Bob Shaw - The Fugitive Worlds

But this is suicidal! It is madness! Divivvidiv felt himself begin to quiver at the prospect of having to risk his life in one of the barbaric wooden shells he had examined so briefly in the preliminary phase of the Xa’s development. He had preserved the flimsy artifacts on the chance that the Director might show some interest in their origins. Why had he not had the foresight to destroy them? And why had the designers of the station—those autocrats in the high levels of the Palace of Numbers—not allowed for the possibility of alien intruders?

“Suicidal, you say? Not as suicidal as allowing you to… teleport … me into the center of one of your cities.” The larger Primitive slackened his grip on Divivvidiv’s shoulder a little, lessening the pain.

The giant was swelling in confidence with every second, but Divivvidiv was aware of a growing disquiet in the mind of his companion. He could not analyze the feeling for the present, because too much of his mental capacity was being taken up in dealing with his predicament, but he hoped that Steenameert was going to put forward a rational argument against using one of the wooden spaceships. At the low-brain level of communication, Divivvidiv could hear the Xa calling to him, a distracting undertone which added to an already dangerous degree of stress.

You have no astrogational instruments of any kind, therefore the journey you contemplate is impossible. A new thought occurred to Divivvidiv. I know you actually believe that your grandfather flew one of your ships to another world, but without-a precise knowledge of the vessel’s speed and…

“He had help with the various computations.” The giant pressed harder with the tip of his sword, the weapon with which he appeared to compensate for his mental inadequacies. “You will provide me with the same assistance. You are equal to the task, aren’t you, greyface? I mean, you have already spoken at length about your immeasurable superiority in all the sciences.”

I still say the risks are unjustifiable. Your so-called spaceship could have deteriorated beyond… Divivvidiv left the thought uncompleted as the second barbarian suddenly gave voice to his anxieties.

“Can I have a word, sir?” His worried gaze was fixed on the giant’s face. “Just a brief word?”

“What is it, Baten?”

Divivvidiv gained access to what was coming and was disappointed when he realized that Steenameert’s concern was less with immediate practicalities than with the cosmological overview he had been given earlier. Nevertheless, his intervention diverted most of the giant’s crude mindforce away from Divivvidiv and gave him a welcome opportunity to take stock of his situation.

What is happening, Beloved Creator? The Xa found its way into Divivvidiv’s mind on the instant. I have repaired the damage to my body, but I still feel some pain. I wish I had sense organs capable of seeing and hearing within the station. Are the Primitives with you?

That is no concern of yours.

But there has been talk of ropes, Beloved Creator! From you? Are you capable of issuing words which do not correspond to reality?

No ethical being has that capability, Divivvidiv replied irritably. Be calm!

Are you an ethical being, Beloved Creator?

Be calm, I tell you! Divivvidiv closed all his low-brain channels in an effort to end the Xa’s pestering.

“The scarecrow told us of a vast explosion, sir,” Steenameert said to the giant. “We have to take note of what he said. Entire galaxies will be annihilated! According to him Overland and Land will soon be destroyed in one great flash!”

“Baten, why do you plague me with all this talk of galaxies and explosions at this time?”

The smaller Primitive’s repulsive features showed signs of agitation. “He said it would happen soon, sir.”

“Soon? How soon is soon?”

“That is what we must find out.”

Beloved Creator! Divivvidiv was shocked to find that the Xa had regained access to his mind, apparently with little effort. Did you say to the Primitives that I am to be killed only six days from now?

The way in which the question was framed revealed to Divivvidiv that a communications leakage had developed somewhere in the station’s heavy shielding, enabling the Xa to pick up wisps of mental interactions which should have been denied to it. Useful though the discovery would have been at another time, it now served only to aggravate his feelings of anger and alarm.

I command you! He projected the words at the Xa with all the force he could gather. Go into general quiescence and remain in that condition until I recall you.

“… asking you, greyface,” the giant was shouting, “how long will it be until my home world is affected by the explosion of which you spoke?”

I cannot be precise — but two hundred of your years is a likely figure.

“Two hundred years.” The giant glanced at his companion. “It seems a short span for a world, but for me—at this very moment—it seems an eternity. There is much to do, Baten, and we must act quickly.”

More quickly than you realize, Divivvidiv added, encircling the thought with all the defenses of his high-brain so that not even the Xa could gain a hint of what was going on in his mind. The guilt which had formerly troubled him each time he remembered the fate his kind was planning for the inhabitants of the twin worlds had been erased, for the present anyway. The raw emotions of contempt, disgust and fear engendered in him by his gigantic captor had seen to that.

In only ten days, Toller Maraquine, he thought, your insignificant little home world will cease to exist.

When Cassyll Maraquine emerged from the palace he was perspiring freely. Regardless of the impropriety for one of his station, he immediately took off his formal tabard and opened his blouse at the neck, allowing heat to escape from his body. He breathed deeply of the fresh morning air and looked around for Bartan Drumme.

“You look like a boiled lobster,” Bartan commented jovially, emerging from behind the base of the heroic statue of King Chakkell which dominated the forecourt as Chakkell had once dominated the entire planet.

“It was like a baker’s oven in there.” Cassyll dabbed his brow with a handkerchief. “Daseene is killing herself, living in conditions like that, but when I try to advise her to take the air…”

“What is the point of being the ruler if you can’t make death the subject of royal edicts?”

“This is not a fit topic for jests,” Cassyll said. “I fear that Daseene has only a little time left to her—and this astonishing business of the barrier, plus her worries about the well-being of Countess Vantara, can only make matters worse.”

“You must be concerned for Toller’s safety. Is there a scale upon which such emotions are balanced? Upon which your feelings weigh less heavily on the pan than those of Daseene?”

“Toller can take care of himself.”

Bartan nodded. “Yes, but he isn’t his grandfather.”

“What does that mean? What manner of convoluted family tree would I have if my father and my son were one and the same?” Cassyll demanded, not hiding his vexation.

“I’m sorry, old friend. I love young Toller almost as much as…” Bartan raised his shoulders to a level with his ears, a way of agreeing that they should talk about other things. “Shall we find a comfortable seat?”

“It would be preferable to an uncomfortable seat.”

The two men, forcibly nudging each other to show that their friendship was still intact, walked in the direction of the Lain River. They reached it near the Lord Glo Bridge, turned east along the embankment and sat down on a marble bench. The air was quiet and balmy, pervaded by the kind of privileged mid-morning calmness which is typical of administrative districts in capital cities. Ptertha were plentiful that morning, glistening like glass spheres as they followed the course of the river, darting and swooping a few feet above the surface of the breeze-ruffled water.