Alfred van Vogt - The World of Null-A

“But damn it–” Gosseyn said furiously. He caught himself, conscious of the time he was wasting. “Yes,” he said wearily. “Yes, that sounds like a good idea.”

The voice began:

“To understand the political situation here, you must reach out with your mind to the furthest limits of your ideas of ultimate democracy. There is no president of Venus, no council, no ruling group. Everything is voluntary; every man lives to himself alone, and yet conjoins with others to see that the necessary work is done. But people can choose their own work. You might say, suppose everybody decided to enter the same profession. That doesn't happen. The population is composed of responsible citizens who make a careful study of the entire work-to-be-done situation before they choose their jobs.

“For instance, when a detective dies or retires or changes his occupation, he advertises his intention, or, in the case of death, his position is advertised. If he is still alive, people who would like to become detectives come to discuss their qualifications with him and with each other. Whether he is alive or dead, his successor is finally chosen as a result of a vote among the applicants.”

In spite of himself, Gosseyn had a private thought at that point. It had nothing to do with the picture he was being given of life on Venus, the hopeful, fascinating picture of a super-civilization. It was personal to the roboplane, a concrete awareness that the machine was giving him as objective an account as he had ever heard.

The roboplane's voice kept on:

“You must now visualize a condition where more than half the applicants for all detective and judicial positions are agents of the gang. By a careful system of murders, they have managed to eliminate the more dangerous of the normal membership, and at present have virtual control of all key detective and judicial positions, as well as quantity control of both organizations. This was all done under the direction of Prescott, which is why he is suspect and–”

That was where Gosseyn interrupted. “Just a minute,” he said. “One minute, please.” He stood up, only vaguely aware that he did so. “Are you trying to tell me–”

“I'm telling you,” said the roboplane, “that you cannot escape capture. You can see now why I had to put up interference against your use of the Prescott videophone. Since Thorson's arrival these false detectives have used their authority to tap the videophones of every dangerous person. This includes, so far as Thorson is concerned, his own subordinates. That is why you can expect no help from Gang. He has to show harshness, energy, and ruthlessness, or be removed from his command.

“But I must be brief. Your existence and the mystery of your mind potential has caused a great war machine to mark time, while its leaders frantically try to find out who is behind you. In all earnestness, therefore, I say, do not think you are being lightly asked to do what I now propose as your only logical action:

“You must let yourself fall into their hands. You must do this in the hope that they are so vitally interested in your special mental and physical make-up that they will allow you to live for several days at least, while they investigate your nervous system in detail, and with more care than last time.

“But now, here are your final instructions:

“In a few moments you will be landed beside the forest home of Eldred Crang. Go to him and tell him your story of the threat to null-A as if you do not know anything about him. Carry the pretense through to the last possible moment, but you must be the judge of your danger at any given moment.”

The plane tilted downward. “Better hurry,” it said, “and formulate your questions.”

Gosseyn's mind made a leap, then recoiled before the extent of his danger. He settled firmly back into his seat. This was not a moment for questions. The time had come to make a few things clear.

“I am not,” he said grimly, “going to leave this plane and do anything so suicidal. Nowhere in all this is there a sign of a precaution taken for my safety. That's right, isn't it?”

“No precautions are being taken,” admitted the roboplane. “You're on your own from the moment you land.” It added quickly, “Don't underestimate the potentialities of a man who has been killed but is still alive.”

“To hell with that,” said Gosseyn harshly. “I'm not doing this, and that's final.”

The roboplane was calm. “You have no choice. If you do not leave the plane of your own free will, I shall release a particularly unpleasant gas and drive you out. I must point out that the instructions I have given you are designed to save your life. You can ignore them at your peril. Remember, it is the opinion of the Games Machine that you will either surrender to the gang or be captured by them. Please think that over, Mr. Gosseyn, and if you have any further questions–”

Gosseyn said gloomily, “What is the purpose of letting me fall into their hands?”

“It is important,” was the answer, “that they have a close look at a man whom they know to be dead.”

There was a bump, then a bouncing motion that ended as the plane came to a full stop. “Out,” said the voice. “Get out! I cannot remain here even a minute. Get out. Quick!”

Its tone impelled Gosseyn. He had no intention of being gassed. At the door he paused and half turned.

“Hurry,” said the roboplane. “It is vital that no one suspect how you were brought here. Every second counts. Head straight away from the door.”

Reluctant but obedient, Gosseyn stepped down to the ground. A moment later he was alone in the immense darkness of an alien planet.

The night was peaceful but dark. Gosseyn followed the directions of the roboplane, and he had proceeded scarcely a hundred yards when he saw a glimmer to his left. It was a vague reflection that grew brighter as he walked toward it. It became a glow that splashed the ground and lighted up neighboring trees. He saw its source finally. Massive shadows in a tree at the edge of the forest.

Gosseyn paused in the shadow of a towering shrub and gazed up the windows. Back inside the roboplane, except for his one outburst of resentment, he had made up his mind that he had to follow the advice of the Games Machine. He waited now, watching for figures to silhouette against the great windows. But the light did not change. There was not even a reflected movement from inside. Dissatisfied but determined, Gosseyn stepped into the light. He had already noticed a great stairway to his right, cut out of the solid trunk. He walked up the steps to a terrace that led to a closed ornate door. He knocked loudly.

At the end of a minute, it occurred to Gosseyn that despite the blazing lights there might be no one at home. Once more he knocked, and then he tried the handle. The door opened noiselessly, revealing a dimly lighted corridor, a corridor that had been cut out of the solid wood, highly polished, and then left in its natural state. It shone with a dull luster. It had an intricate design, resembling mahogany centerwood, but its coloring was like dark-walnut veneer.

Gosseyn took one flashing glance and had the picture of it. He stood briefly hesitant. It would be silly if a man who intended to surrender was shot as a lawless intruder. He knocked once more, on the inner side of the door this time. No answer. Light streamed through an open door at the end of the corridor. He walked toward it and found himself in a large, cozy living room which, like the corridor, had been carved out of the solid wood of the great tree.

It, too, was highly polished, but apparently a different finishing process had been used, for the wood was lighter.