INTERVENTION
Authors: Julian May,Ted Dikty
Copyright © 1987 by Julian May
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechan-
ical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information
storage or retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted
by the 1976 Copyright Act or in writing from the publisher. Re-
quests for permission should be addressed in writing to Houghton
Mifflin Company, 2 Park Street, Boston, Massachusetts 02108.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
May, Julian.
Intervention : a root tale to the
Galactic milieu and a vinculum between it
and the Saga of Pliocene exile.
I. Title.
PS
3563.
A
94216 1987 813'.54 87-4021
ISBN
0-395-43782-2
Printed in the United States of America
P
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
While many of the institutions and organizations depicted in this
book, including those devoted to parapsychology, actually do
exist, the characters are entirely products of the author's
imagination.
The quotation on page vii is from "Burnt Norton" in
Four Quar
-
TETS
by T. S. Eliot, copyright 1943 by T. S. Eliot; renewed 1971 by
Esme Valerie Eliot. Reprinted by permission of Harcourt Brace
Jovanovich, Inc.
To Robie Macauley
Evolutionary creativity always renders invalid the "law
of large numbers" and acts in an elitist way.
—Erich Jantsch
The Self-Organizing Universe
At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
Prologue—T. S. Eliot
"Burnt Norton"
HANOVER, NEW HAMPSHIRE, EARTH
17
FEBRUARY
2113
T
HE PROVERBIAL FEBRUARY
thaw did not materialize for the 203 rd annual Dartmouth Winter Carnival, and the temperature was around—10° Celsius when Uncle Rogi Remillard emerged from the sanctuary of the Peter Christian Tavern into a blustery, festive night. Cheered by a late supper of turkey-apple soup and a Vermont cheddar omelette, not to mention a liberal intake of spirits, he was damned if he would let the Family Ghost keep him from the fireworks display. The thing couldn't possibly do anything blatant in the midst of such a mob.
The northeast wind blew leftover snow about thronged Main Street and down the tavern's stairwell. Rogi had to push past revelers who tried to crowd down the steps as he climbed up. When the full blast caught him, he gave his long red-wool muffler an extra twist to wrap it partially about his head. Thick grizzled hair stuck out of the scarf folds like a scraggly fright wig. Uncle Rogi was tall, skinny, and slightly stooped. His youthful face was disfigured by great bags under the eyes and a slightly mashed nose, which dripped when forced to inhale the arctic air of unmodified New Hampshire winters. More fastidious Remillards had long since given up pleading with Rogi to fix himself up. The family image? Ça ne chie pas!
He stood in the partial shelter of the tavern building and looked warily around. The melting grids for both the streets and sidewalks of downtown Hanover had been turned off to preserve a properly old-fashioned atmosphere for the celebration. A six-horse team pulling a snow-roller had tamped down the worst ruts; and now sleighs, farm wagons full of hay and carousing students, and chuffing antique autos equipped with antique tire chains drove toward the College Green in anticipation of the pyrotechnics display. No modern vehicles were in sight. One could imagine it was the 1990s again ... except that among the human pedestrians in their reproduction winter gear from L. L. Bean and Eddie Bauer were slower-moving groups of exotic tourists from the nonhuman worlds of the Galactic Milieu. All but the hardy little Poltroyans were snugly sealed inside environmental suits with visors closed against the harsh Earth weather. The Poltroyans romped and chortled in the stinging cold, and wore fish-fur mukluks and oversized Dartmouth souvenir sweat shirts over their traditional robes.
Rogi searched the night, using his watering eyes rather than his farscan ultrasense. The damn Ghost was too clever a screener to be spotted with the mind's eye—or at least
his
mind's eye. Perhaps the thing had given up and gone away. God, he hoped so! After leaving him in peace for thirty years it had given him a nasty shock, accosting him there in the bookshop just as he was getting ready to close up. He had fled out into the street and it had followed, importuning him, all the way to the Peter Christian Tavern.
"Are you still here, mon fantôme?" Rogi muttered into his scarf. "Or did it get too cold for you, waiting outside? Silly thing. Who'd notice a ghost in a crowded bar with mulled cider and hot buttered rum flowing like Ammonoosuc Falls? Who'd notice a dozen ghosts?"
Something insubstantial stirred in the tiny plaza fronting the Nugget Cinema just south of the tavern. Whirling powder snow seemed for a moment to slide over and around a certain volume of empty air.
Bon sang! It had waited for him, all right. Rogi farspoke it:
Hello again. Beats me, Ghost, why you don't simply put on a psychocreative body and sit down to supper with me like a civilized being. Other Lylmik do it.
The Ghost said: There are too many alumni operants in the Peter Christian tonight. Even a Grand Master or two. In their cups, the older ones might be unpredictably insightful.
"And that would never do, eh? Some really big operator might see through you in the worst way!" Rogi's whisper was scathing and his mental façade, fortified with Dutch courage, no longer betrayed a hint of unease. "Well, I'm going over to watch the fireworks. How about you?"
The mysterious presence drifted closer, exuding restrained coercion. Oh, yes—it could force its will on him anytime it liked; the fact that it didn't had ominous implications. It needed wholehearted cooperation in some scheme again, the sneaky bastard, and very likely over some considerable span of time. Fat chance!
The Ghost's mind-voice was insistent: We must talk.
"Talk between skyrockets," Rogi told it rudely. "Nobody invited you here tonight. I've been waiting for this all winter. Why should I give up my fun?"
He turned his back and set off into the crowd. Nothing restrained him physically or mentally, but he was aware of the thing following. Bells in the Baker Library tower struck ten. A brass band was playing "Eleazar Wheelock" over in front of the brilliantly lit Hanover Inn. The leafless branches of the ancient elms, maples, and locust trees around the snowy quadrangle were trimmed in twinkling starlights. Streetlamps had been dimmed so the pseudoflames of the energy torches set up around the campus were the major source of illumination. They cast a mellow glow over the cheerful waiting throng and the ranks of huge snow sculptures in front of the college residence halls. In this centennial year of the Great Intervention, whimsical takeoffs on Milieu themes predominated. There was a flying saucer with its Simbiari crew marching down the gangplank, each exotic carrying a bucket of frozen green Jell-O. A hideous effigy of a Krondaku held out a tentacle to take a candy cane from a smiling human snow-child. Gi engaged in their favorite pursuit were posed in a Kama Sutra ensemble. Sigma Kappa had produced Snow White and the Seven Poltroyans. Out in the middle of the College Green was the festival's monumental theme sculpture: a bizarre armored humanoid like a fairy-tale knight, astride a rampant charger that was almost—but not quite—a horse. This statue was almost eight meters high.
The Ghost observed: A fair likeness of Kuhal, but the chaliko's a bit off the mark.
"The Outing Club tried to get him to be grand marshal of the cross-country ski parade," Rogi said, "but Cloud put her foot down. Spoil-sport. And you can't fool me, Ghost. I know why you showed up tonight instead of some other time. You wanted to see the Winter Carnival yourself." He groped inside his disreputable old blanket-coat and found a leather-bound flask of Wild Turkey.
There was a
choong
from a cleared area over beyond Wentworth Street. The first rocket went up and burst in an umbrella of pink, silver, and blue tinsel extending from horizon to horizon. The crowd yelled and applauded. Rogi moved into the lee of a giant elm trunk to escape the wind. He held out the flask. "Une larme de booze?"
Nobody noticed when the container left his gloved hand, tilted in the air, and then returned to its owner.
Good stuff, said the Family Ghost.
"As if a damned alien Lylmik would know," Rogi retorted. "Gotcha!" He took three hefty swallows.
Still seeking solace in the bottle instead of the Unity, I see.
"What's it to you?" Rogi drank again.
I love you. I wish you joy and peace.
"So you always said ... just before you gave me a new load of shit to shovel." He took another snort, capped the flask, and put it away. The expression on his face as he watched scarlet fire-flowers bloom above black branches was both cunning and reckless. "Level with me. What are you, really? A living person or just a manifestation of my own superego?"
The Ghost sighed and said: We're not going to start that all over again, are we?
"You're the one who started it—by coming back to bug me."
Don't be afraid of me, Rogi. I know there were difficult times in the past—
"Damn right! Least you can do is satisfy my curiosity, settle my mind before you start in all over again with the botheration. Put on an astral body like your damn Lylmik compères. Show yourself!"
No.
Rogi gave a derisive sniff. He took a bandanna handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his nose. "It figures. You're not a real Lylmik any-more than you're a real ghost." Wind-chill tears blurred the purple and orange comets that chased each other overhead like she-elves with their hair on fire.