The Fugitive Worlds Page 9

  "Vantara, you look so. ..." He paused, aware of the scrutiny of eyes that no longer existed in twenty-one fist-sized skulls, and listened like a bystander to the words which were issuing from his mouth. "What is happening here? Usually when we meet you behave like an arrogant bitch, and now —all of a sudden—we're on first-name terms and the very air is suffused with warmth and friendliness. What private scheme are you about?"

  Vantara laughed and gasped at the same time. "Arrogance! You talk to me about arrogance* You who always approach a woman with your male armor clanking and your phallic sword swinging through the air!"

  "That is the most twisted and. . . ."

  Vantara silenced him by raising one hand, fingers spread out, as a barrier between their eyes and mouths. "Say no more. Toller, I beg you! Neither of us is wearing armor on this night and therefore either of us could easily be wounded. Let us accept things the way they are for this single hour; let us have this drink together; and let us talk to each other. Will you agree to that?"

  Toller smiled. "How could any reasonable man refuse?"

  "Very well! Now, tell me why you are no longer the Toller Maraquine I have always known."

  "We've returned to the same subject!"

  "We never left it."

  "But. . . ."Toller gazed at her in perplexity for a moment, and then the unthinkable happened—he began to speak freely about what was in his mind, to confess his newly discovered weaknesses, to admit his growing belief that he would never be able to live up to the example set for him by his grandfather. At one point, while he was describing the tragic find at the pumping station in Styvee, his voice faltered and he experienced a terrible fear that he would be unable to continue. When he had finished he took another drink of his brandy, but found it was no longer to his taste. He set the glass aside and sat staring down at his hands, wondering why he felt as shaky as a man who had just emerged from the most harrowing ordeal of his life.

  "Poor Toller," Vantara said gently. "What has life done to you that you should be ashamed of having finer feelings?"

  "You mean, of being weak."

  "It isn't weakness to feel compassion, or to experience doubt, or to need human contact."

  Toller thought he glimpsed a way of repairing some of the cracks in his personal facade. "I could do with lots of human contact," he said wryly. "Provided it's the right sort."

  "Don't talk like that, Toller—there is no need for it." Vantara set her own glass down and swung one leg over the bench so that she was sitting facing him. "Very well, you may touch me if you want to."

  "This is not the way I. . . ." Toller fell silent as Vantara took his hands and guided them on to her breasts. They felt warm and firm, even through the thickly embroidered material of her captain's jupon. He moved closer.

  "Pray do not misunderstand," Vantara whispered. "I am not going to share your bed—this degree of human contact is sufficient for the needs of the hour." Her lips parted slightly, inviting him to kiss, and he accepted the invitation as in a dream, scarcely able to believe what was happening. The utter femininity of her swamped his senses, reducing the sounds in the garden to a remote murmur. Vantara and he held the same position for a long but indeterminate time, perhaps ten minutes, perhaps twenty, repeating the kiss over and over again, tirelessly, feeling no need to vary or advance the act of physical communion. And when finally they separated Toller felt replenished, restored to completeness. He smiled at Vantara and she responded, his smile grew wider and suddenly they were laughing. Toller was aware of a sense of relief and relaxation akin to that which followed sexual congress, but it was more pervasive and had a component which hinted at greater permanence.

  "I don't know what you did to me," he said. "An apothecary could grow rich if he could put such a remedy in a jar."

  "I didn't do anything."

  "But you did! I had become so weary of this old planet that even the circumnavigation flight was beginning to pail on me. Now, all at once, I'm looking forward to it again. We will not actually be together when we take to the skies, but I'll be continuously in sight of your ship, day after day, and at night there'll be no landing in graveyard cities. I'll see to that. We can. . . ."

  "Toller!" Vantara looked oddly wary. "I told you not to misinterpret what has taken place between us."

  "I am presuming nothing, I assure you," Toller said quickly and easily, knowing he was lying, filled with an exulting new certainty that in this respect he knew Vantara better than she knew herself. "All I am saying is—"

  "Forgive me for interrupting," Vantara cut in, "but you are making one rather large presumption."

  "And that is. . . ?"

  "That I will be taking part in the flight."

  Toller was jolted. "How can you not take part? You're here because you're an air captain, and the round-the-globe flight is the most important part of the entire mission. Sky-commodore Sholdde will not excuse you from it."

  Vantara smiled in a way that was almost shame-faced. "I confess that I was anticipating some difficulty in that direction, but it transpires that my beloved grandmother—the Queen—had foreseen this kind of thing happening, and had given the commodore instructions that my requests were not to be denied." She smiled again. "I have a feeling he will shed very few tears when I leave."

  "Leave?" Toller understood exactly what Vantara was saying, but his lips framed the question nevertheless. "Where do you intend to go?"

  "Home, of course. I despise this tired and gloomy world even more than you do, Toller—so tomorrow I will escape from it by flying to Overland, and I doubt if anything will ever persuade me to come back here." Vantara stood up, symbolically breaking the bonds of Land's gravity, putting the interplanetary chasm between herself and Toller, and when she spoke again her voice contained a note of casual insincerity which he felt like a blow to the face.

  "Perhaps we will meet again in Prad—in some future year."

  Chapter 6

  Divivvidiv floated near the viewing post of an electronic telescope and waited until the Xa had completed all adjustments in the aim-and-focus circuits. When the image on the screen had steadied a comparatively small area of the planet below remained as background, the rest having flowed outwards and vanished. He seemed to be looking vertically downwards through a window, the view from which was crossed by swirls of cloud superimposed on ochre us land patterns.

  In the exact center of that view was a small silvery crescent, resembling a miniature moon which had somehow been frozen in place. Closer examination of the object revealed that it was a brownish sphere illuminated on one side by the sun. It appeared solid enough to be a rocky asteroid, but Divivvidiv knew he was looking at one of the fabric balloons used by the Primitives for travel between their worlds. As it was still ascending towards the weightless zone the ship's gondola was optically invisible, but the Xa could "see" the crew very well by other means.

  They are five in number, Beloved Creator, the Xa said. All are female, which is unusual if our limited experience of this race is anything to go by.

  Are they aware of the station? Or of you?

  There was a short pause. No, Beloved Creator. The ship, which is one of the group we saw previously, is returning to its home world for reasons which, although they are not clear to me, are obviously connected with the emotional well-being of its commander. There is no thought of observing or investigating our activities.

  The communication from the Xa was correctly and courteously formed, but it contained shadings of mind-colors which seemed inappropriate. Divivvidiv associated them with malice and gloating, and he had little trouble in identifying the most likely source.

  Do you predict that we will be observed?

  It is almost inevitable, the Xa replied. In fact, it is almost inevitable that there will be a collision. The Primitive ship is experiencing virtually no lateral drift, and—as you know— my body is now expanding at its maximum rate.

  Divivvidiv withdrew at once into the high-brain mode so that he coul
d ponder the problem without being overheard by the Xa. The extermination of five uncultured bipeds would be an utterly trivial occurrence—especially when one considered the events which were soon to overtake this entire region of space—but he would have to take the decision in person. And the deaths would be close.

  Those facts, coupled with his direct involvement, would forge a mental link between him and the five whose lives were to be brought to a close and, inescapably, he would be caught up in each reflux. The reflux was the brief, incredibly fierce and inexplicable burst of psychic activity which always occurred one or two seconds after the death of an intelligent being. Even when the physical form was instantaneously vaporized, and in theory no further mental interaction with the living could possibly take place, there always came that searing pang—excruciating, chastening, ineffable, poignant —that momentary spiritual refulgence which had a profoundly disturbing effect on those who felt it.

  The fact that the reflux happened at all was taken by many as proof of the continuance of the personality after death. Some component of the mind-body complex was migrating to a new existence, it was claimed. Others of a more materialistic nature seized on the way in which the strength of the reflux faded with distance as an indication that there were realms of physics which Dussarran science had yet to explore.

  Divivvidiv did not adhere to either school of thought, but he had been close to reflux epicenters twice in his life—when his parents had died—and he had no wish to repeat the experience if it could be avoided. Morality was powerfully reinforced by self-interest, leaving him in a dilemma which he would have to resolve quickly if he were to meet his obligations to the all-important Xa.

  Part crystal, part computer, part sentient being—the Xa could only grow to the size necessary for its eventual purpose in a region where there was a complete absence of gravity, coupled with an abundance of oxygen. The Dussarrans had been fortunate in finding such an environment within reach of their original home, but the existence of a burgeoning technical society on the twin worlds was an unwelcome complication to their plans, mainly because the Xa's structure —in spite of being so huge—was comparatively fragile. The Primitives were capable of damaging it, with or without malicious intent, and therefore had to be controlled like vermin if they came near.

  Divivvidiv considered the problem for a short time, then arrived at a solution which satisfied his fondness for the creative compromise. It would involve his going outside the station's pressurized living quarters so that he could communicate privately and efficiently with Director Zunnunun on the home world, Dussarra. Luckily, the series of relocations had been successfully completed and Dussarra was now part of the local system, visible as a bright blue mote against the rich stellar background. At a range of only a few million miles it would be easy to establish mind-to-mind contact with Zunnunun with no risk of others intercepting the communication. Divivvidiv reverted to mid-brain mode and, with his eyes fixed on the image of the ship which was laboring up from the alien planet, contacted the Xa.

  You have already told me that the Primitives are unaware of our presence, he said. Does that mean they are totally without means of direct communication?

  There was a brief hesitation while the Xa carried out the necessary investigation. Yes, Beloved Creator, the Primitives are completely passive in that respect.

  Divivvidiv felt a surge of mingled revulsion and pity— how could any creature endure going through its entire existence in a condition of mind-blindness? The Primitives' lack of higher sense organs made them easier to deal with in this instance, but the cautious and meticulous side of Divivvidiv's nature prompted him to ask further questions.

  Are they a belligerent race?

  Yes, Beloved Creator.

  Do they carry weapons?

  Yes, Beloved Creator.

  Extract a description of the weapons for me.

  Another pause followed before the Xa spoke. Their weapons employ solid lead projectiles expelled through tubes by the force of gases compressed in metal containers. Simultaneously the Xa conveyed to Divivvidiv exact details of the dimensions and energy transference capabilities of the types of weapons the Primitives carried both on their persons and aboard their slow-moving craft.

  Divivvidiv felt a growing sense of satisfaction as he became certain there was no obstacle to the plan he had conceived for dealing with the approaching ship and its crew.

  You are well pleased, Beloved Creator, the Xa said.

  Yes—I shall now return to my dream and await the arrival of the Primitives in comfort.

  You are pleased because it will not be necessary for you to terminate the Primitives' lives.

  Yes.

  In that case, Beloved Creator, why does it not trouble you that soon you will kill me?

  You do not understand these things. Divivvidiv felt a sudden impatience with the Xa and its obsession with preserving its own pseudo-life. Each time it returned to the subject his own mind was clouded with dark thoughts of genocide, and—in spite of the mental disciplines at which he was adept—the echoes of those thoughts disturbed his dreams.

  Chapter 7

  Toller knew it was only his imagination, but an abnormal quietness seemed to have descended over the Five Palaces area of Ro-Atabri. It was not the sort of quietness which comes when human activity is in abeyance—it was more as if an invisible blanket of soundproof material had been pressed down over everything in his vicinity. When he looked about him he could see evidence that carpenters and stonemasons were busy with their restoration work; bluehorns and wagons were sending up clouds of dust which added scumbles of yellow to the blue of the foreday sky; ground crew and airmen were going about their business of getting the ships ready for the round-the-world flight. Everywhere he looked there was purposeful movement, but the noises of it seemed to be reaching him through the filters of distance, attenuated, lacking in relevance.

  The flight was due to begin within the hour, and it was that fact—Toller knew—which was numbing his reactions, separating him from the perceived world of the senses. Nine days had passed since Vantara's departure for Overland, and during that time he had sunk into a mood of depression and apathy which had defied all efforts to overcome it.

  When he should have been preparing his men and his ship for the circumnavigation he had been lost in thought, living and reliving that strange hour with Vantara at the Migration Day festivity. What had prompted her to behave as she had? Knowing that she was on the eve of quitting the planet altogether, she had raised him to the heights—he could still feel her lips against his, her breasts cupped in his hands— only to dash him down again with her sudden callous aloofness. Had she been playing cat-and-mouse on a whim, passing a dull hour with a trivial game?

  There were moments in which Toller believed that to be the case, and at those times he plumbed new depths of misery, hating the countess with a passion which could whiten his knuckles and rob him of speech in mid-sentence. At other times he saw clearly that she had exerted herself to break down barriers between them, that she considered him a person of value, and that she would indeed be waiting to receive him when next he set foot on Overland. In those periods of optimism Toller felt even worse, because he and his love—the finest and most desirable woman who had ever lived—were literally worlds apart, and he was unable to imagine how he could endure the coming years without seeing her.

  He would stare up at the great disk of Overland, its convex vastness crossed again and again by streamers of cloud, and wish for some means of instantaneous communication between the sister planets. There had been fanciful talk of some day building huge sunwriters, with tilting mirrors as large as rooftops, which would have been capable of sending messages between Land and Overland. If such a device had existed Toller would have used it, not so much to talk to Vantara—bridging the interworld gulf in that unsatisfactory way might have made his yearnings even more insupportable —but to get in touch with his father.

  Cassyll Maraquine had the pow
er and influence to obtain his son a special release from the Land mission. In the past, before he had been touched by the madness of love, Toller had scorned such uses of privilege, but in his present state of mind he would have seized on the favor with unashamed greed. And now, to make matters worse, he was on the point of setting out on a voyage which would take him through the Land of the Long Days, that distant side of the planet where he would not even have the spare consolation of being able to see Overland and in his mind's eye watch over Vantara while she went about her oh-so-special life. . . .

  "This will never do, young Maraquine," said Commissioner Kettoran, who had approached Toller unnoticed, making his way among piles of lumber and other supplies. He was wearing the grey robe of his office, but without the official emblems of brakka and enamel. Another man of his rank might have sequestered himself in imposing quarters or only ventured abroad with an entourage, but Kettoran liked to wander unobtrusively and alone through the various sections of the base.