E. C. Tubb - Stardeath

VIP免费

2024-12-23 0 0 215.11KB 73 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

======================

Stardeath

by E.C. Tubb

======================

Wildside Press

www.wildsidepress.com

Science Fiction

---------------------------------

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Duplication or

distribution of this work by email, floppy disk, network, paper print out, or any other method is a

violation of international copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment.

---------------------------------

STARDEATH

E.C. TUBB

*WILDSIDE PRESS*

*STARDEATH*

Published by:

Wildside Press

P.O. Box 301

Holicong, PA 18928-0301 U.S.A.

www.wildsidepress.com

--------

*CHAPTER 1*

AFTER an eternity when he could see again Varl looked at his hands and stared wonderingly at the

unmarked skin, the uncrushed bones, and the intact nails. He had known his hands as things of horror --

burned, seared, the tips bleeding stumps, the knuckles crushed, splintered, shards of bone needling the

skin.

"Here." The figure at his side held out a cup containing a pale blue liquid. "This will help."

The masked man was shapeless beneath an enveloping robe. A creature of studied anonymity, even

his voice betrayed a calculated distortion. The cup he held in gloved hands was made of fragile plastic

which would shatter into a powder if broken. Varl ignored it as he did the man, concentrating on his own

hands, remembering the things which had been done to them.

"Subjective punishment," the robed figure explained. "An illusion created by the use of electronic

stimulus on appropriate areas of the cortex. If the level had been too high your protoplasm would have

responded in psychosomatic mirroring. As it was, you only suffered mental anguish."

Only? The agonies of hell itself delivered by means of fire and clamps and tearing steel. A time in

which he had known the touch and taste, the sight and sound, the stench of calculated torment. Dimly he

remembered a frenzied screaming and sensed the soreness of his throat. Had he begged? Pleaded?

Groveled? Prayed?

"I suggest you drink this." The robed man held out the cup again. "There has been some dehydration

and loss of essential bodily chemicals together with certain physical reactions associated with your recent

experience. We do not wish for you to fall below optimum physical condition."

"Why not?" Varl looked at the man. "Is there to be more?"

"Punishment? The courts -- "

"You bastard! You sadistic bastard! You -- "

"Steady!" The gloved hand thrust the cup forward. "Drink this! Drink it!"

The cup shattered, a blue shower rising to fall and darken the fabric of the glove and the robe of the

man who wore it. He called out in sudden alarm as Varl rose, snarling, hands reaching to kill.

"Guards!"

Varl touched the robe and the flesh beneath, fingers stiffening as they began to dig into the flaccid

throat. His grip locked as the paralysis seized him and he toppled to one side, his temple striking the edge

of the table. Blood welled from the wound to mask his cheek and jaw.

Then the guards were around him, freeing his hands and staunching the wound, adding more stings to

the one which had fed the numbing drug into his veins. Needles brought a sudden darkness.

When he woke, he was back in his cell. It was a box containing a bunk, a bowl, toilet facilities, and

nothing else. A glowing plate in the ceiling provided illumination. The door was a solid panel. The cell was

a place buried deep, isolated from life, insulated from sound -- a tomb for the living dead.

Varl sat upright on the bunk, his back against the wall. His head ached a little and his nerves were

jumping from the aftermath of drugs and punishment. The wound on his temple, sealed beneath a

transparent dressing, itched a little but he made no effort to scratch it. Instead he relaxed and closed his

eyes and sent his senses to explore his environment.

Long ago, when young and eager to taste the adventure which was space, he rode the ships to new

and exotic worlds where he had learned boredom and disappointment and, too often, the animal which

lives within the skin of a man. But he learned how to kill time in space by picking up the vibrations

created by every movement, every word. In a sealed environment nothing can be lost, and in space

sound is caught and retained by the hull to be transmitted and circulated in fading murmurs which hang

like ghosts in the whispering air.

In his cell he heard the thin vibration of a crying voice, a plaintive wailing which keened on and on as

if a wandering soul mourned for the lost innocence of childhood. He heard a laugh which held the hate of

a nation and a sigh which whispered like a wind between the stars, a scrape of a shoe and the padding of

naked feet, a soft rill of running water, clicks more imagined than heard, and the rustle of what could have

been the passage of electrons through a wire or the soft susurrations of a brush through a mane of silken

hair.

He heard the dying shrieks of his recent ordeal.

He remembered the slow and agonizing crushing of his bones, the ripping torment as his nails were

torn from their beds, the sizzling burn of heated iron. Things once done in the name of religion by robed

familiars working in dungeons illuminated by guttering flambeaux were now done in the name of justice by

cold, detached men working with meters, dials, and minute pulses of electronic energy. A different age,

different means, but the motives were the same. And the cruelty remained.

To kill once had not been enough to satisfy the ire of kings. They had demanded multiple deaths as

far as the limitations of the human physique had allowed: hanging, drawing, quartering, throttling to

unconsciousness, reviving, dissecting, burning pieces of flesh before the living eyes of their victims, forcing

molten lead down a throat, filling a rectum with acid; or slow immersion in boiling oil, or impalement. The

records were filled with the diabolical ingenuity of torments devised by man to use on his fellows.

Finally, the ultimate had been achieved. The torments of hell could be visited on a victim again and

again and again. Punishment could fit the crime in a manner never dreamed of by those who had

proposed the value of poetic justice.

Varl stirred a little, easing a cramp in his right thigh, a growing ache in his left buttock. Small shifts of

position were undiscernible to any who might be watching, and there would be a watcher, he knew.

Someone manned the scanner which monitored his cell, checked his reactions, took notes, and gathered

data on which to base an opinion -- the unseen opponent in a game he could not hope to win.

Against his shoulders he felt a new vibration, an alteration in background level which grew stronger

as if someone traversed the passages leading toward him. Varl tensed imperceptibly, readying himself for

potential action. Behind the blank mask of his face his mind spun. The sound could mean nothing or have

another cell as its target -- a routine visit from a medic or minor official to some unfortunate who had tried

to kill himself and who had, as most of them did, failed.

Varl sharpened his senses as the vibrations grew stronger, hope flowering with the growing

conviction that his cell was their objective. Not one man, that was hoping for too much. Not even two; he

forced himself to relax as he counted three sets of footsteps. One in the cell, one just outside, the third

placed some distance down the passage to act as general cover. He could kill one, perhaps even two,

but the third would bring him down before he could get within reach. Unless the man could be lured

close, tricked into dropping his guard in some way -- if the chance came he would take it!

He stretched and slipped from the bunk as the footsteps halted beyond the door. He swayed as he

hit the floor and turned toward the bowl. As the door opened he spun, one hand lifted to the dressing on

his temple, to slump and lie sprawled on the floor.

"Careful!" The oldest of the two at the door snapped a warning. "He's a killer, remember. Don't take

any chances."

"Cover me." His companion stepped into the cell and stooped over the limp figure. "He's out.

Delayed shock, I guess, and that crack on the head couldn't have helped any."

"He could be bluffing." The elder guard looked up at the light inset in the ceiling. "Check wanted on

recent actions -- report!"

"Prisoner remained quiet after regaining consciousness," the unseen watcher said over the speaker in

the ceiling. "He seemed dazed a little and sat as if meditating. Slept some, I guess; at least I didn't see him

move."

"Not at all?"

"Not while I was watching. I've fifty others on my panel to keep an eye on."

"Then what?" The eldest guard frowned at the delay in the other's response. "What happened when

we arrived?"

"He got down from the bunk and headed toward the bowl. I guess he was thirsty. He stopped when

you opened up and turned toward the door. Then he went down. Hell, you saw that. Could have been

sudden nausea. He's had it rough lately."

"The bastard asked for it." The guard glowered at his companion busy over the slumped figure. "Any

change?"

"None. Skin flaccid and chill. Some perspiration. Breathing shallow. No response to pain stimuli."

He displayed the pin he had used to dig beneath a nail. "Maybe if we got him on the bunk it would help."

"It would look better."

"Well? I can't manage him alone."

"And my back won't allow me to lift a weight like that." The older guard yelled down the passage.

"Hans! Give a hand here! Hurry!"

"Sick?" The third guard looked at the prisoner when he arrived. "Or did you deck him?"

"He hasn't been touched. Give Frank a hand to lift him on the bunk." He stepped back. "All right,

you two, get on with it."

He watched as they stooped, heaving, to lift the man from the floor and rest him on the bunk. A

moment later they relaxed, easing their backs and stretching, forgetting the danger inherent in a desperate

man, realizing it too late.

Hans dropped, retching as a stiffened hand rose to stab at his throat, his breath a harsh and labored

rasping as he fought to draw air through a ruptured larynx. Frank joined him, unconscious, the nerves in

his neck impacted by the side of a hand like a blunted ax. The older guard backed as Varl rose and

lunged toward him; his mouth opened to yell a warning, one hand fumbling at his belt. The hand froze and

the warning remained unuttered as he felt a hand grip his throat and the ball of a thumb come to rest just

below his right eye.

"Make a sound and I'll blind you," Varl said. He moved the thumb a little, lifting his index finger to

threaten the other eye. "On your knees. Move!"

"Crazy," the guard said. "There's no need for this. We -- "

"Shut up!" Varl dropped his hand from the other's throat and snatched the needle gun from its

holster. "Up and out!"

"I told you -- "

"Out!" The darts in the gun would not kill, but the weapon itself could crush a skull if swung by a

powerful arm. "Down the passage and head upward. Do it, damn you!"

It was madness, a gamble he could not win. But even so the game was worth playing for the one

slim possibility that, despite all logic, he would be able to get clear and make his way to the open, the

sun, the freedom which was the prize. He had to take the chance no matter what the cost.

They let him climb three levels before gassing him down.

--------

*CHAPTER 2*

SHE was tall, blonde, and blue-eyed, with a good figure and a mouth twisted as if she had tasted

something bad. Her voice and eyes matched her uniform: crisp and cold.

"Kurt Varl, you disappointed me. I'd hoped to find an intelligent man."

Captain Varl."

"Your license was rescinded when you were sentenced to corrective punishment -- for multiple

murder and wanton destruction of private property. Or are you going to protest your innocence?"

"Execution is not murder."

"And you killed in your capacity as captain in order to prevent a mutiny." She shrugged indifferently.

"As I said, Varl, you are a fool."

"And you, Major? What are you?"

"You recognize my uniform?"

"I can read your braid."

"And admit I outrank you?"

"Not where it counts." Abruptly, he was tired of the game. "In the Venegian Sector we had a name

for women like you. They were all well built and good-looking and all had tailored uniforms and high

rank. The only field of battle they ever saw was between the sheets." He caught the hand she swung at

his face, his own fingers digging hard into her wrist. "Whose battleground are you, Major?"

For a moment their eyes met and then, with surprising strength, she jerked her wrist from his grasp.

"An animal," she said bitterly. "I should have expected it. A beast walking on two legs. What else could

have killed nine people and destroyed a valuable cargo? You belong to the Dark Ages."

He made no comment, looking instead at the room, and at the tall window which gave a view of

rolling hills in the far distance, of clouds, and of the ground a long, long way below. The sun was low in

the sky, dying with flaring streamers of crimson and gold, scarlet and amber, pink and orange. The colors

touched his face and highlighted the cheekbones as they accentuated the hollows, dusting the eyes and

giving the whole a resemblance to a pagan mask. Studying it, she thought of primitive idols wreathed in

the smoke of sacrificial fires, their nostrils flared to catch the scent of newly spilled blood.

Then he turned and the moment was gone. He was just a man again, one caught in a vicious trap, the

victim of justice formulated to embrace different circumstances on a different world.

He said flatly, "If you've come to gloat, forget it. Men are dead and I killed them and would again if

the need arose. They were scum and you know it. The courts knew it -- but the cargo belonged to the

Pui-Chi Consortium and reparation had to be made. So I got sentenced and the government paid and

everyone's happy."

"You infer expediency?"

"That and stupidity -- mine. I should have taken what was going and run. Instead, I acted the

captain, brought in my ship, delivered my passengers, and faced the music." He looked at his clenched

fists. "The last time, Major. I promise you that."

"You'll be old before they let you out," she said bluntly. "Old and broken and maybe insane. Nine

men, Varl. That's a heavy debt to pay, and you're damned lucky it isn't more. Those guards could have

died. If the monitor hadn't summoned medics without delay, they would have died and you'd be facing

fresh charges at this very moment. Think about it. Just think."

He drew in his breath and shook his head, then turned and paced the floor. The gas had left him a

little weak and foggy but not enough for him to be unaware of the guards beyond the door. The woman

had come for a reason; the guards had been sent to collect him; he had acted too quickly for his own

good.

"I've thought," he said. "So?"

"Just how badly do you want to get away from here?"

"So badly that if you're having a game with me I'll break your neck."

"I believe you." She met his eyes; her own were cold, calculating. "Do you think you could do it?"

"It would be fun to try."

"Your kind of fun." Contempt edged her voice. "To hurt. To kill. To force others to jump when you

give the word. A child. A vicious, unthinking child."

"An animal," he said. "That's what you called me. But even an animal has feelings. What do you want

from me?"

"You."

"Just that?"

"Can there be more?" She turned and poured wine from a decanter into a glass and lifted it to study

the tints swirling behind the crystal. "A deal, Varl. Your sentence commuted in return for your full

cooperation. I warn you now -- you could be getting the worst of the deal." She poured a second glass

of wine and extended it toward him. "Do we drink to it?"

He shook his head.

"You'd rather go back to your cell? To sit and wait for what's coming? What will it be the next time?

Flaying? Being slowly immersed in boiling oil? Choking on molten lead? Does it give you a kick? Are you

a masochist?"

Her voice was too high, its tone too harsh, and the set of her mouth and eyes betrayed her strain.

She was a woman sent to do a job and already she had tasted the possibility of failure.

He said, "The continued application of pain can build a resistance to its stimulus, as witnessed by

those addicted to the use of the whip. It can even cause an emotional transference. Who knows, given

time I may run joyfully to the sessions, eager to taste the new thrill of broken bones and burned flesh.

After all, it's only in the mind."

"You bastard!"

"Yes."

She looked at her wine and said, abruptly, "We need you."

"Who?"

"Earth Confederation. The Comptroller. The fleet. Every damned ship in space. Posterity. You want

more?"

"Start with your name."

"Major Erica Borken, Central Computer Division, Probability and Analog Section, Spatial

Department, Special Assignment."

"Why me?"

"The specifications." The wine vanished as she lifted the glass and drank; a single droplet clung like a

pearl to the full bloom of her lower lip. "We need a certain kind of man, and they aren't all that plentiful.

A primitive -- but with a brain. A man with guts and the killer instinct -- but who knows how to evaluate

situations Someone who has experience in space, who can handle people, who can give orders and

make them stick. A fighter. A man who can survive. Someone who knows how to hate."

"An animal?"

"That and more. You fit and we need you -- need you enough to spring you out of this trap. But I'm

not begging. There are others, maybe not as well suited, but available and a damned sight easier to find."

"Then get one," he said. "But when you hand him over, be prepared to add that nice, neat uniform,

your rank, your office, your career. The bastards who put me in here aren't gentle. Fail them and you'll

find out just how hard they can be."

"I know."

The admission gave him victory, but he did not make the mistake of pressing it too hard. She could

see him marched back to hell and think her career cheap at the price.

"Get me out of here," he said. "Get me some decent clothes and take me somewhere I can feel

human again. And tell me what all this is about."

* * * *

The first took time, the second money, the third cooperation she was reluctant to give.

"My job was to get you," she said. "The details will come later."

"But you know them?"

"Some of them. Enough to know how important this is. Enough to be scared."

They sat on the terrace of a hotel which emulated a mountain in its soaring flight toward the stars.

Facets of crystal caught and magnified the lights of distant beacons and the transient gleams of passing

aircraft. Erica's hair shone with burnished perfection in the brilliance; her face was angelic.

The illusion was created by too many lonely hours, Varl knew; he busied himself with the meal. The

woman had ordered and the table was loaded with a profusion of dishes, each holding a succulent

delight. Varl probed with the pointed sticks provided, lifting, tasting, recognizing flavors and discovering

tastes he had never known existed.

"Luxury," he said. "Who is footing the bill?"

''I'm allowed expenses."

"That isn't answering my question."

"What does it matter? Call it reparation. A bribe. Compensation."

"And you?"

"I don't come with the meal." For a moment her face froze to match her eyes. "Don't get the wrong

idea, Varl. You can push too hard."

"I was curious as to who was backing you." He speared a morsel of meat and chewed, not speaking

again until he had swallowed. "The Pui-Chi Consortium valued that cargo at about three times its loaded

worth. They might have had the idea that I cached it. A meal, a pretty woman, some money spent in

bribes -- some would think it a good investment."

"Did you? Cache the cargo, I mean?"

His shrug matched the enigma of his smile.

"Not that you'd tell me if you had," she said. "But it doesn't matter. I'm working for Earth

Confederation, and all expenses are taken care of. Incidentally, we leave tomorrow morning. Early, I'm

afraid, but I didn't think you'd object."

"I don't."

"No." She looked at the ground lying dark below the terrace, at the strings of lights, the

condominiums, the shopping malls, the industrial complex. "Civilization," she mused. "It looks so safe, yet

how thin is the veneer. Sometimes, when I realize just how thin, it scares me." Then, abruptly, she said,

"Did you find it hard to kill?"

"I learned how in the Venegian Sector."

"Things," she said. "Insects -- it isn't the same."

He made no comment, lifting his glass to sip at his wine; the light from the crystals adorning the

building illuminated his face and gave it a harsh bleakness.

"You must have been young then," she said. "During the war, I mean. Little more than a boy. And

yet you learned to kill -- or so you say. What did they look like? Wasps? Spiders? Ants?"

"Men," he said. "You've been reading the propaganda. They weren't men, but they looked like

old-time knights in armor. Their exoskeletons were smooth and black and gleamed like polished metal,

and when they bled they oozed red. Real blood just like ours. Only their shapes were different."

"And their breeding habits."

"And the way they looked after each other," he admitted. "They put us to shame. The damned war

should never have started, and it should have ended much sooner than it did. Too many men died out

there. Men and Venegians, kids, babies, grubs, women, but people, all of them." He emptied his glass

and paused with his hand over the bottle. "I've had enough."

"Go ahead if you want. I'll take care of you."

"Orders?"

"That, if you want."

"I'd rather talk."

"And I know what about. But leave it. The Comptroller will tell you what all this is about, and he

won't thank me for having interfered. Or for telling you about Polar North. In the meantime, I suggest you

do your best to relax. You're far too tense. Can you swim?"

They sported in water the temperature of blood, then plunged through misty curtains into a freezing

chill to dive into tubes of electronic forces which spun them about and spat them into pools alive with

golden fish and fronds of delicate weed. And later they walked on the upper promenade to look at the

stars through panes of magnifying crystal, then went to sit in a garden heavy with the scent of nocturnal

blooms.

"The cargo was contaminated," he said abruptly. "Do you know what a tenge is?"

"A parasite, isn't it?"

"One yielding a rare and expensive compound. Not just a perfume but a scent keyed to the natural

exudations so as to accentuate the pheromones. Wearing it, a woman -- any woman -- is irresistible to

any partner she desires. And no woman can deny a man using it anything he wants. The Pui-Chi were

smuggling a consignment of eggs in the cargo, but something went wrong. The things hatched ahead of

time."

"Parasites," she said. "I begin to understand."

"They use living creatures for hosts. When gravid, they vent their eggs into the bloodstream. Once

distributed about the body, death is inevitable."

"But newly hatched eggs?"

"They'd used a dog to harbor them. It had remained alive while being eaten away inside. I had

passengers to think about, women and children. The scum I killed had been set to guard the consignment.

Dead, they couldn't argue." In the shadows he saw the gleam of her eyes. "What would you have done?"

"I don't know. The same, I guess -- no, I lack your courage. Does that make me a coward?"

"No. You'd have done the same if you were faced with it."

"I wish I could be as sure of that as you are." Her hand found his own, fingers closing, giving comfort

with their warmth. "So you destroyed the cargo -- but why not tell what happened?"

"I did, but I'd done too good a job. No evidence," he explained. "My word against that of the

Pui-Chi and the lie-detector evidence was ruled inadmissible because of my space-service conditioning.

Bribery, but it worked, and I'd carried a couple of bleeding hearts who swore I was a martinet. They

didn't like the way I'd ordered them around when they broke regulations."

"It's over now," she said.

He was bitter. "Is it?"

"How do you mean?"

"I'm out of jail but still have to pay the price. How long do I need to pay?"

"Maybe all your life," she said. "But there are compensations."

Later, in the snug comfort of her bed, she reached out to touch the hard contours of his body and

found him sleeping like a child. But before dawn he woke her with his frenzied screams.

--------

*CHAPTER 3*

NASIR Kalif was a hundred and thirty-two years old but artifice had lifted a barrier against the

years. A mechanical heart beat within his chest, chemicals laved his blood, and fresh organs had replaced

the old. Only his brain remained untouched -- the unique organ which housed the mind and the

conceptions it entertained, the power which had made him the Comptroller of Earth Confederation.

"Later you will be given a complete mental and physical examination," he said to Varl. "For now, tell

me how you feel."

"Relieved."

"At having left Voltan? I can appreciate your sentiments. A soft and congenial world but one cursed

with peculiar customs."

"Imported from Earth."

"True." Kalif made a small gesture with a hand as thin and as curved as the claw of a bird. "The

Confederation embraces a variety of worlds, and on each we have stamped our imprint. Subjective

punishment holds certain desirable attributes, but, like most things, it can be abused." He paused. "I

understand you don't sleep well at nights."

"I have dreams. Nightmares."

"Of course. They will be taken care of."

"By Major Borken?" Varl met the dull brown eyes of the old man. "I must congratulate you on your

choice of messenger."

"She is efficient."

"And was hand-picked for the job." Varl made it a statement, not a question. "You knew of my

preference for blondes, for tall, shapely women, for a personality stronger than mush but not as hard as

steel. Why go to so much trouble?"

"You don't know?"

"She refused to tell me. Said that you would explain it all at the right time." Varl looked at the room,

the instruments it contained, the furnishings. "Here?"

"Later, but now let me show you my garden."

It was a fantasy in ice. Mutated plants clung to blue-white surfaces, spreading flame leaves over chill

hummocks, and sprouting in lacelike fountains from masses of frozen water. An elaborate maze of paths

wound through Polar North.

"A place in which to think," Kalif mused. "One in which to dream. You are comfortable?"

Varl nodded; beamed and focused heat provided localized warmth.

"Problems," the Comptroller continued. "At one time they threatened the very basis of society.

Civilization had become too complex and skills too specialized. Local difficulties were lost in the general

pattern, and one area could starve while another enjoyed a glut. Communication and cooperation

provided the structure of salvation, but it required more. A means to assimilate a variety of cultures, to

absorb the impact of newly opened worlds, was needed. The discovery of the hyperdrlve was a

double-edged sword."

Varl made no comment as the old man fell silent. Beneath their feet tiny crystals of ice made harsh

crunching sounds, and Varl's hands flexed in automatic response. Ahead, masked by billowing curtains of

vapor, something reared at the heart of the maze.

"A mixed blessing," Kalif continued. "New worlds for the taking, but with each came fresh problems.

The trouble in the Venegian Sector was but one of many. Before that, we had a dozen conflicts, each of

which could have led to destruction. Luck saved us, but we needed something more. The computers

provided it."

"Records," Van said. "Completed details of everything everywhere. Each individual docketed,

assessed, filed, registered. The lawless could be isolated and weeded out, the misfits noted and action

taken, the desired pattern imposed on entire populations."

"Communication and cooperation."

Varl shrugged. "There is another word for it."

"Emasculation?" Kalif smiled. "No, I do not read minds, but I've learned to recognize the obvious.

Yet, what was the alternative? War, conflict, or the risk of exotic disease creating a biological holocaust.

Conformity is the pattern of every civilization. The lesson is to be found throughout history."

"And the danger. How many civilizations have fallen to the uninhibited barbarian? How -- "

Varl broke off, his eyes narrowing, one hand lifting to grip a down-pointing spear of ice which

snapped as he closed his fingers. "Brittle," he murmured. "Once you establish a pattern, you build in

destruction. Unless a thing can bend, it must break."

"So?"

"Ask your machines. They know everything. But if they know so much, why do we need you?"

"Because a machine can never be more than you make it. If it ever grows beyond its predicted

design you no longer have a machine, you have life." Kalif paused. "But that is not our problem. And to

answer your question, I am needed because someone has to be able to scan the total pattern. Let me

illustrate. On Hadjao a plant mutated to produce a substance which affected the inner membrane of the

nose. It was harmless but it altered the sense of smell. As a result the sale of coffee in that area fell to a

minute portion of the anticipated amount. There was no correlation, you understand, no hard evidence,

just financial ruin facing the growers and shippers in that region. Mechanical investigation might have

found the association, given time. I discovered it within hours of its having been brought to my attention.

The difference between detection and intuition. Machines have one, but we have the other. And I have

more than most. Which is why I am the Comptroller of Earth Confederation."

"And I am -- what?"

"For the moment a pupil. Shall we press on?" The path widened, the flowers changing to a denser

profusion of exotic blooms -- stars, cones, and suspended globules touched with a variety of blazing

color. They were mutations and imports from a host of worlds. Banks of moss softened the chill of the

ice with fronds and tendrils; lichens made mosaics and geometrical shapes of staggering complexity.

As they approached the curtains of vapor, Varl leaned back to study the height of whatever it was

the coiling mist kept hidden. The air had grown warmer, and he guessed that permanent heat sources

monitored the area. He wondered at their purpose and wondered, too, why the Comptroller had led him

to the enigma.

He followed Kalif into the mist and through it, to stand in a clear space looking up at a statue.

"Ludwig Kreutzal," Kalif said.

"I know."

"A genius -- did you know that too?"

"He invented the hyperdrive -- the hydee as we call it now -- three hundred years ago, give or take

a decade. I've seen his photographs in books."

"But not a statue?"

"No."

"Can you guess why?" Kalif did not wait for an answer. "More history, I'm afraid. After the Debacle

at the turn of the century, it was thought that all personality cults were too dangerous to be tolerated. So

no statues were permitted, no monuments, nothing which could be turned into a shrine. In a sense it was

a reversion to old, long-held principles of a religious nature. But Kreutzal was too great a man to be

ignored, and, well, the Comptroller has certain privileges. Privacy, for one. What do you think of it?"

The statue was -- awesome. Not in size, though it was too large to take in at a glance, but in stature,

expression, and assembly of its parts. But most awesome of all was the face itself.

Eyes open, face uptilted a little, the statue stared into the infinite as if seeing the open doors of

paradise. The face was of a man transformed, touched with the warmth of Promethean fire, gifted,

granted a fragment of the divine, of a man who had found a key for the locks which held man prisoner on

a tiny world.

Varl lowered his head and stared unseeing at the ground. He saw only the face -- the radiant visage

glowing as if illuminated from within. The cheeks were sunken, the temples pronounced, the mouth thin,

the nose beaked, the eyebrows a hard ridge above the eyes. The face was intense, almost ugly, yet the

sculptor had used his artistry to capture in stone the essential essence of the man, to freeze his genius as

long as the material would last.

"Who?"

"A madman," Kalif said. "A student tormented by visions and unable to accept the restrictions of

society. So he had to be called mad. But I think, at the end, he found happiness."

As Ludwig Kreutzal must have found happiness. Varl studied the features again, his admiration for

the sculptor growing as he noticed delicate touches he had missed at first. Mad, the Comptroller had

said, but there had been bitterness in his voice. A relative? A son? Who else could have gained such

close cooperation?

Varl said, "Is he dead? The sculptor, I mean."

"Yes."

"A pity." Varl touched the stone. "It's an even greater pity that his work must remain hidden. It isn't

fair to Kreutzal. No photograph can do him the same justice. We should respect our benefactors."

"You think him that?"

"He gave us space, a universe to play in, worlds without number to make our own. If any man was a

hero it is Kreutzal. He should be honored above all others -- and you hide him behind a curtain of mist.

An old man -- " Varl broke off. "Never mind."

"An old man shaking in fear? Is that what you were going to say?"

"Leave it."

"Why? Haven't you the courage to speak your mind?" Kalif glanced up at the statue, his eyes

lingering on the face. "Three hundred years," he whispered. "A man born to stand among those precious

few who altered the world with the sacrifice of their lives, lifting their fellows from the mud and slime of

savage ignorance. And yet, at times I wonder if we would be happier if he had never lived. Do we really

need the stars? To travel so far and so fast? Build so high? Live so long? Change so much? And what of

those others on distant worlds? The Venegians? The Chard? The amphibians of Hermapolis? The avians

of the Munchian Cluster? Would they have been happier without the advent of man? Have they reason to

bless Kreutzal's name?"

"Natural progression," Varl said. "The strong survive."

"Jungle law."

"It works."

_"'Those shall take who have the power,'"_ the Comptroller quoted. _"'And those shall keep who

can.'_ The harsh creed of a barbarian -- and Kreutzal was one at heart. What else is a conqueror? He

sent the sword of his invention in a bright challenge to every sentient creature in the universe. We are

man! What we want we take! And if some race, somewhere, should pick up our gage, what then?"

"We fight."

"And maybe perish." Kalif shook his head. "Why should we be the exception? Before us, the great

reptiles dominated the earth, and who knows what reigned before them? How many other races have

flowered to vanish and leave nothing but unreadable smears on adamantine stone?"

Varl did not answer. Instead he said, "I was brought here for a purpose, and I think it's time I was

told what it is."

"Impatient?"

"Curious."

"As Kreutzal was curious." Again the old man looked at the statue. "Look at him, Varl. Study that

face. Remember it. The visage of a saint, some would say, but there can be no doubt it belonged to a

genius. I want you to find him."

The air was warm despite the surrounding ice, but Varl felt the touch of a sudden chill. An old man,

lost in dreams, his abilities dulled by accumulated years, the most powerful man in Earth Confederation --

insane?

"The machines selected you," Kalif said. "From all the millions of suitable types, you were chosen as

the one most likely to succeed. That is why I had you released from Voltan. Paroled, rather; there is a

slight distinction. Need I explain what it is?"

"You tricked me! You -- "

"Lied?" Kalif's smile was the twitching of his mask. "No, I have not lied. And I offer you a choice:

work with me or go back to your cell."

He could resume his subjective punishment, feel again the agony of tormented flesh, crushed bone,

fire and acid and tearing steel, watch as his feet were pulped in cramping boots, and feel the rising flames

as he burned at the stake.

Or he could find a man dead three hundred years.

--------

*CHAPTER 4*

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

======================StardeathbyE.C.Tubb======================Copyright(c)1983byE.C.TubbWildsidePresswww.wildsidepress.comScienceFiction---------------------------------NOTICE:Thisworkiscopyrighted.Itislicensedonlyforusebytheoriginalpurchaser.Duplicationordistributionofthisworkbyemail,floppydisk,ne...

展开>> 收起<<

E. C. Tubb - Stardeath.pdf

共73页,预览15页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

E. C. Tubb - Stardeath

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: