Dickson, Gordon - Act Of Creation

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2024-11-19 1 0 35.03KB 13 页 5.9玖币

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"Adam, come here," I ordered

Gordy is perhaps best known for the group of stories and novels

involving Dorsai – the world which produces as its only export the

finest mercenary soldiers in known space. (The Hugo-winning

"Soldier, Ask Not" is part of this cycle, which is itself only a part of a

much larger scheme Gordy calls the Childe Cycle. Ultimately this

should involve historical novels, mainstream novels, and possibly a

series of concertos for the kazoo – if I recall correctly.) The Dorsai

are among the most memorable characters in sf, dark and somber

and inflexibly honorable to a man; not (as Gordy has said) men of

the military, but men of war. The following story is the only

representation of the Dorsai Saga in this collection – and a strikingly

atypical one (well, the typical ones are already heavily

anthologized). It is also one of my personal favorites.

History says that very often it is the people who do the most for their

race that suffer most greatly: Prometheus, Moses, and a Nazarene

carpenter come to mind. But the Law of Karma insists that the books

always balance in the end – that inherent in every destruction is

an . . .

ACT OF CREATION

Now that I have had time to think it over, the quite commonsense

explanation occurs to me that old Jonas Wellman must have added an

extra, peculiar circuit to cause the one unusual response. He was quite

capable of it, of course – technically, that is. And I don't know but what he

was equally capable of it psychologically. Nevertheless, at the time, the

whole thing shook me up badly.

I had gone up to see him on a traditionally unpleasant duty. His son, Alvin,

had been in my outfit at the time of Flander's Charge, off the Vegan

Warhold. The boy was liaison officer from the Earth Draft, and he went with

the aft gun platform, the Communications Dorsai Regulars, when we got

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"Adam, come here," I ordered

pinched between a light cruiser and one of those rearmed freighters the

Vegans filled their assault line with.

The cruiser stood off at a little under a thousand kilometers and boxed us

with her light guns. While we were occupied, the freighter came up out of

the sun and hit us with a CO beam, before we caught her in our laterals and

blew her to bits. It was their CO beam that did it for Alvin and the rest.

At any rate, Alvin had been on loan to us, so to speak, and, as commanding

officer, I owed a duty-call to his surviving relatives. At that time, I hadn't

connected his last name – Wellman – with Jonas Wellman. Even if I had, I

would have had to think a long minute before remembering just who Jonas

Wellman was.

Most people using robots nowadays never heard of him. Of course, I had,

because we Dorsai mercenaries were the first to use them in combat.

When I did make the connection, I remember it struck me as rather odd,

because I had never heard Alvin mention his father.

I had duty time-off after that – and, since we were in First Quadrant area, I

shuttled to Arcturus and took the short hop to Sol. I had never been on the

home world before and I was rather interested to see what Earth looked

like. As usual, with such things, it was somewhat of a disappointment. It's a

small world, anyway, and, since it lost its standing as a commercial power,

a lot of the old city areas have been grubbed up and turned into residential

districts.

In fact, the planet is hardly more than one vast suburb, nowadays. I was

told that there's a movement under way to restore some of the old districts

as historical shrines, but they'd need Outsystem funds for that, and I can't,

myself, see many of the large powers sparing an appropriation at the

present time.

Still, there's something about the planet. You can't forget that this was

where we all started. I landed in the South Pacific, and took a commuter's

rocket to the Mojave. From there, I put in a call to Jonas Wellman, who

lived someplace north and west of the mountain, range there – I forget the

name of it. He was pleased to hear from me, and invited me up immediately.

I located one of these little automatic taxi-ships, and we puttered north by

northwest for about half an hour and finally set down in a small parking area

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"Adam, come here," I ordered

in the Oregon woods. There was nothing there but the glassy rectangle of

the area itself, plus an automatic call station for the taxis. A few people

were waiting around for their ships to arrive, and, as I sat down, what

looked like an A-5 robot came across the field to meet me.

When he got close, I saw he wasn't an A-5, but something similar –

possibly something a bit special that Jonas had designed for himself.

"Commandant Jiel?" he asked.

"That's right," I said.

I followed him across the parking area, toward a private hopper. The few

people we passed on the way turned their backs as we passed, with a

deliberateness and uniformity that was too pointed to be accidental.

For a moment, it occurred to me that I might be the cause of their reaction –

certain creeds and certain peoples, who have experienced wars, have no

use for the mercenary soldier.

But this was the home world nobody would think of attacking, even if they

had a reason for doing so, which, of course, Earth will never be able to give

them, as long as the large powers exist.

Belatedly, it occurred to me that the robot with me might be the cause. I

turned to look at him. An A-5 – particularly an A-5 – is built to resemble the

human form. This was, as I have said, a refined model. I mulled the matter

over, trying to phrase the question, so I could get information out of the

mechanical.

"Are there Anti-R's in the community here?" I asked finally.

"Yes, sir," he said.

Well, that explained it. The AR's are, in general, folk with an unpleasant

emotional reaction to robots. They are psychopathic in my opinion and in

that of any man who has used robots commercially or for military purposes.

They find robots resembling the human form – particularly the A-5 model

and the rest of the A-series – obscene, disgusting, and so forth. Some

worlds which have experienced wars are almost completely AR.

I didn't, however, expect to find it on Earth, especially so close to the home

of Jonas Wellman. Still, a prophet in his own country, or however the old

saying goes.

We took a ground car, which the robot drove, and, eventually, reached a

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"Adam, come here," I ordered

curious anachronism of a house, set off in the woods by itself. It was a long,

rambling structure, made in frame of native stone and wood, the only

civilized thing about it being vibratory weather-screens between the pillars

of the frame, to keep out the rain and wind.

It had a strange aura about it, as if it were a dwelling place, old not so much

in years as in memories, as if something about it went back to the very

dawn of the race. The rain and the falling night, as we approached it,

heightened this illusion so that the tall pines, clustered closely about house

and lawn, seemed almost primeval, seemed to enclose us in an ancestral

past.

Yet, the house itself was cheerful. It's lighting was inlaid in the archaic

framing, and it glowed internally, with a subdued, casual illumination that

did not dim the flames in a wide, central fireplace. Real flames from actual

burning wood – not an illusion! It touched me, somehow. Few people,

unless they have seen the real article, appreciate the difference between

the actual flames of a real fire, and those of an illusion.

I, who have experienced the reality, on strange planets, of a need for

warmth and light, know the difference very well. It is a subjective reaction,

not easily put into words. Perhaps, if you will forgive my straining to be

fanciful, who am not a fanciful man, it's this – there are stories in the real

flames. I know it can mean nothing to those of you who have never seen it

but – try it for yourself, sometime.

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"Adam,comehere,"IorderedGordyisperhapsbestknownforthegroupofstoriesandnovelsinvolvingDorsai–theworld...

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