Crane began to warm to the Loti. And he thought of McArdle out there in the Unmapped Country. No wonder the Tanks hadn’t attacked — they’d been told by McArdle not to attack the man who’d made them. Simple.
“McArdle’s up to something,” he said, worried. “He’s out there now — he seems to have the Loti frightened to death. Anyway — how come he looks like a human being?”
Polly answered that one. “He used his knowledge of scientific surgery to take over the body of a man — the real McArdle. That was some time ago. The Loti have been here a long time. They discovered the map was adrift and they set — well, call them enticements, to bring people in. Like old Liam and his diamonds. Specially made and cut to act as bait to bring him — and the map — back again.”
“Y’know,” Crane said reflectively. “Much as we know McArdle is a villain, you’ve got to feel sorry for the old devil. There he was, cut off from his buddies, desperately seeking his map and knowing if he didn’t lay hands on it, his friends would leave and he’d be marooned on Earth. Hmm. Makes you think, does that.”
“The Loti don’t want anything more to do with him. And for a good reason.” Polly’s voice sounded somber. “He doesn’t know — but he can never change back from the earthly body of McArdle to his Loti body of Trangor. They wanted to spare him that. If he tries — no one seems quite to know what will happen. But it’ll be nasty.”
“You give me the impression that Trangor was a sort of chief technician, not one of the big brains, a get-rich-quick social climber—”
“Maybe he is;, but you do the Loti an injustice if you imagine their social class system to be anything as antiquated as ours.”
“Well, whatever or whoever he is, he’s out there now with an extremely powerful weapon, gathering his clanking monster pals. What’s he going to do?”
Allan Gould, Crane noticed, had kept a careful distance from Polly. The atmosphere between them was tangible to him, and he suspected Sharon, too, to sense it clearly. But they did not act like long-parted lovers; and this gave a ray of hope to Crane, a ray like the infra-red against sunshine. Now Gould began to speak and it was like being back on patrol against the terrorists, not knowing behind what bush your very messy death lurked. “The Loti have kept the very minimum of equipment in operation to stabilize this little section of land where the city is built. As soon as the ship blasts off and the machines run down, primeval chaos will sweep back and obliterate everything. To keep the chaos outside they’ve arranged those encircling walls and if McArdle wants his own body back he’s got to break in.”
“He sent me up against the Loti first. Said something about me softening them up for him.”
“Good tactics. What he doesn’t know is the Loti are just about done for. They didn’t stop you when they thought you were Trangor’s sidekick—”
“The scuttlers were pretty ineffective—”
“ — and they won’t stop Trangor. But in breaking in he may well disrupt the field holding the guard walls together. He wants this place, skipper; he wants it bad. With it he can control two worlds. Without it — he’s just a footloose bum.”
Crane tapped the rifle that Gould had examined with deep professional interest and in a voice grimmer than he intended or liked, said: “McArdle made this in our own world using our techniques boosted by those of the Loti. It’s some weapon. If he can do that, I scarcely rate him in the footloose bum category.”
Gould shook his head. “I don’t mean that, skipper. Oh, sure, the rifle’s brilliant, especially after you showed what could be done with it. But it’s small-time stuff to a man craving for the dominance of two worlds. Look at the Wardens — the Loti knocked those together as soon as the road had been built — all flash and fire, shoddy but working — to make a big noise and scare off the wild animals. They work, you saw that. But you should see some of the machinery the Loti have below stairs — man, it’s fabulous!”
“And it’s all running down,” put in Polly. “Rolley, we must help the Loti! We’ve got to stop McArdle somehow…”
A long shuddering rumble rolled through the floor. A glass fell from a table, to bounce and roll under Gould’s chair. He bent and picked it up as the tremors came again, held on an excruciating moment that set everyone’s teeth on edge, then died to expectant silence.
“What was that?”
“That was McArdle starting his little campaign.” Crane tucked the rifle under his arm. “Is there a vantage point we can look out over the walls? The bowl?”
“Come on.” Gould rose and led them from the lounge.
By elevator and escalator and moving ramp the little party climbed inside the monstrous blue and ocher structure and all the time they climbed the living lights of the Loti followed, bobbing and weaving and in seeming anxious haste, illuminating their way. Crane caught Polly’s eye and drew her back out of earshot of the others.
“You’re all right, Polly?”
“Of course. If it wasn’t for the deadly serious threat against our own old Earth I’d be enjoying it all.”
“I was when I came back — but now… I don’t know. It’s too big. I felt, well, cheated when I got in here without a proper fight. But if McArdle wins it’ll mean the end of the world as we know it.”
“Some of our politicians have been working for that for some time. Bomb happy—”
“But this is different. And another thing. Colla looks remarkably cool for a man who’s been here all those years—”
“Allan warned me about that. To each of them here it seems they’ve stayed, oh, a week or a fortnight or so. Time has no meaning here as we found out.”
“But Colla’s kid—”
“He’ll be delighted with what’s waiting for him when we get home.”
Crane glanced at her, at her tough, beautiful face, her white dress and leather jacket, and looked away. He said: “We’ll get back home, Polly. We’ll get home.”
They followed the others out into a high glass-walled gallery atop the blue and ocher structure. The sun cast down a vast semi-circular shadow of the bowl above them. Crane could look out over the sagging roofs of the city, past the chimneys, most cold now, over the checkered rows of workshops and foundries, out across the girdling white walls and into the Map Country — no — the Unmapped Country.
A glint of vermilion caught his eye among a fold of green and as he watched a Warden rolled out from the shadow of trees and started directly for the walls. Other specks of vermilion broke into view, a cordon, enveloping the city, all headed in like ladybirds crawling up the spokes of a wheel.
A foot behind his right ear a soft, patient, infinitely tired voice said: “So Trangor begins his last move. And it is a winning move for we cannot stop him. Alas, that our high* dreams should end thus.”
Slowly, stiffly, his whole body rigid, Crane pivoted. He looked back and he saw his first Loti.
Polly had been right. They were people — oh, not quite like human beings from the Earth that had born Crane; but any sentient being with two eyes and a nose and mouth in a face lined with the years, calm and serene and yet shadowed with sorrow, a face that could belong to the wise grandfather of a centenarian monk from forbidden Tibet, was people.
It was as if he were sitting enthroned in a wonderful chair. The back arched up and over his head to form the support for a flexible mask that Crane guessed could be pulled down to cover his face. The arms were wide and broad, studded with a multiplicity of controls. The lower front curved up and concealed his legs. The whole chair rose from and was formed from a shell, its convex side a subtle curve, doming down against the floor. The smooth metal shone. The Loti sat in his great chair and the chair rested in its saucer of gleaming metal. The whole construction hovered three feet above the floor, silent and unmoving.