War Against the Rull (13 page)

In Jamieson's mind several things fell suddenly into place. Peter Clugy's refusal to shake hands on the pretense that
he
thought
Jamieson
might be a Rull. And the first thing he had noticed about young Clugy was his unnatural physical coolness in this superheated, humid climate—obvious now. And since it was Peter Clugy who had "established" by handshake the humanness of the radio operator,
that
individual must also be ...
Rull.

Jamieson studied the "youth" closely. There was no flaw in the human image that he could detect. He had to admit the perfection. It was apparently an inflexible rule that a disguise never be relaxed in the presence of human beings. Jamieson approved wholeheartedly. He had always found the sight of their wormlike, multi-appendaged bodies upsetting.

Ira Clugy had recovered from his initial shock. He glared at the Rull. "What have you done with my nephew?" he demanded. He started forward threateningly.

Jamieson held him back. "Careful, my friend. He doesn't need the blaster. He could destroy us with a bolt of high-frequency stuff that he can control with his body cells."

The Rull said nothing but extended what appeared to be a human hand toward the control panel and pulled a lever. At once, the ship began to sink toward the green forest below.

A glance around told Jamieson that the other ship had come in close and was descending with them. A minute later, brush crackled beneath the hull as they came to rest on the ground. Strangely, the other aerocar did not land but remained hovering a few feet above the ground a dozen yards away, its purring underjets automatically supplying just enough lift to offset its slight residual weight.

Could the purpose be to leave no trace of the other ship's presence here? As he watched, the ship's two occupants, both human in appearance, both undoubtedly Rulls, jumped from its doorway to the ground and started across the intervening space. What startled Jamieson was their apparent disregard of the ground over which they passed. It was startling because this was the heart of the Green Forest, alive with the young of the lymph beast!

Perhaps the Rulls didn't really know what the purpose was of Clugy's work. Perhaps this was just a routine spy operation to sabotage a human project. Not knowing, they might well have
confused the adult lymph beast with the progeny. The parent was harmless. The young attacked anything that moved. If it ceased moving before they reached it, they forgot about it instantly. Utterly indiscriminate, they struck at leaves drifting in the wind, the waving branch of a tree, even moving water. Millions of the snakelike things died every month making insensate attacks on inanimate objects that had moved for one reason or another. But some, inevitably, survived the first two months of their existence and changed into their final form.

In the development of the lymph beast, Nature had achieved one of her most fantastic balancing acts. The ultimate shape of the lymph beast was a hard-shelled beehivelike construction
that could not move.
It was hard to go far into the green forest without stumbling across one of these structures. They were everywhere—on the ground and in trees, on hillsides and in valleys; wherever the young monster happened to be at the moment of the change, there the adult settled. The final stage was short but prolific. The hive lived entirely on the food it had stored up as a youngster. Being bisexual, it spent its brief existence in a sustained ecstasy of procreation. The young, however, were not discharged from it. They incubated inside and promptly began eating at the vitals of the parent. This stopped the process of reproduction, but by this time there were many of them. They also ate each other, but as the shell softened and fell apart from the action of their secretions, a certain proportion would reach comparative safety outside.

Jamieson's thought ended as the Rull-image of Peter Clugy flipped a switch, opening the door of the aerocar, and gestured with the blaster.

"Get outside, you two!"

Reluctantly, they preceded their captor to the ground outside, where the other two Rulls now stood waiting. The heat was suffocating. On Earth, in an almost rainless climate like this, the vegetation would be brown and desiccated; here, the grassy glade and surrounding forest were almost artificial-looking in their waxen greenness.

The images of all three Rulls wavered slightly, one after another. "They're talking it over," Jamieson explained to Clugy in a low voice. "Apparently it's difficult to communicate with light waves and maintain a perfect image."

The image of Peter Clugy turned abruptly toward Ira and gestured. "All right, you can leave now."

Ira Clugy looked blank. "Leave?"

"Yes. Get back in your ship and take off. Go to your camp or wherever you please. But don't come back here again today!"

Jamieson felt as baffled as Ira Clugy looked. Clugy seemed to brace himself. "Nothing doing," he said flatly. "If Mr. Jamieson stays, I stay."

The likeness of Peter Clugy hesitated. Then, "But why? We know that you have a personal dislike for this man."

"Maybe I did once, but—" Ira Clugy stopped. His face twisted with renewed fury as the full implication of the Rull's remark sank in. "So you know about that! That means my nephew was dead—and you were taking his place—even back on Earth!"

Jamieson laid a restraining hand on the engineer's shoulder, or the man would surely have lunged at the Rull. The Rull said, "Your nephew is not dead. He is—here." Moving to the aft storage compartment of the ship beside which they were standing, the Rull slid open the hatch. Inside lay a motionless figure identical in appearance with the one which had opened the door.

"He should remain unconscious for several hours," said the Rull. "He was surprisingly resistant to paralyis. But he will recover. It was only this morning, however, in your camp, that I took his place. That has not been necessary before, in order to find out what we needed to know."

Jamieson could well believe that. Ira Clugy had undoubtedly broadcast his feelings sufficiently at the Spaceman's Club following the memorable altercation in Jamieson's office. Also, all personnel had been carefully checked for humanness before embarking for this planet.

The Rull appeared to be conferring with his fellow agents. They had evidently not planned for Clugy's opposition.

It was at that instant, while his mind was straining to fit together the pieces of the puzzling actions of the Rulls, that a movement in the grass caught Jamieson's attention. It was some distance away, and he could see only a series of shadows. But he felt an inner tremble of terrible fear.

Dark forest of Mira, he thought shakily. Alive with the young of the lymph beast...

The brief conference among the Rulls ended and the replica of Peter Clugy spoke to Ira. "It is not necessary for you to take the ship back yourself. I will take you within a short distance of the camp and leave you and the ship there. Now get in!" Ira Clugy's jaw set. "And what happens to Mr. Jamieson?" "We leave him here," replied the Rull. "It will be dark in an hour. Before you can possibly get back here and find him, he will be dead."

Jamieson was thinking, The administrator dead, the field engineer freed. Why? Suddenly he got it. Of course. People
would remember Clugy's wild talk about subjecting the project administrator to Mira's environment. And instantly the chief of field operations would be under suspicion of murder, and deliveries of lymph fluid might be seriously delayed.

It was a bold yet fairly simple purpose. And it emphasized that the Rull did not know the importance of the project they were attacking.

Somewhere a Rull spy center had been advised of this human activity on Mira 23 and had detached a group of spies to handle it The individuals involved, lacking full information, were proceeding on a typical Rull plan with the usual Rull bravery.

Jamieson glanced from the corner of his eye at the advancing line of what could only be the lymph progeny. The irregular line was now only thirty or forty feet away, and at one point he caught a glimpse of a writhing, mottled gray shape. In a minute the creatures would be all around them.

Jamieson waited not an instant longer. He had to trust that his analysis of the Rull plan was correct, and he had to use his great knowledge of the Rull enemy. In two steps he was over to Clugy.

"You get into that ship," he said in a loud voice. "No reason why both of us should die."

In a whisper he added, "We're surrounded by lymph. I'll save myself by holding still. Get!" He gave Clugy a shove, sending him staggering toward the aerocar. Clugy recovered his balance, hesitated, then dived into the aerocar and, without waiting for the Rulls, took off.

Jamieson merely took note. He was running toward a near edge of jungle. They won't kill me, he told himself. That would spoil their plan.

If he could hold their attention a few seconds more ...

Before he could have another thought, there was a crackling in the air about him, and every nerve in his body seemed to gather into a knot. Completely helpless, he fell like a stick, his left shoulder crunching against the ground.

He did not lose consciousness, but a moment passed before his head cleared sufficiently to realize that what he had wanted to happen had happened. One of the Rulls had reached him with a discharge of paralyzing energy. He wondered whether he had broken any bones in his left shoulder or arm, but there was no way to tell. They were completely numb, like the rest of him. A terrifying thought leaped to his mind: What if one of the lymph things had struck as he hit the ground and was even now feeding on his vitals! Would the only indication be a fading of consciousness as his lifeblood ebbed away?

A brilliant, soundless flash of light interrupted that grim speculation. Then there were a whole series of flashes in quick succession. Their source was out of Jamieson's limited range of vision, but he could guess what was happening.

Minutes went by. The flashes of light diminished to an occasional flicker. The smell of ozone reached his nostrils. His eyes were already smarting with it, but he could not close them.

A moment later he wished fervently that he could. Into the lower edge of his field of vision, as he lay on his side, an indescribably hideous small head moved and poised a matter of inches from his chin. It was one of the lymph progeny, and although Jamieson could feel nothing, he could tell from the position of the head that the creature was in the act of crawling over his body!

The fearful little head moved on, dipping out of his sight but leaving on Jamieson's mind an indelible impression of its numerous tiny eyes, like bright pinheads, and the yellow, sucking mouth studded with concentric rings of thornlike teeth.

Endless minutes passed. Perhaps they had already left. Suddenly the ground seemed to move away from under his head, and he realized he was being lifted from behind. He went up so rapidly that his first thought was that more than one person must be doing the lifting, but a moment later he found himself hanging over the shoulder of Ira Clugy.

The wiry engineer was simply wasting no time. He had landed the ship as close as possible, and he now hustled Jamieson into it. Before the hatch closed, Jamieson caught a glimpse of the three Rulls lying in the grass fifty feet away. The humanoid images they had projected in life were gone, and their natural wormlike, multi-appendaged forms were revealed. Here and there, the dark bodies showed a glossy sheen, evidence that some of the light-controlling cells were still alive. But they were dead. There had been plenty of time for the little monsters to bury themselves in their victims completely.

"What name?" Jamieson asked, amused.

He was homeward bound from fabulous Mira 23, and on instantaneous radio contact with Earth.

Caleb Carson replied, "He wanted your name; then, when the

Play Square said it would be confusing, he settled for Ephraim."

Jamieson leaned back in the special chair used to insulate individuals transmitting with the McLaurin tube. He smiled as he thought, So the young ezwal has accepted a name.

It was a milestone event. "What's in a name?" an ancient poet had written. "A rose by any other name,"
etc.
But the poet in so saying made one of his few errors. For man, as he reached out into space, found races where individuals were not identified. Such races could not be "civilized."

Like all highly developed human beings who had a galactic outlook on life and the universe, Jamieson knew that for a hundred years "civilization" had had a slanted definition: a race was civilized to the extent it was able to participate in the defense against the Rulls.

From a practical point of view, no other definition could be considered.

"Ephraim," Jamieson echoed. "And the last name?"

"Jamieson. The Play Square allowed that."

"Well, a new addition to the family. Have you told my wife?"

"Yes. I called her. I'm afraid she was too worried about your disappearance to appreciate the honor."

Since he had already talked to Veda and relieved her anxiety, Jamieson was able to reply lightheartedly. And so they chatted across the years of miles. A decision grew out of the conversation : to prepare a muscle impregnating device that could transmit one
thought:
"My name is------" Each name would be
different.

Millions of such devices would shortly be transported to Carson's Planet. There, borne by ships carrying mind-confusing machines, they would be fired through the skin and into the muscle of each ezwal sighted.

Such devices were made of material that would be absorbed into the blood stream after a time. But not before each impregnated ezwal knew that "My name is-----"

Jamieson had no doubt that, if he appeared before the Galactic Convention with Ephraim and a mechanical telepathic device for identifying every ezwal on Carson's Planet, the convention would order the military council there to co-operate with him.

He broke that connection finally, satisfied; and then he called one of the government research assignment offices. There he talked to a neurologist about the "nerve" lines that had apparently hypnotized him. He described the location of the lines as best he could and then gave a surprisingly accurate—so it seemed
to him—description of the structure of the lines themselves.

As he hung up, he thought, At least I'm getting things started.

A few days later he was back at his desk.

"You're wanted on the video," said Exchange.

Jamieson clicked on his machine. "Yes," he said, before the picture could form.

The woman whose face grew onto the videoplate looked agitated. "The Play Square just called me. Diddy has gone out to look for the sound."

"Oh," said Jamieson.

He studied her image. Hers was an exceptionally attractive face, clear-skinned, well-shaped, crowned with beautifully coiled black hair. At the moment it was not normal. Her eyes were widened, her muscles tensed and her hair slightly displaced. Marriage and motherhood had profoundly affected his beautiful sweetheart.

"Veda," he said sharply, "you're not letting it get you."

"But he's out there. And the whole area is said to be full of Rull spies." She shuddered as she spoke the name of the great enemy.

"The Play Square let him go, didn't it? It must think he's ready."

"But he'll be out all night."

Jamieson nodded slowly. "Look, darling, this had to happen. It's part of the process of growing up, and we've been expecting it since his ninth birthday last May." He broke off. "How about you going out and doing some shopping? That'll take your mind off him for the rest of the afternoon anyway. Spend—" he made a quick calculation, took another look at her face, and revised the initial figure upward—"what you like. On yourself. Now, goodbye, and don't worry."

He broke the connection hastily and climbed to his feet. For a long time he stood at the window staring down at The Yards. From his vantage point he could not see the "Way" or the ship; they were on the other side of the building. But the fairyland of streets and buildings that he could see enthralled him now as always. The Yards was a suburb of Solar City, and that massive metropolis in its artificial tropical setting was a vision that had no parallel in the human-controlled part of the Galaxy. Its buildings and its parks extended to every hazy horizon.

He drew his gaze back from the distance, back to the city proper of The Yards. Slowly, he turned from the window. Somewhere down there his nine-year-old son was exploring the world of the sound. Thinking about that or about the Rulls wouldn't do either Veda or himself the slightest good.

By the time the sky grew dark, Diddy Jamieson knew that the sound never ended. After wondering about it for his whole lifetime, or so it seemed, that was good to know. He'd been told that it ended somewhere "out there"—vaguely. But this afternoon he'd proved for himself that, no matter how far you went, the sound remained. The fact that his elders had lied to him about that did not disturb Diddy. According to
his
robot teacher, the Play Square, parents sometimes fibbed to test a fellow's ingenuity and self-reliance. This was obviously one of the fibs, which he had now disproved.

For all these years, the sound had been in his Play Square, and in the living room whether he was silent or trying to talk, and in the dining room making a rhythm out of the eating noises of Mom and Dad and himself—on those days he was permitted to eat with them. At night the sound crept into bed with him, and while he slept, even in his deepest sleep, he could feel it throbbing in his brain. Yes, it was a familiar thing, and it was natural that he'd tried to find out if it stopped at the end of first one street and then another. Just how many streets he'd turned up and into and along, whether he'd gone east or west or south or north, was no longer clear. But wherever he'd gone, the sound had followed him. He had had dinner an hour ago at a little restaurant. Now it was time to find out
where
the sound began.

Diddy paused to frown over
his
location. The important thing was to figure out just where he was in relation to The Yards. He was figuring it by mentally calculating the number of streets between Fifth and Nineteenth, H and R, Center and Right, when he happened to glance up. There, a hundred feet away, was a man he'd first seen three blocks and ten minutes back.

Something about the movement of the man stirred a curious, unpleasant memory, and for the first time he saw how dark the sky had become. He began to walk casually across the road, and he was glad to notice that he was not afraid. His hope was that he would be able to get by the man, and so back to the more crowded Sixth Street. He hoped, also, that he was mistaken in
his
recognition of the man as Rull.

His heart sank as a second man joined the first, and the two started to cross the street to intercept him. Diddy fought an impulse to turn and run. Fought it, because if they were Rulls, they could move several times as fast as a man. Their appearance of having a humanlike body was an illusion which they could create by their control of light. It was that which had made him suspect the first of the two. In turning the corner the fellow's legs had walked
wrong.
Diddy could not remember how many
times the Play Square had described such a possibility, but now that he had seen it, he realized that it was unmistakable. In the daytime the Rulls were said to be more careful with their illusions.

"Boy!"

Diddy slowed and looked around at the two men, as if seeing them for the first time.

"Boy, you're out on the streets rather late."

"This is my exploring night, sir," said Diddy.

The "man" who had spoken reached into his breast pocket. It was a curious gesture, not complete, as if in creating the illusion of the movement he hadn't quite thought through the intricacies of such an action. Or perhaps he was careless in the gathering darkness. His hand came out and flashed a badge.

"We're Yard agents," he said. "We'll take you to the Way."

He put the badge back into his pocket, or seemed to and motioned toward the brightness in the distance.

Diddy knew better than to resist.

Jamieson opened the door of his apartment for the two police officers shortly after dinner. Though they wore plain clothes, he recognized them instantly for what they were.

"Doctor Jamieson?" one of them asked.

"Yes?"

"Trevor Jamieson?"

He nodded this time, aware in spite of having just eaten, of an empty sensation.

"You are the father of Dexter Jamieson, aged nine?"

Jamieson. took hold of the doorjamb. "Yes," he mumbled.

The spokesman said, "It is our duty, as required by law, to inform you that at this moment your son is in the control of two Rulls, and that he will be in grave danger of his life for some hours to come."

Jamieson said nothing.

Quietly, the officer described how Diddy had been taken over on the sidewalk. He added, "We've been aware for some time that the Rulls have been concentrating in Solar City in more than usual numbers. Naturally, we haven't located them. As you may know, we estimate their numbers on the basis of those we do spot."

Jamieson did know, but he said nothing. The other continued. "As you are probably also aware, we are more interested in discovering the purpose of a Rull ring than in capturing individuals. As with all Rull schemes in the past, this one will probably prove to be extremely devious. It seems clear that we have
only witnessed the first step of an intricate plan. But now, is there any further information you wish?"

Jamieson hesitated. He was acutely conscious of Veda in the kitchen putting the dinner dishes into the dishwasher. It was vital that he get these policemen away before she found out what their mission was. Yet one question he had to ask.

"As I understand it, there'll be no immediate attempt to rescue Diddy?"

The officer said in a firm voice, "Until we have the information we want, this situation will be allowed to ripen. I have been instructed to ask you not to build up any hopes. As you know, a Rull can actually concentrate energy of blaster power with his cells. Under such circumstances, death can strike very easily." He broke off. "That's all, sir. You may call security headquarters from time to time if you desire further information. The police will not communicate with you again on their own initiative."

"Thank you," said Jamieson automatically. He closed the door and went with mechanical stolidity back to the living room.

Veda called from the kitchen, "Who was that, darling?"

Jamieson drew a deep breath. "Somebody looking for a man named Jamieson. They got the right name but the wrong man." His voice held-steady for the words.

"Oh," said Veda.

She must have forgotten the incident at once, for she did not mention it again. Jamieson went to bed at ten o'clock. He lay there, conscious of a vague ache in his back and a sick feeling at the pit of his stomach. At one o'clock he was still awake.