Sanctuary in The Sky

Sanctuary in the Sky

by

John Brunner

ACE
BOOKS, INC.

23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.

THE ISLAND BETWEEN WORLDS

A cold war among the stars was growing hotter by the minute. As Pag and Cathrodyne struggled for domination, a hot war threatened which would rend and annihilate whole planetary systems. The two master races would have consumed one another long ago, but for one single factor:

Waystation.
It was a stupendous synthetic world, famed throughout this galaxy. For Waystation was controlled by a neutral people, and until the greater powers could seize this strategic wonder planet and ferret out its secrets, they were doomed to fretful inactivity.

But as a Cathrodyne vessel drew near to Waystation, the all-important balance of power stood in sudden peril. The ship in itself was routine. But on board was a stranger, a man of undiscovered race, who spoke too little, and, it appeared, knew too much. . . .

Vykor

A servant’s life could crackle with excitement—when he served a double master.

Toehr

A splendid figure of a woman, she filed her teeth dog- wise and locked her male pursuers in a cage.

Capodistro Ferenc

What was this notorious jingoist doing with a woman from the enemy camp?

Ligmer

As scientist and patriot, he was tom by conflicting loyalties.

Dardaino

His priestly calling did not curtail a life of sensual exploit.

Captain Raige

This cool little woman performed the hottest task in space.

Lang

Was this strange, soft-spoken man no more than an adventurer?

I

Flicking
a speck of dust off his immaculate purple uniform with one hand, adjusting the set of his braided cap with the other, Vykor hurried around the comer of the first-class passengers’ corridor and came within inches of knocking Capodistro Ferenc off his feet.

Belatedly, Vykor recognized him; belatedly, he stepped back and crossed his hands in front of his body, bending his head submissively. His mind seethed with indignation, but this was the proper way for a Majko to behave in face of a Cathrodyne—all the more so, since this Cathrodyne was an officer and used to instant obedience from subject races.

“Hah
!
” said Ferenc, making his dress cane whistle in the air. “And where exactly are you going, clumsy fool?”

“There is violet on the screens, noble sir,” said Vykor. “I have to tell the noble passengers that we are about to break through into real space again.”

“Ah! And you were not expecting this, I suppose?”

Vykor swallowed with an effort, and forced himself to keep his head lowered. He could see only Ferenc’s highly polished boots, the legs of his breeches, and the tip of the dress cane as it tapped at the boots.

“I am stupid, noble sir,” Vykor choked out. “But I was expecting it. I have been a steward on this run for thirty trips already.”

“Then you should by now have contrived to arrange your duties so that you can carry them out at a safe walking pace, not charge around comers as though to save life.” Ferenc put the cane under his arm and walked past abruptly, toward the observation saloon.

Vykor raised his head and stared after the tall Cathrodyne, whose greased hair fell in regular waves from the edge of his cap.

One day . . .

He calmed himself forcibly, and wiped his face with the back of his long white gloves. It was perhaps just as well that Ferenc had decided against detailed inquiries. Vykor was late, nearly three minutes late, and it would be embarrassing to have to give the reason for this lateness to any Cathrodyne.

He shrugged his jacket more comfortably around his shoulders, and went down the corridor between the cabins. Number one was empty, of course—that was Ferenc’s. He began with number two, on the opposite side.

“Steward, sir
!
There is violet on the screens. If you wish to witness break-through you should go to the observation saloon.”

Two: that was occupied by Ligmer, the archeologist, a young and argumentative man from Cathrodyne University. The Cathrodynes and their opposite numbers, the Pags, held strongly differing opinions about Waystation, agreeing generally on only one point: Whoever had been responsible for its building, its present occupiers were in power illegally.

Three: a girl’s voice answered hesitantly, thanking him. That was Mrs. Iquida, the Lubarrian woman, on her way to be reunited with her husband at Waystation. Usually, Vykor was obsequiously and obviously polite to Lubarrians on this route, especially when there were Cathrodynes around to see him doing it. But Mrs. Iquida hadn’t given him much chance—she had hidden away in the her cabin most of the time, and when she did appear in the dining saloon she kept her reddened, tear-swollen eyes downcast.

She had come out of the cabin almost before Vykor had moved on, and he gave her an appreciative glance. Evidently the nearness of Waystation had lifted her cloud of misery; her eyes sparkled and there was a graceful lilt in her walk. Vykor was strongly nationalistic in his taste for women as in everything else, but the Lubarrian blond legginess in this case struck a chord.

He rapped at number four, rebuking himself.

There was the expected sharp, shrill, animal yelping, cut short by an order in an accent Vykor had not yet been able to place. That was Lang quieting the small black fluffy pet
he took with him everywhere, even to meals, feeding it from his own plate.

Lang was the prize mystery this voyage. He was affable- even, one might say, approachable—for a first-class passenger aboard a Cathrodyne-owned liner. This made it sure that he was not himself Cathrodyne. He wasn’t from the Pag side of Waystation, either; there was no one out there except the Pags themselves, the Alchmids, and of course the Glaithes. There were only four suns in a hundred parsecs in that direction, and the fourth was a pulsating variable and periodically scorched its planets clean.

Therefore he came from in-galaxy of Cathrodyne. And a long way in, too—so far that all Vykor’s carefully placed hints had failed to locate his origin.

And this was positively awe-inspiring. Vykor’s heart had pounded when he realized what it implied, and he had been unable to keep from sharing his discovery with other members of the crew. Of course the news had spread quickly, and now even the officers were deferential to him.

In theory, it was possible by transshipping from line to line to cover most of the known galactic worlds in a few years’ traveling. But it had become accepted that no one ever traveled out of sight of his home sun. It wasn’t a law of nature or anything, just a proven fact—no one felt the inclination to go much further, once he saw his own sun dwindling to a point on the edge of visibility.

This made Lang almost unique. Vykor had established beyond reasonable doubt that he hailed from no system visible from Cathrodyne, Majkosi, Lubarria or Waystation. And to have made such a trip excused even his annoying, yappy little pet.

Five: the priest, Dardaino—a fat man, not very likable, but probably no better and no worse than others of his kind. He preached the state religion of Cathrodyne, which was no longer alive on its home world, but which had been forcibly planted on Lubarria some centuries back and had its devotees there. Vykor suspected that Mrs. Iquida might be a lapsed follower; he had seen the priest succeed in trapping her into conversation at least once, where everyone else had failed.

And six: the Pag officer returning from the embassy on

Cathrodyne, who had insisted on being given a cabin diametrically opposite Ferenc’s. That was it. Vykor spun on his heel and made for the observation saloon by way of the purser’s cabin, where he informed the purser that all the first-class passengers had been warned about break-through. The purser was an old hand; he had done more than a hundred trips, and the sight of violet on the screens provoked him now to nothing more than a sigh of annoyance at having his dice- game with the mates interrupted.

They were all in the saloon by the time he got there—even the Pag officer, who sat by herself in a comer far removed from the viewport, resplendent in a jewel-encrusted tunic and thigh boots. She tapped the golden basket hilt of her ceremonial sword with metallic fingernails.

The priest, Dardaino, had settled himself plumply into a soft armchair, and had tucked his yellow and white robe around him with as much care as though he were packing a valuable relic for shipment to a distant shrine. When he finished this complex task, he looked around at his companions and bestowed a toothy smile on Mrs. Iquida.

She was leaning forward and staring at the blue in the viewport, moving her lips as though willing break-through to be over so that Waystation would appear on the screens and in the port. She wore a plain Lubarrian wrapper of dark red, and sandals.

The only other person who seemed at all excited by the approach of break-through was the archeologist, Ligmer. He was keeping calm with an effort; his slim fingers drummed on the arm of his chair, and his eyes wandered restlessly.

Lang, by contrast, seemed perfectly in command of himself. He mechanically stroked the short fur of his pet as it rested in his lap, but otherwise was completely still and relaxed.

Ferenc’s eyes switched in amusement from Ligmer to Lang. “It’s plain enough which of you two has seen it all before,” he said, and grinned at Lang.

Lang’s luminous gray eyes widened just a little, and he shrugged his loose shirt back from his right arm. “You are mistaken, Officer Ferenc,” he said softly. “I have not seen this Waystation, as it’s called.”

“A figure of speech, sir. We speak of those whom nothing can impress and say, ‘They’ve seen it all before.’ ”

Ligmer, becoming aware a little late that Ferenc’s remark had included him, flushed and gave the officer a glare. “It may be sophisticated to pretend that one is not impressed by Waystation. But close consideration of it, and even a little knowledge of its amazing mysteries, reveals that it is always more, not less, surprising and impressive.”

He crossed his legs, folded his arms, and fixed his gaze on the viewport, which was showing orange now.

“Noble dames and sirs,” said Vykor discree
tl
y, “breakthrough will be complete in a few seconds.”

Ferenc had not previously been aware that Vykor was in the saloon; he recognized the steward’s voice, and turned his head with a lift of one eyebrow to see where it came from. Before he had completed the gesture, Waystation was visible.

Whether Ligmer had meant what he said or had merely been justifying himself, the fact remained—he was right. Vykor had seen this same sight more than thirty times. It still brought a shiver along his spine, and a dryness to his mouth.

Waystation! Who had built it? Ligmer and others of his trade struggled to answer that question, and signally failed. How long ago? Same again. What for? Same again. But quite likely for exactly the same purpose as that which it served today.

Miles in diameter! A vast artificial planetoid, surrounded by freighters and liners and even light cruise-craft—a jewel glowing in the void from a thousand facets, like a well-cut diamond. A prize which many desired, and some had taken.

The ship had come up the arm of stars in which the Cathrodyne Federation held sway. Cathrodyne, Majkosi and Lubarria were its three worlds. Beyond Waystation lay the stars of the Pag Alliance—Pagr and Alchmida. Between the two power groups lay Waystation, and the people of Glai.

The Glaithes had never claimed to have built Waystation. But they had found it first, and they had made very good use of it. Both sides—the Pags and the Cathrodynes—wanted Glai, with its rich textiles, high-yield rare earth deposits and advanced factories. But both sides wanted Waystation more— and the Glaithes
had
Waystation.

Impasse.
Therefore the two great power groups had to bow humiliatingly before the dictates of the Glaithes; therefore the subject races on each side looked to the Glaithes as miracle-workers.
And for all these reasons, Waystation was the focus of more potential trouble and violence than any single place in the whole troubled
a
rm.

Everyone knew that. Now, it was merely a question of time.

II

There was
a long silence in
the
observation saloon. It
was
finally broken by Mrs. Iquida, who sighed, so deeply and so loudly that the sound seemed to echo in the padded room. Ferenc glanced sidelong at her and snorted. It was obvious to Vykor what he was thinking—that it was wrong to go to so much trouble for a mere Lubarrian, a member of a subject race.

But the Glaithes had requested it, and because the Glaithes were the masters of Waystation, it had been done.

Iquida, this woman’s husband, had been among the crew of a Cathrodyne warship that had tangled with a Pag bat
tl
e- cruiser somewhere out along the galactic arm. He had been fished out of space in a survival suit, by a Glaithe freighter, and was now the subject of a long and complicated wrangle between the Pags—who claimed him as a prisoner of war— and the Cathrodynes—who didn’t really care what happened to one Lubarrian more or less, but who weren’t going to let the Pags get away with any sharp practice. Officially, of course, the Lubarrians—like Vykor’s own people, the Majkos —were under Cathrodyne “protection.”

The vast spheroid bulk of Waystation loomed closer and closer in the port. Vykor dragged his eyes away from Mrs. Iquida and glanced at the other passengers.

“You’re right, Ligmer,” Lang said in low, polite tones. “I can well imagine such a remarkable creation growing even more impressive. You are—uh—directly interested in it?”

“It’s my speciality,” said Ligmer shortly. “Archeologically, it’s the most fascinating single thing within hundreds of parsecs.”

“Archeology!” The exclamation, in sarcastic tones, came unexpectedly from the tall Pag woman officer in the far comer of the saloon. “A very fine, respectable name for a double- dealing profession!”

Ligmer craned his neck around in astonishment; when he realized who had spoken, he shrugged and spread his hands, as though to say, “What can one expect from one of them?” But Ferenc drew himself up rather stiffly.

“May I remind you, madam,” he said, “this gentleman is of my people. And it is a slur upon Cathrodyne to speak so impolitely of one of our
scientists.”

“Scientists!” The Pag officer’s voice was rich with scorn. “Paid propagandists, who spend their lives trying to erect a structure of lies to prove that Waystation was built by your Cathrodyne weaklings.”

Ferenc’s face went dark, as though a storm cloud had passed across it. His hand fell to the long ceremonial knife he had in his belt.

Vykor was wondering whether he had better dive for an alarm handle and haul on it to get a Cathrodyne ship’s officer into the saloon, when Lang fortunately saved the situation by asking, in such an unassuming voice that no one could take any offense, “Is it not even known who built Waystation, then?”

The tension began to recede a little; both Ferenc and the Pag officer were plainly thinking, “Well, if the poor boob doesn’t even know that—!”

“We’re much more in a position to say who didn’t build it than who did,” Ligmer hastened to explain. A few drops of perspiration showed on his forehead; though he was himself argumentative by nature, he had a cool head and had never let himself be insulted during the acrimonious discussions he had had enroute from Cathrodyne with the priest and with Ferenc.

“What is its history, then?” Lang pressed.

Ligmer shrugged. “Well, it was here before any of the people of the Arm achieved space travel, that’s for certain. And it’s so enormous, and so complex, that no one believes it was merely a waystation, although we call it that. It must have been either a gigantic interstellar ship, capable of carrying the population of whole planets, or a kind of permanent trading base for another race which inhabited the worlds of the Arm before mankind evolved.”

Lang nodded. “It’s impossible to date, then?” he suggested. “Virtually impossible. The entire vessel is self-renewing, drawing on the radiation from the local suns and converting energy direcdy into every material element that is required. It had certainly been here for more than a thousand years before the Glaithes actually came out of their system and visited it, because it had been observed telescopically—both from Glai and from Majko—over that long a period of time.” The Pag officer got to her feet with a slight clanking sound that indicated she had loosened her sword in its scabbard and forgotten to thrust it tight home again. She was a magnificent figure of a woman—with red-brown skin under which muscles rippled like waves in oily water, her lean legs lifting her powerful body and neck so high that her shaven head almost brushed the ceiling.

“You’re a stranger,” she said to Lang in what passed for a kindly tone among Pags. “Better warn you—never pay heed to what a Cathrodyne tells you. Chances are better than even that it’s a lie.”

“Were we not approaching the neutral zone, madam,” said Ferenc thickly between his teeth, “I’d take pleasure in pushing that remark up your other end.”

The Pag grinned, showing that her front teeth had been filed to sharp points. “If you were capable of that, Cathrodyne, I’d submit to you with pleasure, but neither you nor any other of your weakling race could manage it. To continue, stranger,” she pursued, bending her savage-looking smile on Lang again, “there certainly wasn’t another race. There was the ancestral strain of Pagr, more than ten thousand years ago, and they could have built Waystation. The Majkos couldn’t”—she glanced around and jerked her chin toward Vykor where he stood discreetly near the wall—“as you can

see if you look at that specimen over there. They’re fit to be servants and laborers, like the Lubarrians and the Alchmids
a
nd, come to that, the Glaithes. One thing I can appreciate about the Glaithes: They’re honest enough to admit that they couldn’t have built Waystation.”

Vykor was aware of an itching desire in his right foot. He wanted to bring his boot up—very hard—against the Pag’s shapely posterior as she leaned on the back of Lang’s chair and expounded her race’s official propaganda. As she was standing, her thigh-boots and tunic afforded her no protection in that area.

But Pags could insult him till doomsday, and it would be no skin off his nose. They had the Alchmids to lord it over. It was the Cathrodynes that Vykor and all Majkos hated; Pags were incidental.

"All right,” the Pag went on. “Rule out all these; rule ’em out on self-evident facts. Who does that leave? The ancestral Pag strain!” She straightened triumphantly. “Clear?”

By some remarkable trick that Vykor could not follow, Lang managed to give Ferenc a deprecating smile—to show that he had not swallowed the Pag’s nonsense—without letting the Pag see it. There was a pause. Then Lang asked Ligmer again, “And archeologically, does that ring true?” “Hah!” said the Pag. “Catch a Cathrodyne archeologist admitting to the truth even when his nose is rubbed in it!” Ligmer glanced at her. “One of these days, madam, I hope someone will succeed in explaining the scientific method to you. I abide by it. Therefore I will say that it is a possibility-”

Ferenc almost exploded, and Ligmer gave him a pleading glance.

“A
possibility,”
he emphasized. “It’s true—so I’m told, because the authorities on Pagr won’t allow Cathrodyne students to inspect the relics—”

“And quite right, too. They’d take it as an excuse for wholesale spying operations,” the Pag officer declared.

“Please!” cried Ligmer. “I’m trying to explain this to our distinguished traveling companion.”

Lang blinked and waved a hand. “Distinguished?” he murmured. “Really?”

"Oh yes!” said Ferenc. “You’re from out of eye-range, aren’t you? The chief mate said you were.”

“Eye-range?"

“Yes; you’re out of sight of your home sun, isn’t that so?” Lang laughed. “Well, as a matter of fact I am, and have been for some time. But I don’t see that that’s any special mark of distinction. Is it?”

“It only makes you unique among this ship’s passengers; in eighteen hundred trips they’ve never had anyone on board who was out of eye-range.”

“You don’t say,” murmured Lang, and stroked the back of the little black-furred animal that dozed in his lap. “Well, well—but you were kindly explaining about. . .?”

“Oh, yes.” Ligmer gathered his thoughts with a frown. “I was saying that there are relics on Pagr which indicate a space-flying culture there some ten thousand years ago, but it isn’t clear why such a culture—if it was capable of building Waystation, as the Pags claim—should have decayed again to a pre-spaceflight level. It must have done so, for by the time Pag ships came out again to Waystation, the Glaithes had been in occupation for twenty-odd years, and had succeeded in reactivating practically all of it.”

“What happened to bring us down from our former glory is well attested by our legends and traditions,” said the Pag. “Decadent
men
were our leaders then, and their grip was too weak to hold what they grasped. It was not until women established a firm rule that it proved possible to contain the vaulting Pag spirit.”

“And the Cathrodynes?” Lang asked gently. “Do they not have legends?”

“Everyone along the Arm has legends about star-traveling gods,” shrugged Ligmer. “This is why reputable archeologists disregard all claims to a final solution of the enigma.”

“Noble dames and sirs!” said Vykor, clearing his throat loudly. “Please return to your cabins during the period when we match Velocities with Waystation. Disembarkation may commence as soon after matching as you desire.”

Mrs. Iquida leapt to her feet and hurried back to her cabin. The priest, Dardaino, who had been sitting aside from the discussion with a disdainful expression (the origin of
Waystation, of course, was explained beyond question in the mythology of his cult), followed her, more slowly because of h
i
s greater bulk.

The Pag had remained frozen for a long time after what Ligmer had implied about her race’s archeologists. Now she began to raise a bony fist, glaring down into Ligmer’s face, her own lips drawn back snarlingly.

Ferenc got to his feet and darted to her side. Tall as he was, he was ^overtopped by inches when he stood there. "Be careful,” he said warningly. “You will have me to answer to.” White-faced, Ligmer was shaping his mouth to speak, when Lang’s velvet voice once more stroked their ears.

“Please!” he said. “Accept my apologies, and excuse me— I am after all an ignorant stranger, unaware of your local susceptibilities. It was unforgivable of me, of course, but if I might nonetheless beg your pardons . . .?”

Puzzled, the Pag and Ferenc both turned their stares on him. He smiled, and rose to his feet with a little bow, cradling his black-furred pet in the crook of one arm. Automatically, the others moved forward toward the door with him, and he bowed and gestured for them to precede him. They did so quietly.

Lang hesitated a moment when they had gone into the corridor, his eyes hinting at mystification. Before he himself followed them, he turned and beckoned to Vykor.

“Steward! Are they permitted to settle this argument by force when they get aboard Waystation?”

"No, distinguished sir,” said Vykor. “The peace of Waystation has to be preserved by every possible means. Oh, I’m not saying that they might not reserve a wrestling-room for a couple of hours. But they wouldn’t be allowed to duel with weapons. If the Glaithes permitted that, the life-expectancy of either Pags or Cathrodynes aboard Waystation would be only a day or two. They hate ea
c
h other’s guts; they insult each other as readily as breathe, and if they were kept in constant friction and allowed to slaughter each other, the result would be chaos.”

“So the Glaithes keep order between them, do they? I’d have thought it was a tough job.”

“Yes, distinguished sir. It is.” Vykor had a powerful respect for Glaithes; so did all the three subject races out along the Arm. “Frankly,” he added after a pause, “I’d give them, if anyone, credit for building Waystation. Since they manage to keep it a neutral world, I wouldn’t put the rest of the job past them either.”