Paingod And Other Delusions Part 16

The Blaster looked concerned. "Maybe it's you."

"I didn't get a Master's rating for nothing, John, and I tell you there isn't a trauma-barrier I can't at least get something through. If only a s.n.a.t.c.h of gabble. But here there's nothing-nothing!"

"Maybe it's you," the Blaster repeated, still concerned.

"d.a.m.n it! It's not me! I can read you, can't I-your right foot hurts from new boots, you wish you could have the bunk to lie down on, you...Oh, h.e.l.l, I can read you, and I can read the Captain up front, and I can read the pitmen in the hold, but I can't read him!

"It's like hitting a sheet of gla.s.s in his head. There should be a reflection if not penetration, but he seems to be opaqued. I didn't want to say anything when he was awake, of course."

"Do you think I should twit him a little-wake him up and warn him we're on to his game?"

The Mindee raised a hand to stop the very thought of the Blaster. "Great G.o.ds, no!" He gestured wildly.

"This Gunnderson's invaluable. If they found out we'd done anything unauthorized to him, we'd both be tanked."

Gunnderson lay on his acceleration-bunk, feigning sleep, listening to them. It was a new discovery to him, what they were saying. He had sometimes suspected that the pyrotic faculty of his mind was not the only way he differed from the norm-perhaps there were others. And if it was a side-effect, there ought to be others. He knew he could not read minds; was this impenetrability by Mindees another factor?

Perhaps the Blaster was powerless against him, too.

It would never clear away his problem-that was something he could do only in his own mind-but it might make his position and final decision safer.

There was only one way to find out. He knew the Blaster could not actually harm him severely, by s.p.a.ceCom's orders; but he wouldn't hesitate to blast off one of the Pyrotic's arms -cauterizing it as it disappeared-to warn him, if the situation seemed desperate enough.

The Blaster had seemed to Gunnderson a singularly overzealous man, in any case. It was a terrible risk, but he had to know.

There was only one way to find out, and he took it, finding a startling new vitality in himself for the first time in over thirty years.

He snapped his legs off the bunk, and lunged across the stateroom, shouldering aside the Mindee and straight-arming the Blaster in the mouth. The Blaster, surprised by the rapid and completely unexpected movement, had a reflex thought, and one entire bulkhead was washed by bolts of power. They crackled, and the plasteel buckled.

His direction had been upset, but Gunnderson knew the instant he regained his mental balance, the power would be directed at him.

Gunnderson was at the stateroom door, palming the lokt.i.te open-having watched the manner used by the Blaster when he had left on several occasions-and putting one foot into the companionway.

Then the Blaster struck. His fury rose, and he lost his sense of duty. This man had struck him-an accepted psioid, not an oddie! The black of his eyes deepened, and his face strained. His cheekbones rose in the stricture of a grin, and the force materialized.

It was all around Gunnderson.

He could feel the heat...see his clothes sparking and disappearing...feel his hair charring at the tips...feel the strain of psi power in the air.

But there was no effect on him.

He was safe-safe from the power of the Blaster.

Then he knew he didn't have to run, and he turned back to the cabin.

The two psioids were staring at him in open terror.

It was almost always night in invers.p.a.ce.

The s.h.i.+p ploughed constantly through a swamp of black, with metal inside, and metal outside, and the cold, unchanging devil-dark beyond the metal. Men hated invers.p.a.ce-they sometimes took the years-long journey through normal s.p.a.ce, to avoid the chilling mystery of invers.p.a.ce. For one moment the total black would surround the s.h.i.+p,and the next they would be sifting through a field of changing, flickering crazy quilt colors. Then dark again, then light, then dots, then shafts, then the dark once more. It was ever-changing, like a madman's dream. But not interestingly changing, so one would wish to watch, as one might watch a kaleidoscope. This was strange, and unnatural, something beyond the powers of the mind, or the abilities of the eye to comprehend. Ports were unlocked only in the officer's country, and those had solid lead s.h.i.+elds that would slam down and dog closed at the slap of a b.u.t.ton.

Nothing else could be done: for men were men, and s.p.a.ce was their eternal enemy. But no man willingly stared back at the deep of invers.p.a.ce.

In the officer's country, Alf Gunnderson reached with his sight and his mind into the coal-soot that now lay beyond the s.h.i.+p. Since he had proved his invulnerability over the Blaster, he had been given the run of the s.h.i.+p.

Where could he go? Nowhere that he could not be found. Guards watched the egress ports at all times, so he was still, in effect, a prisoner on the invers.h.i.+p.

He stared from the giant quartz window, all s.h.i.+elds open, all the darkness flowing in. The cabin was dark, but not half so dark as that darkness that was everywhere.

That darkness deeper than the darkness.

What was he? Was he man or was he machine, to be told he must turn a sun nova? What of the people on that sun's planets? What of the women and the children, alien or not? What of the people who hated war, and the people who served because they had been told to serve, and the people who wanted to be left alone? What of the men who went into the fields, while their fellow troops dutifully sharpened their war knives, and cried? Cried because they were afraid, and they were tired, and they wanted home without death. What of those men?

Was this war one of salvation or liberation or duty as they parroted the phrases of patriotism? Or was this still another of the unending wars for domination, larger holdings, richer worlds? Was this another vast joke of the Universe, where men were sent to their deaths so one type of government, no better than another, could rule? He didn't know. He wasn't sure. He was afraid. He had a power beyond all powers in his hands, and he suddenly found himself not a tramp and a waste, but a man who might demolish a solar system at his own will.

Not even sure he could do it, he considered the possibility, and it terrified him, making his legs turn to rubber, his blood to liquid oxygen. He was suddenly quite lost, and immersed in a deeper darkness than he had ever known.

With no way out.

He spoke to himself, letting his words sound foolish to himself, but speaking them just the same, knowing he had avoided speaking them for far too long: "Can I do it?

"Should I? I've waited so long, so long, to find a place, and now they tell me I've found a place. Is this my final place? Is this what I've lived and searched for? I can be a valuable war weapon. I can be the man the others turn to when they want a job done. But what sort of job?

"Can I do it? Is it more important to me to find peace-even a peace such as this-and to destroy, than to go on with the unrest?"

Alf Gunnderson stared at the night, at the faint tinges of color beginning to form at the edges of his vision, and his mind washed itself in the water of thought. He had discovered much about himself in the past few days. He had discovered many talents, many ideals he had never suspected in himself.

He had discovered he had character, and that he was not a hopeless, oddie hulk, doomed to die wasted. He found he had a future.

If he could make the proper decision.

But what was the proper decision?

"Omalo! Omalo snap-out!"

The cry roared through the companionways, bounced down the halls and against the metal hun of the invers.h.i.+p, sprayed from the speakers, and deafened the men asleep beside their squawk-boxes.

The s.h.i.+p ploughed through a maze of colors whose names were unknown, skiiiiittered in a nameless direction, and popped out, shuddering. There it was. The sun of Delgart. Omalo. Big. And golden. With planets set about it like boulders on the edge of the sea. The sea that was s.p.a.ce, and from which this s.h.i.+p had come. With death in its hold, and death in its tubes, and death, nothing but death, in its purpose.

The Blaster and the Mindee escorted Alf Gunnderson to the bridge. They stood back and let him walk to the huge quartz portal. The portal before which the pyrotic had stood so long, so many hours, gazing so deeply into invers.p.a.ce. They left him there, and stood back, because they knew he was safe from them. No matter how hard they held his arms, no matter how fiercely they pounded thoughts at him, he was safe. He was something new. Not just a pyrotic, not just a mind-blocked psioid, not just a Blaster-safe, he was something totally new.

Not a composite, for there had been many of those, with imperfect powers of several psi types. But something new, and incomprehensible to his guards. Psioid-plus-with a plus that might mean anything.

Gunnderson moved forward slowly, his deep shadow squirming out before him, sliding up the console, across the portal sill, and across the quartz itself. Himself super-imposed across the immensity of s.p.a.ce.

The man who was Gunnderson stared into the night that lay without, and at the sun that burned steadily and high in that night. A greater fire raged within him than on that sun.

His was a power he could not even begin to estimate, and if he let it be used in this way, this once, it could be turned to this purpose over and over and over again.

Was there any salvation for him?"You're supposed to flame that sun, Gunnderson," the slick-haired Mindee said, trying to a.s.sume an authoritative tone, a tone of command, but failing miserably. He knew he was powerless before this man. They could shoot him, of course, but what would that accomplish?

"What are you going to do, Gunnderson? What do you have in mind?" the Blaster chimed in. "s.p.a.ceCom wants Omalo fired. Are you going to do it, or do we have to report you as a traitor?"

"You know what they'll do to you back on Earth, Gunnderson. You know, don't you?"

Alf Gunnderson let the light of Omalo wash his sunken face with red haze. His eyes seemed to deepen in intensity. His hands on the console ledge stiffened and the knuckles turned white. He had seen the possibilities, and he had decided. They would never understand that he had chosen the harder way. He turned slowly.

"Where is the lifescoot located?"

They stared at him, and he repeated his question. They refused to answer, and he shouldered past them, stepped into the droptube to take him below decks. The Mindee spun on him, his face raging.

"You're a coward and a traitor, fireboy! You're a lousy no-psi freak and we'll get you! You can take the lifeboat, but someday we'll find you! No matter where you go out there, we're going to find you!"

He spat then, and the Blaster strained and strained and strained, but the power of his mind had no effect on Gunnderson.

The pyrotic let the dropshaft lower him, and he found the lifescoot some time later. He took nothing with him but the battered harmonica, and the red flush of Omalo on his face.

When they felt the pop! of the lifescoot being snapped into s.p.a.ce, and they saw the dark gray dot of it moving away rapidly flicking quickly off into invers.p.a.ce, the Blaster and the Mindee slumped into relaxers, stared at each other.

"We'll have to finish the war without him."

The Blaster nodded. "He could have won it for us in one minute. And now he's gone."

"Do you think he could have done it?"

The Blaster shrugged his heavy shoulders.

"He's gone," the Mindee repeated bitterly. "He's gone? Coward! Traitor! Someday...someday..."

"Where can he go?"

"He's a wanderer at heart. s.p.a.ce is deep, he can go anywhere."

"Did you mean that, about finding him someday?"

The Mindee nodded rapidly. "When they find out, back on Earth, what he did today, they'll start hunting him through all of s.p.a.ce. He'll never have another moment's peace. They have to find him-he's the perfect weapon. And he can't run forever. They'll find him."

"A strange man."

"A man with a power he can't hide, John. We know he can't control it, so how can he hide it? Sooner or later he'll give himself away. He can't hide himself cleverly enough to stay hidden forever."

"Odd that he would turn himself into a fugitive. He could have had peace of mind for the rest of his life.

Instead, he's got this..."

The Mindee stared at the closed portal s.h.i.+elds. His tones were bitter and frustrated. "We'll find him someday."

The s.h.i.+p shuddered, reversed drives, and slipped back into invers.p.a.ce.

Much sky winked back at him.

He sat on the bluff, wind tousling his gray hair, flapping softly at the dirty s.h.i.+rt-tail hanging from his pants top.

The Minstrel sat on the bluff watching the land fall slopingly away under him, down to the s.h.i.+ning hide of the sprawling dragon that was a city, lying in the cup of the hills. The dragon that crouched where lush gra.s.s had once grown.

On this quiet world, far from a red sun that shone high and steady, the Minstrel sat and pondered the many kinds of peace. And the kind that is not peace, can never be peace.

His eyes turned once more to the sage and eternal advice of the blackness above. No one saw him wink back at the silent stars.

With a sigh he slung the battered theremin over his sloping shoulders. It was a portable machine, with both rods bent and its power-pack patched and soldered. His body almost at once a.s.sumed the half-slouched, round-shouldered walk of the wanderer. He ambled down the hill toward the rocket field.

They called it the rocket field, out here on the Edge, but they didn't use rockets any longer. Now they rode to s.p.a.ce on strange tubes that whistled and sparkled behind the s.h.i.+p till it flicked off into some crazy quilt not-s.p.a.ce, and was gone forever.

Tarmac clicked under the heels of his boots. Bright, s.h.i.+ning boots, kept meticulously clean by polis.h.i.+ng, overpolis.h.i.+ng till they reflected back the corona of the field kliegs and, more faintly, the gleam of the stars. The Minstrel kept them cleaned and polished, a clas.h.i.+ng note matched against his generally unkempt appearance.

He was tall, towering over almost everyone he had ever met in his homeless wanderings. His body was a lean and supple thing, like a high-tension wire, with the merest suggestion of contained power and quickness. He moved with an easy gait, accentuating his long legs and gangling arms, making his well-proportioned head seem a bubble precariously balanced on a neck too long and thin to support it.He kept time to the click of the polished boots with a soft half-hum, half-whistle. The song was a dead song, long forgotten.

He came from beyond the mountains. No one knew where. No one cared where.

But they listened when he came. They listened almost reverently, with a desperation born of men who know they are severed from their home worlds, who know they will go out and out and seldom come back. He sang of s.p.a.ce, and he sang of land, and he sang of the peace that is left for Man-all men, no matter how many arms they had, or what their skin was colored-when he has expended the last little bit of Eternity to which he is ent.i.tled.

His voice had the sadness of death in it-the sadness of death before life has finished its work. But it also had the joy of metal under quick fingers, the strength of turned nickel-steel, and the whip of heart and soul working in loneliness. They listened when his song came with the night wind, probing, crying through the darkness of a thousand worlds and on a thousand winds.

The pitmen stopped their work as he came, silent but for the hum of his song and the beat of his boots on the blacktop. They watched as he came across the field.

He had been wandering the star-paths for many years now. He had appeared, and that was all; he was. They knew him as certainly as they knew themselves. They turned and he was like a pillar, set dark against the light and shadow of the field. He paced slowly, and they stopped the hoses feeding the radioactive food to the s.h.i.+ps, and the torches with which they flayed the metal skins; and they listened.

The Minstrel knew they were listening, and he unslung his instrument, settling the narrow box with its tone-rods around his neck by its thong. His fingers cajoled and pried and extracted the song of a soul, cast into the pit of the void, left to die, crying in torment not so much at death, but at the terror of being alone when the last call came.

And the workmen cried.

They felt no shame as the tears coursed through the dirt on their faces and mixed with the sweat-s.h.i.+ne of their toil. They stood, silent and dreaming, as he came toward them.

And before they even knew it was ended, and for seconds after the wail had fled back across the field into the mountains, they listened to the last notes of his lament.

Hands wiped clumsily across faces, leaving more dirt than before, and backs turned slowly as men resumed work. It seemed they could not face him, the nearer he came; as though he was too deep-seeing, too perceptive for them to be at ease close by. It was a mixture of respect and awe.

The Minstrel stood, waiting.

"Hey! you!"

The Minstrel did not move. There was a pad of soft-soled feet behind him. A s.p.a.ceman-tanned, supple, almost as tall as the ballad-singer and reminding him of another s.p.a.ceman, a blond-haired boy he had known long ago-came up beside him.

"What can I do for ya, Minstrel?" asked the s.p.a.ceman, tones of the accent of a long distant Earth rich in his voice.

"What do they call this world?" the Minstrel asked. His voice was quiet, like a needle being drawn through velvet.

"The natives call it Audi, and the charts call it Rexa Majoris XXIX, Minstrel. Why?"