Poul Anderson - The Long Way Home

Well- He struck another cigarette. Sleep on it, at least, if he could sleep.

Where were Bob and Jim? In what darkness did they lie, full of fear? Or had they already gone down into the final night? He didn’t think he’d see them again. If he knew who their murderers were, be sure that he’d kill himself before helping that side; but he would most likely spend his life in puzzled impotence.

Closing his eyes, he tried to call up the image of Peggy. She was gone, she had died so long ago that the very blood of her was thinned through the entire race. Quite possibly everyone he had met, Chanthavar and Brannoch and Valti and Marin and Yulien and the faceless Commoners huddled on low-level, stemmed from one unforgotten night with her. It was a strange thought. He wondered if she had married again; he hoped so, hoped that it had been a good man and that her life had been happy, but it wasn’t likely.

He tried to see her before him, but it was hard to get a clear vision. Marin overlay it, they were like two pictures one on the other and not quite in line, the edges blurred. Peggy’s smile had never been just like what he saw now—or had it?

He swore in a dull tone, snubbed out the cigarette, and turned off the light which glowed from walls and ceiling. Sleep would not come, he lay restlessly with a rusty chain of thought dragging through his skull.

It might have been hours later when he heard the explosion.

He sat up in bed, staring blindly before him. That had been a blaster going off! What the devil-?

Another crash sounded, and boots slammed on the floor. Langley jumped to his feet. Armed force—a real kidnap try this time, in spite of all guards! Another energy bolt flamed somewhere outside the room, and he heard a deep-voiced oath.

He crouched against the farther wall, doubling his fists. No lights. If they were after him, let them find and haul him out.

The tumult rolled somewhere in the living room. Then he heard Marin scream.

He sprang for the door. “Open, damn you!” It sensed him and dilated. A metal-clad arm slapped him back, down to the floor.

“Stay where you are, sir.” It was a hoarse gasp out of the masklike combat helmet. “They’ve broken in—”

“Let me go! ” Langley shoved against the gigantic form of the Solar cop. He was no match, the slave stood like a rock.

“Sorry, sir, my orders—”

A blue-white beam snapped across the field of view. Langley had a glimpse of a spacesuited figure hurtling out the smashed window, and Marin writhing in its arms. Other police were charging after it, firing wildly.

Then, slowly, there was silence.

The guard bowed. “They’re gone now, sir. Come on out if you wish.”

Langley stepped into the shambles of his living room. There was a haze of smoke, burned plastic, the thin bitter reek of ozone. Furniture was trampled wreckage between the bulky, armored shapes which filled the chamber.

“What happened?” he yelled.

“Easy, sir.” The squad commander threw back his helmet; the shaven head looked tiny, poking out of the metal and fabric that incased its body. “You’re all right. Would you like a sedative?”

“I asked you what happened!” Langley wanted to smash the impassive face. “Go on, tell me, I order you.”

“Very good, sir. Two small, armed spaceships attacked us just outside.” The commander pointed to the sharded window. “While one engaged our boats, the other discharged several men in space armor with antigravity flying units, who broke into the suite. Some of them stood off our reinforcements coming through the door—one of them grabbed your slave—then we rallied, more men came, and they retreated. No casualties on either side, I believe; it was a very brief action. Luckily they failed to get you, sir.”

“Who were they?”

“I don’t know, sir. Their equipment was not standard for any known military or police force. I think one of our aircraft has slapped a tracer beam on them, but it can’t follow them outside the atmosphere and that’s doubtless where they’ll go. But relax, sir. You’re safe.”

Yeah. Safe . Langley choked and turned away. He felt drained of strength.

Chanthavar showed up within an hour. His face was carefully immobile as he surveyed the ruin. “They got away, all right,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter too much, since they failed.”

“Who were they, do you know?” asked Langley dully.

“No, I couldn’t say. Probably Centaurian, possibly Society. It’ll be investigated, of course.” Chanthavar struck a cigarette. “In a way, it’s a hopeful sign. When a spy resorts to strongarm methods, he’s usually getting desperate.”

“Look here.” Langley grabbed his arm. “You’ve got to find them. You’ve got to get that girl back. Do you understand?”

Chanthavar drew hard on his cigarette, sucking in his cheeks till the high bones stood out. His eyes were speculative on the American. “So she means that much to you already?” he asked.

“No- Well- It’s plain decency! You can’t let her be torn apart by them, looking for something she doesn’t know.”

“She’s only a slave,” shrugged Chanthavar. “Apparently, she was snatched impulsively when they were repelled from your quarters. It doesn’t mean a thing. I’ll give you a duplicate of her if it’s that important to you.”

“ No! ”

“All right, have it your way. But if you try to trade information for her—”

“I won’t,” said Langley. His lie had become a mechanical reflex. “I haven’t anything to trade—not yet, anyway.”

“I’ll do everything in my power,” said Chanthavar. He clapped Langley’s shoulder with a brief, surprising friendliness. “Now back to bed for you. I prescribe twelve hours” worth of sleep-drug.”

Langley took it without protest. It would be something to escape the sense of his own utter helplessness. He fell into an abyss without dreams, without memory.

Waking, he found that repairs had been made while he slept; the fight last night might never have happened. Afternoon sunlight gleamed off the ships patrolling beyond his window. A doubled guard. Locking the barn door—no, the horse hadn’t been stolen after all, had it?

His mind gnawed the problem like a starving dog with an old bone from which all nourishment has gone. Marin... because she had come near him, she was gone into darkness; because she had been kind to him, she was given over to fear and captivity and torment. So this was how it felt to be a Jonah.

Was it only that she looked like Peggy? Was it herself? Was it the principle of the thing? Whatever the anguish in him derived from, it was there.

He thought of calling Brannoch, calling Valti, throwing his accusation into their faces and- And what? They would deny it. He would surely not be allowed to go see them any more. Several times he called Chanthavar’s office, to be informed by a maddeningly polite secretary that he was out on business. He smoked endlessly, paced the floor, threw himself into a chair and got up again. Now and then he ran through his whole stock of curses and obscenities. None of it helped.

Night came, and he drugged himself into another long sleep. Drugs might be the way he ended up—or suicide, quicker and cleaner. He thought of stepping out on his balcony and over the side. That would finish the whole mess. A well-designed robot would mop up his spattered remnants and for him this universe would no longer exist.

In the afternoon, a call came. He sprang for the phone, stumbled, fell to the floor, and got up swearing. The hand that switched it on shook uncontrollably.

Chanthavar’s face smiled with an unusual warmth. “I’ve got good news for you, captain,” he said, “we’ve found the girl.”