Poul Anderson - The Long Way Home

“My friend, you can’t make over a civilization,” said Chanthavar, “and in reforming one, you have to use the materials available. The founders of the Technate knew that. It’s too late; it was always too late. Look around you -think these apes are fit to decide public policy?” He sighed. “Read your history and face it: war, poverty, and tyranny are the natural condition of man, the so-called golden ages are freak fluctuations which soon collapse because they don’t fit a creature only three hundred life-times out of the caves. Life is much too short to spend, trying to alter the laws of nature. Ruthless use of strength is the law of nature.”

Langley gave up, became a tourist. He was interested in the factories, where men were ants scurrying around the metal titans they had built; in the schools, where a few years including hypnotic indoctrination were enough to teach the needed rudiments; in the dark, smoky, raucous taverns; in the homes, small crowded apartments with a moderate comfort, even stereoscopic shows of appropriate imbecility, and a rather cheerful, indulgent family life in a temple, where a crowd swaying and chanting its hymns to Father reminded him of an old-time camp meeting; in the little shops which lined the streets, last survival of handicraft and a surprisingly good folk art; in the market, which filled a gigantic open circle with shrilling women- Yes, a lot to see.

After dinner, which was at a spot patronized by the wealthier Common merchants, Chanthavar smiled. “Near walked my legs off today,” he said. “Now how about some fun? A city is known by its vices.”

“Well... O. K.,” said Langley. He was a little drunk, the sharp pungent beer of the lower levels buzzed in his head. He didn’t want women, not with memory still a bright pain in him, but there ought to be games and- His purse was full of bills and coins. “Where to?”

“Dreamhouse, I think,” said Chanthavar, leading them out. “It’s a favorite resort for all levels.”

The entrance was a cloudy blueness opening into many small rooms. They took one, slipping life-masks over their faces: living synthetic flesh which stung briefly as it connected to nerve endings in the skin and then was part of you. “Everybody’s equal here, everybody anonymous,” said Chanthavar. “Refreshing.”

“What is your wish, sirs?” The voice came from nowhere, cool and somehow not human.

“General tour,” said Chanthavar. “The usual. Here... put a hundred solars in this slot, each of you. The place is expensive, but fun.”

They relaxed on what seemed a dry, fluffy cloud, and were carried aloft. The guards formed an impassive huddle some distance behind. Doors opened for them. They hung under a perfumed sky of surrealistic stars and moons, looking down on what appeared to be a deserted landscape not of Earth.

“Part illusion, part real,” said Chanthavar. “You can have any experience you can imagine here, for the right price. Look—”

The cloud drifted through a rain which was blue and red and golden fire, tingling as it licked over their bodies. Great triumphant chords of music welled around them. Through the whirling flames, Langley glimpsed girls of an impossible loveliness, dancing on the air.

Then they were underwater, or so it seemed, with tropical fish swimming through a green translucence, corals and waving fronds underneath. Then they were in a red-lit cavern, where the music was a hot pulse in the blood and they shot at darting containers which landed to offer a drink when hit. Then they were in a huge and jolly company of people, singing and laughing and dancing and guzzling. A pneumatic young female giggled and tugged at Langley’s arm—briefly, he wavered, there must be some drug in the air, then he said harshly: “Scram!”

Whirled over a roaring waterfall, sporting through air which was somehow thick enough to swim in, gliding past grottoes and glens full of strange lights, and on into a gray swirling mist where you could not see a yard ahead. Here, in a dripping damp quiet which seemed to mask enormousness, they paused.

Chanthavar’s shadowy form gestured, and there was a queer taut note in his muffled voice: “Would you like to play Creator? Let me show you—” A ball of raging flame was in his hands, and from it he molded stars and strewed them through sightless immensity. “Suns, planets, moons, people, civilization, and histories—you can make them here as you please.” Two stars crashed into each other. “You can will yourself to see a world grow, any detail no matter how tiny, a million years in a minute or a minute stretched through a million years; you can smite it with thunder, and watch them cower and worship you.” The sun in Chanthavar’s hands glowed dully through the fog. Tiny sparks which were planets flitted around it. “Let me clear the mist, let there be light. Let there be Life and a History!”

Something moved in the wet smoky air. Langley saw a shadow striding between new-born constellations, a thousand light-years tall. A hand gripped his arm, and dimly he saw the pseudo-face beyond.

He writhed free, yelling, as the other hand sought his neck. A wire loop snaked out, tangling his ankles. There were two men now, closing in on him. Wildly, he groped backward. His fist connected with a cheek which bled artificial blood.

“ Chanthavar! ”

A blaster crashed, startlingly loud and brilliant. Langley hurled a giant red sun into one of the faces wavering near him. Twisting free of an arm about his waist, he kneed the vague form and heard a grunt of pain.

“Light!” bellowed Chanthavar. “Get rid of this mist!”

The fog broke, slowly and raggedly. There was a deep clear blackness, the dark of outer vacuum, with stars swimming in it like fireflies. Then full illumination came on.

A man sprawled dead near Chanthavar, his stomach torn open by an energy bolt. The guards milled uneasily. Otherwise they were alone. The room was bare, coldly lit, Langley thought somewhere in his lurching mind that it was cruel to show the emptiness here where there had been dreams.

For a long moment, he and the agent stared at each other. Blaustein and Matsumoto were gone.

“Is... this... part of the fun?” asked Langley through his teeth.

“No.” A hunter’s light flickered in Chanthavar’s eyes. He laughed. “Beautiful job! I’d like to have those fellows on my staff. Your friends have been stunned and kidnapped under my own eyes. Come on!”

There was a time of roaring confusion, as Chanthavar snapped orders into a visiphone, organizing a chase. Then he swung around to Langley. “I’ll have this warren searched, of course,” he said, “but I don’t imagine the kidnappers are still in it. The robots aren’t set to notice who goes out in what condition, so that’s no help. Nor do I expect to find the employee of this place who helped fix matters up for the snatch. But I’ve got the organization alerted, there’ll be a major investigation hereabouts inside half an hour. And Brannoch’s quarters are being watched already.”

“Brannoch?” repeated Langley stupidly. His brain felt remote, like a stranger’s, he couldn’t throw off the air-borne drugs as fast as the agent.

“To be sure! Who else? Never thought he had this efficient a gang on Earth, but- They won’t take your friends directly to him, of course, there’ll be a hideout somewhere in the lower levels, not too much chance of finding it among fifteen million Commoners, but we’ll try. We’ll try!”

A policeman hurried up with a small, metal-cased object which Chanthavar took. “Peel off that mask. This is an electronic scent-tracer, we’ll try to follow the trail of the pseudo-faces—distinctive odor, so don’t you confuse it. I don’t think the kidnappers took the masks off in Dreamhouse, then someone might notice who they were carrying. Stick with us, we may need you. Let’s go!”