“Let them alone? Don’t disturb them? Now do you see the danger, the necessity?” Drabix was spiraling upward, his frustration and anxiety making his voice brittle and high. “Tell me how we secure a war zone with the Enemy in our midst, Friend?”
“They aren’t the Enemy!” she insisted.
“Leave them alone, eh?”
“They want to be left alone.”
Drabix sneered at her, took one last look through the cyclop, and pulled the communicator loose from his wristcuff. He spoke directly to the Descartes , hanging in space above them. “Mr. Kokonen!”
The voice came back, clear and sharp. “Yes, sir?”
“On signal, pour everything you’ve got into the primary lancets. Hit it dead center. And keep it going till you open it up.”
“On signal, sir.”
“Drabix! Wait for Central to —”
“Minus three!”
“Let it alone! Let me try another —”
“Minus two!”
“Drabix … stop …”
“Minus one! Go to Hell, Friend!”
“You’re out of your —”
“Commence firing!”
The lancet hurtled down out of the sky like a river of light. It struck the cube with a force that dwarfed the sum total of annihilation visited on the cube all that day. The sound rolled across the plain and the light was blinding. Explosions came so close together they merged into one endless report, the roof of the cube bathed in withering brilliance that rivaled the sun.
Lynn Ferraro heard herself screaming.
And suddenly, the lancet beam was cut off. Not from its source, but at its target. As though a giant, invisible hand had smothered the beam, it hurtled down out of the sky from the invisible dreadnought far above and ended in the sky above the cube. Then, as Drabix watched with eyes widening, and the Amicus watched with open terror choking her, the beam was snuffed out all along its length. It disappeared back up its route of destructive force, into the sky, into the clouds, into the upper atmosphere and was gone.
A moment later, a new sun lit the sky as the dreadnought Descartes was strangled with its own weapon. It flared suddenly, blossomed … and was gone.
Then the cube began to rise from the earth. However much larger it was than what was revealed on the plain, Lynn Ferraro could not begin to estimate. It rose up and up, now no longer a squat cube, becoming a terrifying pillar of featureless black that dominated the sky. Somehow, she knew at forty-nine other locations around the planet the remaining forts were also rising.
After endless centuries of solitude, whatever lived in those structures was awakening at last.
They had been content to let the races of the galaxy come and go and conquer and be assimilated, as long as they were not severely threatened. They might have allowed humankind to come here and exist, or they might have allowed the Kyben the same freedom. But not both.
Drabix was whimpering beside her.
And not even her pity for him could save them.
He looked at her, white-eyed. “You got your wish,” she said. “The war is over.”
The original natives of the planet were taking a hand, at last. The stalemate was broken. A third force had entered the war. And whether they would be inimical to Terrans or Kyben, no one could know. Amicus Ferraro grew cold as the cube rose up out of the plain, towering above everything.
It was clear: roused from sleep, the inhabitants of the fifty forts would never consider themselves Friends of the Enemy.
Bright Eyes
“How did you come to write this story?” I am frequently asked, whether it be this story, or that one over there, or the soft pink-and-white one in the corner. Usually, I shrug helplessly. My ideas come from the same places yours come from: Compulsion City, about half an hour out of Schenectady. I can’t give a more specific location than that. Once in a great while, I know specifically. The story that follows is one of those instances, and I will tell you. I attended the 22nd World Science Fiction Convention (Pacificon II) on Labor Day, 1964. For the past many “cons,” a feature has been a fan-art exhibit, with artwork entered by nonprofessionals from all over the science fiction world. Several times (for some as-yet-unexplained reason) I have been asked to be among the judges of this show, and have found the level of work to be pleasantly high, in some cases really remarkable. On half a dozen occasions I have found myself wondering why the certain illustrator that impressed me was not working deep in the professional scene; and within a year, invariably, that artist has left the amateur ranks and become a selling illustrator. At the Pacificon, once again I attended the fan-art exhibition. I was in the company of Robert Silverberg, a writer whose name will not be unfamiliar to you, and the then-editor of Amazing Stories, Cele Goldsmith Lalli (the Lalli had only recently been added, when that handsome bachelor lady finally threw in the sponge and married Mr. Lalli, in whose direction dirty looks for absconding with one of the ablest editors s-f had yet produced). Cele had been trying vainly to get a story out of me. I was playing coy. There had been days when the cent or cent-and-a-half Amazing Stories paid was mucho dinero to me, but now I was a Big-Time Hollywood Writer (it says here somewhere) and I was enjoying saying stupid things like, “You can’t afford me, Cele,” or “I’ll see if Joseph E. Levine will let me take off a week to write one for you … I’ll have my agent call you.” Cele was taking it staunchly. Since I was much younger, and periodically disrupted her efficient Ziff-Davis office, she had tolerated me with a stoic resign only faintly approached by the Colossus of Rhodes. “Okay, okay, big shot,” she was replying, “I’ll stretch it to two cents a word, and we both know you’re being overpaid.” I sneered and marched away. It was something of a running gunbattle for two days. But, in point of fact, I was so tied up with prior commitments in television (that was my term of menial servitude on “The Outer Limits”) that I knew I didn’t have the time for short stories, much as I lusted to do a few, to keep my hand in. That Sunday morning in September, we were at the fan-art exhibit, and I was stopped in front of a display of scratchboard illustrations by a young man named Dennis Smith, from Chula Vista, California. They were extraordinary efforts, combining the best features of Finlay, Lawrence, and Heinrich Kley. They were youthfully derivative, of course, but professionally executed, and one of them held me utterly fascinated. It was a scene on a foggy landscape, with a milk-wash of stars dripping down the sky, a dim outline of battlements in the distance, and in the foreground, a weird phosphorescent creature with great luminous eyes, holding a bag of skulls, astride a giant rat, padding toward me. I stared at it for a long while, and a small group of people clustered behind me, also held by the picture. “If somebody would buy that, I’d write the story for it,” I heard myself say. And from behind me, Cele Goldsmith Lalli’s margarine-warm voice replied, “I’ll buy it for Fantastic; you’ve got an assignment.” I was trapped. Hell hath no fury like the wrath of an editor with single-minded devotion to duty. Around that strange, remarkable drawing, I wrote a story, one of my personal favorites. Dennis Smith had named the picture, so I felt it only seemly to title the story the same: Bright Eyes.
FEET WITHOUT TOES. Softly-padded feet, furred. Footsteps sounded gently, padding furry, down ink-chill corridors of the place. A place Bright Eyes had inhabited since before time had substance. Since before places had names. A dark place, a shadowed place, only a blot against the eternally nightened skies. No stars chip-ice twittered insanely against that night; for in truth the night was mad enough.
Night was a condition Bright Eyes understood. And he knew about day …