“The native physique does not readily lend itself to the use of the bow or any kind of throwing weapon.”
“How about firearms?”
“There are no brakka trees on this world, and the Farlanders’ knowledge of chemistry is not yet sufficiently advanced for them to have invented artificial explosives.”
“This sounds quite encouraging,” Wraker put in, nudging Toller. “The defences seem to be disproportionately light.”
“In the normal scheme of things there would have been no need to defend the ship against anything but troublesome wild animals,” Sondeweere said. “There would have been no point in my trying to get near it alone—and no logical person could have anticipated the arrival of a ship from Overland before another four or five centuries had elapsed.” She smiled and a note of warmth crept into her voice. “In the symbonites’ eminently reasonable view of the universe people like you five simply do not exist.”
Wraker grinned in return. “They’ll learn about us soon enough—to their cost.”
Toller frowned. “We must not allow ourselves to become too confident. How long will it take the symbonites to call up reinforcements?”
“I don’t know,” Sondeweere said. “There are large-scale road works to the north of the site, but I cannot say how close they are.”
“But you knew our exact position when we were many thousands of miles away in the void.”
“There is a natural and very powerful empathy between us because we come from the same human stock. The Farlanders’ minds are all but closed to me.”
“I see,” Toller said. “Obviously we cannot decide our tactics in advance, but I have one final question… about the ship itself.”
“Will I be able to fly it? The answer is yes.”
“In spite of never having seen it?”
“Again, this cannot be explained to you, not even by telepathic means—and I am deeply sorry about that—but the ship is not governed by mechanical controls. For a person who comprehends all the operating principles it will do exactly as it is bidden; without that necessary understanding it will not move a single inch.”
Toller fell silent, chastened by the reminder that Sondeweere, in spite of her perfectly normal appearance and demeanour, was in actuality an enigmatic superbeing. The fact that he and the others could communicate with her on what felt like equal terms had to be almost entirely due to skilled indulgence on her part—as a venerable philosopher contrives to amuse a two-year-old child.
He glanced at Bartan, freshly made aware of the young man’s unprecedented situation, and saw that he was staring fixedly at the back of Sondeweere’s head, his expression broody and almost sullen. Becoming conscious of Toller’s scrutiny, Bartan mustered a wry smile and raised the skin of brandy to his lips. Toller reached out to prevent him drinking, saw the beginnings of defiance on the young man’s face and reflexively turned his hand palm upwards. I’m growing soft, he thought as he accepted the skin and took a sizeable drink from it, but perhaps not before my time.
“How about you, Sondy?” Bartan said as though issuing a challenge. “Would you like a warming drop of brandy?”
“No. The warmth is spurious, and I find the taste unpleasant.”
“I thought you might,” Bartan said, and now an aggrieved and surly note was plain in his voice. “What do you subsist on these days? Nectar and dew? When we return to the farm you will be able to have your fill of those, but I trust you won’t object if I go on preferring stronger potions.”
Sondeweere gave him a single pleading glance. “Bartan, you have the right to force the issue—even though some of what I have to say to you would be best said in private—but we…”
“I have nothing to hide from my friends, Sondy. Proceed! Explain to all of us that it would be unseemly for a princess to bed down with a peasant.”
“Bartan, please do not cause yourself needless pain.”
Sondeweere was speaking loudly to overcome the sounds of the transporter at speed, but there was a concerned tenderness in her voice. “Even though I have changed a great deal, I would still have been a wife to you, but it can never be… because…”
“Because of what?”
“Because I have a higher duty to the entire human population of Overland. I refuse to deprive my own people of their evolutionary heritage by founding a dynasty of symbonites which would dominate the ordinary humans and eventually drive them into extinction.”
Bartan looked stunned, obviously having heard something totally outside his expectations, but he was still nimble enough of mind to respond quickly. “But there is no need for us to have children. There are ways… maidenfriend is only one of them… I never wanted to be burdened with noisy offspring anyway.”
Sondeweere managed to laugh. “You cannot lie to me, Bartan. I know how much you want children, true descendants— not alien hybrids. If you have the great good fortune to return to Overland alive, your only chance of happiness will lie in settling down with a normal young woman who will bear you normal children. That, believe me, is a future worth looking forward to and fighting for.”
“It is also a future I reject,” Bartan said.
“The decision is not in your hands, Bartan.” Sondeweere paused as the transporter hit a rough patch of ground and the thunder of it made conversation impossible. “Have you forgotten about the symbonites of this world? If we do succeed in stealing their ship and getting back to Overland with it, they will build another and go after me. They will take no chances on my surviving, possibly with child. It is my belief that the second ship will have weapons, terrible weapons, and the symbonites will be prepared to use them.”
“But…” Bartan drew his fingers across his wrinkled brow. “This is terrible, Sondy. What will you do?”
“Assuming I survive the next hour, there is only one course open to me,” Sondeweere said. “I will take the ship and fly off into the galaxy, perhaps into many galaxies, beyond the reach of this world’s symbonites. It will be a solitary existence, but it will have its compensations. There is much to see before I die.”
“I’ll go with…” Bartan began the sentence impulsively, then halted, and a tormented look appeared in his eyes. “I could never do that, Sondy. I would die of fear. You have already left me behind.”
Toller knew that he had been listening to Sondeweere’s normal voice, but her words rang through him—with multiple resonances of meaning—almost as if she had been speaking telepathically. There were echoes of dreams he had never dared to dream, of a vision he had once glimpsed—while riding a jet down through needle-sprays of sunlight—of being able to go on and on until he died, gorging his eyes and mind and soul with images of things he had never seen before, of new worlds, new suns, new galaxies, always something new, new, new. It was a prospect the architect of the universe might have designed especially for him; it flooded the dark void at the core of his being with hard light, joyous light; and he had to make the claim, no matter how slight the chances of winning…
“I would go with you,” he murmured. “Please take me with you.”
Sondeweere half-turned towards him, her mind-force swinging through him like the beam of a lighthouse, and he waited numbly for her answer.
“Toller Maraquine, I told you that your reason for coming to Farland was not a good one,” she said, “but your reason for wanting to leave it has its own kind of merit. I make no promises—for all of us may die within minutes—but if you succeed in taking the symbonite ship the universe is yours.”