"Ask him!"
Captain Larkin smiled. "Tell them, Taine. Tell your new subjects. You
have so little time."
"What do you mean, so little time?"
"Tell them!" And Larkin turned away, laughing.
They were primitive, these people, and as the girl Laurie had said,
they needed a scapegoat. They didn't like it here on the ship. There
had been a first generation which had known Earth and could savor its
flavor through the long years like a delicate wine. And there would
be a last which could get out on the Centaurian planet, stretch its
legs, and build civilization anew. But these in between were in limbo.
They lived and they died on the ship, and it wasn't their idea. They
would breed so that the ship would still have a crew when it reached
Centauri. That was their function. But they didn't like it.
All this went through Eric's mind. Perhaps the girl had no psychosis,
perhaps her warning had been sincere. He wondered if the long sleep had
dulled his instincts, his reflexes.
He told them of Earth, of its wonders, of the wide meadows he
remembered, of the wind, brisk in spring, which brought the
sweet-scented rain, of summer and the big harvest moon which followed,
of a hundred other things.
_Clair! Clair! Did you marry, have children? There was that Lou
Somebody who you'd flirt with to make me jealous, but we both knew
he loved you. I wonder._
He spoke of the planners, of the proud day when all the world had seen
them off, the video jets flashing by, circling, to send their pictures
to the waiting millions.
The planners, he told them, had a vision. It was the same vision which
had first taken man--an ape with a brain that held curious half-formed
thoughts that gave him a headache--down from the trees. A vision which
would carry him one day to the farthest stars and beyond.
They shouted. They stamped on the floor. They laughed.
"What about us? We didn't have any say, did we? Who wants to spend his
whole life in this tin can?"
"I don't know--" One of them at least was dubious, but the crowd
stilled him. What of Laurie and her Cult? He did not see the girl
anywhere in the great hall.
"We've had enough, Captain. Too much, I'd say!"
Larkin looked smug. Lindquist was grinning. No one did anything to stop
them as the crowd surged forward, threatened.
Watching them, only now beginning to realize the whole thing, Eric
remembered history. Mock-kinghood was nothing new in the scheme of
primitive cultures. In ancient Babylonia, in Assyria--elsewhere--the
mock king ruled for a day and the people came to him with their
troubles. The king, cowering on his throne-of-a-day could perhaps see
his executioner waiting. The real king had nothing to lose: the pent up
dissatisfaction of his people would drown the mock-ruler like a wave,
and after it was all over the king would return to his throne with more
power than before.
* * * * *
Rough hands reached up, grabbed at him. Fists shook, voices threatened.
Someone pulled his boot, and Eric sat down on the dais, breathing
heavily.
He got up fast, before they could swarm all over him, yanked the gun
from his jumper, poked it against Larkin's ribs. "You know what this
is?"
"Yes--a gun."
"Well, call your friends off or I'll kill you. I'm not joking, Larkin.
Call them off--"
"I can't. Look at them, a mob. What can I do now?"
"You'd better do something, because soon you won't have a chance to do
anything. Now!"
Larkin made a motion to the trumpeteer. He blew two loud notes this
time, and uniformed men appeared, brandishing clubs. Evidently, they
were on hand in case the crowd became too wild, threatened Larkin,
Lindquist and the other nameless rulers.
With their clubs they beat the mob back, slowly, held them off as Eric
pushed Larkin before him. The crowd surged close, fought once or twice
with the guards on their immediate flanks. Once Larkin tried to bolt
away, but thereafter Eric held him firmly until they reached an exit.
Together they sprinted down a corridor, Larkin puffing and staggering.
"Beat it," Eric told him. "Go on, scram!"
"You won't kill me as I run? I know that thing can kill over long
distances--"
"Don't give me any ideas," Eric said, but he felt a little sick as
Larkin ran, whimpering, back toward the hall. This man was their ruler,
their leader.
He found the door, activated its mechanism, waited impatiently while he
heard the sounds of pursuit. Something clanged against the door, and
again. They were throwing things. Eric ducked, felt pain stab at his
shoulder.
He could see their faces in the corridor when the door began to slide
clear. He slipped in, punched the levers that would close it again,
saw a hand and a leg come through the crack, heard a scream. The limbs
withdrew, and Eric watched grimly as it slid all the way shut.
Lazaruses Eight, Nine, and Ten, he thought, as he went to the three
remaining tubs. For a moment he gazed down through the pinkish liquid
at the men curled up, sleeping their long sleep.
He shook the tubs gently. All it would take was that--direct motion.
Once that had started the cycle, each sleeper's hypothalamus took
over, twenty-five, fifty, and seventy-five years ahead of schedule. He
watched them twitch, shiver, slowly uncurl, watched the vapors rising
from their tubs. He had plenty of time.
In a week, he helped them from their tubs. They were ready to
listen--smiling baby-faced Chambers, gaunt Striker, rotund Richardson.
He explained, slowly. He told them everything.
"My God," Striker said when he had finished.
"Be thankful you could get back here, lad," Richardson told him. "What
do we do now?"
"What _can_ we do?" Chambers demanded. Then: "Will you look at that--a
hundred seventy five years and I haven't even grown a beard!"
They all laughed, and the tension was broken. "We go back," Eric said,
"armed to the teeth. It won't be difficult. Some of them will die, but
we can set the ship on its course again, teach them--I'd hate to see
the disappointment on Earth if we went back after six generations."