Pebble in the Sky (30 page)

He thought again. From where came his conviction of the truth of the conspiracy? He was an archaeologist, given to doubting, but now—Had it been one man’s word? One girl’s kiss? Or Joseph Schwartz?

He couldn’t think!
He couldn’t think!

“Well?” Ennius sounded impatient. “Have you anything to say, Dr. Shekt? Or you, Dr. Arvardan?”

But Pola’s voice suddenly pierced the silence. “Why do you ask them? Can’t you see that it’s all a lie? Don’t you see that he’s tying us all up with his false tongue? Oh, we’re all going to die, and I don’t care any more—but we could stop it, we could stop it—And instead we just sit here and—and—
talk
—” She burst into wild sobs.

The Secretary said, “So we are reduced to the screams of a hysterical girl. . . . Your Excellency, I have this proposition. My accusers say that all this, the alleged virus and whatever else they have in mind, is scheduled for a definite time—six in the morning, I believe. I offer to remain in your custody for a week. If what they say is true, word of an epidemic in the Galaxy ought to reach Earth within a few days. If such occurs, Imperial forces will still control Earth—”

“Earth is a fine exchange, indeed, for a Galaxy of humans,” mumbled the white-faced Shekt.

“I value my own life, and that of my people. We are hostages for our innocence, and I am prepared at this instant to inform the Society of Ancients that I will remain here for a week of my own free will and prevent any disturbances that might otherwise occur.”

He folded his arms.

Ennius looked up, his face troubled. “I find no fault in this man—”

Arvardan could stand it no more. With a quiet and deadly ferocity, he arose and strode quickly toward the Procurator.
What he meditated was never known. Afterward he himself could not remember. At any rate, it made no difference. Ennius had a neuronic whip and used it.

For the third time since landing on Earth everything about Arvardan flamed up into pain, spun about, and vanished.

In the hours during which Arvardan was unconscious the six o’clock deadline was reached—

And passed!

Light—

Blurring light and misty shadows—melting and twisting, and then coming into focus.

A face—Eyes upon his—

“Pola!” Things were sharp and clear to Arvardan in a single, leaping bound. “What time is it?”

His fingers were hard upon her wirst, so that she winced involuntarily.

“It’s past seven,” she whispered. “Past the deadline.”

He looked about wildly, starting from the cot on which he lay, disregarding the burning in his joints. Shekt, his lean figure huddled in a chair, raised his head to nod in brief mournfulness.

“It’s all over, Arvardan.”

“Then Ennius—”

“Ennius,” said Shekt, “would not take the chance. Isn’t that strange?” He laughed a queer, cracked, rasping laugh. “The three of us singlehandedly discover a vast plot against humanity, singlehandedly we capture the ringleader and bring him to justice. It’s like a visicast, isn’t it, with the great all-conquering heroes zooming to victory in the nick of time? That’s where they usually end it. Only in our case the visicast went on and we found that nobody believed us. That doesn’t happen in visi-casts, does it? Things end happily there, don’t they? It’s funny—” The words turned into rough, dry sobs.

Arvardan looked away, sick. Pola’s eyes were dark universes, moist and tear-filled. Somehow, for an instant, he was lost in them—they
were
universes, star-filled. And toward those stars little gleaming metallic cases were streaking, devouring the light-years as they penetrated hyperspace in calculated, deadly paths. Soon—perhaps already—they would approach, pierce atmospheres, fall apart into unseen deadly rains of virus—

Well, it was over.

It could no longer be stopped.

“Where is Schwartz?” he asked weakly.

But Pola only shook her head. “They never brought him back.”

The door opened, and Arvardan was
not so far gone in the acceptance of death as to fail to look up with a momentary wash of hope upon his face.

But it was Ennius, and Arvardan’s face hardened and turned away.

Ennius approached and looked momentarily at the father and daughter. But even now Shekt and Pola were primarily Earth creatures and could say nothing to the Procurator, even though they knew that short and violent as their future lives
were to be, that of the Procurator would be even shorter and more violent.

Ennius tapped Arvardan on the shoulder. “Dr. Arvardan?”

“Your Excellency?” said Arvardan in a raw and bitter imitation of the other’s intonation.

“It is after six o’clock.” Ennius had not slept that night. With his official absolution of Balkis had come no absolute assurance that the accusers were completely mad—or under mental control. He had watched the soulless chronometer tick away the life of the Galaxy.

“Yes,” said Arvardan. “It is after six and the stars still shine.”

“But you still think you were right?”

“Your Excellency,” said Arvardan, “in a matter of hours the first victims will die. They won’t be noticed. Human beings die every day. In a week hundreds of thousands will have died. The percentage of recovery will be close to zero. No known remedies will be available. Several planets will send out emergency calls for epidemic relief. In two weeks scores of planets will have joined the call and States of Emergency will be declared in the nearer sectors. In a month the Galaxy will be a writhing mass of disease. In two months not twenty planets will remain untouched. In six months the Galaxy will be dead. . . . And what will
you
do when those first reports come in?

“Let me predict that as well. You will send out reports that the epidemics may have started on Earth. This will save no lives. You will declare war on the Ancients of Earth. This will save no lives. You will wipe the Earthman from the face of his planet. This will save no lives. . . . Or else you will act as go-between for your friend Balkis and the Galactic Council, or the survivors thereof. You may then have the honor of handing the wretched remnants of the crumbs of the Empire to Balkis in return for antitoxin, which may or may not reach sufficient worlds in sufficient quantities in sufficient time to save a single human being.”

Ennius smiled without conviction. “Don’t you think you’re being ridiculously overdramatic?”

“Oh yes. I’m a dead man and you’re a corpse. But let’s be devilishly cool and Imperial about it, don’t y’know?”

“If you resent the use of the neuronic whip—”

“Not at all,” ironically. “I’m used to it. I hardly feel it any more.”

“Then I am putting it to you as logically as I can. This has been a nasty mess. It would be difficult to report sensibly, yet as difficult to suppress without reason. Now the other accusers involved are Earthmen; your voice is the only one which would carry weight. Suppose you sign a statement to the effect that the accusation was made at a time when you were not in your—Well, we’ll think of some phrase that will cover it without bringing in the notion of mental control.”

“That would be simple. Say I was crazy, drunk, hypnotized, or drugged. Anything goes.”

“Will you be reasonable? Now look, I tell you that you
have
been tampered with.” He was whispering tensely. “You’re a man of Sirius. Why have you fallen in love with an Earthgirl?”

“What?”

“Don’t shout. I say—in your normal state, could you ever have gone native? Could you have considered that sort of thing?” He nodded his head just perceptibly in the direction of Pola.

For an instant Arvardan stared at him in surprise. Then, quickly, his hand shot out and seized the highest Imperial authority on Earth by the throat. Ennius’s hands wrenched wildly and futilely at the other’s grip.

Arvardan said, “That sort of thing, eh? Do you mean Miss Shekt? If you do, I want to hear the proper respect, eh? Ah, go away. You’re dead anyway.”

Ennius said gaspingly, “Dr. Arvardan, you will consider yourself under ar—”

The door opened again, and the colonel was upon them.

“Your Excellency, the Earth rabble has returned.”

“What? Hasn’t this Balkis spoken to his officials? He was going to arrange for a week’s stay.”

“He has spoken and he’s still here. But so is the mob. We are ready to fire upon them, and it is my advice as military commander that we proceed to do that. Have you any suggestions, Your Excellency?”

“Hold your fire until I see Balkis. Have him sent in here.” He turned. “Dr. Arvardan, I will deal with you later.”

Balkis was brought in, smiling. He
bowed formally to Ennius, who yielded him the barest nod in return.

“See here,” said the Procurator brusquely, “I am informed your men are packing the approaches to Fort Dibburn. This was not part of our agreement. . . . Now, we do not wish to cause bloodshed, but our patience is not inexhaustible. Can you disperse them peaceably?”

“If I choose, Your Excellency.”

“If you choose? You had better choose. And at once.”

“Not at all, Your Excellency!” And now the Secretary smiled and flung out an arm. His voice was a wild taunt, too long withheld, now gladly released. “Fool! You waited too long and can die for that! Or live a slave, if you prefer—but remember that it will not be an easy life.”

The wildness and fervor of the statement produced no shattering effect upon Ennius. Even here, at what was undoubtedly the profoundest blow of Ennius’s career, the stolidity of the Imperial career diplomat did not desert him. It was only that the grayness and deep-eyed weariness about him deepened.

“Then I lost so much in my caution? The story of the virus—was true?” There was almost an abstract, indifferent wonder in his voice. “But Earth, yourself—you are all my hostages.”

“Not at all,” came the instant, victorious cry. “It is you and yours that are
my
hostages. The virus that now is spreading through the Universe has not left Earth immune. Enough already saturates the atmosphere of every garrison on the planet, including Everest itself. We of Earth are immune, but how do
you feel, Procurator? Weak? Is your throat dry? Your head feverish? It will not be long, you know. And it is only from us that you can obtain the antidote.”

For a long moment Ennius said nothing, his face thin and suddenly incredibly haughty.

Then he turned to Arvardan and in cool, cultured tones said, “Dr. Arvardan, I find I must beg your pardon for having doubted your word. Dr. Shekt, Miss Shekt—my apologies.”

Arvardan bared his teeth. “Thank you for your apologies. They will be of great help to everybody.”

“Your sarcasm is deserved,” said the Procurator. “If you will excuse me, I will return to Everest to die with my family. Any question of compromise with this—man is, of course, out of the question. My soldiers of the Imperial Procuracy of Earth will, I am sure, acquit themselves properly before their deaths, and not a few Earthmen will undoubtedly have time to light the way for us through the passages of death. . . . Good-by.”

“Hold on. Hold on. Don’t go.”
Slowly, slowly, Ennius looked up to the new voice.

Slowly, slowly, Joseph Schwartz, frowning a bit, swaying a bit with weariness, stepped across the threshold.

The Secretary tensed and sprang backward. With a sudden, wary suspicion, he faced the man from the past.

“No,” he gritted, “you can’t get the secret of the antidote out of me. Only certain men have it, and only certain others are trained to use it properly. All these are safely out of your reach for the time it takes the toxin to do its work.”

“They are out of reach now,” admitted Schwartz, “but not for the time it would take the toxin to do its work. You see, there is no toxin, and no virus to stamp out.”

The statement did not quite penetrate. Arvardan felt a sudden choking thought enter his mind.
Had
he been tampered with?
Had
all this been a gigantic hoax, one that had taken in the Secretary as well as himself? If so, why?

But Ennius spoke. “Quickly, man. Your meaning.”

“It’s not complicated,” said Schwartz. “When we were here last night I knew I could do nothing by simply sitting and listening. So I worked carefully on the Secretary’s mind for a long time. . . . I dared not be detected. And then, finally, he asked that I be ordered out of the room. This was what I wanted, of course, and the rest was easy.

“I stunned my guard and left for the airstrip. The fort was on a twenty-four-hour alert. The aircraft were fueled, armed, and ready for flight. The pilots were waiting. I picked one out—and we flew to Senloo.”

The Secretary might have wished to say something. His jaws writhed soundlessly.

It was Shekt who spoke. “But you could force no one to fly a plane, Schwartz. It was all you could do to make a man walk.”

“Yes, when it’s against his will. But from Dr. Arvardan’s mind I knew how Sirians hated Earthmen—so I looked for a pilot who was born in the Sirius Sector and found Lieutenant Claudy.”