Poul Anderson - The Long Way Home

“So you do plan to attack her?”

Damn the fellow! Mind like a bulldog. Brannoch smiled easily. “You’ve heard about us from our enemies,” he said. “I’ll admit we aren’t a sweet-tempered people. We’re farmers, fishermen, miners, mechanics, the noble isn’t very much different from the smallholder except in owning more land. Why don’t you get a book about us from the library, strain out the propaganda, and see for yourself?

“Ever since we got our independence, Sol has been trying to retake us. The Technon’s idea is that only a unified civilization—under itself—should exist; everything else is too risky. Our notion is that all the cultures which have grown up have a right to their own ways of life, and to blazes with the risks. You can’t unify man without destroying the variety and color which makes him worth having around—at least, you can’t unify him under anything as deadening as a machine which does all his thinking for him.

“Sol is a menace to our self-respect. She’s welcome to sit back and let her own arteries harden, but we don’t want any part of it. When she tries to force it on us, we have to resist. Eventually, it probably will be necessary to destroy the Technon and occupy this system. Frankly, I don’t think much will be lost. We could make those sheep down in low-level back into human beings. We don’t want to fight-Father knows there’s enough to do in our own system—but it looks as if we’ll have to.”

“I’ve heard all the arguments before,” said Langley. “They were current back around my own time. Too bad they haven’t been settled yet, despite all the centuries.”

“They never will be. Man is just naturally a rebel, a diversifier, there’ll always be nonconformists and those who’d force conformity. You must admit, captain, that some of these eternal arguments are better than others.”

“I... suppose so.” Langley glanced up. “I can’t help you anyway. Saris” hangout isn’t known to me either.”

“Well, I promised I wouldn’t pester you. Relax, captain. You look like outworn applesauce. Have another drink.”

The talk strayed for an hour, wandering over stars and planets. Brannoch exerted himself to charm, and thought he was succeeding.

“I’ve got to go,” said Langley at last. “My nursemaids must be getting fretful.”

“As you say. Come in again any time.” Brannoch saw him to the door. “Oh, by the way. There’ll be a present for you when you get back. I think you’ll like it.”

“Huh?” Langley stared at him.

“Not a bribe. No obligation. If you don’t keep it, I won’t be offended. But it occurred to me that all the people trying to use you as a tool -never stopped to think that you are a man.” Brannoch clapped his shoulder. “So long. Good luck.”

When he was gone, the Thorian whirled back toward his listeners. There was a flame in him. “Did you get it?” he snapped. “Did you catch any thoughts?”

There was a pause. Chanthavar didn’t know, thought Brannoch half drunkenly, or he would never have let Langley come here. Even the Thorians hadn’t realized for a long time that a Thryman was telepathic, and since discovering it they had been careful to keep the fact secret. Maybe.., maybe—

“No,” said the voice. “We could not read his mind at all.”

What? ”

“It was gibberish. There was nothing recognizable. Now we must depend on your scheme.”

Brannoch slumped into a chair. Briefly, he felt dismayed. Why? Had a slow accumulation of mutations altered the human brain that much? He didn’t know; the Thrymans had never told anyone how their telepathy worked.

But- Well, Langley was still a man. There was still a chance. A very good chance, if I know men. Brannoch sighed gustily and tried to ease the tautness within himself.

The police escort dogged him all the way back. And there would be others in the throngs on the bridgeways, hidden behind the blurring rain which funneled off the transparent coverings. No more peace, no more privacy. Unless he gave in, told what he really thought.

He’d have to, or before long his mind would be wrenched open and its knowledge pried out. So far, reflected Langley, he’d done a good job of dissimulation, of acting baffled. It wasn’t too hard. He came from another civilization, and his nuances of tone and gesture and voice could not be interpreted by the most skilled psychologist today. Also, he’d always been a good poker player.

But who? Chanthavar, Brannoch, Valti—didn’t Saris have any rights in the matter? They could all have been lying to him, there might not be a word of truth in any of their arguments. Maybe no one should have the new power, maybe it was best to burn Saris to ash with an energy beam and forget him. But how could even that be done?

Langley shook his head. He had to decide, and fast. If he read a few of those oddly difficult books, learned something—just a little, just enough for a guess as to who could most be trusted. Or maybe he should cut cards. It wouldn’t be any more senseless than the blind blundering fate which seemed to rule human destiny.

No... he had to live with himself, all the rest of his days.

He came out on the flange of the palace tower which held his apartment. (Only his. It was very big and lonely now, without Jim and Bob. ) The hall bore him to a shaft, and he sped upward toward his own level. Four guards, inhuman-looking in the stiff black fabric of combat armor, followed; but at least they’d stay outside his door.

Langley stopped to let it scan him. “Open, sesame,” he said in a tired voice, and walked through. It closed behind him.

Then, for a little while, there was an explosion in his head, and he stood in a stinging darkness.

It lifted. He swayed on his feet, not moving, feeling the tears that ran down his face. “Peggy,” he whispered.

She came toward him with the same long-legged, awkward grace he remembered. The plain white dress was belted to a slender waist, and ruddy hair fell to her shoulders. The eyes were big and green, there was gentleness on the wide mouth, her nose was tilted and there was a dusting of freckles across its bridge. When she was close, she stopped and bent the knee to him. He saw how the light slid over her burnished hair.

He reached out as if to touch her, but his hand wouldn’t go all the way. Suddenly his teeth were clapping in his jaws, and there was a chill in his flesh. Blindly, he turned from her.

He beat his fists against the wall, hardly touching it, letting the forces that shuddered within him expend themselves in controlling muscles that wanted to batter down a world. It seemed like forever before he could face her again. She was still waiting.

“You’re not Peggy,” he said through his tears. “It isn’t you.”

She did not understand the English, but must have caught his meaning. The voice was low, as Hers had been, but not quite the same. “Sir, I am called Marin. I was sent as a gift by the Lord Brannoch dhu Crombar. It will be my pleasure to serve you.”

At least, thought Langley, Brannoch had enough brains to give her another name .

His heart, racing in its cage of ribs, began skipping beats, and he snapped after air. Slowly, he fumbled over to the service robot. “Give me a sedative,” he said. “I want to remain conscious but calm.” The voice was strange in his ears.

When he had gulped the liquid down, he felt a darkness rising. His hands tingled as warmth returned. The heart slowed, the lungs expanded, the sweating skin shivered and eased. There was a balance within him, as if his grief had aged many years.

He studied the girl, and she gave him a timid smile. No -not Peggy. The face and figure, yes, but no American woman had ever smiled in just that way, that particular curve of lips; she was a little taller, he saw, and did not walk like one born free, and the voice—