Pebble in the Sky (25 page)

Schwartz felt himself reddening.

Pola’s voice did not rise in pitch or intensity as she addressed him directly. “Schwartz, if you can sense minds, investigate mine. Tell me if I intend treason. Look at my father. See if it is not true that he could have avoided the Sixty easily enough if he had co-operated with the madmen who will ruin the Galaxy. What has he gained by his treason? . . . And look again, see if any of us wish to harm Earth or Earthmen.

“You say you have caught a glimpse of Balkis’s mind. I don’t know what chance you have had to poke through its dregs. But when he’s back, when it’s too late, sift it, strain his thoughts. Find out that he’s a madman—Then, die!”

Schwartz was silent.

Arvardan broke in hurriedly, “All right, Schwartz, tackle my mind now. Go as deep as you want. I was born on Baronn in the Sirius Sector. I lived my life in an atmosphere of anti-Terrestrialism in the formative years, so I can’t help what flaws and follies lie at the roots of my subconscious. But look on the surface and tell me if, in my adult years, I have not fought bigotry in myself. Not in others; that would be easy. But in myself, and as hard as I could.

“Schwartz, you don’t know our history! You don’t know of the thousands and tens of thousands of years in which Man spread through the Galaxy—of the wars and misery. You don’t know of the first centuries of the Empire, when still there was merely a confusion of alternating despotism and chaos. It is only in the last two hundred years, now, that our Galactic government has become a representative one. Under it the various worlds are allowed their cultural autonomy—have been allowed to govern themselves—have been allowed voices in the common rule of all.

“At no time in history has Humanity been as free from war and poverty as now; at no time has Galactic economy been so wisely adjusted; at no time have prospects for the future been as bright. Would you destroy it and begin all over? And with what? A despotic theocracy with only the unhealthy elements of suspicion and hatred in it.

“Earth’s grievance is legitimate and will be solved someday, if the Galaxy lives. But what
they
will do is no solution. Do you
know
what they intend doing?”

If Arvardan had had the ability that had come to Schwartz, he would have detected the struggle in Schwartz’s mind. Intuitively, however, he knew the time had come to halt for a moment.

Schwartz was moved. All those worlds to die—to fester and dissolve in horrible disease . . . Was he an Earthman after all? Simply an Earthman? In his youth he had left Europe and gone to America, but was he not the same man despite that? And if after him men had left a torn and wounded earth for the worlds beyond the sky, were they less Earthmen? Was not all the Galaxy his? Were not they all—all—descended from himself and his brothers?

He said heavily, “All right, I’m with you. How can I help?”

“How far out can you reach for minds?” asked Arvardan eagerly, with a hastening quickness as though afraid still of a last change of mind.

“I don’t know. There are minds outside. Guards, I suppose. I think I can reach out into the street even, but the farther I go, the less sharp it becomes.”

“Naturally,” said Arvardan. “But how about the Secretary? Could you identify his mind?”

“I don’t know,” mumbled Schwartz.

A pause . . . The minutes stretched by unbearably.

Schwartz said, “Your minds are in the way. Don’t watch me. Think of something else.”

They tried to. Another pause. Then, “No—I can’t—I can’t.”

Arvardan said with a sudden intensity, “I can move a bit—Great Galaxy, I can wiggle my feet. . . . Ouch!” Each motion was a savage twinge.

He said, “How hard can you hurt someone, Schwartz? Can you do it harder than the way you hurt me a while back, I mean?”

“I’ve killed a man.”

“You have? How did you do that?”

“I don’t know. It just gets done. It’s—it’s—” Schwartz looked almost comically helpless in his effort to put the wordless into words.

“Well, can you handle more than one at a time?”

“I’ve never tried, but I don’t think so. I can’t read two minds at one time.”

Pola interrupted. “You can’t have him kill the Secretary, Bel. It won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“How will we get out? Even if we caught the Secretary alone and killed him, there would be hundreds waiting for us outside. Don’t you see that?”

But Schwartz broke in, huskily, “I’ve got him.”

“Whom?” It came from all three. Even Shekt was staring wildly at him.

“The Secretary. I think it’s his Mind Touch.”

“Don’t let him go.” Arvardan almost rolled over in his attempts at exhortation, and tumbled off the slab, thumping to the floor with one half-paralyzed leg working futilely to wedge underneath his body and lift.

Pola cried, “You’re hurt!” and suddenly found the hinges of her arm uncreaking as she tried to lift her elbow.

“No, it’s all right. Suck him dry, Schwartz. Get all the information you can.”

Schwartz reached out until his head ached. He clutched and clawed with the tendrils of his own mind, blindly, clumsily—like an infant thrusting out fingers it can’t quite handle for an object it can’t quite reach. Until now he had taken whatever he could find, but now he was looking—looking—

Painfully, he caught wisps. “Triumph! He’s sure of the results. . . . Something about space bullets. He’s started them. . . . No, not started. Something else. . . . He’s going to start them.”

Shekt groaned. “They’re automatically guided missiles to carry the virus, Arvardan. Aimed at the various planets.”

“But where are they kept, Schwartz?” insisted Arvardan. “Look, man, look—”

“There’s a building I—can’t—quite—see. . . . Five points—a star—a name; Sloo, maybe—”

Shekt broke in again. “That’s it. By all the stars in the Galaxy, that’s it. The Temple of Senloo. It’s surrounded by radioactive pockets on all sides. No one would ever go there but
the Ancients. Is it near the meeting of two large rivers, Schwartz?”

“I can’t—Yes—yes—yes.”

“When, Schwartz, when? When will they be set off?”

“I can’t see the day, but soon—soon. His mind is bursting with that—It will be very soon.” His own head seemed bursting with the effort.

Arvardan was dry and feverish as he raised himself finally to his hands and knees, though they wobbled and gave under him. “Is he coming?”

“Yes. He’s at the door.”

His voice sank and stopped as the door opened.

Balkis’s voice was one of cold derision as he filled the room with success and triumph. “Dr. Arvardan! Had you not better return to your seat?”

Arvardan looked up at him, conscious of the cruel indignity of his own position, but there was no answer to make, and he made none. Slowly he allowed his aching limbs to lower him to the ground. He waited there, breathing heavily. If his limbs could return a bit more, if he could make a last lunge, if he could somehow seize the other’s weapons—

That was no neuronic whip that dangled so gently from the smoothly gleaming Flexiplast belt that held the Secretary’s robe in place. It was a full-size blaster that could shred a man to atoms in an instantaneous point of time.

The Secretary watched the four before him with a savage sense of satisfaction. The girl he tended to ignore, but otherwise it was a clean sweep. There was the Earthman traitor; there the Imperial agent; and there the mysterious creature they had been watching for two months. Were there any others?

To be sure, there was still Ennius, and the Empire. Their arms, in the person of these spies and traitors, were pinioned, but there remained an active brain somewhere—perhaps to send out other arms.

The Secretary stood easily, hands clasped in contemptuous
disregard of any possible necessity of quickly reaching his weapon. He spoke quietly and gently. “Now it is necessary to make things absolutely clear. There is war between Earth and the Galaxy—undeclared as yet, but, nevertheless, war. You are our prisoners and will be treated as will be necessary under the circumstances. Naturally the recognized punishment for spies and traitors is death—”

“Only in the case of legal and declared war,” broke in Arvardan fiercely.

“Legal war?” questioned the Secretary with more than a trace of a sneer. “What is
legal
war? Earth has
always
been at war with the Galaxy, whether we made polite mention of the fact or not.”

“Don’t bother with him,” said Pola to Arvardan softly. “Let him have his say and finish with it.”

Arvardan smiled in her direction. A queer, spasmodic smile, for it was with a vast strain that he staggered to his feet and remained there, gasping.

Balkis laughed softly. With unhurried steps he shortened the distance between himself and the Sirian archaeologist to nothing. With an equally unhurried gesture he rested a soft hand upon the broad chest of the other and shoved.

With splintering arms that would not respond to Arvardan’s demand for a warding motion, with stagnant trunk muscles that could not adjust the body’s balance at more than snail speed, Arvardan toppled.

Pola gasped. Lashing her own rebellious flesh and bone, she descended from her particular bench slowly—so slowly.

Balkis let her crawl toward Arvardan.

“Your lover,” he said. “Your strong Outsider lover. Run to him, girl! Why do you wait? Clasp your hero tightly and forget in his arms that he steams in the sweat and blood of a billion martyred Earthmen. And there he lies, bold and valiant—brought to Earth by the gentle push of an Earthman’s hand.”

Pola was on her knees beside him now, her fingers probing
beneath the hair for blood or the deadly softness of crushed bone. Arvardan’s eyes opened slowly and his lips formed a “Never mind!”

“He’s a coward,” said Pola, “who would fight a paralyzed man and boast his victory. Believe me, darling, few Earthmen are like that.”

“I know it, or you would not be an Earthwoman.”

The Secretary stiffened. “As I said, all lives here are forfeit, but, nevertheless, can be bought. Are you interested in the price?”

Pola said proudly, “In our case, you would be. That I know.”

“Ssh, Pola.” Arvardan had not yet recovered his breath entirely. “What are you proposing?”

“Oh,” said Balkis, “you are willing to sell yourself? As I would be, for instance? I, a vile Earthman?”

“You know best what you are,” retorted Arvardan. “As for the rest, I am not selling myself; I am buying her.”

“I refuse to be bought,” said Pola.

“Touching,” grated the Secretary. “He stoops to our females, our Earthie-squaws—and can still play-act at sacrifice.”

“What are you proposing?” demanded Arvardan.

“This. Obviously, word of our plans has leaked out. How it got to Dr. Shekt is not difficult to see, but how it got to the Empire is puzzling. We would like to know, therefore, just what the Empire does know. Not what you have learned, Arvardan, but what the Empire now knows.”

“I am an archaeologist and not a spy,” bit out Arvardan. “I don’t know anything at all about what the Empire knows—but I hope they know a damned lot.”

“So I imagine. Well, you may change your mind. Think, all of you.”

Throughout, Schwartz had contributed nothing; nor had he raised his eyes.

The Secretary waited, then said, perhaps a trifle savagely, “Then I’ll outline the price to you of your non-co-operation.
It will not be simply death, since I am quite certain that all of you are prepared for that unpleasant and inevitable eventuality. Dr. Shekt and the girl, his daughter, who, unfortunately for herself, is implicated to a deadly extent, are citizens of Earth. Under the circumstances, it will be most appropriate to have both subjected to the Synapsifier. You understand, Dr. Shekt?”

The physicist’s eyes were pools of pure horror.

“Yes, I see you do,” said Balkis. “It is, of course, possible to allow the Synapsifier to damage brain tissue just sufficiently to allow the production of an acerebral imbecile. It is a most disgusting state: one in which you will have to be fed, or starve; be cleaned, or live in dung; be shut up, or remain a study in horror to all who see. It may be a lesson to others in the great day that is coming.

“As for you”—and the Secretary turned to Arvardan—“and your friend Schwartz, you are Imperial citizens, and therefore suitable for an interesting experiment. We have never tried our concentrated fever virus on you Galactic dogs. It would be interesting to show our calculations correct. A small dose, you see, so that death is not quick. The disease might work its way to the inevitable over a period of a week, if we dilute the injection sufficiently. It will be very painful.”

And now he paused and watched them through slitted eyes. “All that,” he said, “is the alternative to a few well-chosen words at the present time. How much does the Empire know? Have they other agents active at the present moment? What are their plans, if any, for counteraction?”

Dr. Shekt muttered, “How do we know that you won’t have us killed anyway, once you have what you want of us?”

“You have my assurance that you will die horribly if you refuse. You will have to gamble on the alternative. What do you say?”

“Can’t we have time?”

“Isn’t that what I’m giving you now? Ten minutes have passed since I entered, and I am still listening. . . . Well, have
you anything to say? What, nothing? Time will not endure forever, you must realize. Arvardan, you still knot your muscles. You think perhaps you can reach me before I can draw my blaster. Well, what if you can? There are hundreds outside, and my plans will continue without me. Even your separate modes of punishment will continue without me.

“Or perhaps you, Schwartz. You killed our agent. It was you, was it not? Perhaps you think you can kill me?”

For the first time Schwartz looked at Balkis. He said coldly, “I can, but I won’t.”

“That is kind of you.”

“Not at all. It is very cruel of me. You say yourself that there are things worse than simple death.”

Arvardan found himself suddenly staring at Schwartz in a vast hope.