The 13th Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack Page 4

  The gun Flavin had insisted he wear was uncomfortable, and he pulled himself up, staring at the crew of men who were working as close to the center of wind as they could get. He hadn’t been able to convince them that tunneling was hopeless. All they needed was a one-millimeter hole through the flooring, up which blasting powder could be forced to knock aside the glass shard. They refused to accept the fact that the Betz II shielding could resist the best diamond drills under full power for centuries. He shrugged. At least it helped the general morale to see something being done; he’d given in finally and let them have their way.

  “We might as well go back,” he decided. He’d hoped that the morning air and sight of the station might clear his head, but the weight of responsibility had ruined that. It was ridiculous, but he was still in charge of things.

  Flavin reached back and cut on the little television set. With no real understanding, he was trying to learn tolerance of Ptheela, but he felt more comfortable in front, beside the chauffeur.

  Pat caught her breath, and Vic looked at the screen, where a newscast was showing a crowd in Denver tearing down one of the Earth-designed intercity teleports. Men were striking back at the menace blindly. A man stood up from his seat in Congress to demand an end to alien intercourse; Vic remembered the fortune in interstellar trading of levo-rotary crystals that had bought the man his seat—and the transmitter-brought drugs that had saved him from death by cancer. He’d spouted gratitude, once!

  There were riots in California, the crackpot Knights of Terra were recruiting madly, and murder was on the increase. Rain had fallen in Nevada, and there were severe weather disturbances throughout the country, caused by the unprecedented and disastrously severe low over Bennington. People were complaining of the air, already claiming that they could feel it growing thinner, though that was sheer hysterical nonsense. The Galactic Envoy was missing.

  The editorial of the Bennington Times came on last, pointing a finger at Vic for changing the circuits, but blaming it on the aliens who hoarded their knowledge so callously. There was just enough truth to be dangerous. Bennington was close enough to the transmitter to explain the undertone of lynch law that permeated the editorial.

  “I’ll put a stop to that,” Flavin told Vic angrily. “I’ve got enough muscle to make them pull a complete retraction. Bui it won’t undo all of it.”

  Vic felt the automatic, and it seemed less of a nuisance now. “I notice no news on Pan-Asia’s ultimatum.”

  “Yeah. I hear the story was killed by Presidential emergency orders, and Pan-Asia has agreed to a three-day stay—no more. My information isn’t the best, but I gather we’ll bomb it with our own bombs if it isn’t cleared up by then.”

  Vic climbed out at the local station office, with the others trailing. In the waiting room, a vaguely catlike male from Sardax waited, clutching a few broken ornaments and a thin sheaf of Galactic credits. One of his four arms was obviously broken and yellow blood oozed from a score of wounds.

  But he only shrugged at Vic’s whistled questions, and his answer in Code was unperturbed. “No matter. In a few moments, I ship to Chicago and then home. My attackers smelled strongly of hate, but I escaped. Waste no time on me, please.”

  Then his whistle stopped at a signal from the routing office, and he hurried off, with a final sentence. “My attackers will live, I am told.”

  Remembering the talons on the male’s hands, Vic grinned wryly. The Sardaxians were a peaceful race, but they were pragmatic enough to see no advantage in being killed. The mob had jumped on the wrong alien this time. But the others races…

  He threw the door to his little office open, and the four went in. It wasn’t until he started toward his desk that he noticed his visitor.

  The Galactic Envoy might have been the robot he claimed to be, but there was no sign of it. He was dressed casually in expensive tweeds, lounging gracefully in a chair, with a touch of a smile on his face. Now he got up, holding out a hand to Vic.

  “I heard you were running things, Peters. Haven’t seen you since I helped pick you for the first-year class, but I keep informed. Thought I’d drop by to tell you the Council has given official approval to your full authority over the Earth branch of Teleport Interstellar, and I’ve filed the information with the U.N. and your President.”

  Vic shook his head. Nice of them to throw it all on his shoulders. “Why me?”

  “Why not? You’ve learned all the theory Earth has, you’ve had more practical experience with more stations than anyone else, and you’ve picked Ptheela’s brains dry by now. Oh, yes, we know about that; it’s permissible in an emergency for her to decide to help. You’re the obvious man.”

  “I’d rather see one of your high and mighty Galactic experts take over!”

  The Envoy shook his head gently. “No doubt. But we’ve found that the race causing the trouble usually is the race best fitted to solve it. The same ingenuity that maneuvered this sabotage—it was sabotage, by the way—will help you solve it, perhaps. The Council may not care much for your grab-first rule in economics and politics, but it never doubted that you represent one of the most ingenious races we have met. You see, there really are no inferior races.”

  “Sabotage?” Pat shook her head, apparently trying to grasp it. “Who’d be that stupid?”

  The Envoy smiled faintly. “The Knights of Terra are flowing with money, and they are having a very successful recruiting drive. Of course, those responsible had no idea of what risks they were taking for your planet. I’ve turned the details over, of course.”

  There was no mistaking his meaning. The Knights of Terra had been a mere rabble of crackpots, without any financial power. But most of the industries forced from competition by the transmitters had been the largest ones, since they tended to lack flexibility. Some of their leaders had taken it in good grace, but many had fought tooth and nail, and were still fighting. There were enough men who had lost jobs, patent royalties, or other valuables due to the transmitters. Even though the standard of living had risen and employment was at a peak now, the period of transition had left bitter hatreds, and recruits for the hate groups should be easy enough to find for a well-heeled propaganda drive.

  “Earth for Earth, and down with the transmitters,” Vic summed it up. The Envoy nodded.

  “They’re stupid, of course. They forget that the transmitters can’t be removed without Council workers,” he said. “And when the Council revokes approval, it destroys all equipment and most books, while seeing that three generations are brought up without knowledge. You’d revert to semi-savagery and have to make a fresh start-up. Well, I’ll see you, Vic. Good luck.”

  He left, still smiling. Flavin had been eyeing him with repressed dislike that came out now. “A helluva lot of nerve for guys who claim they don’t interfere!”

  “It happened to us twice,” Ptheela observed. “We were better for it, eventually. The Council’s rules are from half a billion years of experience, with tremendous knowledge. We must submit.”

  “Not without a fight!”

  Vic cut in. “Without a fight. We wouldn’t have a chance. We’re babes in arms to them. Anyhow, who cares? All the Congressional babble in Hades won’t save us if we lose our atmosphere. But the so-called leaders can’t see it.”

  The old idea—something would turn up. Maybe they couldn’t turn off the transmitter from outside, and had no way of getting past the wind to the inside. But something would turn up!

  He’d heard rumors of the Army taking over, and almost wished they would. As it stood, he had full responsibility—and nothing more. Flavin and the Council had turned things over to him, but the local cop on the beat had more power. It would be a relief to have someone around to shout even stupid orders and get some of the weight off his shoulders.

  Sabotage! It couldn’t even be an accident; the cockeyed race to which he belonged had to try to commit suicide and
then expect him to save it. He shook his head, vaguely conscious of someone banging on the door, and reached for the knob. “Amos!”

  The sour face never changed expression as the corpselike figure of the man slouched in. But Amos was dead! He’d been in the transmitter. They all realized it at once and swung toward the man.

  Amos shook off their remarks. “Nothing surprising, just common sense. When I saw the capsule start cracking, I jumped for one headed for Plathgol, set the delay, and tripped the switch. Saw some glass shooting at me, but I was in Plathgol next. Went out and got me a mess of tsiuna—they cook fair to middling, seeing they never tried it before they met us. Then I showed ’em my pass, came back through Chicago, took the local here, and went home; I figured the old woman would be worried. Nobody told me about the extent of the mess till I saw the papers. Common sense to report in to you, then. So here I am.”

  “How much did you see of the explosion?” Pat asked.

  “Not much. Just saw it was cracking—trick glass, no temperature tolerance. Looked like Earth color.”

  It didn’t matter. It added to Vic’s disgust to believe it was sabotage, but didn’t change the picture otherwise. The Council wouldn’t change its decision. They treated a race as a unit, making no exception for the behavior of a few individuals, whether good or bad.

  Another knock on the door cut off the vicious cycle of hopelessness. “Old home week, evidently. Come in!”

  The uniformed man who entered was the rare example of a fat man in the pink of physical condition, with no sign of softness. He shoved his bulk through the doorway as if he expected the two stars on his shoulders to light the way and awe all beholders. “Who is Victor Peters?”

  Vic wiggled a finger at himself, and the general came over. He drew out an envelope and dropped it on the desk, showing clearly that acting as a messenger was far beneath his dignity. “An official communication from the President of the United States!” he said mechanically, and turned to make his exit back to the intercity transmitters.

  It was a plain envelope, without benefit of wax or seals. Vic ripped it open, looked at the signature and the simple letterhead, and checked the signature again. He read it aloud to the others:

  “‘To Mr.’—dammit, officially I’ve got a doctor’s degree!—‘to Mr. Victor Peters, nominally’—oof!—‘in charge of the Bennington branch of Teleport Interstellar’—I guess they didn’t tell him it’s nominally in charge of all Earth branches. Umm…‘You are hereby instructed to remove all personnel from a radius of five miles minimum of your Teleport branch not later than noon, August 21, unless matters shall be satisfactorily culminated prior to that time. Signed, Homer Wilkes, President of the United States of America.’ ”

  “Bombs!” Pat shuddered, while Vic let the message fall to the floor, kicking it toward the wastebasket. “That’s what it has to mean. The fools—the damned fools! Couldn’t they tell him what would happen? Couldn’t they make him see that it’ll only make turning the transmitter off impossible—forever?”

  Flavin shrugged, unconsciously dropping onto the couch beside Ptheela. “Maybe he had no choice—either he does it or some other power does it.”

  Then he came to his feet, staring at Vic. “My God, that’s tomorrow noon!”

  IV

  ic looked at the clock later and was surprised to sec that it was already well into the afternoon. The others had left him, Ptheela last when she found there was no more knowledge she could contribute. He had one of the electronic calculators plugged in beside him and a table of the so-called Dirac functions propped up on it; since the press had discovered that Dirac had predicted some of the characteristics that made teleportation possible, they’d named everything for him.

  The wastebasket was filled, and the result was further futility. He shoved the last sheet into it, and sat there, pondering, There had to be a solution! Man’s whole philosophy was built on that idea.

  But it was a philosophy that included sabotage and suicide. What did it matter any…

  Vic jerked his head up, shaking it savagely, forcing the fatigue back by sheer will. There was a solution. All he had to do was find it—before the stupidity of war politics in a world connected to a Galaxy-wide union could prevent it.

  He pulled the calculator back, just as Flavin came into the room. The man was losing weight, or else fatigue was creating that illusion. He dropped into a chair as Vic looked up.

  “The men evacuated from around the station?” Vic asked.

  Flavin nodded. “Yeah. Some of the bright boys finally convinced them that they were just wasting time, anyhow. Besides, the thing is still spreading and getting too close for them. Vic, the news gets worse all the time. Can you take it?”

  “Now what? Don’t tell me they’ve changed it to tomorrow morning?”

  “Tomorrow hell! In two hours they’re sending over straight blockbusters, radar controlled all the way. No atomics—yet—but they’re jumping the gun, anyhow. Some nut convinced Wilkes that an ordinary eight-ton job might just shake things enough to fracture the glass that’s holding the short. And Pan-Asia is going completely wild. I’ve been talking to Wilkes. The Generalissimo over there probably only wanted to make a big fuss, but the people are scared silly, and they’re preparing for quick war.”

  Vic nodded reluctantly and reached for the Benzedrine he’d hoped to save for the last possible moment, when it might carry him all the way through. What difference did it make? Even if he had an idea, he’d be unable to use it because a bunch of hopheads were busy picking themselves the station as a site for target practice.

  “And yet…” He considered it more carefully, trying to figure percentages. There wasn’t a chance in a million, but they had to take even that one chance. It was better than nothing.

  “It might just work—if they hit the right spot. I know where the glass is, and the layout of the station. But I’ll need authority to direct the bomb. Flavin, can you get me President Wilkes?”

  Flavin shrugged and reached for the televisor. He managed to get quite a ways up by some form of code, but then it began to be a game of nerves and brass. Along his own lines, he apparently knew his business. In less than five minutes, Vic was talking to the President. For a further few minutes, the screen remained blank. Then another face came on, this time in military uniform, asking quick questions, while Vic pointed out the proper target.

  Finally the officer nodded. “Good enough, Peters. We’ll try it. If you care to watch, you can join the observers—Mr. Flavin already knows where they will be. How are the chances?”

  “Not good. Worth trying.”

  The screen darkened again and Flavin got up. The thing was a wild gamble, but it was better to jar the building than to melt its almost impregnable walls. Even Betz II metal couldn’t take a series of hydrogen bombs without melting, though nothing else could hurt it. And with that fury, the whole station would go.

  They picked up Pat and moved out to Flavin’s car. Vic knew better than to try to bring Ptheela along. As an alien, she was definitely taboo around military affairs. The storm had reached the city now, and dense clouds were pouring down thick gouts of rain, leaving the day as black as night. The car slogged through it, until Flavin opened the door and motioned them out into a temporary metal shelter.

  Things were already started. Remote scanners were watching the guided missiles come down, and mechanical eyes were operating in the bombs, working on infrared that cut through the rain and darkness. It seemed to move slowly on the screen at first, but picked up apparent speed as it drew near the transmitter building. The shielding grew close, and Pat drew back with an involuntary jerk as it hit and the screen went blank. Dead center.

  But the remote scanners showed no change. The abrupt break in the airmotion where the transmitter field began, outside the shielding, still showed. Another bomb came down, and others, each spaced so as to hit in time for other
s to be turned back if it worked. Even through the impossible tornado of rotating fury, it was super-precision bombing.

  But the field went on working, far beyond the shielding, pulling an impossible number of cubic feet of air from Earth every second. They stopped watching the screen shown by the bomb-eyes at last, and even the Army gave up.

  “Funny,” one observer commented. “No sound, no flash when it hits. I’ve been watching the remote scanners every time instead of the eye, and nothing happens. The bomb just disappears.”

  Pat shook herself. “The field—they can’t hit it. They go right through the field, before they can hit. Vic, it won’t matter if we do atom-bomb the station. It can’t be reached.”

  But he was already ahead of her. “Fine. Ecthinbal will love that. The Ecthindar wake up to find exploding atomic bombs coming at them through the transmitter. They’ve already been dosed with our chemical bombs. Now guess what they’ll have to do.”

  “Simple.” It was the observer who got that. “Start feeding atom bombs into their transmitters to us. We get keyed in to receive automatically, right? And we receive enough to turn the whole planet radioactive.”

  Then he shouted hoarsely, pointing through a window. From the direction of the station, a dazzle of light had lanced out sharply, and was now fading down. Vic snapped back to the remote scanner and scowled. The field was still working, and there was no sign of damage to the transmitter. If the Ecthindar had somehow snapped a bomb into the station, it must have been retransmitted before full damage.

  The Army man stared sickly at the station, but Vic was already moving toward the door. Pat grabbed his arm, and Flavin was with them by the time they reached the waiting car. “The Bennington office,” Vic told the driver. “And fast! Somebody has to see the Ecthindar in a hurry, if it’ll do any good.”

  “I’m going too, Vic,” Pat announced. But he shook his head. Her lips firmed. “I’m going. Nobody knows much about Ecthinbal or the Ecthindar. You call in Code messages, get routine Code back. We can’t go there without fancy pressure suits, because we can’t breathe their air. And they never leave. But I told you I was interested in races, and I have been trying to chitchat with them. I know some things—and you’ll need me.”