Poul Anderson - The Long Way Home

Time slipped by; so many minutes closer to his death, he thought wearily. Africa was on the dayside now, but Brannoch’s ship went down regardless: Langley supposed that something had been flanged up, fake recognition signals maybe, to get it by the sky patrols. There was a viewscreen, and he watched a broad river which must be the Congo. Neat plantations stretched in orderly squares as far as he could see, and scattered over the continent were medium-sized cities. The ship ignored them, flying low until it reached a small cluster of dome-shaped buildings.

“Ah,” said Valti. “A plantation administrative center -perfectly genuine too, I have no doubt. But down underground, hm-m-m.”

A section of dusty earth opened metal lips and the ship descended into a hangar. Langley followed the rest out and into the austere rooms beyond. At the end of the walk there was a very large chamber; it held some office equipment and a tank.

Langley studied the tank with a glimmer of interest. It was a big thing, a steel box twenty feet square by fifty long, mounted on its own antigravity sled. There were auxiliary bottles for gas, pumps, engines, meters, a dial reading an internal pressure which he translated as over a thousand atmospheres. Nice trick, that... was it done by force-fields, or simply today’s metallurgy? The whole device was a great, self-moving machine, crouched there as if it were a living thing.

Brannoch stepped ahead of the party and waved gaily at it. His triumph had given him an almost boyish swagger. “Here they are, you Thrymkas,” he said. “We bagged every one of them!”

The flat microphone voice answered bleakly: “Yes. Now, are you certain that no traps have been laid, that you have not been traced, that everything is in order?”

“Of course!” Brannoch’s glee seemed to nose-dive; all at once, he looked sullen. “Unless you were seen flying your tank here.”

“We were not. But after arrival, we made an inspection. The laxity of the plantation superintendent which means yours—has been deplorable. In the past week he has bought two new farm hands and neglected to condition them against remembering whatever they see of us and our activities.”

“Oh, well—plantation slaves! They’ll never see the compound anyway.”

“The probability is small, but it exists and it can be guarded against. The error has been rectified, but you will order the superintendent put under five minutes of neural shock.”

“Look here—” Brannoch’s lips drew back from his teeth. “Mujara has been in my pay for five years, and served faithfully. A reprimand is enough, I won’t have—”

“You will.”

For a moment longer the big man stood defiantly, as if before an enemy. Then something seemed to bend inside him, and he shrugged and smiled with a certain bitterness. “Very well. Just as you say. No use making an issue of it; there’s enough else to do.”

Langley’s mind seemed to pick itself up and start moving again. He still felt hollow, drained of emotion, but he could think and his reflections were not pleasant. Valti was hinting at this. Those gazabos in that glorified ashcan aren’t just Brannoch’s little helpers. They’re the boss. In their own quiet way, they’re running this show .

But what do they want out of it? Why are they bothering? How can they gain by brewing up a war? The Thorians could use more land, but an Earth-type planet’s no good to a hydrogen breather .

“Stand forth, alien,” said the machine voice. “Let us get a better look at you.”

Saris glided forward, under the muzzles of guns. His lean brown form was crouched low, unmoving save that the very end of his tail twitched hungrily. He watched the tank with cold eyes.

“Yes,” said the Thrymans after a long interval. “Yes, there is something about him- We have never felt those particular life-currents before, in any of a hundred races. He may well be dangerous.”

“He’ll be useful,” said Brannoch.

“If that effect can be duplicated mechanically, my lord,” interrupted Valti in his most oleaginous tone. “Are you so sure of the possibility? Could it not be that only a living nervous system of his type can generate that field... or control it? Control is a most complex problem, you know; it may require something as good as a genuine brain, which no known science has ever made artificially.”

“That is a matter for study,” mumbled Brannoch. “It’s up to the scientists.”

“And if your scientists fail? Has that eventuality occurred to you? Then you have precipitated a war without the advantage you were hoping for. Sol’s forces are larger and better coordinated than yours, my lord. They might win an all-out victory.”

Langley had to admire the resolute way Brannoch faced an idea which had not existed for him before. He stood a while, looking down at his feet, clenching and unclenching his hands. “I don’t know,” he said at last, quietly. “I’m not a scientist myself. What of it, Thrymka? Do you think it can be done?”

“The chance of the task being an impossible one has been considered by us,” answered the tank. “It has a finite probability.”

“Well... maybe the best thing to do is disintegrate him then. We may be taking too much of a gamble—because I won’t be able to fool Chanthavar very long. Perhaps we should stall, build up our conventional armaments for a few more years—”

“No,” said the monsters. “The factors have been weighed. The optimum date for war is very near now, with or without the nullifier.”

“Are you sure?”

“Do not ask needless questions. You would lose weeks trying to understand the details of our analysis. Proceed as planned.”

“Well... all right!” The decision made for him, Brannoch plunged into action as if eager to escape thought. He rapped out his orders, and the prisoners were marched off to a block of cells. Langley had a glimpse of Marin as she went by, then he and Saris were thrust together into one small room. A barred door clanged shut behind them, and two Thorians stood by their guns just outside.

The room was small and bare and windowless: sanitary facilities, a pair of bunks, nothing else. Langley sat down and gave Saris, who curled by his feet, a weary grin. “This reminds me of the way the cops back in my time used to shift a suspect from one jail to another, keeping him a jump ahead of his lawyer and a habeas corpus writ.”

The Holatan did not ask for explanations; it was strange how relaxed he lay. After a while, Langley went on: “I wonder why they stuck us in the same room.”

“Becausse we can together talk,” said Saris.

“Oh... you sense recorders, microphones, in the wall? But we’re talking English.”

“Doubtless they iss... they hawe translation facilitiess. Our discussion iss recorded and iss translated tomorrow, maybe.”

“Hm-m-m, yeah, Well, there isn’t anything important we can talk about anyway. Let’s just think up remarks on Centaurian ancestry, appearance, and morals.”

“Oh, but we hawe much to discuss, my friend,” said Saris. “I shall stop the recorder when we come to such topics.”

Langley laughed, a short hard bark. “Good enough! And those birds outside don’t savvy English.”

“I wish my t’oughtss to order,” said the Holatan. “Meanwhile, see if you can draw them out in conwersation. Iss especially important to learn T’ryman motiwes.”

“So? I should think you’d be more interested to know what’s going to become of you. They were talking about killing you back there, just in case you don’t know.”

“Iss not so wital as you t’ink.” Saris closed his eyes.

Langley gave him a puzzled stare. I’ll never figure that critter out . The flicker of hope was faintly astonishing; he suppressed it and strolled over to the door.