Bob Shaw - The Fugitive Worlds

Part crystal, part computer, part sentient being—the Xa could only grow to the size necessary for its eventual purpose in a region where there was a complete absence of gravity, coupled with an abundance of oxygen. The Dussarrans had been fortunate in finding such an environment within reach of their original home, but the existence of a burgeoning technical society on the twin worlds was an unwelcome complication to their plans, mainly because the Xa’s structure—in spite of being so huge—was comparatively fragile. The Primitives were capable of damaging it, with or without malicious intent, and therefore had to be controlled like vermin if they came near.

Divivvidiv considered the problem for a short time, then arrived at a solution which satisfied his fondness for the creative compromise. It would involve his going outside the station’s pressurized living quarters so that he could communicate privately and efficiently with Director Zunnunun on the home world, Dussarra. Luckily, the series of relocations had been successfully completed and Dussarra was now part of the local system, visible as a bright blue mote against the rich stellar background. At a range of only a few million miles it would be easy to establish mind-to-mind contact with Zunnunun with no risk of others intercepting the communication. Divivvidiv reverted to mid-brain mode and, with his eyes fixed on the image of the ship which was laboring up from the alien planet, contacted the Xa.

You have already told me that the Primitives are unaware of our presence, he said. Does that mean they are totally without means of direct communication?

There was a brief hesitation while the Xa carried out the necessary investigation. Yes, Beloved Creator, the Primitives are completely passive in that respect.

Divivvidiv felt a surge of mingled revulsion and pity—how could any creature endure going through its entire existence in a condition of mind-blindness? The Primitives’ lack of higher sense organs made them easier to deal with in this instance, but the cautious and meticulous side of Divivvidiv’s nature prompted him to ask further questions.

Are they a belligerent race?

Yes, Beloved Creator.

Do they carry weapons?

Yes, Beloved Creator.

Extract a description of the weapons for me.

Another pause followed before the Xa spoke. Their weapons employ solid lead projectiles expelled through tubes by the force of gases compressed in metal containers. Simultaneously the Xa conveyed to Divivvidiv exact details of the dimensions and energy transference capabilities of the types of weapons the Primitives carried both on their persons and aboard their slow-moving craft.

Divivvidiv felt a growing sense of satisfaction as he became certain there was no obstacle to the plan he had conceived for dealing with the approaching ship and its crew.

You are well pleased, Beloved Creator, the Xa said.

Yes —I shall now return to my dream and await the arrival of the Primitives in comfort.

You are pleased because it will not be necessary for you to terminate the Primitives’ lives.

Yes.

In that case, Beloved Creator, why does it not trouble you that soon you will kill me?

You do not understand these things. Divivvidiv felt a sudden impatience with the Xa and its obsession with preserving its own pseudo-life. Each time it returned to the subject his own mind was clouded with dark thoughts of genocide, and—in spite of the mental disciplines at which he was adept—the echoes of those thoughts disturbed his dreams.

Toller knew it was only his imagination, but an abnormal quietness seemed to have descended over the Five Palaces area of Ro-Atabri. It was not the sort of quietness which comes when human activity is in abeyance—it was more as if an invisible blanket of soundproof material had been pressed down over everything in his vicinity. When he looked about him he could see evidence that carpenters and stonemasons were busy with their restoration work; bluehorns and wagons were sending up clouds of dust which added scumbles of yellow to the blue of the foreday sky; ground crew and airmen were going about their business of getting the ships ready for the round-the-world flight. Everywhere he looked there was purposeful movement, but the noises of it seemed to be reaching him through the filters of distance, attenuated, lacking in relevance.

The flight was due to begin within the hour, and it was that fact—Toller knew—which was numbing his reactions, separating him from the perceived world of the senses. Nine days had passed since Vantara’s departure for Overland, and during that time he had sunk into a mood of depression and apathy which had defied all efforts to overcome it.

When he should have been preparing his men and his ship for the circumnavigation he had been lost in thought, living and reliving that strange hour with Vantara at the Migration Day festivity. What had prompted her to behave as she had? Knowing that she was on the eve of quitting the planet altogether, she had raised him to the heights—he could still feel her lips against his, her breasts cupped in his hands—only to dash him down again with her sudden callous aloofness. Had she been playing cat-and-mouse on a whim, passing a dull hour with a trivial game?

There were moments in which Toller believed that to be the case, and at those times he plumbed new depths of misery, hating the countess with a passion which could whiten his knuckles and rob him of speech in mid-sentence. At other times he saw clearly that she had exerted herself to break down barriers between them, that she considered him a person of value, and that she would indeed be waiting to receive him when next he set foot on Overland. In those periods of optimism Toller felt even worse, because he and his love—the finest and most desirable woman who had ever lived—were literally worlds apart, and he was unable to imagine how he could endure the coming years without seeing her.

He would stare up at the great disk of Overland, its convex vastness crossed again and again by streamers of cloud, and wish for some means of instantaneous communication between the sister planets. There had been fanciful talk of some day building huge sunwriters, with tilting mirrors as large as rooftops, which would have been capable of sending messages between Land and Overland. If such a device had existed Toller would have used it, not so much to talk to Vantara—bridging the interworld gulf in that unsatisfactory way might have made his yearnings even more insupportable—but to get in touch with his father.

Cassyll Maraquine had the power and influence to obtain his son a special release from the Land mission. In the past, before he had been touched by the madness of love, Toller had scorned such uses of privilege, but in his present state of mind he would have seized on the favor with unashamed greed. And now, to make matters worse, he was on the point of setting out on a voyage which would take him through the Land of the Long Days, that distant side of the planet where he would not even have the spare consolation of being able to see Overland and in his mind’s eye watch over Vantara while she went about her oh-so-special life…

“This will never do, young Maraquine,” said Commissioner Kettoran, who had approached Toller unnoticed, making his way among piles of lumber and other supplies. He was wearing the grey robe of his office, but without the official emblems of brakka and enamel. Another man of his rank might have sequestered himself in imposing quarters or only ventured abroad with an entourage, but Kettoran liked to wander unobtrusively and alone through the various sections of the base.