Tactics of Mistake (7 page)

“People usually get what they deserve,” said deCastries. “Even Melissas. But I didn't think scholars concerned themselves with individuals?”

“With everything,” said Cletus.

“I see,” said deCastries. “Certainly with sleight-of-hand. You know, I found a sugar cube under that middle cup after all? I mentioned it to Melissa and she said you'd told her you'd had cubes under all three cups.”

“I'm afraid so,” Cletus said.

They looked at each other.

“It's a good trick,” said deCastries. “But not one that'd work a second time.”

“No,” said Cletus. “It always has to be different, a second time.”

DeCastries smiled, an animal smile.

“You don't sound much like a man in an ivory tower, Colonel,” he said. “I can't help thinking you like theory less, and action more, than you admit. Tell me”—his eyes hooded themselves amusedly under his straight brows—“if it comes down to a simple choice, aren't you tempted to practice rather than preach?”

“No doubt about it,” said Cletus. “But one drawback to being a scholar is you're likely to be an idealist, too. And in the long run, when these new worlds are free to work out their own destinies without Earth's influence, one man's theories could have a longer and more useful effect than one man's practice.”

“You mentioned that, back aboard ship,” deCastries said. “You talked about Alliance and Coalition influence being removed from worlds like Kultis. Do you still feel as safe talking like that here, with your Alliance superiors all around the place?”

“Safe enough,” said Cletus. “None of them would believe it—any more than you do.”

“Yes. I'm afraid I don't.” DeCastries picked up a wineglass from the small table beside which he was standing and held it briefly up to the light, twisting it slowly between thumb and forefinger. He lowered the glass and looked back at Cletus. “But I'd be interested in hearing how you think it's going to happen.”

“I'm planning to help the change along a little,” said Cletus.

“Are you?” said deCastries. “But you don't seem to have anything to speak of in the way of funds, armies or political influence to help with. Now, for example, I've got those things, myself, which puts me in a much stronger position. If I thought a major change could be accomplished—to my benefit, of course—I'd be interested in altering the shape of things to come.”

“Well,” said Cletus, “we can both try.”

“Fair enough.” DeCastries held the wineglass, looking over it at Cletus. “But you haven't told me how you'd do it. I told you what my tools are—money, armed troops, political power. What have you got? Only theories?”

“Theories are enough, sometimes,” said Cletus. DeCastries slowly shook his head. He put the wineglass back down on the small table and lightly dusted against one another fingertips of the hand that had held the glass, as if to get rid of some stickiness.

“Colonel,” he said, quietly, “you're either some new kind of agent the Alliance is trying to fasten on me—in which case I'll find out about you as soon as I can get word back from Earth—or you're a sort of interesting madman. In which case, events will take care of you in not much more time than it takes to establish the fact you're an agent.” He watched Cletus for a second. Cletus met his eye expressionlessly.

“I'm sorry to say,” deCastries went on, “you're beginning to sound more and more like a madman. It's too bad. If you'd been an agent, I was going to offer you a better job than the one you have with the Alliance. But I don't want to hire a madman—he'd be too unpredictable. I'm sorry.”

“But,” said Cletus, “if I turned out to be a successful madman…?”

“Then, of course, it'd be different. But that's too much to hope for. So all I can say is, I'm sorry. I'd hoped you wouldn't disappoint me.”

“I seem to have a habit of disappointing people,” said Cletus.

“As when you first decided to paint instead of going on to the Academy and then gave up painting for a military life, after all?” murmured deCastries. “I've been a little disappointing to people in my life that way. I've got a large number of uncles and cousins about the Coalition world—all very successful managers, business chiefs, just as my father was. But I picked politics—” He broke off, as Melissa rejoined them.

“It wasn't anything… Oh, Cletus,” she said, “Mondar said if you wanted to find him he'd be in his study. It's a separate building, out behind the house.”

“Which way do I go?” asked Cletus.

She pointed through an arched entrance in a farther wall of the room. “Just go straight through there and turn left,” she said. “The corridor you'll be in leads to a door that opens on the garden. His study building's just beyond it.”

“Thank you,” said Cletus.

He found the corridor, as Melissa had said, and followed it out into the garden, a small, terraced area with paths running to a line of trees, the tops of which tossed sharply in a hot, wet wind against a sky full of moonlight and torn cloud ends. There was no sign of any building.

At that moment, however, just as Cletus hesitated, he caught sight of light glimmering through the trees ahead of him. He went out across the garden and through the trees. Past their narrow belt he came into the open before a low-roofed, garage-like structure so comfortably fitted in among the vegetation surrounding it that it gave the impression of being comfortably half-sunk in the earth. Low, heavily curtained windows let out the small amount of light he had seen just now. There was a door before him; and as he approached, it slid noiselessly open. He stepped inside and it closed behind him. He stopped, instinctively.

He had walked into a softly but clearly lit room, more library than study in appearance, although it had something of both about it. Its air tasted strangely thin and dry and clean like air on some high mountain peak. Bookshelves inset in all four of the walls held a surprisingly large collection of old-fashioned, printed volumes. A study console and a library retrieval system each occupied a corner of the room. But Mondar, the only other person in the room besides Cletus, was seated apart from these devices on a sort of wide-surfaced and armless chair, his legs up and crossed before him, so that he sat like a buddha in the lotus position.

There was nothing except this to mark the moment and place as anything out of the ordinary—but as Cletus stepped through the door, a deep, instinctive warning shouted loudly at him, checking him just inside the threshold. He sensed an impalpable living tension that held the very air of the room—a feeling as of a massive, invisible force in delicate, temporary balance. For a second his mind recoiled.

Then it cleared. For one fleeting but timeless moment he saw that which was in the room—and that which was not.

What his eyes registered were like two versions of the same scene, superimposed on each other, but at the same time distinct and separate. One was the ordinary room, with Mondar seated on his chair, and all things ordinary.

The other was the same room, but filled with a difference. Here, Mondar did not sit on his chair but floated, in lotus position, a few inches above its seat cushion. Stretching out before and behind him was a succession of duplicating images, semitransparent, but each clearly identifiable—and while those closest to him, before and behind him, were duplicates of himself, those farther from him wore different faces—faces still Exotic, but of different men, different Outbonds. Before and behind him, these stretched away until they were lost to sight.

Cletus, too, he became aware, had his images in line with him. He could see those before and he was somehow conscious of those behind him. Before him was a Cletus with two good knees, but beyond this and two more Cletuses were different men, bigger men. But a common thread ran through them, tying the pulses of their lives to his, and continuing back through him to a man with no left arm, on and on, through the lives of all those others behind him until it ended, at last, with a powerful old man in half-armor sitting on a white horse with a baton in hand.

Nor was this all. The room was full of forces and currents of living pressures coming from vast distances to this focal point, like threads of golden light they wove back and forth, tying each other together, connecting some of Cletus's images with Mondar's, and even Cletus, himself, with Mondar, himself. They two, their forerunners and their followers, hung webbed in a tapestry of this interconnecting pattern of light during that single moment in which Cletus's vision registered the double scene.

Then, abruptly, Mondar turned his gaze on Cletus, and both tapestry and images were gone. Only the normal room remained.

But Mondar's eyes glowed at Cletus like twin sapphires illuminated from within by a light identical in color and texture to the threads that had seemed to fill the air of the room between both men.

“Yes,” said Mondar. “I knew… almost from the moment I first saw you in the spaceship dining lounge. I knew you had potential. If it'd only been part of our philosophy to proselytize or recruit in the ordinary way, I'd have tried to recruit you from that minute on. Did you talk to Dow?”

Cletus considered the unlined face, the blue eyes, of the other, and slowly nodded.

“With your help,” he said. “Was it actually necessary to get Melissa away, too? DeCastries and I could have talked over her head.”

“I wanted him to have every advantage,” Mondar said, his eyes glowing. “I wanted no doubt left in your mind that he'd been able to bid as high for you as he wanted to go… He did offer you a job with him, didn't he?”

“He told me,” said Cletus, “that he couldn't—to an interesting madman. From which I gathered he was extremely eager to hire one.”

“Of course he is,” said Mondar. “But he wants you only for what you can do for him. He's not interested in what you could make of yourself… Cletus, do you know how we Exotics came about?”

“Yes,” said Cletus. “I looked you up before I put in my request for transfer to here. The Association for the Investigation and Development of Exotic Sciences—my sources say you developed out of a black-magic cult of the early twenty-first century called the Chantry Guild.”

“That's right,” Mondar said. “The Chantry Guild was the brainchild of a man named Walter Blunt. He was a brilliant man, Cletus, but like most of the people of his tune, he was reacting against the fact that his environment had suddenly been enlarged from the surface of one world to the surfaces of any number of worlds spread out through light-years of interstellar space. You probably know the history of that period as well as I do—how that first, instinctive, racial fear of space beyond the solar system built up and erupted in a series of bloody social eruptions. It spawned any number of societies and cults for people attempting to adjust psychologically to feelings of vulnerability and insignificance, deep down on the unconscious level. Blunt was a fighter, an anarchist. His answer was revolution—”

“Revolution?” asked Cletus.

“Yes. Literally—revolution,” Mondar answered. “Blunt wanted to destroy part of actual, objective physical reality as well—by using primitive psychic leverage. He called what he wanted to do ‘creative destruction.' He called on people to ‘
Destruct!
‘ But he couldn't quite push even the intense neurotics of his time all the way over the emotional brink. And then he was deposed as head of the Guild by a young mining engineer who'd lost an arm in a mine accident—”

“Lost an arm?” said Cletus sharply. “Which arm?”

“The left—yes, I think it was the left that was gone,” said Mondar.

“Why?”

“Nothing,” said Cletus. “Go on.”

“His name was Paul Formain—”

“Fort-Mayne?” Cletus interrupted a second time.

“No
t
,” answered Mondar, “F-o-r-m-a-i-n.” He spelled it out, looking curiously at Cletus. “Something about this interests you particularly, Cletus?”

“Only the coincidences,” said Cletus. “You said he had only one arm, so the right arm he had left would have been overmuscled from compensation development. And his name sounds almost like
jort-mayne,
which are the words used by the Norman French to describe their policy to the conquered English after they took over England in the eleventh century.
Fort-mayne
—literally, ‘strong-hand.' It described a policy of using whatever force was necessary to keep the native English under control. And you say he took over the Chantry Guild, deposing this Blunt?”

“Yes.” Mondar frowned. “I see the coincidences, Cletus, but I don't see why they're important.”

“Maybe they aren't,” said Cletus. “Go on. Formain took over the Chantry Guild and started your Exotic Association?”

“He almost had to wreck the Chantry Guild to do it,” said Mondar. “But he did. He changed its aim from revolution to evolution. The evolution of man, Cletus.”

“Evolution.” Cletus repeated the word thoughtfully. “So, you don't think the human race is through evolving? What comes next, then?”

“We don't know, of course,” said Mondar, folding his hands in his lap. “Can an ape imagine a man? But we're convinced the seeds of further evolution are alive in man, still—even if they aren't already germinating. We Exotics are dedicated to searching for those seeds, and protecting them once we've found them, so that they can flourish and grow until evolved man is part of our community.”

“Sorry.” Cletus shook his head. “I'd make a poor Exotic, Mondar. I've got my own job to do.”

“But this is part of your job—and your job is part of it!” Mondar leaned forward, and his hands slid apart. “There's no compulsion on our members. Each one searches and works for the future the way he thinks best. All we ask is that when the skills of anyone are needed by the community, he makes them available to it. In return the community offers him its skills to improve
him
, physically and mentally, so he can be that much more effective in his own work. You know what you can do now, Cletus. Think what you might be able to do if you could make use of all we can teach you!”