Star Bridge (19 page)

They tramped over the endless gray distances, Wu with a skill that soon matched Horn's. But then, Horn thought, Wu had enjoyed the experience of several hundred lifetimes. Occasionally Horn helped Wendre. He found even that metal contact oddly stimulating.

Time was meaningless; the sun was still. Horn wondered if their heavy footsteps were disturbing Eron's nobility below. They weren't, of course. The buffer zone for meteors and the insulation were impervious to sound.

Horn stopped suddenly. Wu, feeling the vibration through his feet, looked back. Horn motioned him to another helmet-to-helmet conference. His lips twisted as he thought how strange it was, their little group huddled together upon this gray world while beneath them humanity teemed like ants in a hill, living, loving, suffering, dying.

“The ships must have some way of identifying sectors,” Horn said, “where to land and so on. Sight would be much too slow. It would have to be radio, and these suits incorporate planet-to-ship frequencies.”

Wu nodded. “Everybody quiet.”

Horn brushed the switch and tuned to the
pts
frequency. The inside of the helmet whined; it was an excruciatingly painful sound. Horn turned it off hastily and sighed. “Automatic. It would have to be, of course.”

“Has anyone been looking down?” Wu asked. They stared at each other blankly; the unchanging horizon had a way of seducing the eye upward in the futile hope of seeing something different. “I thought not,” Wu said. “Just before you stopped, I noticed something to the left.”

In a few moments they were looking down at three letters painted beside a broad, golden stripe running north and south: BRT.

“Repairmen and working crews would need guides like these,” Wu said exultantly. “And we're off less than one seventeen-thousandth of the circumference. At this latitude, that's about twenty-two meters. Which way do they letter? Oh, my poor, abused head!”

“West,” Wendre said.

They headed west. In a few minutes they were standing over another golden line. This one was lettered: BRU. They had been marching south between the two lines.

They followed the stripe south until another stripe crossed it at right angles. It was numbered: 67.

“Sixty-seven kilometers from the pole,” Wu sighed. “If my memory hasn't played tricks on me, the Pleasure Worlds is only one hundred and thirty meters south.”

It was only when they began to look closely that they noticed the small figures painted regularly beside the stripe they followed. Gradually the figures climbed from “1” to “12” and then “13.”

“Here!” Wu said. “Let it be here! We can't have much more time before the ships are out in force.”

They scattered to search for a trap door. Wendre came running back toward them, almost falling, and led them toward a plate recessed into the gray metal. Painted across it clearly was the designation: BRU-6713-112.

“You try the door itself,” Wu told Horn, “while Wendre and I stamp around the outer edge. There must be some way to open this from the outside.”

They never learned the exact location of the latch. While they were doing their strange dance, the door suddenly started sliding under Horn's thundering feet. He leaped to safety beside Wendre. Starlight revealed an upper step. Horn started down.

The stairway seemed identical with the one at Duchane's. An outstretched hand touched metal. Wendre pressed close behind him. Back of her was Wu, bending painfully below the door level.

Wendre's helmet pressed against Horn's. It had the intimacy of a caress. “Matal says there will be a latch disk beside the door. Cover it with your hand.”

Horn's hands were already working their way around both sides of the door. Unexpectedly, the darkness deepened and became impenetrable night. The trap door had closed overhead. Why didn't the door open in front?

It was the air, of course. The room was an air lock, and air had to be released into the little stairwell before the door in front could open. It opened, and Horn still couldn't see. Water vapor had condensed and frozen on their helmets. Horn brushed away some of the frost with his gauntlet and stepped into the lighted room. As the frost gathered again, the light sparkled and blurred and then the frost began to melt and trickle down the plastic.

Horn backed into an empty wall rack and braced himself against it as he stripped off his gauntlets and gingerly touched the helmet clamps. They were cold but not dangerous. In a moment he was out of his suit and helping the others.

They found their way down long stairs and finally into the yellow hall that Horn remembered. This time it was silent. They met no one. The whole place seemed deserted.

“The Pleasure Worlds,” Wendre said. “What is it?”

“Here, for a price,” Wu said, “men can indulge their passions, some strange and some not so strange.”

“Oh,” she said. Her golden face darkened.

“This is it,” Horn said. The door had a pale blue disk.

Wu brushed it. The door didn't open. Wu knelt in front of the door and pressed his forehead against it. Horn glanced down curiously. Wu's eyebrows were moving like tiny snakes. They worked into the crack beside the door. The infinitely useful Lil.

The door swung in. Wu stood up and looked back. His eyebrows were back in place; his face was the face of Matal. They walked into the blue world.

Wendre glanced around the room and drew her cloak tight around her. “I don't like it.”

Horn palmed the blue sun. A few seconds later, the wall swung outward. The lighted interior of the tube car was in front of them. They had reached—if not safety—at least the way to safety.

Wendre started to step into the car, but Wu held her back. He pressed his hand against the door jamb. The colored disks appeared palely against the front panel. Wu leaned into the car and covered the gold disk. Suddenly there were voices.

“… hold her there. Matal, too, if he is with her. Or, if there is a chance you might lose them, shoot.…”

“Duchane!” Horn said softly.

“I understand, sir. You can depend on me.”

The voices went on, but Wendre obviously didn't hear them. Her eyes were wide; her face was incredulous. “But that—” she began. “But that's—”

“Yes?” Wu said.

“That's my steward. He's been with me since I was little. I'd trust him with my life.”

“That, it seems, would be unwise,” Wu said gently. “All things can be bought if the price is right. Safety doesn't lie there. The question is: where can we go?”

Horn studied the pulse that was beating at the base of Wendre's throat and wondered if they had reached the end of the long flight.

 

THE HISTORY

Golden blood.…

They called it the Great Mutation. Roy Kellon was the father, legend said, and his son was the first of the Golden Folk.

Supermen. Fit to conquer and rule the universe. In everything, the golden blood was superior: intelligence, courage, stamina. And only the pure golden blood could make and control the Tubes.

Was that the secret? If so, it was not well kept. Eron let the rumor spread unchecked. Conquered hearts sank lower.

Hail the superman!

It was a most remarkable mutation. Almost unbelievable when one considers the millions of successive steps needed to create something as complicated as the human eye—and the millions of blunders that were automatically destroyed. The Golden Folk. Cut them, if you dare. They bleed red.

It was also said that only the Directors knew the secret of the Tubes. Take your choice. It could not be both ways.

Perhaps there was another secret—a secret even the Directors did not know.…

 

 

14

THE MASTER SWITCH

“What's wrong with him, Matal?” Wendre said dazedly. “He wants to kill us all.”

“Power,” Wu said somberly, stepping back from the car, “is a vision that drives men mad.”

“We've got to stop him,” Wendre said, drawing a deep breath. “We must kill him first. He'll shatter the Empire.”

“We can't get near him now,” Horn said.

“The slaves would take care of him for us,” Wu pointed out, “if we could keep him from bringing in reinforcements.”

Wendre stared at Wu. “Cut off the Tubes? All right. Let's go to the main control room in the north cap.”

A frown slipped across Horn's face and was gone. Wu was using Wendre. He had maneuvered her, very cleverly, into suggesting that the Tubes be cut off. It wouldn't have surprised Horn to learn that Wu had arranged for that apparent conversation between Duchane and Wendre's steward.

They all wanted Duchane destroyed but for different reasons. To Wendre it seemed to be the only way to preserve the Empire. Horn wanted the Empire shattered; he knew that this would do it. Once let Duchane fall, and no new ruler could ever put the pieces together again. The myth of empire would be broken.

Horn wondered what Wu wanted. Amusement, relief from boredom? Or did he have deeper, more valid reasons?

“You two—get in that car,” Wu said. “I'll follow in another as soon as you've gone.”

“Both of us?” Wendre exclaimed.

“You two are young and slim,” Wu sighed, “and I am old and fat.”

“But—” Wendre began, glancing at Horn.

“We can't stand on ceremony,” Wu said. “You can trust Horn. Like us, he is dead if he falls in Duchane's hands. Besides— Ah, well. Get in.”

Horn caught Wu's quick glance and understood. The wily, old man didn't entirely trust Wendre. Or, perhaps, he did not trust her impulses. Once alone, she might decide to try something else on her own. Surprisingly, Horn trusted her, without reason, and he was a man who had trusted no one.

Wendre had appealed to Horn as no woman ever had. She had a man's mind and a woman's heart. She was self-reliant, proud, courageous. She grasped the situation quickly, accepted the odds, and did what had to be done without complaining. This was no spoiled child of empire, no sheltered darling of an all-powerful father; this was a woman fit to stand and fight beside any barbarian from the restless marches, made for love and ready to battle for it.

Horn grimaced, and told himself to stop thinking about her. He was probably reading more into her character than was there. In any case, it was hopeless folly. Even if she was capable of great love, it couldn't be for him. He was not only a barbarian; he had killed her father.

Wendre was looking at him curiously. “All right,” she said.

Horn climbed into the car, sank into the seat, and fastened the belt around his legs. He motioned for Wendre to sit on his lap. She hesitated, but it was obviously the best arrangement. She sat down stiffly, warily. Horn reached out for the door handle.

“The north cap,” he said to Wu.

“I'll follow immediately,” Wu assured him.

As the doors closed, Horn slipped an arm around Wendre's slim waist and reached for the upper white disk to the left. The car fell from under them. In the darkness, the arm tightened around Wendre's waist. The touch made Horn cold; he couldn't control a shiver.

“Did you find the prospect of riding with me distasteful?” Wendre asked suddenly.

So Wendre had seen the face he had made. “Not at all. A private thought.”

“I see. You don't have to hold me so tight,” Wendre said curtly.

“Your pardon, Director.” Horn started to withdraw his arm.

Wendre floated upward, weightless. Quickly Horn pulled her back. This time, when he held her close, she didn't object.

Only the single red eye of the emergency disk relieved the darkness. Slowly Wendre relaxed.

“I can't believe that my steward would betray me,” she said finally. “He was more than a servant; he was a friend.”

“When the world is rotten,” Horn said, “it needs a strong man to resist corruption.”

“Like you?” Wendre asked scornfully.

“No,” Horn answered. “Not like me.”

“Rotten?” Wendre repeated. “Eron?”

“When a race stops fighting its own battles, it begins to die,” Horn said. “Where are your learners, your doers, your workers, your fighters? You won't find them among the Golden Folk. There you will find effeminate dandies with padded bosoms and shapely legs, concerned only with their eternal search for pleasure and relief from boredom. It leads them to such places as the one we just left. There you will find back-stabbers and traitors. Where can you find a man you can trust to act for Eron first and himself second?”

“I don't know,” Wendre said. And then, quickly, “My father was such a man.”

“Garth Kohlnar was Eron. What he did for Eron he did for himself. He was a strong man and wise enough to realize that beyond power itself is the power of using it wisely.”

“That's true,” Wendre said.

“But not wise enough to see that he was preserving a fossil.”

“That fossil defeated the Cluster!” Wendre snapped.

“Even a fossil can be dangerous if it is as big as Eron. But the interesting question is: why did Eron attack?”

“The Cluster was a constant threat, a—”

“The nearest outpost of the Empire was ten light years away. What threat was that? Eron itself was almost three hundred light years from the Cluster. Where was the danger to Eron? The only threat was the insidious propaganda that there was freedom in the galaxy, that outside the Empire was a vigorous new civilization where men were free. The only danger was internal: rebellion.”

“The Empire is greater than it has ever been. How can it be rotten? I haven't seen any of these things—”

“You haven't been down to the lower levels and seen them there,” Horn said, “the brute animals who shuffle from birth to death in the eternal twilight, never having seen a star. You've never seen the food plantations on the conquered worlds, where Eron's food is grown by slaves lashed on by overseers. You didn't see the ravaged worlds of the Cluster, the slaughtered billions, the shattered cities, the starving survivors—”