Barrington Bayley - The Star Virus

“And what do you intend to do with it?”

He had no qualms about revealing his purpose. “I intend to understand it.”

“How?”

“There must be a way.”

An explosive sound came from the Streall, like a cat’s sneeze. “Ridiculous. That is only for the Streall.”

“Do you understand it?” Rodrone probed.

“I? Of course not. I am only an engineer, a drive engineer on a patrol ship. The lens is completely understood only by those who live on the Contemplation Worlds.”

At this Rodrone became agitated. It had already occurred to him that the secrets of the lens might be beyond the ingenuity of the human intellect to uncover. If that were so, then any risk would be worthwhile.

“Where are these Contemplation Worlds?”

“That is unimportant to you. Your only sane action is to deliver the lens to its rightful possessors, the Streall.”

“Not until I understand what its uses are,” Rodrone suggested speculatively. “Perhaps then I would be persuaded to give it up.”

The Streall sank to the floor in a resting position, like a Sphinx, its skirts spreading around it. “If that is all you want, then go to a Contemplation World. The philosopher there can perhaps explain it to you. Afterwards, you will give it up.”

“I said I might .”

“There will be no choice. Ships will be arriving soon. They will follow you to the Contemplation World. But if you do not go, you will never achieve your ambition.”

Rodrone laughed at how neatly the Streall had led him into a dilemma.

“This is crazy,” Shone said. “We’re not going anywhere. We’re stranded!”

“We have a faulty space drive,” Rodrone told their prisoner. “We don’t know how to repair it. Perhaps you would have better luck. If you can put it in order, we will proceed to the Contemplation World, as you suggest. That is, if Captain Shone agrees.”

Shone shrugged characteristically. “We’re walking right into a trap, but okay.”

The Streall rose. “It is better for the lens to be on a Streall world than to be lost in space. Show me your drive.”

The Streall engineer did not tell them what he thought of the Stator’s propulsion unit, but half a day later he had brought it into working order. After a journey of a few more days they were hovering above the Contemplation World.

It was a desolation, a planet covered in red rust. A tiny blue sun glittered in the sky, giving the atmosphere an icy appearance and reflecting off the scattered lakes in the southern hemisphere.

The Stator sank down under the Streall’s direction. The creature had already artlessly confirmed what Rodrone already knew by rumor: that the planet had a population of one; that was the usual case with Contemplation Worlds. The philosopher dwelt in underground chambers, devoting himself to philosophy and science.

Before they landed Rodrone put in one last call on the Stator ’s space-tensor transceiver. They were near enough to Skelter for communication now, and he had already summoned the squadron to his assistance.

The red-haired visage of Kulthol looked blandly from the screen. “We’ll be there before you’re ready to leave, chief. Depend on us.”

The image faded. Kulthol was not sentimental and did not indulge in long conversations.

The Stator crunched into the surface of the planet, sinking a foot into the red rust on landing. Led by the alien, Rodrone stepped out into the thin air, bringing only Shone to help him carry the lens. They walked for about a hundred yards before the Streall stopped.

A mound grumbled up from the ground, russet particles tumbling from its sides. A down-slanting opening gaped. The Streall set off down it, followed by the others.

It was dark at first, but as they proceeded a gentle glow drifted, up in quiet shades of green and orange. A warmth of air came to meet them, bearing the essence of delicate perfumes.

The philosopher’s apartments were extensive and varied. Some were lavish, paneled in deep-colored woods and rich in furs and tapestries. Some were bare metal, not unlike the interior of the Stator . But they were all silent—except for the almost imperceptible hissing of a burning perfume stick in a translucent blue holder—and at first seemed to be deserted.

Then someone came to meet them. But it was not the philosopher. It was a human woman.

“I thought you said the philosopher was alone?” Rodrone said to their guide.

“Evidently not,” the other replied softly. “It is not mandatory, merely customary.”

The woman was tall, and dressed in a loose flowing gown. At the sight of Rodrone she hurried up to him, reaching out her hand to touch his cheek.

He drew back as he saw the expression on her face, but instantly he felt sorry for the instinctive reaction. Her face was melancholy, lost, beyond the frail pale of sanity. But despite that, there was a grace about her that was irresistible.

“Who are you?” he asked in a shocked tone.

“Sana.” Her voice was mournful. She inclined her head and reached out with her bare foot to stroke the carpet. “I was a singer once. Famous. A singer on Gurtlede… but now I exist only for the pleasure of the Streall thinker.”

“How long have you been here?”

“I don’t know. Years… always…”

A door opened behind her. The Streall philosopher appeared. He glanced over the room, and glided forward.

He was a dignified being. His skin was wrinkled with age, and the luster of his eyes had faded to a faint sky blue. He looked first at the lens, and then at Rodrone and Shone. A spitting, sneezing exchange took place between the two Streall, full of overtones some of which were beyond the range of human audibility.

“So the great plan returns, as it must, after an aeon of wandering.” He was looking at Rodrone.

His words excited the freebooter. “So I was right. It is a plan!”

“I have just been told,” the philosopher said after a pause, “of your desire to know the truth about the lens, after which you will be willing to give it up to its rightful owners.”

“I didn’t promise that.”

“No matter. When you know, you will surely agree.”

Rodrone found himself staring at the lens with its ever-present picture show. His voice refused to speak.

“Your first error,” the philosopher continued calmly, “is in thinking that the lens is of Streall manufacture. It is not. It was created by pregalactic beings, by beings of immense intellect who exist somewhere in the universe. Your second mistake is in thinking that it is a map, or copy, or reflection, of galactic development. It is not. It is the original design , the schematic from which the stars of Thiswhirl were formed.”

“That’s impossible. The galaxy evolved from a condensation of hydrogen gas.”

“So we believe.”

“Then what part could the lens play in it?”

“If a saturated solution is seeded with a small crystal, crystals will grow throughout the solution. A tiny seed can gather material and make a huge plant out of it. The lens is a resonant device linking macrocosm and microcosm. By means of very subtle radiations it is in contact with all parts of the galaxy and controls what takes place there .”

“But that’s fantastic! That’s impossible!” The Streall’s claims were so fantastic, so total, that Rodrone was becoming angry through his own inability to grasp it. “And what about all the other galaxies? Do they also owe their existence to these ‘cosmic gods’?”

“Some, perhaps. The special function of the lens is the formation of life. Nature makes dead galaxies. The makers of the lens make galaxies with life. And indeed, we know there is a difference between galaxies where life is present and where it is not.