Cluster (2 page)

“Merely to use your power of transfer to contact your neighbors and bring them into the coalition. You will freely relay the transfer technology to them. They will then patrol their own regions, destroying any Andromeda stations and agents discovered. Galactic vigilance is the price we all must pay for survival.”

“We have to do the dirty work you balk at,” the Regent said. “That is your real price.”

Pnotl nodded. “Unkindly put, but accurate enough. We must concentrate our own major effort in our own region of space. If you can reach ten or twenty Spheres within a radius of two thousand light years of Sol, it will suffice. Our own sweep will complement your tangentially, for Sphere Knyfh is covering a radius of three thousand light years. All over the Galaxy the other major Spheres are performing similarly.” The alien made a bow of dismissal. “If you will now convey me to your technicians, I shall begin working with them immediately. It may take some time to clarify the specifics and construct the apparatus, and my time is limited.”

The alien smiled, and several Ministers smiled with him. He was speaking the literal truth; he had at most eighty days before his identity became submerged within the ambiance of the human host. It would have to be a terrific effort, on his part and theirs.

“But we haven't even agreed!” the Regent protested.

Pnotl's glance hinted that he thought the Council to be a bunch of unlettered idiots, but his tone was controlled. “Since your survival, like ours, depends on the early unification of our galaxy, so that we may muster our entire resources to combat this menace, I believe your agreement is assured. But I shall give you the information regardless—just as you will give it to other Spheres, however negative they may prove to be.”

The Regent gestured, and the Minister of Technology conducted the alien out of the audience chamber.

“We seem to have been committed,” the Regent remarked sourly. “But if he really delivers transfer...”

The Minister of Population produced a printout. “Assuming that we have a use for it, I have here the list of our top prospects for transfer. As you know, the strength of the Kirlian field is the overriding factor–”

“We
know
,” the Regent interrupted. “Summon the top five prospects. I want them here within twenty four hours.”

“That will be awkward. Our leading name is on the Fringe.”

The Regent bashed one fist into the opposite hand. “I don't care if it's as far as Outworld! Fetch it here!”

The Minister permitted himself a fleeting smile. “It
is
on Outworld. Star Etamin, one hundred and eight light years distant. Our farthest viable colony.”

“The Stone age planet!” the Minister of Culture exclaimed. “Disaster!”

“We'll have to use the second choice, that's all,” the Minister of Alien Spheres said. “Where's that one?”

“Sirius.” Again a small smile.

“That's close—and civilized. Saves us ninety-nine light years' postage. Much better.”

The Minister of Population shook his head. “It's a woman.”

There was a general, discreet groan. The cultural prejudices of the ministers were emerging in the absence of the alien envoy. “Worse yet!” the Minister of Culture said.

“Stop this bickering!” the Regent cried. “Bring them
both
—and the next three. I'll decide when the time comes.”

“But the
expense
!” the Minister of Finance cried, appalled.

The others ignored him; expense was irrelevant when the Regent gave an order. If he overreached himself, he would have to answer to the Emperor, whereupon there just might be a new Regent. This particular Regent was unusually competent, and therefore it was likely that his tenure in the office would be brief.

“What's the top name?” the Minister of Alien Spheres asked. The arrival of the envoy from Sphere Knyfh had enhanced his prestige of the hour considerably, and he spoke with a new timbre of authority.

“Flint. Flint of Outworld. Age two thirds–”

“What?” the Minister of Culture squawked.

“Sorry. Their year is thirty years long; I forgot to interpolate. Age about twenty-one earth scale. Male. Single. Heterosexually inclined. Intelligence about one point five.”

“
About
?” the Minister of Culture demanded. “Can't you measure it accurately?” His tone reeked of contempt.

“No. He's a primitive—like some here. Can't even read. Runs about naked. Has green skin. But he's smart—very smart.”

“Lovely,” the Minister of Culture said sarcastically. “A smart naked green ignoramus!”

The Minister of Population shook his head. “This savage has a Kirlian intensity of just over two hundred—the highest we have ever measured.”

“Two hundred!” the Minister of Culture gasped. “Two hundred times human normal?”

“That's right,” the Minister of Population said smugly. “The next prospect, apart from the liability of being female, is only ninety-eight on the Kirlian scale. The barbarian is something special.”

“We're stuck with the Jolly Green Giant,” the Minister of Culture muttered.

“Disaster,” the Minister of Population agreed.

“On the contrary,” the regent said briskly. The alien envoy had evidently viewed these men with a certain condescension. The alien had been a sharp judge of character. “Ideal. This innocent will hardly realize what he is getting into. What better choice for our first experimental transfer of a human being to an alien Sphere? We can have no notion of the risks this entails. If the advanced entities of the Inner Galaxy won't even
try
the Spheres of our region...”

The Ministers exchanged glances. A smile passed among them.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1:

Flint of Outworld

 

 

The old man and the young man lay in the cool of pre-dawn, looking up at the stars. The old man wore a ragged tunic; under it his skin was an off-shade of white. The young man was naked, and was a delicate green all over. He was large and muscular, even for Outworld.

“Can you see Arcturus, boy?” the old man asked.

“Yes, Shaman,” Flint said with good-natured respect. He was no longer a boy, but he made allowances for the old man's failing vision. If there was one thing the wise Shaman had taught him—and indeed there were
many
things—it was not to take offense irresponsibly. “Shining as always, about third magnitude.”

“And Vega?”

“Yes, fourth magnitude.” Each distinction of magnitude meant a star was about two and a half times as bright, or dim. It seemed to help the Shaman to be reminded that Vega was dimmer than Arcturus, so Flint always repeated the information. On cloudy nights these magnitudes changed, if the stars were visible at all. He could have called them out from memory, but the Shaman had also taught him never to lie unnecessarily.

A pause. Then: “Sirius?”

“Fainter. Fifth magnitude.”

“And—and Sol?” The old man's voice quavered.

“No. Too faint.”

“Use the glass, boy,” the Shaman said.

Flint raised the small old telescope, a relic of the first colony ship that had brought his ancestors, over a century ago. He oriented on faint Sirius, then slid toward the nearby region where Sol was to be found. The instrument magnified ten times, which meant that stars of up to eight and a half magnitude should be visible. But magnification was not enough: the scope did not fetch in sufficient light to provide proper clarity at night. So Sol, magnitude seven and a half, was a difficult identification, even for Flint's sharp eye. For the half-blind Shaman, it was impossible.

Now Flint was tempted to lie, knowing how important it was to the old man to spot Sol, even secondhand, this night and every night of the season it was in the night sky. But the Shaman had an uncanny knack for spotting that sort of thing.

Then, faintly, he saw it. “Twin stars! Sol and Toliman!” he cried exuberantly.

“Sol and Toliman!” the Shaman echoed. The words were like a prayer of thanksgiving.

Flint set down the telescope. The ritual had been honored. They had seen Sol tonight.

There was still an hour until dawn, and the Shaman made no move to rise for the walk down the mountain. Flint had work to do, but he had learned not to hustle the old man. The Shaman had never quite acclimatized to the fifteen-hour days of Outworld. He would sleep one full night, seven and a half hours, then stay up a day and a night, fifteen hours straight, then nap in the daytime. He had, he said, been born to a twenty-four hour cycle, eight hours asleep and sixteen awake, and this was as close as he could make it on Outworld. Flint had once tried to duplicate that odd rhythm, but it had made him irritable and muddle-minded. No one could adept Shaman ways except the Shaman.

Sometimes the Shaman liked to talk a bit, as he neared the end of his day-night vigil. Flint pretended to the other tribesmen that he merely humored the old fogy, but the truth was that the Shaman's words were almost always fraught with meaning and unexpected revelations. He had taught Flint amazing things, and some of the best had been by accident.

“Shaman, if I may ask–”

“Ask, boy!” the man replied immediately, and Flint knew that this was, indeed, a talking night. Perhaps it would make his early awakening worthwhile, apart from the necessity of helping the old man up the steep hill.

“What was it like—on Sol?”

“Not Sol, Flint.
Earth.
Sol is the star, Earth the planet, just as Etamin is the star here, and Outworld the planet. A small star, Sol, and a small planet, 'tis true, but the home of all men and still lord of all Sol Sphere.”

Flint knew. Etamin was a hundred times as brilliant as Sol, and Outworld twice Earth's mass. That was why Outworld, though ten times as far from its star as Earth was from Sol, had a similar climate. Lower density, heavier atmosphere, and faster rotation brought the surface gravity down to within 10 percent of Earth's, effectively, so man had been able to colonize and survive here. Of course Outworld's year was thirty times as long, but what the Shaman called a severe precessional wobble provided seasons similar to Earth's. All this was but a fraction of the knowledge the Shaman had dispensed in the course of prior conversations. The tribesmen hardly cared, as long as hunting was good, but Flint was fascinated, and always wanted to comprehend more.

“Earth, of course,” Flint said. “But the planet—was it like this? With rains and vines and dinosaurs?”

The Shaman laughed, but had to stop when it triggered his cough. “Yes and no,” he gasped after a bit. “Rains, yes, every few days in some sections. But no vines, not such as you mean. None you could really climb on. Dinosaurs—not today, only long ago, a hundred million years ago. Only birds and mammals and fish and a few small reptiles and not many wild animals, with the human species overrunning the last wilderness areas. Earth is crowded, boy, more crowded than you can imagine. Hundreds, thousands of people per square mile. Even more!”

Flint had heard this before, too, but he allowed for exaggeration. It would be impossible for the land to support more than ten or fifteen people per square mile; the game would all be destroyed by overhunting. He had had experience hunting; he knew the limits. “Why is there such a difference, Shaman? Why isn't Outworld just like Earth, since it was colonized directly from Earth?”

“An excellent question! The experts have wrestled with that one for decades, Flint. The answer is, we don't really know. But we have some educated guesses.”

“There must be a reason,” Flint said complacently. “There's a reason for everything, as you have told me.”

“Reason, yes. Understanding, no. But the prevailing theory—or it was when I left Earth—is called the principle of Temporal Regression, and it applies to all Spheres, not just ours. Earth is civilized, but since our fastest ships can achieve only half light-speed, it takes many years to reach the farther colonies. Vega is twenty-six and a half light-years from Sol, so it takes over fifty years to travel between them, one way. Sirius is within nine light-years of Sol; that's about eighteen years. Even Toliman—it was called Alpha Centuri—was just over four–”

Flint cleared his throat, gently.

The Shaman chuckled ruefully. “I ramble, I know. The point is this: it takes
time
to communicate between the colonies, so they are always somewhat out of date.”

“Not with mattermission,” Flint objected.

“Matter transmission is prohibitively expensive. It would be ruinous to transport a single man that way, let alone a factory. So we lack the base for an advanced technology.”

“But we should not be more than two hundred years out of date,” Flint protested. “Even without mattermission, Etamin is only a hundred and eight light-years from Sol.”

“
Only
! It's Earth's farthest colony! Oh, there are a few men scattered farther out, and quite a few in the Hyades cluster, but those are really alien Spheres.”

“There are some aliens here,” Flint reminded him. “Polaroids.”

“Don't call them that.
Polarians
. Don't assume they don't know the difference; they're as smart as we are, even though they do have trouble with our mode of speaking.” He paused, letting the rebuke sink in. Then: “But they are in
our
Sphere, subject to our regulations. Just as the few men in Sphere Polaris are subject to Polarian government, according to galactic convention. Such admixture is good; it promotes better understanding between sapient species. We are fortunate that they are so similar to us.”

Similar!” Flint snorted. “Know what Chief Strongspear calls them? Dinosaur T–”

“Chief Strongspear is a bigoted lout whose time is getting short. There are qualities in Polarians—and in all sapient aliens—well worthy of your respect. Remember that.”