawled
bodies still clutching blasters. Great drifting clouds of
radioactive particles billowed around him. He edged by one cloud
nervously. Guards lay everywhere, dying and dead, partly destroyed,
eaten and corroded by the hot metallic salts in the air. He had to
get out -- and fast.
At the end of the corridor a whole section of the fortress was in
ruins. Towering flames leaped on all sides. One of the missiles had
penetrated below ground level.
Thomas found a lift that still functioned. A load of wounded guards
was being raised to the surface. None of them paid any attention to
him. Flames surged around the lift, licking at the wounded. Workmen
were desperately trying to get the lift into action. Thomas leaped
onto the lift. A moment later it began to rise, leaving the shouts
and the flames behind.
The lift emerged on the surface and Thomas leaped off. Icarus
was rising from its silo with its nose to the sky. Sherikov was
pushed out first, and then Reinhart emerged. The first thing
they say was Icarus, on the surface and, presumably, ready to fire.
They raced towards it, and Thomas walked off the other way, heading
for the hills.The
sun was beginning to set. In the darkening sky a few dots still
twisted and rolled, black specks that abruptly burst into flame and
fused out again.
Thomas started along the side of the hill, walking slowly and
carefully, his screen generator under his arm. Probably in the
confusion he could find enough food and equipment to last him
indefinitely. He could wait until early morning, then circle back
toward the ruins and load up. With a few tools and his own innate
skill he would get along fine. A screwdriver, hammer, nails, odds
and ends --
A great hum reached in his ears. It swelled to a deafening roar.
Startled, Thomas whirled around. Icarus was rising with
majestic poise into the sky behind
him.
Thomas turned and began to run.
Margaret Duffe got up slowly from her desk. She pushed her chair
automatically back. “Let me get all this straight. You mean the bomb
has been launched?”
Reinhart nodded impatiently. “That’s what I said."
"How long before it reaches the target?"
“Thirty three minutes as of now! -- ”
“Then your attack can begin at once. I assume the fleet is ready for
action.”
“One thing. Your charge against Sherikov. It seems incredible that
the very
person that gave the bomb to us could -- ”
“We’ll discuss that later,” Reinhart interrupted coldly. "If you’ll
excuse me, I want to see our latest numbers.”
For a moment Margaret Duffe stood at the door. The two of them faced
each other sullenly.
“Reinhart," she said. "Leave the numbers alone."
“I’ll inform you of any change in the odds showing.” Reinhart
retorted as he strode
past her, out of the office and down the hall. He headed toward the SRB room, an intense thalamic excitement rising up inside him.
A few moments later he entered the SRB room. He made his way to the
machines. The odds 7-6 showed in the view windows. Reinhart smiled a
little. Dixon still had the fake odds posted. "Fourteen more
minutes and they can be removed forever." He felt like
dancing, and it stunned him for a moment; there was no one he wanted
to dance with."
Chaplain Kaplan hurried over. Reinhart handed him the latest data, and moved
over to the window, gazing down at the scene below. Men and cars
scurried frantically everywhere. Officials coming and going like
ants, hurrying off in all directions.
The war was on. The retreat signal had been sent out to the warfleet that
had waited so long near Proxima Centaurus. A feeling of triumph
raced through Reinhart. He had won. He had destroyed the man from
the past and broken Peter Sherikov. The war had begun as planned.
Terra was breaking out. Reinhart smiled thinly. He had been
completely successful.
“Commissioner.”
Reinhart turned slowly. “All right.”
Kaplan was standing in front of the machines, gazing down at the
reading. “Commissioner -- ”
Sudden alarm plucked at Reinhart. There was something in Kaplan’s
voice. He hurried quickly over. “What is it?”
Kaplan looked up at him, his face white, his eyes wide with terror.
His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came.
“What is it?” Reinhart demanded, chilled. He bent toward the
machines, studying the reading.
And sickened with horror.
100-1. Against Terra!
He could not tear his gaze away from the figures. He was numb,
shocked with disbelief. 100-1. What had happened? What had gone
wrong? The turret was finished, Icarus was ready, the fleet had been
notified --
The battle had been launched and on the machines the odds read a hundred to one -- for failure.
All of Terra waited for the enemy's destruction. Vid Screens
had been left in place to capture the moment Icarus entered the star
system still traveling at a thousand times the speed
of light. And, nothing happened.
Nothing happened. Icarus simply slowed rapidly, then spiraled into the star
like an inert piece of junk. There was no
explosion. The bomb had failed to go off.
However, at the same time the Terran warfleet engaged the Centauran outer
fleet, sweeping down in a concentrated attack. Twenty major ships
were seized. A good part of the Centauran fleet was destroyed. Many
of the captive systems began to revolt, in the hope of throwing off
the Imperial bonds.
Two hours later the massed Centauran warfleet from Armun abruptly
appeared and joined the battle. Suddenly the great struggle illuminated half the Centauran system. Ship after ship flashed briefly and then faded to
ash. For a whole day the two fleets fought, strung out over millions
of miles of space. Innumerable fighting men died -- on both sides.
At last the remains of the battered Terran fleet turned and limped
toward Armun -- defeated and surrendered. Little of the once impressive armada
remained. A few blackened hulks, making their way uncertainly toward
captivity.
Icarus had not functioned. Centaurus had not exploded. The attack
was a failure.
The war was over. Reinhart was stricken dumb. The
Council of Chaplains sent guards to escort him before them.
There he opened his mike wide and roared. "It is Sherikov's
fault.. he let that idiot savant wire the turret."
“We let you lead us. You pushed and shoved, schemed and
silenced, and now we’ve lost the war,” Margaret Duffe said in a small voice,
wondering and awed. “It’s over now. Finished. You sent our
troops off with false hopes and deceitful readings. For the next
seven generations your very name will be a hiss and a byword.
Heroes that live to return will spit on your coffin that we have
left to bake in the open air. There shall be none that mourns
you.”
Reinhart shook his chains at her and thundered again
that it was all Sherikov's fault. Sherikov was brought in to
face his charges and thereby Peter Sherikov was the first one to
spit in Reinhart's face. The act launched a wild melee as the
Council Chaplains fought for the chance to crowd up at the head of
the line for similar satisfactions. Reinhart feinted and
dodged, shrieked out dire threatenings of what would happen when he
escaped.
Then the Council Chaplains resumed their places around the conference table,
gray-haired elderly men, none of them speaking or moving.
Occasionally, one or more would gaze mutely at the great stellar maps that covered two walls of the
chamber and shake their heads. One chaplain laughed suddenly.
"At least we can all say that we shall not pass this way again."
There were a few chuckles, not many.
Reinhart was hauled out. Peter shambled over to
stand before Margaret Duffe. She stared at him for a moment
then summoned his guards to remove his shackles. "How bad is
it?" Peter whispered.
“I have already empowered negotiators to arrange a truce,” Margaret
Duffe murmured. “Orders have been sent out to Chaplain Jessup
to give up the battle. There’s no hope. Fleet Commander Carleton
destroyed himself and his flagship a few minutes ago. The Centauran
High Council has agreed to end the fighting. Even as it was,
so vastly outnumbered, our troops nearly carried the day. They are
shaken and afraid. My thought is that we'll soon be asked to
join in a partnership with them to rout the insurrections in their
systems.”
"What happened with Icarus?"
She laughed without humor. "It emerged like a
huge fireball, then slowed down to a virtual stop, then the sun
sucked it in, and nothing happened."
"Sherikov stepped back, his face blanched. "It
-- slowed -- dowen?"
"It stopped dead still, Sherikov. It did
nothing."
Suddenly, Peter Sherikov threw his head back and
roared with insane laughter. "This is
not a day of defeat. It is a day of immense victory. This is the most incredible
victory Terra shall ever have. Light up the towers and order
jubilations!”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded.
The whole room was in an uproar. All the Council
members were on their feet. Margaret Duffe’s calm
voice rang for order. “Everyone stay in their seat. What do you
mean, Sherikov?”
The Council chaplains leaned forward around the table.
Sherikov laughed again.
“To begin, I recall to you the original work behind the ftl bomb.
Jamison Hedge was the first human to propel an object at a speed
greater than light. As you know, that object diminished in length
and gained in mass as it moved toward light speed. When it reached
that speed it vanished. It ceased to exist in our terms. Having no
length it could not occupy space. It rose to a different order of
existence.
“When Hedge tried to bring the object back, an explosion occurred.
Hedge was killed, and all his equipment was destroyed. The force of
the blast was beyond calculation. Even though Hedge had placed his observation
ship many millions of miles beyond Pluto, he himself was not far enough
away.
You should remember that originally, he was hoping his drive might be used for space travel.
But after his death the principle was abandoned because there was no
mind on earth with the power to drive Hedge's work forward.
“That is -- until Icarus. I saw the possibilities of creating a bomb, an
incredibly powerful bomb to destroy Centaurus and all the Empire’s
forces. The plan was that the reappearance of Icarus would mean the annihilation of
their System. As Hedge had shown, the object would re-enter space
already occupied by matter, and the cataclysm would be beyond
belief.”
“But Icarus slowed down and came to a stop,” someone shouted.
“Yes! The very thing that Jamison Hedge could
not engineer. His missle came out of psultspace at an accrued
speed; He could not make it stop. His missile would have
required as long to stop it as it had to reach those speeds. Thomas
Cole, one of our engineers, did not realize Icarus was to be a bomb.
Therefore, he rigged it so that the speed was terminated, apparently
without destroying the missile's insides -- which means that Terra
has the seeds of entire fleets of starships.”
The whole Council rose on its feet. A growing murmur filled the
chamber, a rising pandemonium breaking out on all sides.
“Faster than light drive can now be used for space travel,” Sherikov
continued, waving the noise down. “As Hedge intended. We don’t know how
or why, yet. But we do have complete records of the turret being
built. We can duplicate the wiring -- well, we can as soon as our laboratories have been
rebuilt.”
Comprehension was gradually beginning to settle over the room. “Then
it’ll be possible to build ftl ships,” Margaret Duffe murmured,
dazed. “And if we can do that -- ”
“When I showed our engineer the control turret, he perceived its
original purpose.
Not mine, but the original purpose Hedge had been working
toward. He realized Icarus was actually an incomplete spaceship.
He never thought of it as a bomb at all. He saw the vision that Hedge had seen, a faster
than light space drive.
Therefore he made Icarus work the way it was intended.”
“Centaurus won't even be a baby step for us now. We can leave the Empire completely
behind. We can go beyond the galaxy.”
“The whole universe is open to us,” Sherikov agreed. “Instead of
taking over an antiquated Empire, we have the entire cosmos to map.
We can zoom past Kolob and explore, God’s
total creation.”
Margaret Duffe got to her feet and moved slowly toward the great
stellar maps that towered above them at the far end of the chamber.
She stood for a long time, gazing up at the myriad suns, the legions
of systems, awed by what she saw.
“Do you suppose Hedge realized all this, and your engineer too?” she asked suddenly. “What we
can see, here on these maps?”
“My engineer is a very strange -- unique person,” Sherikov said, half to himself.
“Apparently he has an intuition about machines, the way
things are supposed to work. An intuition more in his hands than in
his head. A kind of genius, such as a painter or a pianist has. Not
a scientist. He has no verbal knowledge about things, no semantic
references. He interfaces with the things themselves. Directly.
“I doubt very much if Thomas Cole understood what would come about.
He looked into the globe, the control turret. He saw a job half done. An incomplete machine.”
“Something to be fixed,” Margaret Duffe offered.
“Something to be fixed. Like an artist, he saw his work ahead of
him. He was interested in only one thing: turning out the best job
he could, with the skill he possessed. For us, that skill has opened
up a whole universe, endless galaxies and systems to explore. Worlds
without end. Unlimited, untouched worlds, as God intended for us to
have.”
Sherikov touched Margaret's soft hair briefly. Then he broke away and began
to pack up his briefcase busily. “I have to go. I’ll get in touch
with you later.”
“Where are you going?” she asked hesitantly. “Can’t you stay for the
jubilations?”
“I have to get back to the Urals.” Sherikov grinned at her over his
bushy black beard as he headed out of the room. “I have some very important
business to attend to.”
Thomas Cole was sitting up in bed when Sherikov came to the door.
Most of his awkward, hunched-over body was sealed in a thin envelope
of transparent airproof plastic. Two robot attendants whirred
ceaselessly at his side, their leads contacting his pulse,
blood-pressure, respiration, body temperature.
Thomas turned his gaze a little as the huge Pole tossed down his briefcase and
seated himself on the window ledge.
“How are you feeling?” Sherikov asked him.
“Better.”
“You see we have quite advanced therapy. Your burns should be healed
in a few weeks.”
“How is the war coming?”
“Oh, the war is long over.”
Thomas’s lips moved. “Icarus -- ”
“Icarus went as expected. As you expected anyway.” Sherikov leaned toward
the bed. “Thomas, I promised you something. I mean to keep my
promise -- as soon as you’re well enough.”
“To return me to my own time?”
“That’s right. It will be a relatively simple matter, now that Reinhart
has been removed from power. You’ll be back home again, back in your
own time, your own world. We can supply you with some discs of
platinum or something of the kind to finance your business. You’ll
need a new Fixit truck. Tools. And clothes. A few thousand dollars
ought to do it.”
Thomas was silent. "We’re somewhat beholden to
you, Thomas, as you probably realize. You’ve made it possible for us to
actualize our greatest dream. The whole planet is seething with
excitement. We’re changing our economy over from war to exploration.”
Sherikov chuckled.
“Too bad you won’t be here to see it, Thomas. A whole world
breaking loose. Bursting out into the universe. They want me to have
an ftl ship ready by the end of the week! Thousands of applications
are already on file, men and women wanting to get in on the initial
flight.”
Thomas smiled a little, “There won’t be any band there waiting for
me. No parade or
welcoming committee waiting.”
"Well, you could stay here where you will always be known as a hero,
Thomas." He stood up casually.
“Afraid I must get back to the labs. Lots of reconstruction work
being started.” Sherikov dug into his bulging briefcase. “By the
way…. One little thing. While you’re recovering here, you might like
to look at these.” He tossed a handful of schematics on the bed.
“Just a few little projects I have designed over the
years. You might have some fun with them.”
Thomas Cole bent over the schematics,
an intense frown on his weathered face. His long fingers moved
restlessly over the schematics, tracing wiring and terminals. His
lips moved as the permutations tumbled aft and fro. It was simple
really..
Sherikov waited a moment. Then he stepped out into the hall and
softly closed the door after him. "Thomas Cole, we need you
here. How would you like to have a silver dollar tonight and a
seven course dinner?" The man burst into hysterical laughter
as he moved away. |
