Chapter 79
His tones were amazed. "Do you know what you've got up there in that cell?"Sims said nothing, knowing what was to come would not startle him too much; he had expected something fantastic.
"That man...do you know where he...that soldier-and by G.o.d, Sims, that's what he is-comes from, from-now you're going to think I'm insane to believe it, but somehow I'm convinced-he comes from the future!"
Sims tightened his lips. Despite himself, he was shocked. He knew it was true. It had to be true, it was the only explanation that fit all the facts.
"What can you tell me?" he asked the philologist.
"Well, at first I tried solving the communications problem by asking him simple questions...pointing to myself and saying 'Soames,' pointing to him and looking quizzical, but all he'd keep saying was a string of gibberish. I tried for hours to equate his tones and phrases with all the dialects and subdialects of every language I'd ever known, but it was no use. He slurred too much. And then I finally figured it out. He had to write it out-which I couldn't understand, of course, but it gave me a clue-and then I kept having him repeat it. Do you know what he's speaking?"
Sims shook his head.
The linguist spoke softly. "He's speaking English. It's that simple. Just English.
"But an English that has been corrupted and run together, and so slurred, it's incomprehensible. It must be the future trend of the language. Sort of an extrapolation of gutter English, just contracted to a fantastic extreme. At any rate, I got it out of him."
Sims leaned forward, held his dead pipe tightly. "What?"
Soames read it off a sheet of paper: "My name is Qarlo Clobregnny. Private. Six-five-one-oh-two-two-nine. "
Sims murmured in astonishment. "My G.o.d...name, rank and-"
Soames finished for him, "-and serial number. Yes, that's all he'd give me for over three hours. Then I asked him a few innocuous questions, like where did he come from, and what was his impression of where he was now."
The philologist waved a hand vaguely. "By that time, I had an idea what I was dealing with, though not where he had come from. But when he began telling me about the War, the War he was fighting when he showed up here, I knew immediately he was either from some other world-which is fantastic-or, or...well, I just don't know!"
Sims nodded his head in understanding. "From when do you think he comes?"
Soames shrugged. "Can't tell. He says the year he is in-doesn't seem to realize he's in the past-is K79. He doesn't know when the other style of dating went out. As far as he knows, it's been 'K' for a long time, though he's heard stories about things that happened during a time they dated 'GV: Meaningless, but I'd wager it's more thousands of years than we can imagine."
Sims ran a hand nervously through his hair. This problem was, indeed, larger than he'd thought.
"Look, Professor Soames, I want you to stay with him, and teach him current English. See if you can work some more information out of him, and let him know we mean him no hard times.
"Though Lord knows," the special advisor added with a tremor, " he can give us a harder time than we can give him. What knowledge he must have!"
Soames nodded in agreement. "Is it all right if I catch a few hours' sleep? I was with him almost ten hours straight, and I'm sure he needs it as badly as I do."
Sims nodded also, in agreement, and the philologist went off to a sleeping room. But when Sims looked down through the window, twenty minutes later, the soldier was still awake, still looking about nervously. It seemed he did not need sleep.
Sims was terribly worried, and the coded telegram he had received from the President, in answer to his own, was not at all rea.s.suring. The problem was in his hands, and it was an increasingly worrisome problem.
Perhaps a deadly problem.
He went to another sleeping room, to follow Soames's example. It looked like sleep was going to be scarce.
Problem: A man from the future. An ordinary man, without any special talents, without any great store of intelligence. The equivalent of "the man in the street." A man who owns a fantastic little machine that turns sand into solid matter, harder than steel-but who hasn't the vaguest notion of how it works, or how to a.n.a.lyze it. A man whose knowledge of past history is as vague and formless as any modern man's. A soldier. With no other talent than fighting. What is to be done with such a man?
Solution: Unknown.
Lyle Sims pushed the coffee cup away. If he ever had to look at another cup of the disgusting stuff, he was sure he would vomit. Three sleepless days and nights, running on nothing but dexedrine and hot black coffee, had put his nerves more on edge than usual. He snapped at the clerks and secretaries, he paced endlessly, and he had ruined the stems of five pipes. He felt muggy and his stomach was queasy. Yet there was no solution.
It was impossible to say, "All right, we've got a man from the future. So what? Turn him loose and let him make a life for himself in our time, since he can't return to his own."
It was impossible to do that for several reasons: (1) What if he couldn't adjust? He was then a potential menace, of incalculable potential. (2) What if an enemy power-and G.o.d knew there were enough powers around anxious to get a secret weapon as valuable as Qarlo-grabbed him, and did somehow manage to work out the concepts behind the rifle, the firmer, the mono-atomic anti-gravity device in the pouch? What then? (3) A man used to war, knowing only war, would eventually seek or foment war.
There were dozens of others, they were only beginning to realize. No, something had to be done with him.
Imprison him?
For what? The man had done no real harm. He had not intentionally caused the death of the man on the subway platform. He had been frightened by the train. He had been attacked by the executives- one of whom had a broken neck, but was alive. No, he was just "a stranger and afraid, in a world I never made," as Housman had put it so terrifyingly clearly.
Kill him?
For the same reasons, unjust and brutal...not to mention wasteful.
Find a place for him in society?
Doing what?
Sims raged in his mind, mulled it over and tried every angle. It was an insoluble problem. A simple dog face, with no other life than that of a professional soldier, what good was he?
All Qarlo knew was war.
The question abruptly answered itself: If he knows no other life than that of a soldier...why, make him a soldier. (But...who was to say that, with his knowledge of futuristic tactics and weapons, he might not turn into another Hitler, or Genghis Khan?) No, making him a soldier would only heighten the problem. There could be no peace of mind were he in a position where he might organize.
As a tactician then?
It might work at that.
Sims slumped behind his desk, pressed down the key of his intercom, spoke to the secretary, "Get me General Mainwaring, General Polk and the Secretary of Defense."
He clicked the key back. It just might work at that. If Qarlo could be persuaded to detail fighting plans,
It just might work...
...but Sims doubted it.
Mainwaring stayed on to report when Polk and the Secretary of Defense went back to their regular duties. He was a big man, with softness written across his face and body, and a pompous white moustache. He shook his head sadly, as though the Rosetta Stone had been stolen from him just before an all-important experiment.
"Sorry, Sims, but the man is useless to us. Brilliant grasp of military tactics, so long as it involves what he calls 'eighty-thread beams' and telepathic contacts.
"Do you know those wars up there are fought as much mentally as they are physically? Never heard of a tank or a mortar, but the stories he tells of brain-burning and spore-death would make you sick. It isn't pretty, the way they fight.
"I thank G.o.d I'm not going to be around to see it; I thought our wars were filthy and unpleasant. They've got us licked all down the line for brutality and ma.s.s death. And the strange thing is, this Qarlo fellow despises it! For a while there-felt foolish as h.e.l.l-but for a while there, when he was explaining it, I almost wanted to chuck my career, go out and start beating the drum for disarmament."
The General summed up, and it was apparent Qarlo was useless as a tactician. He had been brought up with one way of waging war, and it would take a lifetime for him to adjust enough to be of any tactical use.
But it didn't really matter, for Sims was certain the General had given him the answer to the problem, inadvertently.
He would have to clear it with Security, and the President, of course. And it would take a great deal of publicity to make the people realize this man actually was the real thing, an inhabitant of the future. But if it worked out, Qarlo Clobregnny, the soldier and nothing but the soldier, could be the most valuable man Time had ever sp.a.w.ned.
He set to work on it, wondering foolishly if he wasn't too much the idealist.
Ten soldiers crouched in the frozen mud. Their firmers had been jammed, had 'turned the sand and dirt of their holes only to icelike conditions. The cold was seeping up through their suits, and the jammed firmers were emitting hard radiation. One of the men screamed as the radiation took hold in his gut, and he felt the organs watering away. He leaped up, vomiting blood and phlegm-and was caught across the face by a robot-tracked triple beam. The front of his face disappeared, and the nearly decapitated corpse flopped back into the firmhole, atop a comrade.
That soldier shoved the body aside carelessly, thinking of his four children, lost to him forever in a Ruskie-c.h.i.n.k raid on Garmatopolis, sent to the bogs to work. His mind conjured up the sight of the three girls and the little boy with such long, long eyelashes-each dragging through the stinking bog, a mineral bag tied to the neck, collecting fuel rocks for the enemy. He began to cry softly. The sound and mental image of crying was picked up by a Ruskie-c.h.i.n.k telepath somewhere across the lines, and even before the man could catch himself, blank his mind, the telepath was on him.
The soldier raised up from the firmhole bottom, clutching with crooked hands at his head. He began to tear at his features wildly, screaming high and piercing, as the enemy telepath burned away his brain. In a moment his eyes were empty, staring sh.e.l.ls, and the man flopped down beside his comrade, who had begun to deteriorate.
A thirty-eight thread whined its beam overhead, and the eight remaining men saw a munitions wheel go up with a deafening roar. Hot shrapnel zoomed across the field, and a thin, brittle, knife-edged bit of plasteel arced over the edge of the firmhole, and buried itself in one soldier's head. The piece went in crookedly, through his left earlobe, and came out skewering his tongue, half-extended from his open mouth. From the side it looked as though he were wearing some sort of earring. He died in spasms, and it took an awfully long while. Finally, the twitching and gulping got so bad, one of his comrades used the b.u.t.t of a Brandelmeier across the dying man's nose. It splintered the nose, sent bone chips into the brain, killing the man instantly.
Then the attack call came!
In each of their heads, the telepathic cry came to advance, and they were up out of the firmhole, all seven of them, reciting their daily prayer, and knowing it would do no good. They advanced across the slushy ground, and overhead they could hear the buzz of leech bombs, coming down on the enemy's thread emplacements.
All around them in the deep-set night, the varicolored explosions popped and sugged, expanding in all directions like fireworks, then dimming the scene, again the blackness.
One of the soldiers caught a beam across the belly, and he was thrown sidewise for ten feet, to land in a soggy heap, his stomach split open, the organs glowing and pulsing wetly from the charge of the threader. A head popped out of a firmhole before them, and three of the remaining six fired simultaneously. The enemy was a b.o.o.by-rigged to backtrack their kill urge, rigged to a telepathic hookup-and even as the body exploded under their combined firepower, each of the men caught fire. Flames leaped from their mouths, from their pores, from the instantly charred s.p.a.ces where their eyes had been. A pyrotic-telepath had been at work.
The remaining three split and cut away, realizing they might be thinking, might be giving themselves away. That was the horror of being just a dog-soldier, not a special telepath behind the lines. Out here all the options totaled nothing but death.
A doggie-mine slithered across the ground, entwined itself in the legs of one soldier, and blew his legs out from under him. He lay there clutching the shredded stumps, feeling the blood soaking into the mud, and then unconsciousness seeped into his brain. He died shortly thereafter.
Of the two left, one leaped a barbwall and blasted out a thirty-eight thread emplacement of twelve men, at the cost of the top of his head. He was left alive, and curiously, as though the war had stopped, he felt the top of himself, and his fingers pressed lightly against convoluted, slick matter for a second before he dropped to the ground.
His braincase was open, glowed strangely in the night, but no one saw it.
The last soldier dove under a beam that zzzzzzzed through the night and landed on his elbows. He rolled with the tumble, felt the edge of a leech-bomb crater, and dove in headfirst. The beam split up his pa.s.sage, and he escaped charring by an inch. He lay in the hole, feeling the cold of the battlefield seeping around him, and drew his cloak closer.
The soldier was Qarlo...
He finished talking, and sat down on the platform...
The audience was silent...
Sims shrugged into his coat, fished around in the pocket for the cold pipe. The dottle had fallen out of the bowl, and he felt the dark grains at the bottom of the pocket. The audience was filing out slowly, hardly anyone speaking, but each staring at others around him. As though they were suddenly realizing what had happened to them, as though they were looking for a solution.
Sims pa.s.sed such a solution. The pet.i.tions were there, tacked up alongside the big sign- duplicate of the ones up allover the city. He caught the heavy black type on them as he pa.s.sed through the auditorium's vestibule: SIGN THIS PEt.i.tION! PREVENT WHAT YOU HAVE HEARD TONIGHT!.
People were flocking around the pet.i.tions, but Sims knew it was only a token gesture at this point: the legislation had gone through that morning. No more war...under any conditions. And intelligence reported the long playing records, the piped broadcasts, the p.a. trucks, had all done their jobs. Similar legislation was going through allover the world.
It looked as though Qarlo had done it, single-handed.
Sims stopped to refill his pipe, and stared up at the big black-lined poster near the door.
HEAR QARLO, THE SOLDIER FROM THE FUTURE!SEE THE MAN FROM TOMORROW,.
AND HEAR HIS STORIESOF THE WONDERFUL WORLD OF THE FUTURE!FREE! NO OBLIGATIONS! HURRY!.
The advertising had been effective, and it was a fine campaign.
Qarlo had been more valuable just telling about his Wars, about how men died in that day in the future, than he could ever have been as a strategist.
It took a real soldier, who hated war, to talk of it, to show people that it was ugly, and unglamorous. And there was a certain sense of foul defeat, of hopelessness, in knowing the future was the way Qarlo described it. It made you want to stop the flow of Time, say, "No. The future will not be like this! We will abolish war!"
Certainly enough steps in the right direction had been taken. The legislation was there, and those who had held back, who had tried to keep animosity alive, were being disposed of every day.
Qarlo had done his work well.
There was just one thing bothering special advisor Lyle Sims. The soldier had come back in time, so he was here. That much they knew for certain.
But a nagging worry ate at Sims's mind, made him say prayers he had thought himself incapable of inventing. Made him fight to get Qarlo heard by everyone...
Could the future be changed?
Or was it inevitable?
Would the world Qarlo left inevitably appear?
Would all their work be for nothing?
It couldn't be! It dare not be!
He walked back inside, got in line to sign the pet.i.tions again, though it was his fiftieth time.
The Night Of Delicate Terrors In the sovereign state of Kentucky, Kin Hooker mused, hunching over the wheel, it is possible to freeze to death and starve to death with a pocketful of money.
In the back seat, Raymond cried out in his sleep, and Alma reached back to straighten the heavy car-robe over him. "How's Patty?" McKinley Hooker said to his wife.
Alma straightened around and let air escape between her lips. She stared straight ahead through the winds.h.i.+eld at the barrage descent of thick, enveloping snow that wrapped the car in a hush. He had to repeat his question; she did not look at him as she replied, "Still sleeping. How much gas we got?"
He winced at her grammar. That was the only thing about Alma that distressed Kin Hooker. But it was easily attributed to the degree of schooling she had received in Alabama.
"Should have enough to get us over the state line. Is gas more expensive in Indiana?"
Alma shrugged and went back to her absorbed sighting into the slanting white. In the back seat, Raymond turned on his side, moving closer to little Patty's warm body. They huddled together against the January bite that reached them despite the laboring car heater.
"d.a.m.ned road!" Hooker murmured under his breath. They were traveling at a pitifully slow pace despite the firmness of the concrete dual-lane. A cold front had blitzkrieged down from the north earlier that evening, catching the hard, cold Kentucky countryside in a noose of below-zero snow and raging winds. All traffic had begun to crawl, with jackknifed trailers and cars tossed this way and that in the ditches at the roadside. On every turn cars spun-out helplessly, leaving their pa.s.sengers stranded...no one could chance helping anyone else, with the omnipresent risk of being stuck.
Now the snow had piled along the inner lane, leaving only the outer pa.s.sable to the horde of traffic heading upstate. Across the humped median, the traffic going south was in like shape.
McKinley Hooker's back hurt terribly, and his hands on the wheel were cold. He felt a graininess in his eyes, and there was a persistent throbbing in his right temple.
They had eaten all the food in the lunch basket earlier that evening, and now, as the dash clock read 2:25 AM they knew they would have to find a motel for the night. Kin had been driving since seven that morning, with only infrequent gas stops, and his back, just under the shoulder blades, at the base of his spine, in the area of the kidneys, was so sore he had slumped into a half-crouch over the wheel, round-shouldered and uncomfortable, from which he was not certain he could emerge.
And the blizzard was getting worse.