Robert Silverberg - Stepsons of Terra

It’s pretty far-fetched. But we need something far-fetched to save us now. It might work.

Myreck said, “Will you sit here?”

Ewing climbed into a relaxing lounger. The Earther dialed him a drink and slipped a music disk into the player. Vigorous music filled the room: foursquare harmonics, simple and yet ruggedly powerful. He liked the sort of sound it made—a direct emotional appeal.

“What music is that?”

“Beethoven,” Myreck said. “One of our ancients. Would you like me to relax you?”

“Please.”

Ewing felt Myreck’s hands at the base of his skull once again. He waited. Myreck’s hands probed the sides of his neck, lifted, jabbed down sharply. For one brief moment Ewing felt all sensation leave his body; then physical awareness returned, but without consciousness of the pain.

“That feels wonderful,” he said. “It’s as if Firnik never worked me over at all, except for these bruises I have as souvenirs.”

“They’ll vanish shortly. Somatic manifestations usually do once the pain-source is removed.”

He leaned back, exulting in the sensation of feeling no pain as if he had spent all his life, and not merely the past three or four days, in a state of hellish physical discomfort. The music was fascinating, and the drink he held warmed him. It was comforting to know that somewhere in the city of Valloin was a sanctuary where he was free from Firnik for as long as he chose.

The Earthers were filing in now—eleven or twelve of them, shy little men with curious artificial deformities of diverse sorts. Myreck said, “There are the members of the College currently in residence. Others are doing research elsewhere. I don’t know what sort of colleges you have on Corwin, but ours is one only in the most ancient sense of the word. We draw no distinctions between master and pupil here. We all learn equally from one another.”

“I see. And which of you developed the temporal control system?”

“Oh, none of us did that. Powlis was responsible, a hundred years ago. We’ve simply maintained the apparatus and modified it.”

“A hundred years? ” Ewing was appalled. “It’s a hundred years since the art was discovered and you’re still lurking in holes and corners, letting the Sirians push you out of control of your own planet?”

Ewing realized he had spoken too strongly. The Earthers looked abashed; some of them were almost at the verge of tears. They’re like children, he thought wonderingly.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

A slim Earther with surgically-augmented shoulders said, “Is it true that your world is under attack by alien beings from a far galaxy?”

“Yes. We expect attack in ten years.”

“And will you be able to defeat them?”

Ewing shrugged. “We’ll try. They’ve conquered the first four worlds they’ve attacked, including two that were considerably stronger than we are. We don’t have much hope of winning. But we’ll try.”

Sadly Myreck said, “We had been wondering if it would be possible for us to leave Earth and emigrate to your world soon. But if you face destruction… He let his voice trail off.

“Emigrate to Corwin? Why would you do that?”

“The Sirians soon will rule here. They will put us to work for them, or else kill us. We’re safe as long as we remain in this building—but we must go out from time to time.”

“You have temporal control. You could duck back into yesterday to avoid pursuit.”

Myreck shook his head. “Paradoxes are caused. Multiplication of personality. We fear these things, and we would hesitate to bring them about.”

Shrugging, Ewing said, “You have to take chances. Caution is healthy only when not carried to excess.”

“We had hoped,” said a dreamy-eyed Earther sitting in the comer, “that we could arrange with you for a passage to Corwin. On the ship you came on, possibly.”

“It was a one-man ship.”

Disappointment was evident. “In that case, perhaps you could send a larger ship for us. We have none, you see. Earth stopped building ships two centuries ago, and gradually most of the ones we had were either sold or fell into disuse. The Sirians now control such industries on Earth, and refuse to let us have ships. So the galaxy we once roamed is closed to us.”

Ewing wished there were some way he could help these futile, likable little dreamers. But no solutions presented themselves. “Corwin has very few ships itself,” he said. “Less than a dozen capable of making an interstellar journey with any reasonable number of passengers. And any ships we might have would certainly be requisitioned by the military for use in the coming war against the Klodni. I don’t see any way we could manage it. Besides,” he added, “even if I left Earth tomorrow, I wouldn’t be back on Corwin for nearly a year. And it would take another year for me to return to Earth with a ship for you. Do you think you could hold out against the Sirians that long?”

“Possibly,” Myreck said, but he sounded doubtful. There was silence a moment. Then the Scholar said, “Please understand that we would be prepared to pay for our passage. Not in money, perhaps, but in service. Possibly we are in command of certain scientific techniques not yet developed on your world. In that case you might find our emigration quite valuable.”

Ewing considered that. Certainly the Earthers had plenty to offer—the temporal-control device, foremost among them. But he could easily picture the scene upon his return to Corwin, as he tried to get the Council to approve use of a major interstellar freighter to bring refugee scientists from the Earth that had failed to help them. It would never work. If they only had some super-weapon—

But, of course, if they had a super-weapon they would have no need of fleeing the Sirians. Round and round, with no solution.

He moistened his lips. “Perhaps I can think of something,” he said. “The cause isn’t quite hopeless yet. But meanwhile—” Myreck’s eyes brightened. “Yes?”

“I’m quite curious about your temporal-displacement equipment. Would it be possible for me to examine it?”

Myreck exchanged what seemed like a dubious glance with several of his comrades. After a moment’s hesitation he returned his attention to Ewing and said, in a slightly shaky voice, “I don’t see why not.”

They don’t fully trust me, Ewing thought. They’re half afraid of the bold, vigorous man from the stars. Well, I don’t blame them.

Myreck rose and beckoned to Ewing. “Come this way. The laboratory is downstairs.”

Ewing followed, and the other Earthers tagged along behind. They proceeded down a winding staircase into a room below, brightly lit with radiance streaming from every molecule of the walls and floor. In the center of the room stood a massive block of machinery, vaguely helical in structure, with an enormous pendulum held in suspension in its center. A platform stood at one side. Elsewhere in the room were metering devices and less identifiable types of scientific equipment.

“This is not the main machine,” Myreck said. “In the deepest level of the building we keep the big generator that holds us out of time-phase with relation to the outside world. I could show it to you, but this machine is considerably more interesting.”

“What does this one do?”

“It effects direct temporal transfer on a small-scale level. The theory behind it is complex, but the basic notion is extraordinarily simple. You see—”

“Just a moment,” Ewing said, interrupting. An idea had struck him which was almost physically staggering in its impact. “Tell me: this machine could send a person into the immediate Absolute Past, couldn’t it?”

Myreck frowned. “Why, yes. Yes. But we would never run the risk of—”