The Players of Null-A

VIII NULL-ABSTRACTS

Aristotle's formulations of the science of his time were probably the most accurate available during his lifetime. His followers for two thousand years subscribed to the identification that they were true for all time. In more recent years, new systems of measurement disproved many of these 'truths', but they continue to be the basis of the opinions and beliefs of most people. The two-valued logic on which such folk-thought is founded has accordingly been given the designation aristotelian—abbreviation: A—and the many-valued logic of modern science has been given the name non-aristotelian—abbreviation: Null-A.

Gosseyn found himself in a corridor at the bottom of a flight of steps. The corridor extended both right and left, curving gradually out of sight. At the moment he had no impulse for exploration. He followed Leej up the stairway toward a bright room, and he was already noticing the radical design of the ceiling lights. It confirmed his first 'feel' of the ship's power source. Magnetic power.

The fact was interesting because of the picture it gave him of Yalertan scientific development, comparable to twenty-second century Earth. But it also gave him a shock. For him now the magnetic engine had a flaw. It was too complete. It performed so many functions that people who used it had a tendency to discard all other forms of power.

The Predictors had made the old mistake. There was no atomic power aboard. No electricity. Not even a battery. That meant no really potent weapons, and no radar. These Predictors obviously expected to be able to foresee the approach of anything inimical to them, but this was not so any more. He had a vision in his mind of galactic engineers sending electrically guided aerial torpedoes with proximity fuses and atomic warheads, or any of a dozen devices that, once attuned to a target, would follow it till they destroyed it or were themselves destroyed.

The worst part of it was that he could do nothing but find out as swiftly as possible just how much Leej could foresee.

And of course, he could hope.

The bright room into which Leej led him was longer, broader and higher than it had seemed from the entrance below. It was a drawing room, complete with couches, chairs, tables, a massive green rug and, directly across from where he had paused, a sloping window that bulged out like a streamlined balcony from the side of the ship.

The woman flung herself with an audible sigh onto a couch near the window, and said, 'It's wonderful to be safe again.' She shook her dark hair with a tiny shudder. 'What a nightmare.'

She added in a savage tone, 'That will never happen again.'

Gosseyn, heading for the window, was stopped short by her words. He half turned to ask her on what she based her confidence. He didn't speak the question. She had already admitted that she couldn't foretell the actions of the Follower, and that was all he needed to know. Deprived of her gift, she was a good-looking, emotional young woman about thirty years old without any particular astuteness to protect her from danger. He could find out all she knew after he had done what he could to ward off possible attacks.

As he started forward again, he felt the nerve sensation that indicated the approach of a human being. A moment later, a man emerged from a door that led to the forward part of the vessel. The fellow was slim, with an edge of gray in his hair. He ran over to Leej, and knelt beside her. 'My dear,' he said, 'you're back.' He kissed her with a quick movement. At the window now, Gosseyn ignored the lovers. He was looking down and back at a fascinating scene. An island. A green island, set like an emerald in a sapphire sea. There was a gem within the green gem, a pile of buildings that shone gray-white in the sun, and already it was hard to make out the details. They seemed unreal, and actually did not resemble buildings at this distance. His knowledge that they were enabled his mind to fill in the gaps.

The ship was climbing a long, shallow slope of air. Its speed was evidently greater than he had thought from the smoothness of the acceleration, because, as he watched, the island shrank visibly in size. And he could see now that there was no apparent movement either on the ground or in the air above it.

That braced him, though there had been in his mind through all the dangerous moments the knowledge that, even if he were killed, the continuity of his memories and thoughts would immediately be carried on by another Gosseyn body, which would wake up automatically in a remote hiding place. Unfortunately, as he had learned from an earlier version of his body, now dead, the next group of Gosseyns were eighteen years old. He couldn't escape the conviction that no eighteen year old could handle the crisis that had been created by Enro. People had confidence in mature men and not in children. That confidence might make a difference between victory and defeat in a critical moment. It was important that he remain alive in this body. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he considered the immediate possibilities. He had work to do. He must stop further transportation of Predictors to Enro's fleet, seize the warships that had landed, and, as soon as possible, attack the shadow-thing on his island. There were preliminaries to be accomplished, but those were

the things he must work toward—and swiftly. Swiftly. The great and decisive battle of the Sixth Decant was hourly growing in fury. If he knew anything of human nature, then the League was already shaken to its tenuous foundations. Certainly, Enro expected it to collapse, and, childish though the dictator might be when it came to women, on the political and military level he was a genius.

He was about to turn from the window when it struck him that Jurig, under sentence of death as he was, might be bearing the brunt of the Follower's wrath. Hastily, he similarized Jurig to the woods outside the fence. If the man was at all afraid, he would hide there and so be available for transportation to the ship later on.

The action taken, he twisted back into the room in time to hear the woman say calmly, 'I'm sorry, Yanar, but he will want a woman, and naturally I must be the one. Good-by.'

The man was on his feet, his face dark. He looked up and his eyes met Gosseyn's. The hatred that sparkled in their dark depths was matched by the sensation that jumped from his nervous system to Gosseyn's extra brain. He said with a sneer, 'I don't give my mistress up to anyone without a fight, even someone whose future is a blur.'

His hand disappeared into a pocket, and came out with a small, fanlike instrument. He brought it up, and pressed the charger.

Gosseyn walked forward, and took the weapon from Yanar's fingers. The other did not resist. There was a strained look on his face, and the nervous rhythm that exuded from him had altered to a fear pattern. He was obviously stunned at the way his fragile appearing but powerful gun had failed to 'fire.' Gosseyn moved off several paces and examined the instrument curiously. The radial flanges that made up the antenna was typical, and verified, if verification was needed, the nature of the energy involved. Magnetic weapons operated on outside power, in this case the field set up by the magnetic engines in the hull. The field extended with dimming strength for a distance of nearly five miles beyond the hull.

Gosseyn slipped the instrument into his pocket, and tried to imagine the effect on Yanar of what had happened. He had photographed the entire weapon, and allowed one of the discharge points to flow to a similarized area into the prison cell of the Follower's Retreat. The distance in space prevented the current from coming back to the ship, and so the weapon, its energy diverted, had failed to function. The psychological effect must be slightly terrific.

The man's face remained a bleached white, but he brought his teeth together with a snap.

'You'll have to kill me,' he said, bitterly.

He was a middle-aged nonentity, set in his ways, thalamically bound up in A—as distinct from Null-A—habits, and because he could shoot for purely emotional reasons, he would be dangerous so long as they were both aboard the ship. He must be killed, or exiled, or—Gosseyn smiled grimly —guarded. He knew just the man who could do it. Jurig. But that was for later. Now, he half-turned to Leej, and questioned her pointedly about the marriage customs of the Predictors.

There was no marriage. 'That,' said Leej with disdain, 'is for the lesser breeds.'

She did not say so in so many words, but Gosseyn gathered that Yanar was one of a long line of lovers, and that, being older, he had had even more mistresses. These people wearied of each other, and because of their gift were usually able to name the exact hour when they would separate. The unexpected appearance of Gosseyn had terminated this affair sooner than anticipated.

Gosseyn was neither repelled nor attracted by the moves involved. His first thought had been to reassure Yanar that he needn't worry about losing his mistress. He didn't say it. He wanted a Predictor beside him from now on, and Leej might be insulted if she discovered that he did not make love to women who did not have some Null-A training.

He asked Leej one more question. 'What does Yanar do besides eat and sleep?'

'He runs the ship.'

Gosseyn motioned at Yanar. 'Lead the way,' he said curtly.

Further conversation with Leej could wait. He was a man who must depend on what he knew, and the sense of urgency was strong upon him again.

As he examined the ship, Gosseyn's mind jumped back to what Leej had said when they were running through the underbrush on the Follower's island. Trailer, she had called her machine.

A skytrailer. He could imagine the easy life these Predictors had lived for so many years on their world of islands and water. Floating lazily through the sky, landing when the mood touched them, and where they desired; seizing control of any 'lesser' human being whom it pleased them to enslave, and snatching any object they wanted to possess—there was a part of man's nature that longed for such a carefree existence. The fact that in this case it included a ruthless subjugation of people who did not have the precious gift of prophecy was easy to understand also. Overlordship could always be justified by minds that were not too critical. And, besides, recent generations had grown up from babyhood in an environment where slavery was not questioned by the Predictor hierarchy. The attitude was part of the set of their nervous systems.

Though they did not seem to realize it, the appearance of the Follower on their idyllic scene had forever broken the casual pattern of their existence. And now, the arrival of the galactic warship and the presence of Gilbert Gosseyn were further indicators of their changing conditions. They must either adjust or be swept aside.

The control room was in the nose of the vessel. It didn't take long to examine it. The controls were of the simple discharger type common to energy derived from the planet's own magnetic currents.

The dome of the control room was limpidly transparent. Gosseyn stood for a long moment gazing down at the sea that was rushing by below. As far as he could see ahead there was only a mass of heaving waters, and not a sign of land.

He turned away to continue his exploration. There was a steel stairway in one corner. It led up at a steep slant to a closed hatch in the ceiling. Gosseyn started up immediately.

The loft turned out to be a storeroom. Gosseyn examined the labels on boxes and containers, not quite sure what he was looking for, but ready to follow up on any idea that suggested itself. Suddenly, as he examined a drum filled with degravitated air, the idea came.

As he continued his conducted tour, his plan grew more plausible. He glanced in at each of four bedrooms, a dining room, and a rear control room on the main floor, and then went down to the lower deck, but by now he was searching for something. He had previously sensed the presence of other human beings below deck. He finally counted six men and six women. They were submissive in manner, and judging from the neural flow from their bodies, obviously accepted their lot. He dismissed them from his calculations and, after peering in at spacious kitchens and more storerooms, he came to a workroom.

It was what he had been looking for. He sent Yanar about his business, and locked the door.

Gosseyn emerged three hours later with two tubes set up on a plate that would take power from the magnetic field of the ship's engines. Straight up to the loft he climbed, and spent more than fifteen minutes piping degravitated air into the airtight container inside which he had set up his tubes.

At first the oscillation was faint. It grew stronger. The rhythmic pulse beat in his extra brain steadily and evenly. On. earth, the graviton tube was known as a member of a group that was said to possess 'radiation hunger.' Lacking the gravitonic particle, it craved stability. Up to that point its reactions were normal, for all things in nature fought constantly to achieve a balance. It was the tube's methods that were fantastic.

It sent out radiations of its own to search for normal matter. Every time it touched an object, a message was dispatched back to the tube. Result: excitement. A change in the rhythm so long as the object remained in the vicinity. On Earth, technicians said of such moments, 'There's old Ehrenhaft wagging his tail again.'

Not that it did any good. And the tube never seemed to learn from experience. The process went on and on, without its hunger ever being satisfied. Surprisingly, as with many other things, such 'stupidity' was useful to those who cared to exploit it.

Gosseyn maneuvered the ship to a height of five miles, and then down almost to the surface of the water. He was able in this way to accustom himself to the normal rhythm variation of movement above a sea. Finally, he set the cue. If there was any variation in the rhythm, then his extra brain would be warned, whereupon he would similarize himself into either front or rear control room and decide on further measures.

It was a personal detector system on a very limited level, useless against weapons traveling miles a second, and certainly useless if a galactic Distorter ever got a 'fix' on his ship. But it was something.

Gosseyn hesitated, then found himself an end of wire and memorized it. Quickly he memorized two floor areas in the control room. And then, as the sun disappeared behind the shimmering horizon of water, and the twilight quickened toward night, he headed for the living room, conscious that he was ready for more positive action.

When Gosseyn entered the living room, Yanar was sitting in a chair near the window, reading a book. The room glowed with soft, magnetic lights; cold lights, yet they always looked so warm and intimate, because of the way their colors changed ever so little from moment to moment.

Gosseyn stopped just inside the doorway, and watched the other narrowly. This was the test. He similarized the wire end back in the control room to the first memorized area, and waited.

The older man looked up with a start from his book. He stared at Gosseyn grimly, then climbed to his feet, walked to a chair at the far end of the room, and sat down. A steady stream of unfriendly neural sensations, tinged with spasmodic discharges indicating doubt, flowed from the Predictor's nervous system.

Gosseyn studied the man, convinced that he had got as much of a response as he could hope for. It could be an attempt to fool him. His every move could have been foreseen and allowed for. But he thought not.

Accordingly, his major problem with these Predictors was solved. Each time he 'moved' the wire with his extra brain, he would confuse their ability to predict his actions. There would, in short, be a blur. He could carry on an interview, and be fairly sure that his questions were not being anticipated. There was one more problem: Should he or should he not be conciliatory with Yanar?

That was more important than it might seem. It took time to make friends, but it only required a shock moment to impress another person with the fear that he was in the presence of a superior. The power of Gilbert Gosseyn on Yalerta was going to depend on his ability to put over the idea that he was invincible. In no other way could he hope to operate at the top speed necessary to his plans and to the basic war situation in the galaxy.

The question was, at what speed would it be right for him to operate?

Gosseyn walked over to the window. It was almost pitch dark now, but the glint of the sea was visible in the half light. If there was a moon circling the planet, it was not yet above the horizon, or else it was too small to reflect a noticeable amount of sunlight.

He gazed at the light-flecked waters, and wondered how far he was from Earth. It seemed strange, even unsettling, to realize how great the distance must be. It brought a sense of smallness, an awareness of how much remained to be done. He could only hope he would be able to develop to the height of power that would be necessary in the critical days ahead. He was not a man who need ever think of himself as belonging to any one planet, but, still, he did have a strong feeling for the solar system.

A sound drew his attention. He turned away from the window, and saw that the slaves from the lower deck were busy in the dining room. He watched them thoughtfully, noting that the youngest and prettiest girl was the target for little, spiteful acts of domination by the other two women. She was about nineteen, Gosseyn estimated. She kept her eyes down, which was a significant sign. If he knew anything about thalamic people—and he did—then she was biding her time and awaiting an opportunity to repay her tormentors. Gosseyn guessed from the nature of the neural sensations that flowed from her that she would be able to do her greatest damage by playing the coquette with the men servants.

He studied Yanar again, and made up his mind. Definitely, irrevocably, no friendliness.

He walked slowly toward the man, making no effort to be stealthy. The Predictor glanced up, and saw him coming. He stirred uneasily in his chair, but remained where he was. He looked unhappy.

Gosseyn considered that a good sign. Except for those who had been in contact with the Follower, none of these Predictors had ever been subjected to the pressure of not knowing from instant to instant what the future might hold. It should be interesting to observe the effect on Yanar. And besides, he himself needed information badly.

Gosseyn began by asking the simple questions. And before each one—not only in the beginning, but during the entire interview—he shifted the wire in the control room back and forth between the floor areas 'one' and two.'

With occasional exceptions, Yanar answered freely. His full name was Yanar Wilvry Blove, he was forty-four years old, and had no occupation—that was where the first hesitation came.

Gosseyn noted the point mentally, but made no comment. Blockage in connection with occupation, distinct interruption in neural flow.

'Is there any significance to your names?' he asked.

Yanar seemed relieved. He shrugged. 'I'm Yanar of the Wilvry birth center on the island of Blove.'

So that was how it worked. He shifted the wire again, and said affably, 'You people have quite a gift of foreseeing. I've never run into anything like it before.'

'No good against you,' said Yanar darkly.

That was worth knowing for sure, though, of course, the statement that it was not usable did not make the words true. Fortunately, he had other verification.

Not that he had any alternative but to proceed as if Yanar didn't foresee his questions.

The interview continued. Gosseyn wasn't sure what he was searching for. A clue perhaps. His belief that he was still in the Followers' trap was becoming greater and not less. If that was so, then he was fighting against time, in a very real sense.

But what was the nature of the trap?

He learned the Predictors were born in a normal fashion, usually aboard skytrailers. A few days after being born they were taken to the nearest birth center that had space available.

'What does the birth center do to the child?' Gosseyn asked.

Yanar shook his head. And there was blockage again in the neural flow from him. 'We don't give information like that to

strangers,' he said stubbornly, 'not even to ' He stopped,

shrugged, then finished curtly, To no one.'

Gosseyn did not press the matter. He was beginning to feel distracted. The facts he was unearthing were valuable but not vital. They did not fit his needs of the moment

Yet there was nothing to do but go on.

'How long have there been Predictors?' he asked.

'Several hundred years.'

Then it's the result of an invention?'

There's a legend ' Yanar began. He stopped, and stiffened. Blockage. 'I refuse to answer that,' he said.

Gosseyn said, 'At what stage does the prophetic ability appear?'

'Above twelve. Sometimes a little sooner.'

Gosseyn nodded, half to himself. There was a theory forming in the back of his mind, and this fitted. The faculty developed slowly, like the human cortex and like his own extra brain. He hesitated over his next question, because there was an assumption in it that he didn't want Yanar to notice until it was too late. As before, he shifted the wire first, then:

'What happens to children of Predictors for whom there's no room in the birth center?'

Yanar shrugged. 'They grow up and run the islands.'

He sat smug. He seemed unaware that he had revealed by implication that only those children who went to the birth centers became Predictors.

His impassivity started another train of thought in Gosseyn's mind. He had been intent, but now it struck him sharply that Yanar was not reacting like a man being subjected for the first time to such an interview as this. He knew what it felt like not to have advance awareness of questions. Knew it so well that it didn't upset him.

Like lightning Gosseyn saw the possibilities. He stepped back in his chagrin. It seemed incredible that it had taken him so long to realize the truth. He stared down at the Predictor, and said finally in a level but steely voice:

'And now, you will please describe exactly how you have been communicating with the Follower.'

If ever a man was caught by surprise, then Yanar was that man. He seemed unprepared in the extreme thalamic fashion. His face turned livid. The neural flow from his nervous system blocked and then burst, and then blocked and burst again.

'What do you' mean?' He whispered the words finally.

Since the question was rhetorical, Gosseyn did not repeat his statement. He glowered down at the Predictor. 'Quick!' he said. 'Before I kill you.'

Yanar sagged limply back into his chair, and once more he changed color. He flushed. 'I didn't,' he stammered. 'Why should I endanger myself by calling the Follower and telling him where you were? I wouldn't do a thing like that.'

He shook himself, 'You can't prove it,' he said.

Gosseyn didn't need proof. He had been dangerously remiss in not keeping a watch on Yanar. And so the message had been sent and the damage done. Gosseyn had no doubt of that. The Predictor's reactions were too violent and too realistic. Yanar had never had to control his emotions, and so now he didn't know how. Guilt poured from every reflex in his body.

Gosseyn felt chilled. But he had done what he could to protect himself, and so there was nothing to do but obtain more information. He said curtly, 'You'd better talk fast, my friend, and truthfully. Did you contact the Follower himself?'

Yanar was sullen. He shrugged, and once more that was a signal for a block to break. 'Of course,' he said.

'You mean, he expected a call from you?' Gosseyn wanted that clear. 'You're his agent?'

The man shook his head. 'I'm a Predictor,' he said.

There was pride in his tone, but it was a bedraggled variety. A lock of his iron-gray hair had sagged over one temple. He looked like anything but a nobleman of Yalerta.

Gosseyn did not comment on the boast. He had his man on the run, and that was what counted.

'What did you tell him?'

'I said you were aboard.'

'And what did he say?'

'He said he knew that.'

'Oh!' said Gosseyn. He paused, but only for a moment.

His mind jumped ahead to other aspects of the situation. In quick succession he rapped out a dozen vital questions.

The moment he had his facts he similarized the both of them into the control room, and stood over the trembling Yanar while he produced maps, and showed the wide circular course the ship had been following round and round the Follower's island, at a radius of a hundred miles.

Gosseyn reset the course for the island of Crest, only a few hundred miles north by northwest. Then he turned to confront the Predictors.

'And now,' he said in a threatening tone, 'we come to the problem of what to do with a traitor.'

The older man was pale, but some of his fear had departed. He said boldly, I owe you nothing. You can kill me, but you can't expect loyalty from me, and you won't get it.'

It wasn't loyalty that Gosseyn wanted. It was fear. He must make certain that these Predictors learned to think twice before they acted against him. But what to do?

It seemed impractical to make a definite decision. He turned on his heel and headed back into the drawing room. As he entered, Leej appeared from the direction of the bedrooms. He walked toward her, a faint frown on his face. A few questions, madam, he thought bleakly. How was it that Yanar could warn the Follower without his action being predictable? Please explain that.

The woman stopped, and waited for him, smiling. Her smile changed abruptly. Her gaze plunged past him and slightly to one side. Gosseyn spun around, and stared.

He felt nothing, heard nothing, and there was no sense of a presence even now that he could see. But a shape was taking form a dozen feet to his right. It grew black, and yet he could see the wall beyond it. It thickened, but it was not substance.

He felt himself become tense. The moment of his meeting with the Follower had come.