“So,” whispered the agent. “I think I see. Langley, what are your reactions to this? Do you want to keep her?”
“I do. If you won’t agree, I’ll guarantee to do my best to see you never find Saris. But I’m not going to swap a whole civilization just for her, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“No... it isn’t. I’m not afraid of that.” Chanthavar stood with feet wide apart, hands clasped behind his back, scowling at the floor. “I wonder what his idea really is? Some of his own brand of humor? I don’t know. I’ll have her guarded, too.”
He was silent for a while. Langley wondered what was going on inside that round skull. And then he looked up with elfish merriment in his eyes.
“Never mind!” said Chanthavar. “I just thought of a joke. Sit back and do some hard thinking, captain. I’ve got to go now. Good day to you both—enjoy yourselves.” He bowed crisply and went out.
11
The rain stopped near sunset, but there were still clouds and blackness overlay the city. Langley and Marin ate a lonely supper in their apartment. With the sedative worn off, the man had to focus his mind on impersonalities, he dared not think of her as a fully human being yet. He flung questions at her, and she answered. What he learned tended to confirm Valti’s account of the Society: it really was a nomad culture, patriarchal and polygamous, owning warships but behaving peacefully; its rulers really were unknown, its early history obscure. She gave a less favorable account of Centaurian culture and intentions than Brannoch’s, but, of course, that was only to be expected.
“Two interstellar imperialisms, moving on a collision course,” said Langley. “Thor really does seem better to me than Earth, but- Maybe I’m prejudiced.”
“You can’t help it,” said Marin seriously. “Thorian society has an archaic basis, it’s closer to what you knew in your period than modern Earth. Still, it’s hard to imagine them making much progress, if they should win out. They’ve been frozen too, nothing really new happening, for a good five hundred years now.”
“What price progress?” shrugged Langley. “I’ve gotten pessimistic about change for the sake of change; a petrified civilization may be the only final answer for man, provided it’s reasonably humane. I don’t see much to choose between either of the great powers today.”
Unquestionably, the conversation was being recorded, but he no longer gave a damn.
“It would be nice to find a little mousehole and crawl into it and forget all this fighting,” said Marin wistfully.
“That’s what ninety-nine per cent of the human race has always wanted to do, I think,” said Langley. “The fact that they try to bring on their own punishment for being lazy and cowardly—rulers who flog them into action. There will never be peace and freedom till every individual man out of a majority, at least, is prepared to think for himself and act accordingly; and I’m becoming afraid that day will never come.”
“They say there are thousands of lost colonies,” answered Marin softly, with a dream in her eyes. “Thousands of little groups who went off to find their own particular kind of Utopia. Surely one of them, somewhere, has become something different.”
“Perhaps. But we’re here, not there.” Langley got up. “Let’s turn in. Good night, Marin.”
“Good night,” she said. Her smile was shy, as if she were still unsure how he looked at her.
Alone in his room, Langley donned pajamas, crawled into bed, and got out a cigarette. It was time for him to decide. Chanthavar had given him a couple of days; he couldn’t bluff any longer, because he was reasonably sure he did have the answer about Saris. There’d be no use in undergoing the personality-wrecking degradation of a mental probe.
More and more, it seemed that the only logical action was to tell Chantavar. From the standpoint of personal safety: he was, after all, on Earth; in spite of the nets woven by Brannoch and Valti, the dominating power here was Chanthavar’s. Going to someone else would involve all the risks of contact and escape.
From the standpoint of humanitarianism: Sol was defending the status quo; she was not openly aggressive like Centauri, but would be content to have the upper hand. If it came to war in spite of everything, the Solar System held more people than the Centaurian. It would take Brannoch almost nine years to get a message to his home and get the fleet back here; in nine years, the Saris effect could probably be turned into a standardized weapon. (And, be it noted, a relatively gentle weapon, which did not in itself harm any living creature. )
From the standpoint of history: Sol and Centauri had both reached a dead end, no choice there. The Society was too unknown, too unpredictable. Furthermore, Centauri was under the influence of Thrym, whose nature and ultimate intentions were a mystery. Sol was at least fairly straightforward.
From the standpoint of Saris Hronna, who had been Langley’s friend: well, Saris was just one individual. It was better that he be vivisected, if necessary, than that a billion humans have their skin burned off and their eyes melted in a single flash of nuclear disintegration.
The safe, the obvious, the conforming course was open before Langley. Turn his deductions over to Chanthavar, find a niche for himself on Earth, and settle down to drag out his days. It would get dull after a few years, of course, but it would be safe; he’d be spared the necessity of thinking.
Well- He struck another cigarette. Sleep on it, at least, if he could sleep.
Where were Bob and Jim? In what darkness did they lie, full of fear? Or had they already gone down into the final night? He didn’t think he’d see them again. If he knew who their murderers were, be sure that he’d kill himself before helping that side; but he would most likely spend his life in puzzled impotence.
Closing his eyes, he tried to call up the image of Peggy. She was gone, she had died so long ago that the very blood of her was thinned through the entire race. Quite possibly everyone he had met, Chanthavar and Brannoch and Valti and Marin and Yulien and the faceless Commoners huddled on low-level, stemmed from one unforgotten night with her. It was a strange thought. He wondered if she had married again; he hoped so, hoped that it had been a good man and that her life had been happy, but it wasn’t likely.
He tried to see her before him, but it was hard to get a clear vision. Marin overlay it, they were like two pictures one on the other and not quite in line, the edges blurred. Peggy’s smile had never been just like what he saw now—or had it?
He swore in a dull tone, snubbed out the cigarette, and turned off the light which glowed from walls and ceiling. Sleep would not come, he lay restlessly with a rusty chain of thought dragging through his skull.
It might have been hours later when he heard the explosion.
He sat up in bed, staring blindly before him. That had been a blaster going off! What the devil-?
Another crash sounded, and boots slammed on the floor. Langley jumped to his feet. Armed force—a real kidnap try this time, in spite of all guards! Another energy bolt flamed somewhere outside the room, and he heard a deep-voiced oath.
He crouched against the farther wall, doubling his fists. No lights. If they were after him, let them find and haul him out.
The tumult rolled somewhere in the living room. Then he heard Marin scream.
He sprang for the door. “Open, damn you!” It sensed him and dilated. A metal-clad arm slapped him back, down to the floor.
“Stay where you are, sir.” It was a hoarse gasp out of the masklike combat helmet. “They’ve broken in—”
“Let me go!” Langley shoved against the gigantic form of the Solar cop. He was no match, the slave stood like a rock.
“Sorry, sir, my orders—”
A blue-white beam snapped across the field of view. Langley had a glimpse of a spacesuited figure hurtling out the smashed window, and Marin writhing in its arms. Other police were charging after it, firing wildly.