Beyond This Horizon (15 page)

“Right,” said Hamilton.

“And you—do you realize how near you came to missing your orders? You should be in action ten minutes before the section group moves in. Get going.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Hamilton cleared the circuit. Monroe-Alpha had started to struggle the second the phone came to life. Hamilton had ground his knee into his spine and clamped down hard on his throat, but it was a situation which could mot be maintained indefinitely.

He eased up on Monroe-Alpha a little. “You heard those orders?”

“Yes,” Monroe-Alpha acknowledged hoarsely.

“You are going to carry them out. Where’s your runabout?”

No answer. Hamilton dug in viciously. “Answer me. On the roof?”

“Yes.”

Hamilton did not bother to answer. He took his heavy automatic from its holster and struck Monroe-Alpha behind his right ear. The man’s head jerked once, then sagged limply. Hamilton turned to the phone and signalled Mordan’s personal number. He waited apprehensively while distant machinery hunted, fearful that the report would come back, “NOWHERE AVAILABLE.” He was relieved when the instrument reported instead, “Signalling.”

After an interminable time—all of three or four seconds—Mordan’s face lighted up the frame. “Oh—hello, Felix.”

“Claude—the time’s come! This is it.”

“Yes, I know. That’s why I’m here.” The background behind him showed his office.

“You—
knew?
”

“Yes, Felix.”

“But… Never mind. I’m coming over.”

“Yes, certainly.” He cut off.

Hamilton reflected grimly that one more surprise would be just enough to cause him to start picking shadows off the wall. But he had no time to worry about it. He rushed into his friend’s bedchamber, found what he wanted immediately—small pink capsules, Monroe-Alpha’s habitual relief from the peril of sleepless worry. He returned then and examined Monroe-Alpha briefly. He was still out cold.

He picked him up in his arms, went out into the corridor, and sought the lift. He passed one startled citizen on the way. Hamilton looked at him, said, “Sssh—you’ll waken him. Open the lift for me, will you please?”

The citizen looked dubious, shrugged, and did as he was requested.

He found Monroe-Alpha’s little skycar without trouble, removed the key from his friend’s pocket, and opened it. He dumped his burden inside, set the pilot for the roof of the Clinic, and depressed the impeller bar. He had done all he could for the moment; in over-city traffic automatic operation was faster than manual. It would be five minutes, or more, before he reached Mordan, but, even at that, he had saved at least ten minutes over what it would have taken by tube and slideway.

It consoled him somewhat for the time he had wasted on Monroe-Alpha.

The man was beginning to stir. Hamilton took a cup from the cooler, filled it with water, dissolved three of the capsules in it, and went to his side. He slapped him.

Monroe-Alpha sat up. “Whassa matter?” he said. “Stop it. What’s happened?”

“Drink this.” Hamilton put the cup to his lips.

“What happened? My head hurts.”

“It ought to—you had quite a fall. Drink it. You’ll feel better.”

Monroe-Alpha complied docilely. When he had finished, Hamilton watched him narrowly, wondering if he would have to slug him again before the hypnotic took hold. But Monroe-Alpha said nothing more, seemed still dazed, and shortly was sleeping soundly.

The car grounded gently.

Hamilton raised the panel of the communicator, shoved his foot inside, and pushed. There was a satisfying sound of breaking crystal and snapping wires. He set the pilot on due South, without destination, opened the door, and stepped out. He turned, reached inside, sought the impeller bar—but hesitated without depressing it. He stepped back inside and removed the selector key from the pilot. He stepped out again, depressed the impeller—and ducked. As the door slammed shut, the little runabout angled straight up, seeking cruising altitude.

He did not wait for it to go out of sight, but turned and started below.

Monroe-Alpha awoke with a dry mouth, an excruciatingly throbbing head, a nauseous feeling at his midriff, and a sense of impending disaster. He became aware of things in that order.

He knew that he was in the air, in a skycar, and alone, but how had he gotten there, why he was there, escaped him. He had had some dreadful nightmares—they seemed to have some bearing on it. There was something he should be doing.

This was the Day, the Day of the Change! That was it!

But why was he here? He should be with his section. No. No, McFee had said—

What was it he had said? And where was Hamilton?
Hamilton was a spy!
Hamilton was about to betray them all!

He must inform McFee at once. Where was he? No matter—call him!

It was then that he found the wrecked communicator. And the bright sunlight outside told him it was too late, too late. Whatever had come of Hamilton’s treachery had already happened. Too late.

The pieces were beginning to fall into place. He recalled the ugly interview with Hamilton, the message from McFee, the fight. Apparently he had been knocked out. There was nothing left to do but to go back, turn himself in to his leader, and confess his failure.

No. McFee had given him orders to stay out, to stay away for two days. He must obey. The Whole is greater than the parts.

But those orders did not apply—McFee had not known about Hamilton.

He knew now. That was certain. Therefore, the orders
did
apply. What was it McFee had said? “
I’ve decided to take no chances on him
.”

They didn’t trust him. Even McFee knew him for what he was—a thumb-fingered idiot who could be depended on to do the wrong thing at the wrong time.

He never had been any good. All he was fit for was to do fiddling things with numbers. He knew it. Everybody knew it. Hazel knew it. If he met a girl he liked, the best he could do was to knock her off her feet. Hamilton knew it. Hamilton hadn’t even bothered to kill him—he wasn’t worth killing.

They hadn’t really wanted him in the Survivors Club—not in a pinch. They just wanted him available to set up the accounting for the New Order. McFee had spoken to him about that, asked him if he could do it. Naturally, he could. That’s all he was—a clerk.

Well, if they wanted him for that, he’d do it. He wasn’t proud. All he asked was to serve. It would be a fairly simple matter to set up foolproof accounting for a collective-type state. It would not take him long; after that, his usefulness ended, he would be justified in taking the long sleep.

He got up, having found some comfort in complete self-abnegation. He rinsed out his mouth, drank more than a litre of water, and felt a little better. He rummaged in the larder, opened a seal of tomato juice, drank it, and felt almost human, in a deeply melancholy way.

He then investigated his location. The car was hovering; it had reached the extreme limit of its automatic radius. The ground was concealed by clouds, though it was bright sunlight where he was. The pilot showed him the latitude and longitude; a reference to the charts placed him somewhere over the Sierra Nevada Mountains—almost precisely over the Park of the Giant Redwoods, he noticed.

He derived a flicker of interest from that. The Survivors Club, in their public, social guise, claimed the Generalsherman Tree as president emeritus. It was a nice jest, he thought—the unkillable, perfectly adapted Oldest Living Thing on Earth.

The sabotaged pilot put wrinkles between his eyes. He could fly it manually, but he could not enter the traffic of the Capital until it was repaired. He would have to seek some small town—

No, McFee had said to go away and stay away—and McFee meant what he said. If he went to any town, he would be mixed up in the fighting.

He did not admit to himself that he no longer had any stomach for it—that Hamilton’s words had left him with unadmitted doubts.

Still, it must be repaired. There might be a repair station at the Park—must be, in fact, in view of the tourist traffic. And surely the Change would not cause any fighting there.

He cut in the fog eyes and felt his way down.

When he grounded a single figure approached. “You can’t stay,” the man said, when he was in earshot. “The Park’s closed.”

“I’ve got to have a repair,” said Monroe-Alpha. “Why is the Park closed?”

“Can’t say. Some trouble down below. The rangers were called on special duty hours ago, and we sent the tourists out. There’s nobody here but me.”

“Can you repair?”

“Could…maybe. What’s the trouble?”

Monroe-Alpha showed him. “Can you fix it?”

“Not the talkie box. Might scare up some parts for the pilot. What happened? Looks like you smashed it yourself.”

“I didn’t.” He opened a locker, located his car gun, and stuck it in his holster. The caretaker was brassarded; he shut up at once. “I think I’ll take a walk while you fix it.”

“Yes sir. It won’t take long.”

Monroe-Alpha took out his credit folder, tore out a twenty credit note, and handed it to the man. “Here. Leave it in the hangar.” He wanted to be alone, to talk to no one at all, least of all this inquisitive stranger. He turned and walked away.

He had seen very little of the Big Trees in landing; he had kept his eyes glued to the fog eyes and had been quite busy with the problem of landing. Nor had he ever been in the Park before. True, he had seen pictures—who has not?—but pictures are not the trees. He started out, more intent on his inner turmoil than on the giants around him.

But the place got him.

There was no sun, no sky. The trees lost themselves in a ceiling of mist, a remote distance overhead. There was no sound. His own footsteps lost themselves in a carpet of evergreen needles. There was no limiting horizon; endless succession only of stately columns, slim green columns of sugar pine, a mere meter in thickness, massive red-brown columns of the great ones themselves. They receded from him on all sides, the eye could see nothing but trees—trees, the mist overhead, and the carpet of their debris, touched in spots by stubborn patches of old snow.

An occasional drop of purely local rain fell, dripping from the branches far above.

There was no time there. This had been, was and would be. Time was not. There was no need for time here; the trees negated it, ignored it. Seasons they might recognize, lightly, as one notes and dismisses a passing minute. He had a feeling that he moved too frantically for them to notice, that he was too small for them to see.

He stopped, and approached one of the elders, cautiously, as befits a junior in dealing with age. He touched its coat, timidly at first, then with palm-flat pressure, as he gained confidence. It was not cool, as bark is, but warm and live in spite of the moisture that clung to it. He drew from the tree, through its warm shaggy pelt, a mood of tranquil strength. He felt sure, on a level of being just below that of word-shaped thoughts, that the tree was serene and sure of itself, and, in some earth-slow somber fashion, happy.

He was no longer capable of worrying over the remote problems of his own ant hill. His scales had changed, and the frenetic struggles of that world had faded both in time and distance until he no longer discerned their details.

He came upon the Old One unexpectedly. He had been moving through the forest, feeling it rather than thinking about it. If there were signs warning him of what lay ahead he had not seen them. But he needed no signs to tell him what he saw. The other giants had been huge and old; this one dwarfed them as they dwarfed the sugar pines.

Four thousand years it had stood there, maintaining, surviving, building its giant thews of living wood. Egypt and Babylon were young with it—it was still young. David had sung and died. Great Caesar stained the Senate floor with his ambitious blood. Mohamet fled. Colon Christopher importuned a queen, and the white men found the tree, still standing, still green. They named him for a man known only through that fact—Generalsherman. The Generalsherman Tree.

It had no need of names. It was itself, the eldest citizen, quiet, untroubled, alive and unworried.

He did not stay near it long. It helped him, but its presence was overpowering to him, as it has been to every man who has ever seen it. He went back through the woods, finding the company of those lesser immortals almost jovial by contrast. When he got back near the underground hangar in front of which he had left his runabout, he skirted around it, not wishing to see anyone as yet. He continued on.

Presently he found his way blocked by a solid grey mass of granite which labored on up out of sight in the mist. A series of flights of steps, cleverly shaped to blend into the natural rock, wound up through its folds. There was a small sign at the foot of these stairs: MORO ROCK. He recognized it, both from pictures and a brief glimpse he had had of it through the fog in landing. It was a great grey solid mass of stone, peak high and mountain wide, a fit place for a Sabbat.

He started to climb. Presently the trees were gone. There was nothing but himself, the grey mist, and the grey rock. His feeling for up-and-down grew shaky, he had to watch his feet and the steps to hang on to it.

Once he shouted. The sound was lost and nothing came back.

The way led along a knife edge, on the left a sheer flat slide of rock, on the right bottomless empty grey nothingness. The wind cut cold across it. Then the path climbed the face of the rock again.

He began to hurry; he had reached a decision. He could not hope to emulate the serene, eternal certainty of the old tree—he was not built for it. Nor was he built, he felt sure, for the life he knew. No need to go back to it, no need to face it out with Hamilton nor McFee, whichever won their deadly game. Here was a good place, a place to die with clean dignity.

There was a clear drop of a thousand meters down the face of the rock.

He reached the top at last and paused, a little breathless from his final exertion. He was ready and the place was ready—when he saw that he was not alone. There was another figure, prone, resting on elbows, looking out at the emptiness.