Smith,E E 'Doc' - Skylark 4 - Skylark Duquesne

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SKYLARK DUQUESNE

By Edward E. Smith, Ph.D.

1. s.o.s.

APPEARANCES are deceiving. A polished chunk of metal that shines like a Christmas-

tree ornament may hold-and release-energy to destroy a city. A seed is quite another

order of being to the murderous majesty of a toppling tree. A match flame can become a

holocaust.

And the chain of events that can unseat the rulers of galaxies can begin in a cozy living

room, before a hearth ....

Outwardly, the comfortable (if somewhat splendidly furnished) living room of the home of

the Richard Ballinger Seatons of Earth presented a peaceful scene. Peaceful? It was

sheerly pastoral! Seaton and Dorothy, his spectacularly auburn-haired wife, sat on a

davenport, holding hands. A fire of pine logs burned slowly, crackling occasionally and

sending sparks against the fine bronze screen of the fireplace. Richard Ballinger Seaton

Junior lay on the rug, trying doggedly, silently, and manfully, if unsuccessfully, to wriggle

toward those entrancing flames.

Inwardly, however, it was very much otherwise. Dorothy's normally pleasant-as well as

beautiful-face wore a veritable scowl.

The dinner they had just eaten had been over two hours late; wherefore not one single

item of it had been fit to feed to a pig. Furthermore, and worse, Dick was not relaxed

and was not paying any attention to her at all. He was still wound up tight; was still

concentrating on the multitude of messages driving into his brain through the button in his

left ear-messages of such urgency of drive that she herself could actually read them,

even though she was wearing no apparatus whatever.

She reached up, twitched the button out of his ear, and tossed it onto a table. "Will you

please lay off of that stuff for a minute, Dick?" she demanded. "I'm fed up to the eyeballs

with this business of you killing yourself with all time work and no time sleep. You never

had any such horrible black circles under your eyes before and you're getting positively

scrawny. You've got to quit it: Can't you let somebody else carry some of the load?

Delegate some authority?"

"I'm delegating all I possibly can already, Red-Top." Seaton absently rubbed his ear.

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Until Dorothy had flipped it away, the button had been carrying to him a transcription of

the taped reports of more than one hundred Planetary Observers from the planet of

Norlamin, each with the IQ of an Einstein and the sagacity of an owl. The last report had

had to do with plentiful supplies of X metal that had been turned up on a planet of

Omicron Eridani, and the decision to dispatch a fleet of cargo-carrying ships to fetch

them away.

But he admitted grudgingly to himself that that particular decision had already been

made. His wife was a nearer problem. Paying full attention to her now, he put his arm

around her and squeezed.

"Converting a whole planet practically all at once to use fourth-, fifth-, and sixth-order

stuff is a job of work, believe me. It's all so new and so tough that not too many people

can handle any part of it. It takes brains. And what makes it extra tough is that altogether

too many people who are smart enough to learn it are crooks. Shysters-hoodlers-sticky-

fingers generally. But I think we're just about over the hump. I wouldn't wonder if these

Norlaminian `Observers'-snoopers, really-from the Country of Youth will turn out to be the

answer to prayer."

"They'd better," she said, darkly. "At least, something had better."

"Besides, if you think I look like the wrath of God, take a good look at Mart sometime.

He's having more grief than I am."

"I already have; he looks like a refugee from a concentration camp. Peggy was

screaming about it this morning, and we're both going to just simply . . ."

What the girls intended to do was not revealed, for at. that moment there appeared in

the air before them the projected simulacra of eight green-skinned, more-or-less-human

men; the men with whom they had worked so long; the ablest thinkers of the Central

System.

There was majestic Fodan, the Chief of the Five of Norlamin; there was white-bearded

Orlon, the First of Astronomy; Rovol, the First of Rays; Astron, the First of Energy;

Drasnik, the First of Psychology; Satrazon and Castor, the Firsts of Chemistry and of

Mechanism, respectively; and-in some ways not the least-there was that powerhouse of

thought Sacner Carfon the two thousand three hundred forty-sixth: the hairless, almost

porpoise-like Chief of the Council of the watery planet Dasor. They were not present in

the flesh. But their energy projections were as seemingly solid as Seaton's own tall, lean

body.

"We come, Overlord of the System, upon a matter of-" the Chief of the Five began.

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"Don't call me `Overlord'. Please." Seaton broke in, with grim foreboding in his eyes while

Dorothy stiffened rigidly in the circle of his arms. Both knew that those masters of

thought could scarcely be prevailed upon to leave their own worlds even via projection.

For all eight of them to come this far-almost halfway across the galaxy!-meant that

something was very wrong indeed.

"I've told you a dozen times, not only I ain't no Overlord but I don't want to be and won't

be. I don't like to play God-I simply have not got what it takes."

" `Coordinator', then, which is of course a far better term for all except the more primitive

races," Fodan went imperturbably on. "We have told you, youth, not a dozen times, but

once, which should have been sufficient, that your young and vigorous race possesses

qualities that our immensely older peoples no longer have. You, as the ablest individual of

your race, are uniquely qualified to serve total civilization. Thus, whenever your services

become necessary, you will so serve. Your services have again become necessary.

Orlon, in whose province the matter primarily lies, will explain."

Seaton nodded to himself. It was going to be bad, all right, he thought as the First of

Astronomy took over.

"You, friend Richard, with some help from us, succeeded in encapsulating a group of

malignant immaterial entities, including the disembodied personality of your fellow-

scientist Doctor Marc C. DuQuesne, in a stasis of time. This capsule, within which no

time whatever could or can elapse, was launched into space with a linear acceleration of

approximately three times ten to the twelfth centimeters per second squared. It was

designed and powered to' travel at that acceleration for something over one hundred

thousand million Tellurian years; at the end of which time it was to have been rotated

through the fourth dimension into an unknown and unknowable location in normal three-

dimensional space."

"That's right," Sexton said. "And it will. It'll do just exactly that. Those pure-intellectual

louses are gone for good; and so is Blackie DuQuesne."

"You err, youth," corrected the Norlaminian. "You did not allow us time sufficient to

consider and to evaluate all the many factors involved. Rigid analysis and extended

computation show that the probability approaches unity that the capsule of stasis will,

almost certainly within one Tellurian year of its launching and highly probably in much less

time, encounter celestial matter of sufficient density to volatilize its uranium power bars.

This event will of course allow the stasis of time to collapse and the imprisoned

immaterial entities will be liberated; in precisely the same condition as in the instant of

their encapsulation."

Dorothy Sexton gasped. Even her husband showed that he was shaken. DuQuesne and

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the Immortals free? But

"But it can't!" he fairly yelled the protest. "It'll dodge-it's built to dodge anything that

dense!"

"At ordinary-or even extraordinary-velocities, yes," the ancient sage agreed, unmoved.

"Its speed of reaction is great, yes; a rather small fraction of a trillionth of a second. That

interval of time, however, while small, is very large indeed relative to zero. Compute for

yourself, please, what distance that capsule will in theory traverse during that space of

time at the end of only one third of one of your years."

Sexton strode across the room and uncovered a machine that resembled somewhat a

small, unpretentious desk calculator. *He picked up a helmet and thought into it briefly;

then stared. appalled at the figure that appeared on a tape.

[* Dorothy Sexton was highly averse to having the appearance of her living room ruined

by office equipment. Sexton, however, was living and working under such high tension

that he had to have almost instant access to the Valeron's Brain, at any time of the day

or night or wherever he might be. Hence this compromise-inconspicuous machines, each

direct-connected to the cubic mile of ultra-miniaturization that was the Brain. E. E. S.]

"My-aunt's-cat's-kitten's-pants-buttons," he said, slowly. "It'd've been smarter, maybe,

to've put 'em in orbit around a planetless sun .... And I don't suppose there's a

Chinaman's chance of catching 'em again that same way."

"No. Those minds are competent," agreed the Norlaminian. "Only one point is clear. You

must again activate the Skylark of Valeron and again wear its sixth-order controller,

since we know of no other entity who either-can wear it or should. We eight are here to

confer and, on the basis of the few data now available, to plan."

Sexton scowled in concentration for two long minutes.

It was a measure of the strain that had been working on him that it took that long. As he

had said, he was no God, and didn't want to be. He had not gone looking for either

conquest or glory. One thing at a time . . . but that "one thing" had successively led him

across a galaxy, into another dimension, through many a hard and desperate fight

against some of the most keen-honed killers of a universe.

His gray eyes hardened. Of all those killers, it was Blackie DuQuesne who posed the

greatest threat-to civilization, to Sexton himself, and above all to his wife, Dorothy.

DuQuesne at large was deadly.

"All right," he snapped at last. "If that's all that's in the wood, I suppose that's the way it'll

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have to be carved."

The Norlaminian merely nodded. He, at least, had had no doubts of how Sexton would

react to the challenge. Typically, once Sexton had decided speed became of the

essence. "We'll start moving now," be barked. "The parameters give us up to a year-

maybe-but from this minute we act as though DuQuesne and the Intellectuals are back in

circulation right now. So if one of you-Rovol?-will put beams on Mart and Peg and project

them over here, we'll get right at it."

And Dorothy, her face turning so white that a line of freckles stood boldly out across the

bridge of her nose, picked the baby up and clasped him fiercely, protectively to her

breast.

M. Reynolds ("Martin" or "Mart") Crane was tall, slender, imperturbable; his black-haired,

ivory-skinned wife Margaret was tall and whistle stacked-she and Dorothy were just

about of a size and a shape. In a second or two their full working projections appeared,

standing in the middle of the room facing the Sextons-projections so exactly true to life

and so solid-seeming as to give no indication whatever that they were not composed of

fabric and of flesh and bone and blood.

Sexton stood up and half-bowed to Margaret, but wasted no time in getting down to

business. "Hi, Peg-Mart. He briefed you?"

"Up to the moment, yes," Crane replied.

"You know, then, that some time in the indeterminate but not too distant future all hell is

going to be out for noon. Any way I scan it, it looks to me as though, more or less

shortly, we're going to be spurlos versenkt-sunk without a trace."

"You err, youth." Drasnik, the First of Psychology of Norlamin, spoke quite sharply, for

him. "Your thinking is loose, turbid, confused; inexcusably superficial; completely..."

"But you know what their top man said!" Seaton snapped. "The one they called `One'-

and he wasn't kidding, either, believe me!"

"I do, youth. I know more than that, since they visited us long since. They were not

exactly `kidding' you, perhaps, but your several various interpretations of One's actual

words and actions were inconsistent with any and every aspect of the truth. Those words

and actions were in all probability designed to elicit such responses and reactions as

would enable him to analyze and classify your race. Having done so, the probability

approaches unity that you will not again encounter him or any of his group."

"My-God!" Dorothy, drawing a tremendously deep breath, put Dick the Small back down

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on the rug and left him to his own devices. "That makes sense . . . I was scared simply

witless."

"Maybe," Seaton admitted, "as far as One and the rest of his original gang are

concerned. But there's still DuQuesne. And if Blackie DuQuesne, even as an immaterial

pattern of pure sixth-order force, thinks that way about me I'm a Digger Indian."

"Ah, yes; DuQuesne. One question, please, to clarify my thinking. Can you, do you think,

even with the fullest use of all the resources of your Skylark of Valeron, release the

intact mind from any body?"

"Of course I . . . oh, I see what you mean. Just a minute; I think probably I can find out

from here." He went over to his calculator-like instrument, put on a helmet, and stood

motionless for a couple of minutes while the great brain of the machine made its

computation. Then, wearing a sheepish grin:

"A flat bust. I not only couldn't, I didn't," he reported. cheerfully. "So One not only did the

business, but he was good enough to make me know that I was doing it. What an

operator!" He sobered, thought intensely, then went on, "So they sucked us in. Played

with us."

"You are now beginning to think clearly, youth," Drasnik said. "We come now, then, to

lesser probabilities. DuQuesne's mind, of itself, is a mind of power."

"You can broadcast that to the all-attentive universe," Seaton said. "Question: how much

stuff has he got now? We know he's got the fifth order down solid. Incarnate, he didn't

know any more than that. However, mind is a pattern of sixth-order force. Knowing what

we went through to get the sixth, and that we haven't got it all yet by seven thousand

rows of Christmas trees, the first sub-question asks itself: Can a free mind analyze itself-

completely enough to work out and to handle the entire order of force in which it lies?

"We may assume I think, that One could have given DuQuesne full knowledge of the sixth

if he felt like it. The second sub-question, then, is; did he? If those questions aren't

enough to start with I can think of plenty more."

"They are enough, youth," Fodan said. "You have pointed out the crux. We will now

discuss the matter. Since this first phase lies largely in your province, Drasnik, you will

now take over."

The discussion mounted, and grew, and went on and on. Silently Dorothy slipped away,

and the projection of force that was Margaret Crane followed her into the kitchen.

There was no need for Dorothy to prepare coffee and sandwiches for her husband, not

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by hand; one thought into a controller would have produced any desired amount of any

desired comestibles. But she wanted something to do. Both girls knew from experience

that a conference of this sort might go on for hours; and Dorothy knew that with food

placed before him, Seaton would eat; without it, he would never notice the lack.

She did not, of course, prepare anything for the others.

They were not there. Their bodies were at varying distances-a few miles for Crane and

his wife, an unthinkable number of parsecs for the Norlaminians and Sacner Carfon. The

distance between Earth and the Green System was so unthinkably vast that there was

no point in trying to express it in numbers of miles, or even parsecs. The central green

sun of the cluster that held Norlamin Osnome and Dasor was visible from Earth, all right-

in Earth's hugest optical telescopes, as a tiny, 20th-magnitude point-but the light that

reached Earth had been on its way for tens of thousand of years before Seaton's

ancestors had turned from hunting to agriculture, had taken off their crude skins and

begun to build houses, cities, machines and, ultimately, spaceships.

To all of this Dorothy and Peggy Crane were no strangers; they had been themselves in

such projections countless times. If they were more than usually silent, it was not

because of the astonishing quality of the meeting that was taking place in the Seatons'

living room, but because of the subject of that meeting. Both Dorothy and Peg knew

Marc DuQuesne well. Both of them had experienced his cold, impersonal deadliness.

Neither wanted to come close to it again.

Back in the living room, Seaton was saying: "If One gave DuQuesne all of the sixth-order

force patterns, he can be anywhere and can do practically anything. So he probably

didn't. On the other hand if One didn't give him any of it DuQuesne couldn't get back here

in forty lifetimes. So he probably gave him some of it. The drive and the projector, at

least. Maybe as much as we have, to equalize us. Maybe One figured he owed the ape

that mach. Whatever the truth may be, we've got to assume that DuQuesne knows as

much as we do about sixth-order forces." He paused, then corrected himself. "If we're

smart we'll assume that he knows more than we do. So we'll have to find somebody else

who knows more than we do to learn from. Question how do we go about doing that?

Not by just wandering around the galaxy at random, looking; that's one certain damn sure

thing."

"It is indeed," the moderator agreed. "Sacner Carfon, you have, I think, a contribution to

make at this point?"

"I have?" The Dasorian was surprised at first, but caught on quickly. "Oh-perhaps I have,

at that. By using Seaton's power and that of the Brain on the Fodan-Carfon band of the

sixth, it will undoubtedly be possible to broadcast a thought that would affect selected

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mentalities wherever situate in any galaxy of this universe."

"But listen!" protested Seaton. "We don't want to advertise how dumb we are all over

space!”

"Of course not. The thought would be very carefully built and highly selective. It would tell

who we are, what we have done, and what we intend and hope to. do. It would state our

abilities and-by inference, and only to those we seek-our lacks; and would invite all

qualified persons and entities to get in touch with us."

Seaton looked abstracted for a moment. He was thinking. The notion of sending out a

beacon of thought was probably a good one-had to be a good one-after all, the

Norlaminians and Sacner Carfon knew what they were doing. Yet he could see

complications. The Fodan-Carfon band of the sixth order was still very new and very

experimental. "Can you make it selective?" he demanded. "I don't mind telling our

prospective friends we need help-I don't want to holler it to our enemies."

The Dasorian's deep voice chuckled. "It can not be made selective," he said. "The

message would of necessity be on such a carrier as to be receivable by any intelligent

brain. Yet it can be hedged about with such safeguards, limitations and compulsions that

no one could or would pay attention to it except those who possess at least some ability,

overt or latent, to handle the Fodan-Carfon band."

Seaton whistled through his teeth. "Wow! And just how are you going to clamp on such

controls as those? I don't see how anything but magic-sheer, unadulterated, pure black

magic!-could swing that load."

"Precisely. Or, rather, imprecisely. It is unfortunate that your term `magic' is so

inexcusably loose and carries so many and so deplorable connotations and implications.

Shall we design and build the thought we wish to send out?"

The thought was designed and was built; and was launched into space with the

inconceivable, the utterly immeasurable velocity of its order of being.

A red-haired stripper called Madlyn Mannis, strutting her stuff in Tampa in Peninsula

Florida, felt it and almost got it; but, not being very strongly psychic, shrugged it off and

went on about the business of removing the last sequin bedecked trifle of her costume.

And, as close to the dancer as plenteous baksheesh could arrange for, a husky, good-

looking young petrochemical engineer named Charles K. van der Gleiss felt a thrill like

nothing he had ever felt before-but ascribed it, naturally enough, to the fact that this was

the first time he had ever seen Madlyn Mannis dance. And in Washington, D.C. one

Doctor Stephanie de Marigny, a nuclear physicist, pricked up her ears, tightened the

muscles of her scalp, and tried for. two full minutes to think of something she ought to

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think of but couldn't.

Out past the Green System the message sped, and past the dust and the incandescent

gas that had once been the noisome planet of the Fenachrone. Past worlds where

amphibians roared and bellowed; past planets of methane ice where crystalline life

brooded sluggishly on its destiny.

In the same infinitesimal instant it reached and passed the Rim Worlds of our galaxy;

touching many minds but really affecting none. Farther and farther out, with no decrease

whatever in speed, it flew; past the inconceivably tiny, inconceivably fast-moving point

that housed the seven greatest, most fearsome minds that the Macrocosmic All had ever

spawned-minds that, knowing all about that thought already, ignored it completely.

Immensely farther out, it flashed through the galaxy in which was the solar system of

Ray-See-Nee-where, for the first time, it made solid contact with a mind in a body human

to the limit of classification. Kay-Lee Barlo, confidential secretary of Department Head

Bay-Lay Boyn, stiffened so suddenly that she stuttered into her microphone and had to

erase three words from a tape-and in that same instant her mother at home went into

deep trance.

And still farther out, in a galaxy lying almost on the universe's Arbitrary Rim, in the Realm

of the Llurdi, the message found a much larger group of receivers. While none of the

practically enslaved Jelmi could do much of anything about that weirdly peculiar and

inexplicably guarded thought, many of them were very much interested m it; particularly

Valkyrie-like Sennlloy, a native of the planet Allondax and the master biologist of all

known space; ancient Tammon, the greatest genius of the entire Jelman race; and

newlyweds Mergon and Luloy, the Mallidaxian savants.

None of the monstrous Llurdi-not even their most monstrous "director", Klazmon the

Fifteenth-being monstrous-could receive the message in any part. And how well that

was! For if those tremendously able aliens could have received that message, could have

understood it and acted upon it, how vastly different the history of all humanity would

have been!

2 LLURDI AND JELMI

THE distance from Earth to the Realm of the Llurdi is such that it is worth while to take a

moment to locate it in space.

It has been known for a long time that solar systems occur in lenticular aggregations

galled galaxies; each galaxy consisting of one or more thousands of millions of solar

systems. And for almost as long a time, since no definite or systematic arrangement of

the galaxies could be demonstrated, the terms "Universe" and "Cosmic All" were

Smith, E E 'Doc' - Skylark 4 - Skylark Duquesne

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