Raymond Jones: Cubs of the Wolf

But he did have an idea that if he could somehow get word to the old Id chieftain help could be had. He knew he was straining to believe things he wanted to believe, yet it seemed as if this were almost the very thing Venor had tried to convey the day before but had left unspoken.

There was only one possibility of establishing contact, however, and that was through Sal Karone. A remote chance indeed, Cameron thought, in view of the relationship between the Markovian and his sargh . As a last resort it was worth trying, however.

It looked as if they would not have even this chance as the evening grew darker. Cameron kept watch through the windows in the hope of signaling Sal Karone in case he should appear. They hoped he might come to the room for a final check of their needs for the night as he usually did.

But he did not appear.

Cameron finally went to bed after Joyce was long asleep. He turned restlessly, beating his mind with increasing wonder as to how it could be so incredibly true that the Idealists were the actual masters of the Nucleus. That they had somehow tamed the murderous, piratical Markovians. He couldn't have known this was it!

One thing he could understood, however, was the Markovians reluctance to have visitors — and their careful watch over them. Marthasa had been more than a host, he thought. He was a guard as well, trying to keep the Terrans from discovering the unpleasant reality concerning the influence of the Ids. He had slipped in allowing the visit to Venor.

At dawn there was the sound of their door opening and Cameron whirled from his dressing, hopeful it might be Sal Karone. It was Marthasa, however, grim and distant. ”I have obtained word that your deportation can be accomplished today. Premier Jargla has been informed and concurs. The Council has been notified and offers no protestations. You will ready yourselves before the evening hour.”

He slammed the door behind him. Joyce turned down the covers in the other room and sat up. ”I wonder if he isn't even going to feed us today?”

Cameron made no answer. He finished dressing hurriedly and kept a frantic watch for any sign of Sal Karone.

At last there was a knock on the door and the Id appeared with breakfast on a cart. Cameron exhaled with relief that it was not one of the other sarghs in the household.

Sal Karone eyed them impassively as he wheeled in and arranged the food on the table by a window. Cameron watched, estimating his chances.

”Your Chief, Venor, was very kind to us yesterday,” he said quietly. ”Our biggest regret in leaving is that our conversation with him must go unfinished.”

Sal Karone paused. ”Were there things you had yet to say to him?” he asked.

”No — there were things Venor wanted to tell us. You heard him. He wanted us to come back. It is completely impossible for us to see him again before we go?”

Sal Karone straightened and set the utensils on the table. ”No, it is not impossible. I have been instructed to bring you back to the village if it should be your request.”

Cameron felt a surge of eager excitement within him. ”When? Our deportation is scheduled for today. How can we get there? How can we avoid Marthasa and the Markovians?”

”Stand very quietly,” said Sal Karone, that sense of power and command in his voice and bearing as Cameron had seen it once before aboard the spaceship. ”Now,” he said. ”Close your eyes.”

There was a sudden wrenching twist as if two solid surfaces had slammed them from front and back, and a third force had thrust them sideways.

They opened their eyes in the wooden house of Venor, in the village of the Idealists.

”We owe you apologies,” said Venor. ”We hope you are not harmed in any way.”

Cameron stared around uncertainly. Joyce clutched his hand. ”How did we—?” Cameron stammered.

”Teleportation is the descriptive term in your language, I believe,” said Venor. ”It was rather urgent that you come without further delay so we resorted to it. Nothing else would do in the face of Marthasa's action. Sit down if you will, please. If you wish to rest or eat, your quarters are ready.”

”Our quarters—! Then you did expect us back. You knew this was going to happen exactly as it has!”

”Yes, I knew,” said Venor quietly. ”I planned it this way when word first came to us of your visit.”

”I think we are entitled to explanations,” Cameron said at last. ”We seem to have been pieces in a game we knew nothing about.”

And it had taken this long for the full impact of Venor's admission of teleportation to hit him. He closed his eyes in a moment's reaction of fright. He didn't want to believe it — and knew he must. These Idealists — who could master galaxies and tame the wild Markovians — was there anything they could not do?

”Not a game,” Venor protested. ”We planned this because we wanted you to see what you have seen. We wanted a man of Earth to know what we have done.”

”But don't the Markovians realize the foolishness of deporting us because we stumbled onto the relationship between you and them? And if you are in control how can they issue such an order — unless you want it?”

”Our relationship is more complex than that. There are different levels of control. We operate the one that brought you here—” He let Cameron consider the implication of the unfinished statement.

Then he continued, ”To understand the Markovians' reason for deporting you, consider that on Earth men have tamed wolves and made faithful, loyal dogs who can be trusted. Dogs who have forever lost the knowledge their ancestors were fierce marauders ready to rip and tear the flesh of any man or beast that came their way.

”Consider the dogs only a generation or two from the vicious wolves who were their forebears. The old urges have not entirely died, yet they want to know man's affection and trust. Could you remind them of what their kind once was without stirring up torment within them?

”So it is with the Markovians. They are peaceful and creative, but only a few generations behind them are pirates who were not fit to sit in the Councils of civilized beings. They have no tradition of culture to support them. It knocks the props out from under them, so to speak, to have it known what lies behind them. They cannot be friends with such a man. They cannot even endure the knowledge among themselves.”

”Then I was right!” Cameron exclaimed. ”Their phony history was set up to deceive their own people as well as others.”

”Yes. The dog would destroy all evidence of his wolf ancestry. It has been an enormous project, but the people of the Nucleus have been at it a long time. They have concocted a consistent history which leaves out all evidence of their predatory ancestry. The items of reality which were possible to leave have been retained. The gaps between have been bridged by fictionized accounts of glorious undertakings and discoveries. Most of the Markovian science has been taken from other cultures, but now their history boasts of heroes and discoverers who never lived and who were responsible for all the great science they enjoy.”

”But nothing stable can be built upon such an unhealthy foundation of self-deception!” Cameron protested.

”It is not unhealthy — not at the present moment,” said Venor. ”The time will come when it, too, will be thrust aside and a tremendous effort of scholarship will extract the elements of truth and find that which was suppressed. But the Markovians themselves will do it — a generation of them who can afford to laugh at the fears and fantasies of their ancestors.”

”This tells us nothing of how you were able to make a creative people out of a race of pirate marauders,” said Cameron.