Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (46 page)

“Perhaps you’re right,. If he had expired we’d have had more of his fooling around, lots more. Wollencott would have to be dealt with and probably the other pair of impersonators likewise. Either of the latter would be sweetly placed to occupy the seat of the mighty and deceive everyone but telepaths. Added to which there may be a hidden list of sharp-witted non-mutant individuals nominated by Thorstern as his successors, one or two of whom might be located on Mars. This surrender has saved us a lot of grief. Without it we’d have had to follow through to the bitter end.”

“A surrender with mental reservations,” Charles commented. “He couldn’t help stewing them while fumbling his way along the road.”

“Yes, I heard him.”

“He’s a sticker if nothing else. Firstly, he reserves the right to feed his promise to the ducks if at any future time he can discover a way to make himself absolutely mutant-proof. He estimates the chance of that as about a million to one against but he insists on covering that remote chance. Secondly, he reserves the right to slap you clean into the next galaxy but can’t imagine a satisfactory method just yet.”

“That’s not all,” contributed Raven. “I’m guessing here on the strength of what we know of his character: he’ll get into direct touch with the World Council, criticize Wollencott, heartily damn the underground movement, deplore their misdeeds, sympathize with Terra and offer to put a stop to the whole business for a worthwhile consideration. He’ll try to sell his surrender to Terra and make a good profit on it.”

“He might, at that!”

“Let him. It’s no business of ours. The main purpose has been achieved and that’s all that counts.” He mused a while, went on, “Thorstern won’t like destroying his organization. He will call off the hounds but hate to break up the pack. Only thing that would soothe his soul would be to form a bigger and better pack, openly and legally. There’s one way he could do that, and that’s with the knowledge and approval of the most influential of his recent opponents, including Heraty and several of the World Council.”

“For what purpose? They know nothing of the Denebs and therefore—”

“I told Thorstern that humanity will fight its way out of its own fixes. He may remember it. He is ignorant of the Denebs, as you’ve just remarked, but may decide—and convince others—that the hour of trial is here already. Pawns versus mutants! Being what he is, Thorstern automatically thinks of human beings as solely of his own kind, while mutants are not quite human, or quasi-human.” “Ah!” Charles narrowed his eyes. “Plenty of intolerance exists today. It wouldn’t need much boosting.”

Raven shrugged. “Who knows it better than we? Look what he gains if he can co-operate with Martian and Terran prototypes in arranging a synchronized three-world extermination of paranormals. It would give him back his private army, this time composed only of his own pawn-kind, gratify his ego, satisfy his hatred of mutants and provide him with the excuse and the means of removing the chief source of peril to himself. I can’t see how he can avoid thinking of it sooner or later. He’s got brains and courage and is thoroughly stubborn.”

“It wouldn’t be easy. The mutant minority is a very small one yet plenty large enough to make extermination a major problem.”

“Numerical ratios aren’t the whole of it,” Raven declared, propping himself against a corner of the table. “I can see two obstacles, both big.”

“Such as which?”

“One: they can wipe out only the
known
paranormals. How many more remain unknown? How many are beyond identification by ordinary minds and intend to remain that way?”

“It makes the job impossible to complete. Thorstern may not start it at all if he realizes he can’t finish it.”

“Maybe he will,” agreed Raven, with some doubt. “Obstacle number two is the natural consequence of civilizations coexistent on three planets. Suppose Thorstern tries to persuade them to arrange simultaneous pogroms designed to rid humanity of its too-clever boys. Each planet immediately suspects a trap. If it slaughters its own mutants while the others do not—”

“Mutual distrust.” Charles nodded in understanding. “No planet will be eager to take a risk that might place it at a grave disadvantage compared with the others.” He thought again, continued, “It could be a big risk, too. What if
two
worlds wiped out their own talent and the third did not? Boy, how soon would it gain mastery over the others! In such an event I could give a shrewd guess at which would be the third world and who would be bossing it.”

“Three planets will all see the same picture. Terrans and Martians are neither more nor less dopey than Venusians. So whichever way Thorstern turns he’ll have a tough proposition on his hands. The trouble is he’s the sort who likes tough propositions. He views them as a challenge to his abilities. I don’t think we’ve heard the last of him yet.”

“Neither do I. And, David, we’re top of his list for a summary removal.” A chuckle sounded low in his belly. “
If
he can do it.”

“I’m going back to Terra. Thanks for the hospitality.” Crossing the room, Raven put his head through the kitchen doorway, said to Mavis, “Goodby, Delicious!”

“And good riddance, Nuisance!” She gave him a false scowl that fooled him not at all.

He pulled an atrocious face at her, went outside, waved a careless hand at Charles. “You have been a pal. See you in the morgue.”

“Someday,” promised Charles as if looking forward to this treat. He watched the other fade into the fog, closed the door, waddled back to his chair.

With her mind but not her voice, Mavis told him emphatically, “You are going to regret all this.”

“I know it, Honey.”

A rare assortment of craft lay scattered across the numerous dispersal points of the spaceport. Antigravs, copters large and small, several ancient autogyros owned by unshaven prospectors, two dapper World Council courier boats, an auxiliary-engined balloon belonging to a party of virus-tracking scientists, a scarred and battered Martian tramp bearing the name of
Phodeimos,
two passenger ships, one awaiting mail and the other under repair and, finally, a rusty contraption, half gyro, half motorcycle, abandoned by some crazy gadgeteer.

Sodium lamps shed a cold, unholy light over this mechanical menagerie. Night mist was still hanging around but had thinned considerably as the huge but invisible sun started to poke its rim over the horizon. In less than an hour the fog would soar and leave the ground clear.

The whole place was heavily but inefficiently guarded, with small groups of men lounging near the fuel tanks and repair shops. Others mooched singly around the perimeter or between the silent ships. Not one was mentally alert. Bored by a long night devoid of incident and within half an hour of being relieved by the daytime shift, each was solely interested in seeing thirty minutes whisk past so that he could pack up and beat it for breakfast and bed.

Raven appreciated this common state of mind; it created psychological conditions in his favor. Timing is a factor important to success in anything and the clock is a greater autocrat than most folks realize. Attempting something difficult, one could be rebuffed when the clock’s hands were in one position and scrape through when in another.

He had reached to within a hundred yards of the perimeter and was exercising caution. Undoubtedly these guards had been warned to look out for him. Thorstern’s surrender would not have caused that warning to be withdrawn.

Most of these armed watchers were ordinary, untalented men ignorant of power-wranglers on this world or any other. A few of the others might be followers of Thorstern in fact—or Wollencott in fancy—and these would have additional, unofficial orders what to do should Raven show up. There was no way of telling which was which because one and all were thinking only of the end of their spell of duty and the petty relaxations to follow.

This fellow coming near had a vivid imagination filled with a large plate of bacon and eggs. He was also a roamer and a floater, which made him a most suitable victim.

Watching him for some time, Raven found this guard was one of the few on an irregular beat, free to wander at will among the grounded machines. A couple of times the guard had registered a moment of strain, left the surface and soared over a vessel that he could not be bothered to walk around. The other guards, all apparently earthbound, had observed these occasional floatings with bland indifference. About ten percent of them had special aptitudes of their own, each much superior to all others in his own view.

Drawn by what he felt as a mere impulse and had no cause to suspect as anything more, the guard ambled boredly round the corner of the little tool shed behind which Raven was waiting. On a similar impulse derived from the same source, he held out his chin at a convenient angle. He was most cooperative and Raven genuinely regretted the poorness of his reward. He smacked the chin, caught the body with its bacon and eggs still whirling, lowered it to ground.

Wearing the other’s badged cap and official slicker he came from behind the house and traipsed into the field. The victim had less height. The slicker came barely to Raven’s knees but it would not be noticed. The nearest guards were two hundred yards away. Trouble would most likely come from a telepath. If one made a distant pass at him and got a complete blank he’d know immediately that this was more than a mere floater—then the band would start to play with a vengeance!

Bending his arm to hold the gun in its crook exactly as the other had carried it, he came to the passenger ship waiting for mail. It was the
Star Wraith
, one of the latest models, fully fueled and ready to blow. There was no one on board. He tensed and soared over it, landing lightly on the other side.

For all the mess of stuff lying around his choice of an escape vehicle was limited. The gyros, copters and antigravs were strictly localized contraptions. There was nothing capable of leaving the planet other than the
Star Wraith
and the pair of courier boats. Either of the latter would do providing they were fueled and serviced. Thank goodness that on this moonless world there was no danger of grabbing a short range Moon-boat by mistake.

The nearer courier boat had full tanks and was all set, but he passed it by for a look at its fellow. That, too, lacked nothing but its pilot. Both vessels were without personnel and neither was locked. He preferred the second solely because a quarter-mile clearance lay behind its tail whereas the other was nicely positioned to make ashes of a time-worn autogyro that someone might love more than his mother. He chose the second.

Just then a mind behind the little tool house returned from its involuntary vacation, forgot former visions of breakfast, tried to co-ordinate itself. Raven detected it at once. He had been expecting it, waiting for it. The blow had been enough to gain him a couple of minutes and that was all he required, he hoped.

“What did I run into?” it mumbled confusedly. A few seconds, then, “I got slugged!” A slightly longer pause followed by a shrill and agitated, “My cap! My gun! Some mangy pup of a tree-cat has—”

With a deceitfully casual air Raven rose as if to float over the selected ship, instead hit the lock twenty feet up and got inside. Closing the circular door, he snapped its fasteners and sealed it, made his way to the pilot’s seat.

“Somebody bopped me!” continued the mind. “Jeepers, he must have been ready!” It faded out for a moment, came back with increased strength as he bellowed both mentally and vocally, “Look out, you dreamers! There’s a guy up to something! He pinched my—”

Amid the resulting medley of thought-forms that promptly switched from the subject of off-duty to on-duty four stronger ones emerged from nothingness, felt blindly around ship after ship. They reached the courier boat, touched Ravens mental shield, tried in vain to spike through it, recoiled.

“Who are you?”

He did not reply. The ship went
dum-dum-dum
as its pumps and injectors commenced operation.

“Answer! Who are you?”

They were mentalities of quite a different caliber from the host of others milling around. They were sharp, precise, directable, and knew an armor-plated mind the moment they encountered it.

“Another tele. Won’t talk. Got his shield up. He’s in that courier KM44. Better surround it.”

“Surround it? Not likely! If he lets go a blast from those big propulsors he’ll incinerate the tail-side of the circle!”

“I doubt it. He daren’t risk a jump before the fog lifts.”

“If it’s that fellow Raven there are going to be some awful ructions because we’re supposed to—”

“I tell you we don’t know who it is. Might be just some space-crazy kid squatting there and egging himself on to let her blow.” As a pious afterthought, “If he does, I hope he breaks his neck!”

“Bet you it’s Raven.”

The radio dinged inside the pilot-cabin and the cause of all the excitement flipped the switch. A hoarse voice emanating from the control tower burst forth with outraged authority.

“You in KM44—open the lock!”

He did not respond to that, either. Things were still
dum-dumming
halfway back to the tail. Various meters quivered and a red line on an ivory strip had crept to a point marked: READY.

“You in KM44. I warn you—”

Smiling, he glanced in the rear view periscope, saw a line of armed men fanned out a couple of hundred yards behind his pipes. His forefinger scratched a button, depressed it for a fraction of a second. Something went
whop!
And the vessel gave a slight kick and a neat ball of superheated vapor bulleted backward. The advancing foe raced madly from the center of the target.

The enraged speaker in the control tower was now reciting a harrowing list of pains and penalties selected from regulations one to twenty, sub-sections A to Z, and had become so engrossed in this data on what the human frame could be made to suffer that he was blind to everything outside. He was the only person Raven had ever heard who could mention the most trying items in italics.