Philip E. High - Butterfly Planet

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ONE

THERE was no high drama, no intuitive awareness and certainly no danger signal. It appeared to

Maynard that he merely changed his mind. One minute the hot dinner he had been about to order seemed

worthwhile and, the next, he was no longer hungry.

He re-pocketed his coins, shrugged and began to shoulder his way unhurriedly out of the eatateria.

Dinner at noon was habit, but not always a necessity. Today, the thought of the menu-serve regurgitating

a plateful of food had taken away his appetite. Again, there were the crowds, no matter where one went

to eat, there were always crowds.

He became suddenly aware, as he approached the exit, that there was a man on either side of him. They

looked straight ahead, apparently unaware of his existence, but somehow they were too close for

comfort. They were also too determined to keep level.

Maynard hated being crowded, he also hated people walking too close behind him. Automatically he

slowed his pace and began fumbling in his pockets as if searching for something.

It was then that something hard pressed into the small of his back and a low voice said: “Just keep

walking, friend, make it casual."

Outside there was a low, waspish but luxurious vehicle and he was almost ushered into it—but for the

unchanging pressure in his back.

The men took positions on either side of him and the vehicle whispered away.

“Where are we going?” On subsequent reflection, it seemed a futile sort of question but he realized he

had asked it to relieve his growing alarm.

“You'll find out."

“That I could figure out myself. What are you—police?"

“Spare us, please. Do we look like police?"

“Then clearly you have made some sort of mistake. I'm a nobody, I'm a second-class technician

named—"

“Maynard. We're familiar with your name and background. Incidentally, you appear to be a reasonably

sensible man, you obeyed our orders. Continue to do so, that was a congealer we had pressed into your

back."

Maynard said nothing, aware only of a remote faintness. A congealer caused blood-clotting with an

immediate and invariably fatal heart attack. Had his warders chosen to use the weapon, they would have

got clean away with it. Only a post-mortem would reveal the true cause of death which was of no

consolation whatever.

The car stopped and he was ushered out. The men guided him to a tall building and they were whisked

upwards in the gravity shaft to almost the highest floor.

“This way."

He found himself in a high, wide room dominated by a huge ornate desk.

“Sit down.” A fat, brown-faced man sat behind the desk, resting his chin on his hands as if brooding.

“You heard. Sitdown !” Someone pushed a chair against the back of his knees and he sat rather heavily.

The fat man said: “That's better, I prefer the minor courtesies, don't you?” He removed his chin from his

hands and showed small white teeth, briefly. “For identification purposes, you may refer to me as

Smith—Mr.Smith. You are Peter Maynard, aged thirty years, two months and ten days. You are a

second-class technician employed by Allied Electronics."

He paused and looked at the other directly. “A third-class technician holding on to a second-class ticket

with his finger nails. You don't rate second-class, not really, you wear it because of a naïve honesty. So

far, you have ‘lost’ nothing, disposed of nothing or acquired anything for your personal use. Honest techs

are rare and your employers appreciate it."

He smiled again, the eyes remaining cold and calculating. “You are a nobody, Maynard, and I expect you

are wondering why we bothered to pick you up. The answer is brief, you are a deviant. Before you get

big ideas about that, permit me to cut you down to size. The word ‘deviant’ is an official label denoting

minor psychological variations. Actors, artists, musicians and various other creatives are thus bracketted.

Occasionally, however, someone crops up who is a little different. They may possess some minor asset

which could prove profitable and we like to get hold of them first."

Maynard said: “Presumably you have gained access to the psychological tapes in the Institute of

Psychiatry. The information contained on those tapes is supposed to be private."

The fat man laughed. “What an engaging little innocent you are.” He looked beyond Maynard and said:

“Difficult to believe that such can exist even in the ranks of the neutrals."

He looked again at Maynard. “We are a large organization, employing experts. You will be passed on to

these same experts for routine tests. Should these tests reveal something useful, you will be enrolled in the

organization at ten times the salary you are now receiving."

“With or without my consent!"

“Thank you for saving me the trouble of explaining, that is exactly the position.” He leaned back and

nodded briefly. “Take him away."

Hands descended on Maynard's shoulders. “Come along, friend."

Once more he was led to the gravity shaft, this time, however, there was no pressure in his back and he

was less dazed.

He wished briefly that he was some sort of superman or highly skilled agent such as one saw so often

depicted on the three-dimensional. Unfortunately his knowledge of self-defence and applied violence was

second-hand and basic.

His two escorts were lean, broad-shouldered and, all too clearly, professionals. He stood about as much

chance with them as a new-born lamb with a couple of tigers.

Nonetheless he was aware of desperation building something up inside him which, at any moment, was

liable to explode into action. Ill-considered and probably suicidal action he thought pessimistically but he

was unable to stop the tension building up. It was like a steam-head building up inside a boiler with no

safety valve and, in the long run, he knew, something would have to give.

In the street they urged him towards the waiting vehicle and he realized suddenly they were casual.

Perhaps they had decided he was harmless or, by now, so cowed that his resistance level was beneath

contempt. No weapon was pressed into his back and the men were doing their best to appear normal

before the surging crowds.

It was then that the pent-up desperation exploded into action but, even as he acted, he realized that his

mind was cool and detached and strangely uninfluenced by panic.

He lurched sideways, catching the man on his right in mid-stride. He spun, his nobbly technician's fist

clenched, and hit the other man in the stomach with all his force.

'Right', clutching desperately at his pocket, staggered sideways, tripped over his own feet and went

sprawling. ‘Left’ folded in half with a wheezing noise and sank to his knees.

Maynard leapt for the surging crowds on the sidewalk and, dodging and side-stepping quickly merged

with them.

Within two minutes he came to an intersection, he turned left and found himself level with a subway

entrance. He followed the crowds entering and was successful in catching the first train he saw just as it

was leaving. At the next station, he crossed platforms, changed trains and went back five stations in the

opposite direction.

Thirty minutes later he emerged in the outer suburbs, having changed trains nine times. Surely, for the

moment at least, he must be safe now.

Sweating and shaky he bought an iced drink from a street auto-vendor and looked about him.

Some distance away, an arched and ornate gateway bore the words “Green Belt". One of the city parks,

there at least he could relax on one of the benches and think. Furthermore, there were attendants at

frequent intervals, closed-circuit cameras to deter vandals and always a comforting policeman or two.

Inside the gate, a wide gravel path wound away between green and beautifully tended lawns. In the

distance, a lake shimmered, there were tree-lined walks, benches under spreading oaks and, despite

strolling people, a measure of solitude.

He found an unoccupied bench and sank gratefully and rather heavily into the soft pseudo-wood. Now

he must think. He was aware, however, that he had come to a dead-end. A period in his life had come to

an abrupt stop. He could never return to work or his apartment—they would be waiting. He had a small

nest-egg saved over the years which he could draw from any bank but it was no fortune. It would be

enough to carry him across the ocean to another continent but would do very little more. Certainly there

was not enough to approach the transmitter banks for transport to one of the stellar colonies.

Unsubsidized transport cost three thousand per light year and, even then, one needed official sanction

both from Earth and one's intended planetary destination.

He realized, with a kind of dull despair, that he was now a man on the run with very little future. The

police? What could he tell them? Only an unlikely story which he was unable to prove. If they believed

him, which was doubtful indeed, what could they do? An over-taxed organization like the police force

would hardly provide a permanent guard on such a slim story.

He sighed aloud and fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette.

“Here friend, save yourself some trouble.” A hand, holding a lighted cigarette, appeared suddenly in front

of him. At the same time, something cold pressed against the back of his neck.

“It's okay, take it, it's your brand but don't try anything.” The man came round from behind him and

seated himself at the far end of the bench. He was as lean, as professional, as his previous captors and

although of a different colouring and build might have been stamped from the same mould. His hand,

casually in right-hand pocket, clearly held and pointed a weapon.

Maynard shrugged and accepted the cigarette. “It didn't take you long?"

“Should it? We have agents all over, friend. In a way, it's a good thing, taught you a well-needed lesson.

There is no escape, nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, wherever you go, or how fast, you will always

find someone waiting at the other end. No, no need to get up yet, finish your cigarette, because, when we

get you back, you have another lesson to learn. After which, no doubt, you will be less inclined to

independent action."

A policeman strolled past and his captor said: “Hello, Fred, nice beat."

“Hello, Mr. Combes—yes, do with months of this, like a paid holiday.” He strolled on without glancing

back.

His captor smiled. “Well, go on, run after him, tell him that a familiar local business man has a gun pointed

straight at your guts. Another lesson, Maynard, one I don't have to spell out for you. Look around you,

all these people, but which one can you trust, which one is not watching?"

Maynard, cold inside, took another drag at the half-smoked cigarette and stared at a world which had

suddenly become hostile. What the man had said was probably true, the elderly man apparently half

asleep on a nearby bench, the strolling youth with his hands in his pockets, both could be enemies. Then

there was the tall man contemplating the flower bed, the young couple approaching with the baby-float.

No hardly, not with a baby, but one never could tell. They looked like normal people leading normal lives

and, as they drew level, he could hear them talking animatedly—It was then that the man spun the

baby-float and thrust it suddenly forwards so that it crashed against the bench between Maynard and his

captor. At the same time, something flashed in the woman's hand. His jailer half rose and fell back limply

with his mouth open.

His rescuer—if rescuer he was—was beside him in one stride. “All right, Maynard, up. We haven't much

time—this way."

They almost dragged him away from the trees and, as they did so, something descended from the sky

and stood there whispering about a foot above the grass.

"In!"Hands swifter and stronger than his own, lifted him and thrust him bodily through the door. He was

aware of them, leaping in behind him, the slamming of the door and a sudden heart-stopping ascent which

gradually slowed before he lost consciousness.

He looked about him, saw that he was in what appeared to be a normal air-taxi and struggled shakily

from the floor to the nearest seat.

“Close,” said the woman, “nicely timed and well executed but too close for comfort.” Maynard saw that

she was quite striking in a gaunt but rather strained kind of way.

“Aren't they all?” The man was fair-haired, short, broad-shouldered with fair skin sun-bronzed almost to

blackness.

He looked directly at Maynard, extracted something from his pocket and held it out for inspection.

“Right, you can relax, police, Special Branch. You are, within somewhat tenuous limits, safe now—safe

and committed. How do you feel about your change of status?"

“Eh?"

“Sorry, I see by your expression that you don't follow. You were a neutral, now you are a combatant but

I'll explain that as we go along. In the meantime, we'd like to hear your story."

Maynard told it.

“Ah, so that's the reason. One of our monitors picked up your escape and, since you were not a member

of the opposition, we reasoned that you must be important to them. Anyone important to them is

important to us, hence the rescue act. We'll have your psych-tapes thoroughly checked.” He extended

his hand. “Call me Dawnson, my partner is Maureen, no one ever calls her anything else."

“Charmed. In the meantime, I'd like to know what's going on."

“Certainly. It's very simple. Divide mankind into three, the neutrals, the law and the organization. You

were a neutral, that is to say that you were unaware of what was going on. One-third of mankind are in

the same position, they are unaware of anything taking place within their midst. Both sides work hard to

keep it that way. The hard-pressed law, because complete realization on the part of the neutrals would

bring anarchy and the collapse of civilization. The opposition, because they can use it and, at the same

time, hide behind it. Again, no predator can exist without prey, and ninety billion neutrals provide an

almost fantastic revenue. The organization—hereafter referred to as the Enemy—operates behind a

legitimate front and wallows in the luxurious rake-off."

“You're trying to tell me I'm living in the middle of a war and don't know about it!” Maynard was

shocked.

Dawnson said, without malice: “You have unwittingly provided the Enemy with funds. Organized crime

took over the Trade Unions more than five centuries ago."

“How big is this thing?"

“Too big. The enemy control two-thirds of the news services, all betting, all sport, all vice and ninety-two

per cent of entertainment services. In other spheres such as the regular police, the armed services and

local and provincial government, every third man is in Enemy pay. Further, no criminal, large or small,

operates outside the Organization. If he does, the Organization itself exposes him and the police make a

spectacular arrest, much applauded by Enemy News Services for obvious reasons."

Maynard frowned at him. “It sounds as if you're on the losing side."

“We're outnumbered by approximately four hundred and twenty to one,” said the woman, Maureen.

“We have our backs to the wall and the Enemy knows it. Every vehicle we possess is known and we

suspect that they have a complete dossier on each and every one of our operatives. Our only assets are a

higher degree of efficiency and, in an outmoded philosophy, a greater degree of sheer dedication."

“Bluntly,” said Dawnson, taking up the words, “this is war and, once again, how do you like your change

of status?"

Maynard scowled at him. “I would say I had been mobilized. How do you know I'll suit?"

“We don't, and if you don't we'll have to turn you loose. We can't afford passengers. Sorry to be so

brutal but this is war. Perhaps the tapes will turn up something helpful or, maybe, under routine tests, you

may have the makings of an efficient operative."

He laughed briefly. “Off the record, I'd say you stood a good chance. That smack in Grimmond's

stomach when you escaped places you in theelite class."

Before Maynard could comment, the taxi stopped and the door slid open.

When he stepped out, he found himself in artificial light with a roof over his head.

Dawnson waved his arm vaguely at the roof. “Can't leave a vehicle in the open. The Enemy are too smart

with their remote-control saboteuring devices. Come on, there are experts waiting to talk to you..."

The experts looked like businessmen and the ‘talk’ was virtually a grilling.

“Well, Mr. Maynard, we have been through your tapes and, yes, certainly, there is a slight variation from

the norm—Oh, do sit down—no—over there in the light, please."

They drew up chairs facing him. “According to your record, you were an uninspired but conscientious

worker. You were also highly ethical—why?"

“I don't quite understand—"

“You made no money on the side, disposing of waste material. Everyone else did, why didn't you?"

“It wasn't my property."

“Quite so, and was this principle or fear of the consequences?"

Maynard flushed angrily. “I never bothered to reason it out. One abides by a set of rules or one doesn't."

“What rules, no one else abided by them, why should you?"

Maynard half rose. “The rules were there, because others brushed them off I don't have to follow suit."

“You are an individualist?"

“I stand on my own feet if that's what you mean."

“Excellent, but we should like to hear if, due to these self-imposed principles, you felt noble or superior

to your fellows."

“I don't know what you're getting at but I never really thought about it. All I considered was living

comfortably with myself."

They looked at him expressionlessly, then one of them said: “You keep yourself to yourself, do you think

you are different from other people?"

“Not really, they just don't seem to like the things I like. No common ground, if you understand me."

“Yet your popularity rating is reasonably high—how do you account for that?"

“I mind my own business and I like to listen."

“Reason enough, we can proceed from there. Can you think of anything which makes you different from

others?"

“No."

“You have no creative talents?"

“I play a harmonica, read verse and like classical music—no."

“Have you thought of, studied, or experienced any form of extra-sensory perception?"

''No."

“How do you sleep, Mr. Maynard?”

“Very well, as a rule."

“Do you dream?"

“Yes, I dream. Everyone dreams, don't they?"

“We are asking the questions. Do you dream every night?"

“I couldn't say, but fairly frequently."

“Do you remember them?"

“Only when I wake as a rule."

“Are they vivid dreams?"

“Yes, they are."

“In colour or in black and white?"

“In colour."

“Ah, one moment, please.” They conferred in low voices.

“One more question, do your dreams, generally, make sense?"

“About half and half."

“Fifty per cent, a high average.” One of them rose. “Mr. Maynard, we are fumbling in the dark but your

dreams are the only lead we have to this unspecified deviation. We therefore, propose putting you to

sleep for a short period. We shall give a small hypnotic pill and, under its influence, you will tell us your

dream as you dream it."

“How can you be sure I shall dream?"

“Dreams take place at certain levels of sleep well known to science. The drug ensures that your sleep

state will be maintained in that level."

One of them came forward. “Now if you will just swallow this please—take a sip of water, fine. Now, if

we adjust your chair so—just relax, Mr. Maynard, nothing to worry about, nothing at all—"

He drifted into sleep and into the dream in an almost leisurely way. He knew as soon as it began that it

was a dream and yet at the same time it was so vivid, it seemed like waking elsewhere.

The first things he saw were the stars in a night sky and the stars were myriad and brilliant. He had never

seen stars like that before and yet, in some odd way, they were familiar.

Somewhere there was the slap and sigh of water and a creaking noise—rigging! He was on a ship! A

high-bridged wooden sailing ship with the sloping sails of the ancient Arab dhow.

Later when trying to recall the dream, he tried to pinpoint the time when he lost his identity but was never

able to do so.

One minute he was Maynard, asleep and knowing he was dreaming, and the next Matt Kern, and Matt

Kern had never heard of Maynard.

He walked to the rail nervously and looked down at the water. Still brightly phosphorescent, no sign of

King-spinner which so often tore ships apart. In which case, of course, they would make Terrentis at

dawn with everything in their favour. Well, almost everything, the sun would be in the eyes of the land

gunners and Portis Royal fleet.

He fingered his knife nervously. The Royal fleet, seventy six men-of-war and thirty heavily armed

Speedsails. This lot plus all the shore batteries which surrounded Terrentis harbour they were going to

take on with one ship.

He shivered. He didn't mind a fight, a fight in which he stood a chance but this was suicide. Unless—he

looked uneasily forward—unless the gun worked.

TWO

KERN edged forward, looking uneasily at the long, slender barrel with its sort of funnel end. It didn't

evenlook like a gun and those brass coloured things were certainly not cannon balls or chain-shot.

In truth he suspected that the gun was some kind of sorcery. It was rumoured that the Monarch had

made a pact with the devils who dwelt in the dark mountains. Devils whose dancing lights could be seen

from the high towers of the keep on a dark night.

He realized abruptly that it was growing light, it would of course be some time yet but—It did not seem

like some time, it seemed to come all too quickly with the great yellow sun rising rapidly above the

sloping green land of Terrentis.

To the left of the harbour a thin column of black smoke began to climb skywards to be joined almost

immediately by another on the right.

Signal fires! Already the intruder had been sighted, the bright scarlet sails determining its identity. Enemy

vessel approaching under full sail!

Even as he thought, the booming of warning gongs rolled faintly to them across the water. The garrison,

the town and the entire fleet were now alert and waiting. So much for the advantage of surprise.

They sailed on steadily and, in the harbour, sails began to climb the masts of the Royal fleet. He could

imagine winches turning and anchors rising from the green water.

More important, at the moment, however, were the coastal and harbour defences. Black powder being

poured into squat cannon, naked men ramming down ball and chain shot with long poles.

“Heave to!"

Kern stiffened. Heave to? Had he heard aright? Yet the sails were coming down and sea-anchors were

being tossed over the side.

They needed another four hundred lengths at least before they could begin to fight. Worse, three Royal

men-of-war were breasting the harbour side by side, vessels which out-ranged and out-gunned their own

by a good twelve lengths.

It was then that the sky seemed to split. Kern was hardened to the noise of cannon but not a sound such

as this. It was like someone striking an enormous gong with an iron hammer too quickly to follow.

Open-mouthed he saw the leading man-of-war literally fall apart in a geyser of red flame and black

smoke. The mainmast, complete with sail, rose high in the air and fell with a splash into the green sea.

Before he could take it in, fire and smoke ripped the entire side out of the second vessel which

immediately keeled over and began to sink. He saw nothing happen to the third vessel but, when he

looked for it, it was a mastless wreck, down by the stern and blazing furiously.

Maynard woke slowly and was surprised to see that the three experts had increased to ten.

They began to fire questions at him before he had fully reoriented himself.

“How big was this vessel? Describe, if you can, the appearance of the stars."

Even as he answered, he could hear others talking quickly: “Cisterine, undoubtedly, it explains the

additional stocks ofCuderium, no wonder shares fell by twelve points. Our friends have been mining it

wholesale."

“How did they get past the patrols?"

“Your guess is as good as mine. What riles me, however, is the fact that they had to play God to pass the

time."

Another, rather ageing voice, said: “Oh, indeed, no, not merely to pass the time, take a look at this—"

One of his original questioners came over. “Well, Maynard, undoubtedly, you have blown the roof off

something as you can see. In the meantime, a few words in private, this way, please."

He led the way into a small, sparsely furnished room and indicated a chair. “Do sit down, Mr.

Maynard—help yourself to cigarettes, they are on your left."

He sat down himself and looked at the other thoughtfully. “I am pleased to inform you that you passed

your test. Your recorded answers to a rather rough questionnaire were checked by our Institute of

Psychiatry and found to be satisfactory. Computer analysis confirmed the findings of the Board. In short,

Mr. Maynard, you have been screened, psycho-checked as potential agent and registered as suitable."

He paused and smiled. “On a less formal footing, irrespective of your suitability, you have a talent which

we can use. One point remains, however, we cannot compel you to join us. The job, despite its urgency,

is too exacting and too dangerous for such methods. An enforced operator is no operator at all and the

enemy is highly skilled in the exploitation of minor weaknesses. The final decision is, therefore, yours."

Maynard frowned at him. “Where do I sign?"

“There is nothing to sign, verbal confirmation is enough."

“Then take it as said, I'm with you."

“Excellent. You will be given intense courses in various branches of the service quite apart from our

normal battle training. During this period, you will be appointed to an instructor—himself a veteran

operator—whose sole purpose is to mould you into an operator capable not only of survival but

initiative."

He pressed a section of his chair. “Send Reed in, please.” The door opened within a few seconds and

there were hurried introductions.

“Well, I can leave you two alone now. Mr. Reed has been fully briefed on you, Maynard."

Reed was tall, lean, long of feature and slightly stooped. The faded, tired-looking blue eyes appeared to

be completely without expression. He looked, to Maynard, anything but an experienced operator.

Reed extracted a single cigarette from an inner pocket and appeared to hang it from his lower lip. It

straightened when he puffed it alight and then he let it hang again.

He inclined his head slightly. “Can't begin too soon—this way."

They ended up at a high, wide window far above the street.

Reed tapped it with his finger. “Transparent steel, opaque on the outer side. Has to be, this is an area

control building and a fortress."

He puffed briefly at the cigarette. “What I am about to tell you may sound over-dramatic but it is not an

exaggeration, merely a point of view. A point of view which you must never forget if you want to stay

alive. Look down there at the streets, the buildings, the people, that is your battleground. Down there is

the enemy, an enemy who wears no uniform and cannot be identified from friend or neutral. He walks

behind you in the street, sits with you when you eat and perhaps swims beside you in the public pools.

He may ask for a light, bow you into an hotel, try and sell you a flyer or, in another form, leave the smell

of perfume on your pillow.

“The enemy is young and old, male and female and he is everywhere. He watches you from the

micro-speck on the wall and he tracks you in the street, across skies and, should you visit one of the

stellar colonies, he will be there, waiting.

“When you enter a restaurant, night club, place of entertainment or house of chance, his instruments pry

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Philip E. High - Butterfly Planet

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