Science-Fiction Adventures in Dimension, page 5
This might be somewhere in Africa. . . .
He shook his head, puzzled. The sun disappeared, and its blood-hued glow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to get hold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn’t just slip away. After a while the western sky became a screen of clear, luminous blue, a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight, Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense of peace and an undefinable longing.
Venus, the most beautiful of the planets.
Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through the constellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again he had watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky, its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward the horizon, and loved it equally in its alter ego of morning star. Venus was an old friend. An old friend . . .
Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, and diffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fists clenched, forgetting to breathe.
Last night Venus hadn’t been there.
Venus was a morning star just now. . . .
Just now!
He realized the truth in that moment.
~ * ~
Later, when that jewel of a planet had set and the stars were out, he lay on the bed, still warm with excitement and relief. He didn’t have to worry any more about military secrets or who Swarts was. Those questions were irrelevant now. And now he could accept the psychological tests at their face value; most likely, they were what they purported to be.
mportance remained: What year was this?
He grimaced in the darkness, an involuntary muscular expression of jubilation and excitement. The future! Here was the opportunity for the greatest adventure imaginable to twentieth-century man.
Somewhere out there under the stars there must be grand glittering cities and busy spaceports, roaring gateways to the planets. Somewhere out there in the night there must be men who had walked beside the Martian canals and pierced the shining cloud mantle of Venus—somewhere, perhaps, men who had visited the distant, luring stars and returned. Surely, a civilization that had developed time travel could reach the stars!
And he had a chance to become a part of all that! He could spend his life among the planets, a citizen of deep space, a voyager of the challenging spaceways between the solar worlds.
“I’m adaptable,” he told himself gleefully. “I can learn fast. There’ll be a job for me out there. . . .”
If-
Suddenly sobered, he rolled over and put his feet on the floor, sat in the darkness, thinking. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have to find a way of breaking down Swarts’s reticence. He would have to make the man realize that secrecy wasn’t necessary in this case. And if Swarts still wouldn’t talk, he would have to find a way of forcing the issue. The fellow had said that he didn’t need cooperation to get his results, but-
After a while Maitland smiled to himself and went back to bed.
~ * ~
He woke in the morning with someone gently shaking his shoulder. He rolled over and looked up at the girl who had brought him his meal the evening before. There was a tray on the table, and he sniffed the smell of bacon. The girl smiled at him. She was dressed as before, except that she had discarded the white cloak.
As he swung his legs to the floor, she started toward the door, carrying the tray with the dirty dishes from yesterday. He stopped her with the word, “Miss!”
She turned, and he thought there was something eager in her face.
“Miss, do you speak my language?”
“Yes,” hesitantly. She lingered too long on the hiss of the last consonant.
“Miss,” he asked, watching her face intently, “what year is this?”
Startlingly, she laughed, a mellow peal of mirth that had nothing forced about it. She turned toward the door again and said over her shoulder, “You will have to ask Swarts about that. I cannot tell you.”
“Wait! You mean you don’t know?”
She shook her head. “I cannot tell you.”
“All right; we’ll let it go at that.”
She grinned at him again as the door slid shut.
Swarts came half an hour later, and Maitland began his planned offensive.
“What year is this?”
Swarts’s steely eyes locked with his. “You know what the date is,” he stated.
“No, I don’t. Not since yesterday.”
“Come on,” Swarts said patiently, “let’s get going. We have a lot to get through this morning.”
“I know this isn’t 1950. It’s probably not even the twentieth century. Venus was a morning star before you brought me here. Now it’s an evening star.”
“Never mind that. Come.”
Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to the laboratory, lay down, and allowed him to fasten the straps and attach the instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts started saying a list of words—doubtlessly some sort of semantic reaction test—Maitland began the job of integrating csc’x dx in his head. It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequent tracing back of steps. After several minutes he noticed that Swarts had stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other man standing over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled.
“What year is this?” Maitland asked in a conversational tone.
“We’ll try another series of tests.”
It took Swarts nearly twenty minutes to set up the new apparatus. He lowered a bulky affair with two cylindrical tubes like the twin stacks of a binocular microscope over Maitland’s head, so that the lenses at the ends of the tubes were about half an inch from the engineer’s eyes. He attached tiny clamps to Maitland’s eyelashes.
“These will keep you from holding your eyes shut,” he said. “You can blink, but the springs are too strong for you to hold your eyelids down against the tension.”
He inserted button earphones into Maitland’s ears—
And then the show began.
He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there were footsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open, and outlined against the light of the hall he saw a man with a twelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, “Now I’ve got you, you wife stealer!” He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger. There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokeless powder—then blackness.
With a deliberate effort Maitland unclenched his fists and tried to slow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test—what was the countermove ? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around them declared excruciatingly that they couldn’t keep that up.
Now he was looking at a girl. She . . .
Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it.
He thought of a fat slob of a bully who had beaten him up one day after school. He remembered a talk he had heard by a politician who had all the intelligent social responsibility of a rogue gorilla, but no more. He brooded over the damnable stupidity and shortsightedness of Swarts in standing by his silly rules and not telling him about this new world.
Within a minute he was in an ungovernable rage. His muscles tightened against the restraining straps. He panted, sweat came out on his forehead, and he began to curse. Swarts! How he hated . . .
The scene was suddenly a flock of sheep spread over a green hillside. There was blood hammering in Maitland’s temples. His face felt hot and swollen, and he writhed against the restraint of the straps.
The scene disappeared, the lenses of the projector retreated from his eyes, and Swarts was standing over him, white-lipped. Maitland swore at him for a few seconds, then relaxed and smiled weakly. His head was starting to ache from the effort of blinking.
“What year is this?” he asked.
“All right,” Swarts said. “A.D. 2634.”
Maitland’s smile became a grin.
“I really haven’t the time to waste talking irrelevancies,” Swarts said a while later. “Honestly, Maitland, I’m working against a time limit. If you’ll cooperate, I’ll tell Ching to answer your questions.”
“Ching?”
“Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals.”
Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projector to his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist.
That evening he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sit and watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimes whistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jittering one leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same theme over and over; a minute’s thought identified it as that exuberant mounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.
He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himself aboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at Syrtis Major; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn. In his mind, he circled the moon and viewed the earth as a huge, bright globe against the constellations. . . .
Finally the door slid aside and she appeared, carrying the usual tray of food. She smiled at him, making dimples in her golden skin and revealing a perfect set of teeth, and put the tray on the table.
“I think you are wonderful,” she laughed. “You get everything you want, even from Swarts, and I have not been able to get even a little of what I want from him. I want to travel in time, go back to your twentieth century. And I wanted to talk with you, and he would not let me.” She laughed again, hands on her rounded hips. “I have never seen him so irritated as he was this noon.”
Maitland urged her into the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed. Eagerly he asked, “Why the devil do you want to go to the twentieth century? Believe me, I’ve been there, and what I’ve seen of this world looks a lot better.”
She shrugged. “Swarts says that I want to go back to the Dark Age of Technology because I have not adapted well to modern culture. Myself, I think I just have a romantic nature. Far times and places look more exciting. . . .”
“How do you mean—” Maitland wrinkled his brow—”adapt to modern culture? Don’t tell me you’re from another time!”
“Oh, no! But my home is Aresund, a little fishing village at the head of a fiord in what you would call Norway. So far north, we are much behind the times. We live in the old way, from the sea, speak the old tongue.”
He looked at her golden features, such a felicitous blend of Oriental and European characteristics, and hesitantly asked, “Maybe I shouldn’t . . . This is a little personal, but . . . you don’t look altogether like the Norwegians of my time.”
His fear that she would be offended proved to be completely unjustified. She merely laughed and said, “There has been much history since 1950. Five hundred years ago, Europe was overrun by Pan-Orientals. Today you could not find anywhere a ‘pure’ European or Asiatic.” She giggled. “Swarts’s ancestors from your time must be cursing in their graves. His family is Afrikander all the way back, but one of his great-grandfathers was pure-blooded Bantu. His full name is Lassisi Swarts.”
Maitland wrinkled his brow. “Afrikander?”
“The South Africans.” Something strange came into her eyes. It might have been awe or even hatred; he could not tell. “The Pan-Orientals eventually conquered all the world except for North America— the last remnant of the American World Empire—and southern Africa. The Afrikanders had been partly isolated for several centuries then, and they had developed technology while the rest of the world lost it. They had a tradition of white supremacy, and in addition they were terrified of being encircled.” She sighed. “They ruled the next world empire, and it was founded on the slaughter of one and a half-billion human beings. That went into the history books as the War of Annihilation.”
“So many? How?”
“They were clever with machines, the Afrikanders. They made armies of them—armies of invincible killing machines, produced in robot factories from robot-minded ores. . . . Very clever.” She gave a little shudder.
“And yet they founded modern civilization,” she added. “The grandsons of the technicians who built the machine army set up our robot production system, and today no human being has to dirty his hands raising food or manufacturing things. It could never have been done, either, before the population was . . . reduced ... to three hundred million.”
“Then the Afrikanders are still on top? Still the masters?”
She shook her head. “There are no more Afrikanders.”
“Rebellion?”
“No. Intermarriage. Racial blending. There was a psychology of guilt behind it. So huge a crime eventually required a proportionate expiation. Afrikaans is still the world language, but there is only one race now. No more masters or slaves.”
They were both silent for a moment, and then she sighed. “Let us not talk about them any more.”
“Robot factories and farms,” Maitland mused. “What else? What means of transportation? Do you have interstellar flight yet?”
“Inter-what?”
“Have men visited the stars?”
She shook her head, bewildered.
“I always thought that would be a tough problem to crack,” he agreed. “But tell me about what men are doing in the solar system. How is life on Mars and Venus, and how long does it take to get to those places?”
He waited, expectantly silent, but she only looked puzzled. “I don’t understand. Mars? What are Mars?”
After several seconds, Maitland swallowed. Something seemed to be the matter with his throat, making it difficult for him to speak. “Surely you have space travel?”
She frowned and shook her head. “What does that mean—space travel?”
He was gripping the edge of the bed now, glaring at her. “A civilization that could discover time travel and build robot factories wouldn’t find it hard to send a ship to Mars!”
“A ship? Oh, you mean something like a vliegvlotter. Why, no, I don’t suppose it would be hard. But why would anyone want to do a thing like that?”
He was on his feet, towering over her, fists clenched. She raised her arms as if to shield her face if he should hit her. “Let’s get this perfectly clear,” he said, more harshly than he realized. “So far as you know, no one has ever visited the planets and no one wants to. Is that right?”
She nodded apprehensively. “I have never heard of its being done.”
He sank down on the bed and put his face in his hands. After a while he looked up and said bitterly, “You’re looking at a man who would give his life to get to Mars. I thought I would in my time. I was positive I would when I knew I was in your time. And now I know I never will.”
The cot creaked beside him, and he felt a soft arm about his shoulders and fingers delicately stroking his brow. Presently he opened his eyes and looked at her. “I just don’t understand,” he said. “It seemed obvious to me that whenever men were able to reach the planets, they’d do it.”
Her pitying eyes were on his face. He hitched himself around so that he was facing her. “I’ve got to understand. I’ve got to know why. What happened? Why don’t men want the planets any more?”
“Honestly,” she said, “I did not know they ever had.” She hesitated. “Maybe you are asking the wrong question.”
He furrowed his brow, bewildered now by her.
“I mean,” she explained, “maybe you should ask why people in the twentieth century did want to go to worlds men are not suited to inhabit.”
Maitland felt his face become hot. “Men can go anywhere, if they want to bad enough.”
“But why?”
Despite his sudden irrational anger toward her, Maitland tried to stick to logic. “Living space, for one thing. The only permanent solution to the population problem . . .”
“We have no population problem. A hundred years ago, we realized that the key to social stability is a limited population. Our economic system was built to take care of three hundred million people, and we have held the number at that.”
“Birth control,” Maitland scoffed. “How do you make it work— secret police?”
“No. Education. Each of us has the right to two children, and we cherish that right so much that we make every effort to see that those two are the best children we could possibly produce. . . .”
She broke off, looking a little self-conscious. “You understand, what I have been saying applies to most of the world. In some places like Aresund, things are different. Backward. I still do not feel that I belong here, although the people of the town have accepted me as one of them.”
