But for the moment he had to wait for the future to happen. Because the predetermination of those two points depended on what he did. He must carry out his duty well. Who had imposed that duty on him? Perhaps another self, still further away from the present, who had chosen to disperse the clouds shadowing Uria. What more trustworthy ally could he have chosen than himself? So that the man of tomorrow might live, the snares of the past must be avoided by the man of yesterday who knew nothing about them.
He recalled the hesitations of Ngal R’nda as though they were already ancient history, whereas in fact they were only a few hours old. The Prince protested that he had no need of Veran. He distrusted humans and despised them so much that he would only listen to them when he had bought them. The weapons he showed off would be sufficient, in his view: gray balls of metal which could unleash lightning on the other hemisphere, glass cannon as slim as needles which could blast through mountains, and images to be projected on the sky which could afflict a whole army with amnesia. And the whistling voice declared that in the war of six thousand years ago the Urians had been beaten by traitors infiltrating their ranks and not by force. Corson almost believed him. Granted, Earthmen also had shields of terror and lances of nullity. The match might have been an even one. But the outcome of the present was therefore all the more certain. Those humans, and those giant birds, who took the side of peace would last no more than a day.
Corson had said again, “You need an army.”
Stubbornly, and bearing in his mind the image of millions of women dead, millions of men enslaved, he had argued the need to occupy the territory you conquered, and repeated with determination, “You do need an army!”
And he had added, “Tomorrow you will have command of space. You’ll need a fleet, and specialists to man it. How many people can you count on?”
The Urian had seemed to ponder, and Corson pressed his advantage. “How many loyal supporters have you?”
With surprising frankness the Urian had answered, fixing him with those flat yellow eyes, starred with an overbright speck of blue: “Five hundred, possibly a thousand. But the Urians who are now wallowing in human styes, at Dyoto and Sifar and Nulkr and Riden, will fall in behind me under the banner of the Blue Egg.”
“Yes, of course they will. How many of them?”
“Perhaps thirty million.”
“So few!”
He had bitten his lip at that. During the long-ago war, not millions but billions of Urians had threatened the Solar Powers. No doubt, given the opportunity by galactic peace, many had emigrated to other worlds. But Corson could guess at another factor, the story of a race doomed by peace because a taste for war and conquest was inscribed too deeply in their genes. Before him was the rage and cruelty distilled by a long period of decadence.
There were men who owed to their heredity an uncontrollable taste for aggression. They possessed one gene too many. Although physiologically viable, to a certain extent they were monsters. Society, in the old days at any rate, exterminated them or shut them away, gave them a chance to escape their fate. Was it possible that whole species might become, from that point of view, monstrous—with no choice but to fight or wither away? The destiny of men was not all that different; they had just been lucky to have a temperament enabling them to endure peace.
Corson was surprised to find himself thinking: the Urians have no future.
Which implied something else. War has no future.
But right now he was compelled to wage one.
He had said, “You do need an army. There is the question of Occupying forces. Veran is a mercenary. Promise him plenty of battles and an empire afterward. And there’s another thing. I mentioned that wild pegasone. In a short while there are going to be thousands of them ravaging this planet. How are you going to cope with them? How are you going to avoid being threatened on your home world? Check your records. Consult your experts. Pegasones can stand up to your weapons. All they have to do is jump through time. Veran knows how to track them down and wipe them out. He has tame pegasones. Make an alliance with him, then. Liquidate him later. Are you afraid of one old sweat and a few hundred soldiers?”
The Urian closed his twin eyelids.
“You shall go and parley with him, man Corson. You will be escorted by two of my staff. If you try to cheat me, you will die.”
Corson knew he had gained the little leverage he was after.
Chapter 26
They were walking through the forest and the dead scales of trees that were nothing like Earthly trees were crunching under Corson’s feet. The Urians went without a sound. Fragile creatures, those. They had inherited hollow bones from their ancestors. He could lay them out, croaking, with two punches. But they were grasping deadly weapons in their talons, and moreover he had need of them.
His first night on the planet, the darkness had been as deep as this. And—just like now—he had eavesdropped on the noises of the forest, trying to make out where the Monster had laired. Now he had to deal with a new monster, a human one called Veran.
They had left their floater behind, far from the camp, hoping that they might approach unnoticed in the confusion caused by the attack, or rather by his and Antonella’s getaway. He consulted his watch. This very instant they must be crossing the camp under the guidance of the unknown who was himself. They were approaching the pegasones. The stranger with a mask of midnight was harnessing one of the beasts. He was helping Corson and Antonella to mount. All three of them, and two pegasones, were going to vanish into the sky, into time.
Any moment now!
His first night on this planet… Then he hadn’t dared make a light, either, but this time he was wearing on his corneas contact lenses that enabled him to see in the infrared. The ground, except in patches, looked as black as a starless sky. The tree trunks were reddish. Their scale-like leaves, site of relatively intense energy processes, were orange. Here and there a stone on the ground was giving off stored heat from the daytime and showed as a pale speck. He saw something luminous sneaking silently away between the bushes—a frightened animal.
He could smell burned resin and melted sand. The camp was close.
Is this to be a historic moment? he wondered. So many things hung on it for this planet. Would Veran accept? What would happen if Veran’s men fired on sight, if he was killed? Then the alliance would never ensue, the monsters and the Monsters would continue to roam at liberty.
There would be a war. Maybe two. Between the humans and the natives, and between Uria and the Galactic Council or the Security Office or—whatever you called it, there was bound to be some organization. Something would snap. A crack would propagate across the centuries and shake the future. He was sure of that. There was no other reason for his presence. They had sent him to plug a breach in history without telling him how or why.
A historic moment! A place and a date where several time lines crossed, where he had met himself without knowing it and where now he was avoiding himself by choice. A historic moment! As though anybody would ever remember it! As though history were composed of battles and alliances and treaties signed and torn up. No, the opposite was the case. In the deceptive silence of the forest he understood that what deserved the appellation of “history” was the reverse of war. History was like a fabric. Warfare was so many tears in it, and wars so many thorns bloodstained from ripping that fabric which always healed itself with the persistence of a living creature.