The Fenris Device (5 page)

“The
Saberwing
blew all right,” I said. “There was this small matter of a bomb, see. And there's this small matter of a bomber. He's planted another egg in my control panel, and he's holding a gun on me right now. He has a little gimmick in his pocket which I suspect is the trigger for the bomb, but he hasn't felt disposed to threaten us yet.”

“This is Pallant port,” said a new voice. “Is the man's name Maslax?”

“Congratulations, Sherlock,” I said. “The very fellow.”

“Well, be careful,” returned the man on the ground. “He's already killed two people. He's dangerous.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said. “I won't say you didn't warn me.”

“Turn it off now,” said Maslax.

“I think the policeman wants to talk to you,” I said.

“Turn it off,” said Maslax.

I turned it off.

“Now,” said the little man. “Are you going to fly this ship to Mormyr?”

“In a word,” I said, “no.”

His face darkened, and the end of the gun barrel twitched. “You'd better be careful;” he said. “If you take that attitude, people are going to get hurt.”

“I've got this terrible suspicion,” I said, deadly serious, although I maintained the tone of casual sarcasm which I've always found best for dealing with awkward situations, “that people could well get hurt anyway.”

“Not you,” he said. “Not any of the people on board. Not even the alien. All I want from you is a free ride.”

“To Mormyr.”

“To Mormyr,” he confirmed.

“That's no free ride,” I said. “It's not even cheap. But it does remind me. We were talking about Mormyr and the
Varsovien
when we were so rudely interrupted. Now you've invented this thing you call a Fenris device….”

“I didn't invent it!”

“Ecdyon,” I said, “am I right in thinking that the Gallacellans do not use weapons?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Am I right in saying that there is not a single Gallacellan ship in the entire galaxy which is armed in any way whatsoever?”

“Yes,” he said.

“There is no such thing as a Fenris device?”

“I know of no such thing.”

My eyes were fixed on Maslax. The dwarf's eyes kept flicking back and forth from Ecdyon to me and back again.

“It's a lie,” he said. “I know that ship is armed. That ship is armed with the most powerful weapon....”

“Oh, God,” I said. “Space opera. A misspent youth.”

The gun barrel twitched again. I resolved to be more diplomatic in what I said. I allowed a quick margin for thought. Did it matter what I said? Could he really read my mind? There was no proof...if he had intended to hijack the
Hooded Swan
before stealing the
Saberwing
, then of course he knew my name and the captain's name. I thought of trying to jump him, but decided it was no good. I couldn't afford to lose, and even if he wasn't a mind reader he might still kill me. Then I'd never know.

He can't read minds, said the wind. He's crazy.

I thought you'd died in there, I said.

I've been thinking, he said.

Go do some more. I'm busy.

Maslax took the gimmick in his pocket between his fingers, but he didn't draw it out.

“You were right,” he said. “This is the trigger....”

I think you ought to know..., began the wind.

“And if you don't do as you're told...,” Maslax was saying.

...that your knowledge of Gallacellans is....

“...I'll blow this ship to wherever the
Saberwing
went.”

...limited. They did have weapons.

I was confused. First things first.

“OK,” I said, “I'll head for Mormyr. While I'm headed there, I'll think it over. Just don't panic.”

I put the hood back on, and I began to move the ship into an arc that would take us somewhere near Mormyr. I accelerated a bit, but I didn't want to transfer. So far as I was concerned, it could take weeks to get there. I was in no hurry.

What was that you said? I asked the wind.

Gallacellans used to fight. They gave up, but it was a deliberate policy. They certainly had armed ships at one time.

How the hell do you know? I asked.

How do you think? he replied. I was one once.

A not inconsiderable amount of water had flowed under the proverbial bridge since the wind had first invaded (infected?) my mind. At first, I had been implacably hostile to the idea of housing a second mind in a skull which I seemed to be filling adequately all by myself. Eventually I had become reconciled to the idea, had endeavored to set up an amicable working relationship, and had even gone so far as to make free use of the wind's talents when my own seemed inadequate to the situation in hand. By this time I trusted the wind, and I even liked the wind. He was discreet, and occupied himself peacefully for most of the time, and rarely intruded himself when he wasn't wanted. We had both approached the problem of two minds sharing one brain like mature individuals, and we had it under control.

But all this should not conceal the fact that I was still—to some extent—scared of the wind. I knew by now that he wasn't going to take over my body and consign my persona to outer darkness, but I was still anxious that my own individuality should not be threatened by a mingling of our minds. For this reason, I allowed the wind to make use of my motor nerves and my bodily capabilities to the full extent of his talents, but I had never allowed him to interfere with the workings of my mind. One has to have a certain amount of privacy.

I knew that the wind had access to all my memories and all my knowledge, so far as he cared to make use of it, and he had volunteered to give me access to all his. I had refused. I had refused even to evince any curiosity about the nature of his being, his past history, or his future plans. Perhaps this attitude was slightly unreasonable—the wind, at least, felt that the fear from which the attitude derived was unreasonable—but one has to consider that the wind was a creature whose whole existence was dependent on the sharing of another creature's mind. While between hosts he was completely dormant. He was therefore perfectly adapted to the degree of commingling which he wanted. I was not so adapted. My mind was designed for individual existence. Thus, the blending which—from his point of view—was the true essence of mentality, might well—from my point of view—be the destruction of my identity. It is all a matter of perspective. These are not matters in which one is inclined to take a cavalier attitude and needless risks. I valued my ignorance of the wind, because that ignorance was my guarantee of identity. Perhaps I was missing a great opportunity.

Well, perhaps.

There are certain situations, however, in which ignorance is an expensive luxury. I knew perfectly well that the wind had held up this little snippet of information about his having been a Gallacellan in times past for strategic reasons—he wanted me to appreciate to the full what a fool I was to hold myself aloof from his mental resources. I also knew that he would volunteer nothing more. I would have to ask him what he knew, and I would have to say “please” if I wanted to use any of it. I didn't hold it against him that he should play the game in this manner—simply because he was resident in my brain didn't mean that he had to put my interests before his own.

So you were a Gallacellan, I said.

That's right.

When?

I don't know. Their system of measuring time isn't easily translated into your terms. I had no way of measuring time myself while I was trapped on the world on the edge of the Drift. But I'd estimate that the last time I looked through a Gallacellan set of eyes was about...say, twelve hundred years. Give or take....

Never mind. I get the idea. You were a long time stranded.

Longer than you.

Just a bit. The Gallacellan crashed there too, hey?

He was passing by, just like you. The distortion pitched him down, just like you. It was a long wait, but I didn't really notice it. One doesn't, you know, when one is in one's gaseous phase.

No, I said, I don't suppose one does.

I was giving fast consideration to the matter of how far I should take the inquisition. My curiosity about the wind's past history had been awakened to the full by his dropping that one hint into this one situation—as he had known it would be. How much did I need to know? How much did I want to know?

OK, I said, I'm hooked. How long were you a Gallacellan7

Not long.

Only one host?

Yes. The Gallacellan picked me up on my homeworld. The home-world of my species, that is. They picked quite a number of us up, I believe. But not enough of us to make a galactic civilization. That will have to wait. Given a million years, though....

You live that long?

I won't. I'll die out here alone, unless I can get back to my home-world to breed, in which case I'll die there. Not alone.

The significance of the last words did not escape me. The significance of the whole story, in fact, was not escaping me. If enough of these things (I counted the wind a person rather than a thing, but he was in a unique position of privilege—the rest still ranked “thing”) ever got out of their home-world on any sort of scale, not a mind in the galaxy would remain inviolate. The implications were far too vast for me to take time out to consider right then. There were smaller, simpler things which I needed to understand.

So what do you know about Gallacellans? I asked.

All of it?

Not all of it. Just sort out a few choice tidbits that you think I might be interested to know. Things which might help me understand all this garbage about Fenris devices and scuttled starship.

Well, he said, I don't know that I can help much. I just don't know. If you'd let me give you free access, well, it might save a lot of tedious dialogue, but for once I agree with you. In this particular mess, you can't spare the time—how long do you think it will be, by the way, before this fool with the armory realizes we're not getting anywhere? Anyhow. Gallacellans. When I was one, they used weapons. Not only that, but they were inordinately fond of weapons. As you know—or perhaps only suspect—the Gallacellans and their ancestors had a rough time during the evolutionary process. They lived on a hard world. Selective pressure was high, and for once it was highest with the underdogs. They evolved their intelligence faster and better than the predators and the ubiquitous scavengers. They began civilized life as a fugitive, defensive-minded, very order-minded species. It didn't take long for them to crack all their problems and invent big guns for dealing with any and all natural enemies. They slaughtered the lot and were inordinately pleased with themselves. This is history, you understand, and ancient history so far as my host was concerned. I'm adding a little perspective for you so you can understand better.

Yes, I know. Go on.

Well, as I said, the Gallacellans, when they first started carving out a galactic culture, were great fans of weaponry. Defensive weaponry, of course. But you know the old, old story. Defensive weaponry tends to be even more effective when used offensively, You can't imagine the interstellar chaos that resulted from the Gallacellan space wars. I wasn't in them. This is still history. Maybe I can't imagine. But my host could.

At the time I was a Gallacellan, they were making a lot of fast headway toward picking up the pieces. There was nobody around to watch them—they had their area of the galaxy to themselves, except for a couple of promising races who got steamrollered in the wars. The Khor-monsa and the humans were yet to arrive on the interstellar scene so far as the Gallacellans were concerned.

Something has happened between then and now, I said, reflecting on the utterly non-warlike Gallacellan civilization.

Yes, it has, and I'm pretty sure I can tell you what. Unlike humans, the Gallacellans have an inordinately ordered culture. They have a strong sense of community. The sense of disaster which prevailed after the wars was far more acute than anything a human is capable of feeling—so it seems to me. The Gallacellans decided to give it up. Now, I know that to a human the idea of giving up war and weaponry seems utterly ludicrous. But the Gallacellans were never quite as underhanded or as predisposed to cheating as humans. I'm not saying that to knock humanity—not in the least. It's the way humans are and I accept that. I'm not sneering. I'm just pointing out that because humans evolved from a scavenger species they have certain characteristics which the Gallacellans—who evolved from a herbivore species—have not. The Gallacellans had the sense of community and the social order to do what the humans cannot. They gave it all up. They became, once again, a peaceful species. I think they retain a strong sense of shame—and this I can only analogize to the way the Khor-monsa felt about Myastrid. As you know, the Gallacellans are proud. I think the Gallacellans still remember their history—although I'd be willing to bet they specifically exclude the go-between caste from that knowledge—but they want to keep it to themselves. If you like, from a human standpoint, the Gallacellans are a race with a guilt complex. But you know that the alien standpoint can never be reckoned from the human way of thinking.

I know, I said. I was beginning to understand. I was probably the only individual in the whole galaxy who was privileged to know about the skeletons in both the Khormon cupboard and the Gallacellan cupboard. Lucky me. Was there a skeleton in the human cupboard as well? Of course not. We don't hide our skeletons—we display them prominently to scare away the neighbors.

And the
Varsovien
? I asked.

Your guess is as good as mine, he said. You know what I know. You suspect what I suspect.

I did indeed. The Gallacellans had abandoned their weaponry. But they'd been just that little bit careful. They'd left some of it where—if anyone wanted it enough—they might just be able to get it back again. They couldn't build more—not with the whole race carrying around a sense of shame. Not yet, anyhow. Not for another thousand years, maybe, when the memories had worn a bit thinner. But suppose there was one tiny section—one caste, say—which was just shameless enough to guard the secret of where a few of the warships had been left. Places where no one would ever find them, but places from which a really determined—almost suicidal—man might be able to bring them back. Just suppose.

All that remained was just two good questions. One: How did Maslax know that the
Varsovien
was armed? And two: Why did the Gallacellans want their weapons back?

The second question was a very worrying one indeed.

I was worrying about it quite fiercely when I felt something cold at the back of my neck, in between the two sets of electrodes which connected my nervous system to the nerve net of the
Swan
. It was the barrel of Maslax's gun. He was leaning over my shoulder, looking at the instrument board. I flipped up one corner of the hood and looked at him.

“When are we going to get to Mormyr?” he grated. He had been netting impatient while I was otherwise occupied. I could see that he hadn't liked to interrupt me while I was busy, but I could also see that he was angry. I swiftly debated the possible answers I could give him, and decided that the truth would serve.

“At our present velocity, you mean?” I said innocently.

“That's right,” he said.

“Oh,” I said pensively, “I'd say...about a year and a half.”

I was hoping that he was going to get hopping mad, and perhaps relax his guard enough for me to grab the gun and stop him getting to the trigger, which was back in his pocket.

But he didn't get mad. His face just drained of its color, and he looked to be feeling very cold. He took the trigger out of his pocket and he showed it to me.

“I've had enough of your sense of humor,” he said. “If we don't reach Mormyr soon I'm going to blow this ship like I blew the last. I'll give you exactly half an hour.”

I could have made Mormyr in half that time, but I saw no point in telling him so. I thought it was time to test his reserve a little.

“You weren't aboard the last ship when it blew,” I said. “You can't blow the
Swan
without blowing yourself with it. Now you and I both know full well that you won't do that.”

He chuckled. It was a horrible sound. I thought he was just trying to scare me.

“You don't understand, do you?” he said.

“Well,” I said, “I can't read your mind, but....” Thoughts began to strike me then, and I paused. If this crazy man really could read minds, how was it that he didn't know that I was heading for Mormyr at a snail's pace? How come it had taken him so long to figure out which switch turned on his suit caller? He could no more read minds than I.

“You can't read minds,” I said, half bemused, half accusing.

Unexpectedly, I got the reaction I'd been hoping for before. Hut there was no chance of taking advantage of it. He leaped backward from the cradle as if he'd been stung. I watched his fingers whiten around the barrel of the gun, and for a couple of seconds I almost believed that I was shot. But neither beam nor bullet came out of the gun. He'd moved his finger from the firing stud at the last moment.

“I can read your mind,” he said, his voice thinning out into a hiss. “I know exactly what's coming out of your mind.”

“Tell me,” I invited.

“Hate,” he said, putting some hate of his own into the way he said it. “Hate and fear.”

“Well,” I said, keeping outwardly calm and as offhand as was possible. “I must admit that you're not exactly my favorite person at this particular moment in time, and I'm quite willing to concede that the way you're waving that gun around is a little worrying. I might describe my mental state as apprehensive. But I'm not radiating hate and fear, now am I? Be reasonable.”

“Hate,” he said, and his fingers whitened again as he squeezed the gun barrel, burning me to ash in his imagination—but only in his imagination. “Hate and fear.” He was still hissing slightly. But his voice was trailing off into a whisper.

“You can't read minds,” I told him flatly. “You can't read a single thing in my mind.”