Robert Silverberg - The Silent Invaders

He watched Carver, thinking automatically of the inner world of madness that lay behind the austere, almost noble features.

He is a Servant of the Spirit , Harris thought. He is my superior . It would rot the eternal roots of my birth-tree if 1 were to raise my hand against him.

Carver said, “I suppose it’ll take us another two or three weeks to root out the rest of the Medlins. Then we’ll have a free path here.”

“Until more Medlins come.”

“Don’t worry,” Carver said. “Everything’s all arranged. We’ll take over their headquarters and operate it as though they’re still alive. Any new Medlins will be killed the moment they arrive.”

Harris drained his second drink, making no comment.

Carver went on, “I’ve applied for augmented forces here. Word hasn’t come through yet, but I’d guess that in another month we’ll hear. I’ve asked for fifty more trained agents as a starter.”

“Think you’ll get them?”

“You know how it is. Ask for fifty, get twenty-five. If I asked for twenty, I’d get five. You’d think Earth wasn’t important to them.” Carver tapped the empty glass in front of him and said, “Be a good fellow and get me another drink, will you?”

“Sure,” Harris said.

He slipped out from the table and walked to the control console. That put him more than three feet from Carver—beyond the shielding range of the subsonic. He took a deep breath, turned, and activated the subsonic generator in his hip.

“What…” Carver started to say, and fell slumped over the table, his empty glass going skittering to the floor as his limp hand slapped it.

This was the moment, Harris thought.

His pulse raced at triple-time. His hand stole into his pocket, his fingers closed on the small cool butt of the disruptor. In this empty bar, with nothing but robots around, he could squeeze off a quick shot, finish Carver in a moment…

There was a clicking sound behind him. Then a gate opened inward and some sort of mechanical creature came rolling out from the bowels of the autobar’s mechanism.

The voice from the speaker grid overhead said, “It violates federal law to serve intoxicating beverages to a person who is already intoxicated. It violates federal law to serve intoxicating beverages to a person who is already intoxicated. It violates…”

The mechanical creature was approaching the slumped Carver. The robot was about three feet high, bullet-headed and gleaming, with two telescopically extensible arms that were sliding out of recesses in its chest. It rolled across the floor and, as Harris goggled in amazement, wrapped its arms around the unconscious Darruui, lifted him easily into the air, and continued rolling, to the door of the autobar, and out into an adjoining alleyway. A moment later, the robot returned alone.

Of course, Harris thought. An automated bouncer! Keeping watch over the patrons, making sure each drinker remained conscious, and providing a robotic bum’s rush for anyone who keeled over!

The little robot vanished into its gate, which flicked shut immediately. The voice of the speaker grid died away. Gulping down his drink, Harris rushed outside, and into the alleyway.

Carver lay sprawled on the pavement. The effects of the subsonic were wearing off. He was groaning, stirring, starting to open his eyes.

This is the opportunity to destroy him , came the voice in his brain.

Harris’ hand closed on the disruptor a second time. Out here, in the dark alley, a quick bolt of nerve-searing fury and it would be all over.

But he could not do it.

His entire body trembled and shook like a ghiarr-tree bending in the wind. Criss-cross currents of conflicting desires ripped through him.

He closed his eyes and saw Darruu glistening in the crimson mist. Saw the annual procession of the Servants of the Spirit, each holding his candle, heard the melancholy chant, the prayer drifting back on the wind. We are a holy fraternity. And to kill …

He couldn’t.

Impossible.

He hesitated, quivered, tensed. He fought with himself to bring the disruptor into aim, to squeeze the trigger, to burn the life out of the half-conscious man on the pavement.

Carver groaned.

Once again Harris saw the writhing monsters in the other’s mind. Feathery limbs poked up out of the churning ooze.

Hot tears scalded Harris’ eyes. He tried once more to aim the disruptor and failed. Carver stirred again. Harris turned and fled.

Mocking whispers followed him as he raced up the alleyway and out the other side. Coward, traitor, fool, weakling—he was all of those, and more. He told himself that he simply had not been ready. He had not come far enough, yet, to take the life of a Servant of the Spirit. Perhaps if he had had some more of the whiskey…

But what kind of courage was that, he asked himself, as he emerged in a brightly lit, busy street? Panicky, he ran a dozen paces, realized he was attracting attention, and slowed to a halt.

A blazing sign screamed THREE GREAT SOLLIES THREE! There was a line, disappearing into a theater. Harris joined it. He glanced fearfully over his shoulder, expecting an irate Carver to appear from the alley mouth at any moment, but no Carver appeared. The line moved slowly toward the ticket-booth. There were only five ahead of Harris now, four, three, two…

There was no human on duty in the booth. A gleaming change-making machine stared back at him, and a voice from a speaker grid said, “How many tickets? Half a unit apiece. How many tickets?”

Harris gaped blankly at it. The words were so much gibberish to him.

“I don’t understand,” he muttered, and realized that he had spoken in Darruui. Someone behind him in the line called out impatiently. A voice just behind him said, “Is there any trouble, Major?”

“I… I haven’t been on Earth for years,” Harris gasped.

“Just give the machine the money. Half a unit per ticket, that’s all.”

Harris found a bill in his pocket and thrust it forward. A ticket came clicking back at him. He seized it and rushed into the darkness of the theater.

“Your change, Major!” someone called from behind. But he kept going.

He found a seat. It was soft and warm and body-hugging, and he settled down into it as though crawling back into the womb. He looked up, saw the glowing screen filling a great arch in front of him and overhead, saw figures moving, heard words being uttered.

It meant nothing at all.

He sat there rigid with panic, watching the meaningless three-dimensional images move about. Gradually the unreasoning blind fear receded. Words again made sense to him. He saw that a kind of story was being acted out. It was a meaningless story, full of murder and brawling, and he scarcely cared what was being shown, but imperceptibly he slipped into the story until he was following it raptly.

His body relaxed. The tension-poisons leached out of him as the hours passed. The first solido ended, and a voice from the seatback in front of him let him know that he could have refreshments in his seat by putting coins into various slots. He ignored the opportunity.

After a while, a second sollie began. This one was even more inane than the first, but Harris watched it interestedly enough, fascinated by the glowing vitality of the vivid images, which seemed real enough to touch. But as hour after hour slipped by, his calm reasserted itself, and the rational part of his mind became uppermost.

You certainly bungled that one , he told himself in bitter contempt. Carver will know you tried to kill him, and he’ll come after you. Or ambush you when you dont expect it. You’ve muffed your chance.

He expected to hear some chiding word from the mutant telepath. But there was only silence, as there had been since the moment in the alley when he had been warned that this was his best chance to kill. Since then, nothing—as though he was no longer considered worthy of contacting.