The Heaven Makers (10 page)

“I’m sure we can get an impartial judge.”

“Yes… no doubt. But judges invariably say the question to be determined is whether at the time of the crime the accused had not the use of that part of his understanding which allowed him to know he was doing a wrong and wicked act. That part, Tony; as though the mind could be divided into compartments, part of it sane, part insane. Impossible! The mind’s a unified thing. A person can’t be mentally and emotionally diseased in some fictitious part without infecting the total personality. A knowledge of right and wrong—the ability to choose between God and the devil—is profoundly different from the knowledge that two plus two equals four. To make the judgment of good and evil requires an intact personality.”

Thurlow looked up, studied Bondelli.

The attorney was staring out the window, lips pursed in thought. He obviously hadn’t been listening.

Thurlow turned toward the window. He felt sick with frustration and despair, Ruth had run away. That was the only logical, sane, reasonable explanation. Her father was doomed, no matter… Thurlow’s muscles locked into frozen, glaring suspense. He stared out the window.

Some ten feet out, poised in the air, hovering, was an object… a dome-shaped object with a neat round opening that faced Bondelli’s window. Behind the opening, figures moved.

Thurlow opened his mouth to speak, found he had no voice. He lurched out of his chair, groped his way around the desk away from the window.

“Andy, is something wrong?” Bondelli asked. The attorney swiveled back, stared up at Thurlow.

Thurlow leaned on the desk facing the window. He looked right into the round opening in the hovering object. There were eyes inside, glowing eyes. A slender tube protruded from the opening. Painful, constricting force pressed in on Thurlow’s chest. He had to fight for each breath.

My God! They’re trying to kill me! he thought.

Waves of unconsciousness surged over his mind, receded, returned. His chest was a great gasping region of fire. Dimly, he saw the edge of the desk surge upward past his eyes. Something hit a carpeted floor and he realized with fading consciousness that it was his head. He tried to push himself up, collapsed.

“Andy! Andy! What’s wrong? Andy!” It was Bondelli’s voice. The voice bounced and receded in a wavering, ringing echo box. “Andy… Andy… And…”

Bondelli stood up—from a quick examination of Thurlow, shouted for his secretary: “Mrs. Wilson! Call an ambulance! I think Dr. Thurlow’s had a heart attack.”

Chapter 14

I must not grow to like this life, Kelexel told himself. I have a new pet, yes, but I also have a duty. A moment will come when I must leave, taking my pet, abandoning all the other pleasures of this place.

He sat in Ruth’s private quarters, a bowl of native liquor on a low table between them. Ruth appeared oddly pensive, quiet. The manipulator had required quite heavy pressure to bring her into a responsive mood. This bothered Kelexel. She had been coming along so nicely, taking the training with an ease which delighted him. Now—relapse… and just after he had given her such a pleasant toy, the pantovive.

There were fresh flowers on the table beside the liquor. Roses, they were called. Red roses. The liquor had been sent along by Ynvic. Its aroma, a touch on the palate, surprised and delighted Kelexel. Subtle esthers danced on his tongue. The heady central substance required constant readjustment of his metabolism. He wondered how Ruth adapted to the stuff. She was taking an inordinate amount of it.

In spite of the distracting effort at keeping his metabolism in balance, Kelexel found the total experience pleasant. The senses came alert: boredom retreated.

Ynvic had said the liquor was a wine from a sunny valley “…up there east of us.” It was a native product, lovely stuff.

Kelexel looked up at the silvery gray curve of ceiling, noted the gravity anomaly lines like golden chords above the manipulator. The room was taking on a pleasant air of familiarity with its new touches denoting occupancy by his delightful pet.

“Have you noticed how many of the ship people wear native clothing?” Kelexel asked.

“How could I?” Ruth asked. (How fuzzy her voice sounded.) “When do I ever get out of here?”

“Yes, of course,” Kelexel agreed. “I was thinking I might try some of your clothing myself. Ynvic tells me that the garments of some of your larger children often fit the Chem with very slight alteration. Ynvic calls that a fringe benefit.”

Ruth refilled her glass from the wine bowl, drank deeply.

The little pig of a gnome! she thought The dirty little troll!

Kelexel had been drinking from a flagon. He dipped it into the bowl, raised it dripping amber. “Good drink, delightful foods, comfortable clothing—all this and great enjoyment, amusement. Who could grow bored here?”

“Yes, indeed,” Ruth muttered. “Who c’d grow bored?” Again, she drank deeply of the wine.

Kelexel took another sip from his flagon, adjusted his metabolism. Ruth’s voice sounded so strange. He noted the manipulator’s setting, wondered if he should apply a bit more pressure. Could it be the liquor? he asked himself.

“Did you enjoy yourself with the pantovive?” he asked.

The dirty, evil little troll! she thought “‘S great fun,” she sneered. “Why’ntch go play with it y’rself f’r awhile?”

“Lords of Preservation!” Kelexel muttered. He had just realized that the liquor was inhibiting Ruth’s higher centers. Her head rolled crazily on her neck. She spilled part of her drink.

Kelexel reached over, took the glass from her, placed it gently on the table. She either was incapable or had never learned how to adjust her metabolism, he realized.

“Don’tcha like th’ stories?” Ruth asked.

Kelexel began to remember, from Fraffin productions, the native problems involving various liquors. It was all true, then. Real, as Ruth would say.

“‘S a dirty world,” she said. “Y’ s’pose we’re part of a story? They shootin’ us with their damn cameras?”

What a hideous idea, Kelexel thought. But there was a strange sense of verity in her words. The dialogue carried some of the surface characteristics of a Fraffin story.

In this moment, Kelexel had to remind himself that creatures such as Ruth had lived long (by their standards) in dreams that Fraffin wove. Not exactly dreams, though, because Chem spectators could enter the story world, too. In a sudden burst of insight, Kelexel realized he had entered the world of violence and emotion which Fraffin had created. Entering that world, he had been corrupted. To share the native delusions if only for a moment was to be enslaved by the need for more such corruption.

Kelexel wanted to tear himself away from this room, renounce his new pet, return only to his duty. But he knew he couldn’t do that. Knowing this, he wondered what particular thing had trapped him. No answer came to his searching awareness.

He stared at Ruth.

These natives are a dangerous flame, he thought. We don’t own them! We’re their slaves!

Now, his suspicions were fully aroused. He stared around the room. What was it? What was wrong here?

He found nothing of this moment and this place upon which he could focus his educated suspicions. This of itself touched a deep chord of anger and fear in him. He felt that he was being played with, led about. Was Fraffin playing with him? The ship’s people had suborned four previous Investigators of the Bureau. How? What plans had they for his own person? Surely they knew by now he was no ordinary visitor. But what could they possibly do?

Not violence, certainly.

Ruth began to cry, the sobs shaking her shoulders. “All alone,” she muttered. “All alone.”

Was it the native female? Kelexel wondered. Was she the bait in the trap?

There could be no certainty in a secret battle of this land. You contended, one against the other, but every struggle occurred beneath a deceptively calm surface, hidden behind polite words and civilities and ritual behavior. The struggle went on and on within an intimate arena where no violence could be permitted.

How can they hope to win? Kelexel asked himself.

Even if they bested him, they must know there’d be other Kelexels. It would never end.

Never.

Never.

Awareness of an endless future broke like waves across the reef of his mind. On this path lay the Chem madness, Kelexel knew. He drew back from such thoughts.

Ruth got up, stood looking down at him unsteadily.

Savagely, Kelexel adjusted the manipulator. Ruth stiffened. The skin rippled on her cheeks and forearms. Her eyes glazed over. Abruptly, she turned, ran for the water basin in the corner. She leaned on it, retching.

Presently, she returned to her chair, moving as though pulled by strings. Distantly in her mind, a tiny kernel of awareness cried out: “This is not you doing these things! These things are being done to you.”

Kelexel held up his flagon, said: “With such things as this your world fascinates and attracts us. Tell me, with what does your world repel?”

“It isn’t a world,” she said, her voice shaky. “It’s a cage. This is your own private zoo.”

“Ahhh, hmmm,” Kelexel said. He sipped at his drink, but it had lost its savor. He put the flagon on the table. There were wet circles there where he had put the flagon before. He looked at them. The female was becoming resistant, obstinate. How could that be? Only the Chem and an occasional mutant were immune to such pressures. Even the Chem wouldn’t be completely immune without Tiggywaugh’s web and the special treatment they received at birth.

Again, he studied Ruth.

She returned his stare defiantly.

“Your lives are so short,” Kelexel said. “Your past is so short—yet one gains the definite feeling of something ancient from you. How can that be?”

“Score one for our side,” Ruth said. She could feel her emotions being adjusted, soothed. It happened with an uncanny rapidity. Insane sobriety invaded her mind.

“Please stop changing me,” she whispered.

And she wondered: Was that the right thing to say then? But she felt she had to disagree with the creature now, even risk making him angry. She had to oppose him—subtly, definitely. It was either that or lose her sanity in this wasteland of unreason. She could no longer remain passive, fencing in a mental world where the Chem could not come.

Stop changing her? Kelexel wondered.

There lay a kernel of opposition in that whispered cry and he recognized it. Thus the barbarian always spoke to the civilizer. Instantly alerted, he became at once the true cynic of the Federation, the loyal servant of the Primacy. The native female should not be able to oppose him.

“How do I change you?” he asked.

“I wish I knew,” she said. “All I know is you think I’m stupid and don’t realize what you’re doing.”

Has Fraffin trained this creature? Kelexel wondered. Was she prepared for me? He remembered his first interview with Fraffin, the sense of menace.

“What has Fraffin told you to do?” he demanded.

“Fraffin?” Her face showed blank puzzlement. What had the storyship’s director to do with her?

“I won’t betray you,” Kelexel said.

She wet her lips with her tongue. Nothing the Chem did or said made any sense. The only thing she really understood was their power.

“If Fraffin’s done anything illegal with you creatures I must know about it,” Kelexel said. “I will not be denied. I will know about it.”

She shook her head.

“As much as can be known of Fraffin, that I know,” Kelexel said. “You were little more than the rawest sort of animals here when he came. Chem walked among you as gods then without the slightest concern.”

“Illegal?” she said. “What do you mean illegal?”

“You’ve rudimentary laws among your kind,” Kelexel sneered. “You know about legality and illegality.”

“I’ve never even seen Fraffin,” she said. “Except on the room screen.”

“The letter of the law, eh? His minions, then—what have they told you to do?”

Again, she shook her head. There was a weapon here she could use; she sensed this, but couldn’t quite understand enough to grasp it.

Kelexel whirled away from her, strode to the pantovive and back. He stopped ten paces from Ruth, glared up at her. “He bred you and shaped you and nudged you—changed you—into the finest story property in the universe. Some of the offers he’s had—and turned down—would… well, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Turned down… why?” she asked.

“Ahh, that is the question.”

“Why… why’re we so valuable?”

He gestured, a handsweep that pointed from her feet to her hair. “You’re gross and overgrown, but quite a bit similar to us. We can identify with you. There’s entertainment in your strivings, a surcease from boredom.”

“But you said—illegal?”

“When a race such as yours reaches a certain stage, there are… liberties we do not permit. We’ve had to exterminate certain races, severely punish a few Chem.”

“But what… liberties?”

“Never mind.” Kelexel turned his back on her. It seemed obvious she spoke from actual ignorance. Under such manipulator pressure she could hardly lie or dissemble.

Ruth stared at Kelexel’s back. For long days now, a question had been creeping upward in her mind. The answer felt deeply important now. “How old are you?” she asked.

Slowly, Kelexel rotated on one heel, studied her. It took a moment to overcome the distaste aroused by such a gauche question, then: “How could that possibly bear on anything that concerns you?”

“It… I want to know.”

“The actual duration—that’s not important. But a hundred such worlds as yours, perhaps many more, could’ve come into being and dissolved to dust since my conception. Now, tell me why you want to know.”

“I… just want to know.” She tried to swallow in a dry throat “How… how do you… preserve…”

“Rejuvenation!” He shook his head. What a distasteful subject. The native female was truly barbaric.

“The woman Ynvic,” Ruth said, sensing his emotional disturbance and enjoying it. “She’s called the shipsurgeon. Does she supervise the….”

“It’s routine! Purely routine. We’ve elaborate protective mechanisms and devices that prevent anything but minor damage. A shipsurgeon takes care of the minor damage. Very rare, that. We can take care of our own regenerative and rejuvenating treatments. Now, you will tell me why you ask.”

“Could I… we…”

“Oh, ho!” Kelexel threw his head back in a bark of laughter. Then: “You must be a Chem and conditioned for the process from birth or it cannot be done.”

“But… you’re like us. You… breed.”

“Not with you, my dear pet. We’re pleasurably similar, that I admit. But with you it’s dalliance, insulation from boredom, no more. We Chem cannot breed with any other…” He broke off, stared at her, remembering a conversation with Ynvic. They’d been discussing the native violence, wars.

“It’s a built-in valving system to keep down the immunes,” Ynvic had said.

“The conflicts?”

“Of course. A person immune to our manipulations tends to become generally dissatisfied, frustrated. Such creatures welcome violence and disregard personal safety. The attrition rate among them is very high.”

Remembering Ynvic’s words, Kelexel wondered: Is it possible? No! It couldn’t be! Gene samples from these natives were on record long ago. I’ve seen them myself. But what if… No! There’s no way. But it would be so simple: falsify the gene sample. Shipsurgeon Ynvic! But if she did, why? Kelexel shook his head. The whole idea was preposterous. Even Fraffin wouldn’t dare breed a planet full of half-Chem. The immune ratio would give him away before… But there’s always the “valving system.”

“I will see Fraffin now,” Kelexel muttered.

And he remembered: “Ynvic was referring to native immunes, but she said person.”