The Long Way Home

11

The rain stopped near sunset, but there were still clouds and blackness overlay the city. Langley and Marin ate a lonely supper in their apartment. With the sedative worn off, the man had to focus his mind on impersonalities, he dared not think of her as a fully human being yet. He flung questions at her, and she answered. What he learned tended to confirm Valti’s account of the Society: it really was a nomad culture, patriarchal and polygamous, owning warships but behaving peacefully; its rulers really were unknown, its early history obscure. She gave a less favorable account of Centaurian culture and intentions than Brannoch’s, but, of course, that was only to be expected.

“Two interstellar imperialisms, moving on a collision course,” said Langley. “Thor really does seem better to me than Earth, but- Maybe I’m prejudiced.”

“You can’t help it,” said Marin seriously. “Thorian society has an archaic basis, it’s closer to what you knew in your period than modern Earth. Still, it’s hard to imagine them making much progress, if they should win out. They’ve been frozen too, nothing really new happening, for a good five hundred years now.”

“What price progress?” shrugged Langley. “I’ve gotten pessimistic about change for the sake of change; a petrified civilization may be the only final answer for man, provided it’s reasonably humane. I don’t see much to choose between either of the great powers today.”

Unquestionably, the conversation was being recorded, but he no longer gave a damn.

“It would be nice to find a little mousehole and crawl into it and forget all this fighting,” said Marin wistfully.

“That’s what ninety-nine per cent of the human race has always wanted to do, I think,” said Langley. “The fact that they try to bring on their own punishment for being lazy and cowardly—rulers who flog them into action. There will never be peace and freedom till every individual man out of a majority, at least, is prepared to think for himself and act accordingly; and I’m becoming afraid that day will never come.”

“They say there are thousands of lost colonies,” answered Marin softly, with a dream in her eyes. “Thousands of little groups who went off to find their own particular kind of Utopia. Surely one of them, somewhere, has become something different.”

“Perhaps. But we’re here, not there.” Langley got up. “Let’s turn in. Good night, Marin.”

“Good night,” she said. Her smile was shy, as if she were still unsure how he looked at her.

Alone in his room, Langley donned pajamas, crawled into bed, and got out a cigarette. It was time for him to decide. Chanthavar had given him a couple of days; he couldn’t bluff any longer, because he was reasonably sure he did have the answer about Saris. There’d be no use in undergoing the personality-wrecking degradation of a mental probe.

More and more, it seemed that the only logical action was to tell Chantavar. From the standpoint of personal safety: he was, after all, on Earth; in spite of the nets woven by Brannoch and Valti, the dominating power here was Chanthavar’s. Going to someone else would involve all the risks of contact and escape.

From the standpoint of humanitarianism: Sol was defending the status quo; she was not openly aggressive like Centauri, but would be content to have the upper hand. If it came to war in spite of everything, the Solar System held more people than the Centaurian. It would take Brannoch almost nine years to get a message to his home and get the fleet back here; in nine years, the Saris effect could probably be turned into a standardized weapon. (And, be it noted, a relatively gentle weapon, which did not in itself harm any living creature. )

From the standpoint of history: Sol and Centauri had both reached a dead end, no choice there. The Society was too unknown, too unpredictable. Furthermore, Centauri was under the influence of Thrym, whose nature and ultimate intentions were a mystery. Sol was at least fairly straightforward.

From the standpoint of Saris Hronna, who had been Langley’s friend: well, Saris was just one individual. It was better that he be vivisected, if necessary, than that a billion humans have their skin burned off and their eyes melted in a single flash of nuclear disintegration.

The safe, the obvious, the conforming course was open before Langley. Turn his deductions over to Chanthavar, find a niche for himself on Earth, and settle down to drag out his days. It would get dull after a few years, of course, but it would be safe; he’d be spared the necessity of thinking.

Well- He struck another cigarette. Sleep on it, at least, if he could sleep.

Where were Bob and Jim? In what darkness did they lie, full of fear? Or had they already gone down into the final night? He didn’t think he’d see them again. If he knew who their murderers were, be sure that he’d kill himself before helping that side; but he would most likely spend his life in puzzled impotence.

Closing his eyes, he tried to call up the image of Peggy. She was gone, she had died so long ago that the very blood of her was thinned through the entire race. Quite possibly everyone he had met, Chanthavar and Brannoch and Valti and Marin and Yulien and the faceless Commoners huddled on low-level, stemmed from one unforgotten night with her. It was a strange thought. He wondered if she had married again; he hoped so, hoped that it had been a good man and that her life had been happy, but it wasn’t likely.

He tried to see her before him, but it was hard to get a clear vision. Marin overlay it, they were like two pictures one on the other and not quite in line, the edges blurred. Peggy’s smile had never been just like what he saw now—or had it?

He swore in a dull tone, snubbed out the cigarette, and turned off the light which glowed from walls and ceiling. Sleep would not come, he lay restlessly with a rusty chain of thought dragging through his skull.

It might have been hours later when he heard the explosion.

He sat up in bed, staring blindly before him. That had been a blaster going off! What the devil-?

Another crash sounded, and boots slammed on the floor. Langley jumped to his feet. Armed force—a real kidnap try this time, in spite of all guards! Another energy bolt flamed somewhere outside the room, and he heard a deep-voiced oath.

He crouched against the farther wall, doubling his fists. No lights. If they were after him, let them find and haul him out.

The tumult rolled somewhere in the living room. Then he heard Marin scream.

He sprang for the door. “Open, damn you!” It sensed him and dilated. A metal-clad arm slapped him back, down to the floor.

“Stay where you are, sir.” It was a hoarse gasp out of the masklike combat helmet. “They’ve broken in—”

“Let me go!” Langley shoved against the gigantic form of the Solar cop. He was no match, the slave stood like a rock.

“Sorry, sir, my orders—”

A blue-white beam snapped across the field of view. Langley had a glimpse of a spacesuited figure hurtling out the smashed window, and Marin writhing in its arms. Other police were charging after it, firing wildly.

Then, slowly, there was silence.

The guard bowed. “They’re gone now, sir. Come on out if you wish.”

Langley stepped into the shambles of his living room. There was a haze of smoke, burned plastic, the thin bitter reek of ozone. Furniture was trampled wreckage between the bulky, armored shapes which filled the chamber.

“What happened?” he yelled.

“Easy, sir.” The squad commander threw back his helmet; the shaven head looked tiny, poking out of the metal and fabric that incased its body. “You’re all right. Would you like a sedative?”

“I asked you what happened!” Langley wanted to smash the impassive face. “Go on, tell me, I order you.”

“Very good, sir. Two small, armed spaceships attacked us just outside.” The commander pointed to the sharded window. “While one engaged our boats, the other discharged several men in space armor with antigravity flying units, who broke into the suite. Some of them stood off our reinforcements coming through the door—one of them grabbed your slave—then we rallied, more men came, and they retreated. No casualties on either side, I believe; it was a very brief action. Luckily they failed to get you, sir.”

“Who were they?”

“I don’t know, sir. Their equipment was not standard for any known military or police force. I think one of our aircraft has slapped a tracer beam on them, but it can’t follow them outside the atmosphere and that’s doubtless where they’ll go. But relax, sir. You’re safe.”

Yeah. Safe. Langley choked and turned away. He felt drained of strength.

Chanthavar showed up within an hour. His face was carefully immobile as he surveyed the ruin. “They got away, all right,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter too much, since they failed.”

“Who were they, do you know?” asked Langley dully.

“No, I couldn’t say. Probably Centaurian, possibly Society. It’ll be investigated, of course.” Chanthavar struck a cigarette. “In a way, it’s a hopeful sign. When a spy resorts to strongarm methods, he’s usually getting desperate.”

“Look here.” Langley grabbed his arm. “You’ve got to find them. You’ve got to get that girl back. Do you understand?”

Chanthavar drew hard on his cigarette, sucking in his cheeks till the high bones stood out. His eyes were speculative on the American. “So she means that much to you already?” he asked.

“No- Well- It’s plain decency! You can’t let her be torn apart by them, looking for something she doesn’t know.”

“She’s only a slave,” shrugged Chanthavar. “Apparently, she was snatched impulsively when they were repelled from your quarters. It doesn’t mean a thing. I’ll give you a duplicate of her if it’s that important to you.”

“No!”

“All right, have it your way. But if you try to trade information for her—”

“I won’t,” said Langley. His lie had become a mechanical reflex. “I haven’t anything to trade—not yet, anyway.”

“I’ll do everything in my power,” said Chanthavar. He clapped Langley’s shoulder with a brief, surprising friendliness. “Now back to bed for you. I prescribe twelve hours” worth of sleep-drug.”

Langley took it without protest. It would be something to escape the sense of his own utter helplessness. He fell into an abyss without dreams, without memory.

Waking, he found that repairs had been made while he slept; the fight last night might never have happened. Afternoon sunlight gleamed off the ships patrolling beyond his window. A doubled guard. Locking the barn door—no, the horse hadn’t been stolen after all, had it?

His mind gnawed the problem like a starving dog with an old bone from which all nourishment has gone. Marin... because she had come near him, she was gone into darkness; because she had been kind to him, she was given over to fear and captivity and torment. So this was how it felt to be a Jonah.

Was it only that she looked like Peggy? Was it herself? Was it the principle of the thing? Whatever the anguish in him derived from, it was there.

He thought of calling Brannoch, calling Valti, throwing his accusation into their faces and- And what? They would deny it. He would surely not be allowed to go see them any more. Several times he called Chanthavar’s office, to be informed by a maddeningly polite secretary that he was out on business. He smoked endlessly, paced the floor, threw himself into a chair and got up again. Now and then he ran through his whole stock of curses and obscenities. None of it helped.

Night came, and he drugged himself into another long sleep. Drugs might be the way he ended up—or suicide, quicker and cleaner. He thought of stepping out on his balcony and over the side. That would finish the whole mess. A well-designed robot would mop up his spattered remnants and for him this universe would no longer exist.

In the afternoon, a call came. He sprang for the phone, stumbled, fell to the floor, and got up swearing. The hand that switched it on shook uncontrollably.

Chanthavar’s face smiled with an unusual warmth. “I’ve got good news for you, captain,” he said, “we’ve found the girl.”

Briefly, his mind would not accept it. The weary groove of futility was worn so deep that he could not climb out. He stared, open-mouthed, hearing the words as if from far away:

“... She was sitting on a bridgeway, rather dazed, when picked up. Post-anesthetic reaction, she’s coming out of it already. There was no deep mental probing done, I’m sure, perhaps only a mild narcosynthesis—no harm done at all that I can see. She’s been unconscious all the time, doesn’t know a thing. I’m sending her over now.” Chanthavar grinned.

The impact trickled slowly through the barriers of craziness. Langley knelt, wanting to cry or pray or both, but nothing would come out.” Then he began to laugh.

The hysteria had faded by the time she entered. But it was the most natural thing in the world to embrace her. She held him close, shaking with reaction.

Finally they sat together on a couch, holding hands. She told him what she could. “I was seized, carried into the ship, someone pointed a stun gun at me and then there’s nothing more. The next thing I remember is sitting on the bridgeway bench, being carried along. I must have been put onto it, led there in a sleep-walking state, and left. I felt dizzy. Then a policeman came and took me to Minister Chanthavar’s office. He asked me questions, had me given a medical checkup, and said nothing seemed wrong. So he sent me back here.”

“I don’t get it,” said Langley. “I don’t understand it at all.”

“Minister Chanthavar said apparently I was taken on the chance I might be of value... when they failed to get you. I was kept unconscious so I wouldn’t be able to identify anybody, asked a few simple questions under narcosynthesis, and released when it was clear I could be of no help.” She sighed, smiling a little tremulously at him. “I’m glad they let me go.” He knew she didn’t mean it only for herself.

He swallowed the drink he had prepared and sat without speaking for a while. His mind felt oddly clarified, but the past hours of nightmare underlay it.

So this was what it meant. This was what Sol and Centauri stood for, a heartless power game, where no one counted, no act was too vile. A stiffened robot of a civilization which should have been long in its grave but walked with corruption under its armor; a brawling, killing barbarism, stagnant and sterile even as it boasted of virility; a few ambitious men, and a billion harmless humans turned into radioactive gas. The moment one side felt it had an advantage, it would be on the other’s back, and the struggle would lay planets waste. This was what he was supposed to sanction.

He still knew little about the Society; they were surely no collection of pure-minded altruists. But it did seem that they were neutral, that they had no lunacies about empire. Surely they knew more of the galaxy, had a better chance of finding him some young world where he could again be a man.

His choice was clear. It would run him through a gamut of death, but there are worse things than extinction.

He looked at the clean profile of the girl beside him. He wanted to ask her what she thought, what she desired. He hardly knew her at all. But he couldn’t, with the listening mechanical ears. He would have to decide for her.

She met his gaze with calm green eyes. “I wish you’d tell me what’s going on, Edwy,” she said. “I seem to be as exposed as you in any case, and I’d like to know.”

He gave in and told her of Saris Hronna and the hunt for him. She grasped the idea at once, nodded without excitement, and refrained from asking him if he knew an answer or what he intended to do. “It is a very large thing,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Langley. “And it’s going to get a lot bigger before long.”