Centuries later, men would talk of those years as the Years of the
Freeze. They would mean the years between 2062 and 2527, the years when
mankind, shattered by its own hand, maintained a rigid cultural stasis
while rebuilding.
Those were the years when what was, would be. The years when there
would be nothing new under the sun because mankind willed it so. The
century of war, culminating in the almost total global destruction of
2062, had taught lessons that were not soon forgotten.
The old ways returned to the world--ways that had held sway for
thousands of years, and which had regained ascendancy after the brief,
nightmarish reign of the machine. Mankind still had machines, of
course; life would have been impossible without them. But the Years of
the Freeze were years of primarily hand labor, of travel by foot or by
horse, of slow living and fear of complexity. The clock rolled back to
an older, simpler land of world--and froze there.
Like all ages, this one had its symbols and, conveniently, the symbols
of the status quo were actual as well as symbolic forces in maintaining
the Freeze. There were twelve of them--the Twelve Dukes, they called
themselves, and they ruled the world between them. They had no power
over the forgotten land of Antarctica, but otherwise they were
virtually supreme. North America, South America, East and West Europe,
Scandinavia, Australia, North Africa, Equatorial Africa, South Africa,
China, India, Oceanica--each boasted its Duke.
They were products of the great blast of 2062, and they had found their
way to power tortuously. Most of them had lived ordinary lives, picking
their way through the wreckage with the others in the first three
confused decades after the great destruction. But the others had died
and the Twelve had not.
They had endured through forty, fifty, sixty years, themselves frozen
indefinitely in middle life. And as the decades passed, each forced his
way to control of a segment of the world. Each carved himself a Dukedom
and, in 2162, the centennial of the Old World's death, they gathered
together to divide the world among themselves.
There was a bitter struggle for power, but from it emerged the world
of the Twelve Empires, stable, sedate, unchanging, determined never to
allow the technology-born nightmare of old to return. The picture was
attractive: twelve immortals, guiding the world along an even keel to
the end of time.
Rumors filtered through the Twelve Empires occasionally that danger
threatened from Antarctica. Man had redeemed Antarctica from the
ice before the great cataclysm, and the polar land was known to be
inhabited. But Antarctica remained detached from humanity, erecting
an impassable barrier that cut itself off from the Twelve Empires
as effectively as if it were on another planet. And so, the stasis
held. The battered world rebuilt, on a more modest scale than of old,
clinging to the simple ways, and froze that way. Here, there, an
isolated city refused to participate in the Freeze. They, however,
didn't matter. They intended to stay isolated, as did Antarctica, and
the Twelve Dukes did not worry long over them.
In ninety percent of the world, time had stopped.
I
Half an hour before the neat fabric of his life was to be shattered
forever, Dale Kesley was thinking desperately, _This will be a good day
for the planting._
He stood at the end of a freshly-turned furrow, one brown hand gripping
the sharebeam, the other patting the scaly gray flank of his mutant
plough-horse. The animal neighed, a long croaking wheeze of a sound.
Kesley looked down at the fertile soil of the furrow.
He was trying to tell himself that this was good land, that he had
found a good place, here in the heart of Duke Winslow's sprawling
farmland. He was compelling himself to believe that this was where he
belonged, here where life held none of the uncertainty of the cities of
the Twelve Empires. Right here where he had lived and worked for four
years, here in Iowa Province.
But it was all wrong. Somewhere deep in the cloaked depths of his mind,
he was trying to protest that there had been some mistake.
He wasn't a farmer.
He didn't belong in Iowa Province.
Somewhere, out there in the cities of the Twelve Empires, maybe in
the radiation-blasted caves of the Old World, perhaps in the remote
fastness of the unknown Antarctican empire, life was waiting for him.
Not here. Not in Iowa.
As always, a cold shudder ran through him and he let his head wobble as
the sickness swept upward. He swayed, tightened his grip on the plough,
and forced himself grimly back into the synthetic mood of security that
was his one defense against the baseless terror that tormented him.
_The farm is good_, he thought.
_Everything here is good._
Slowly, the congealed fear melted and drained away, and he felt whole
again.
"Up, old hoss."
He slapped the flank and the horse neighed again and swished its bony
tail. It was a good horse too, he thought fiercely. Somehow, everything
was good now, even the old horse.
Experienced hands had warned him against buying a mutie, but when he'd
bought the half-share of the farm he had had to do it. The Old Kind
were few and well spaced in Iowa Province, and all too expensive. They
fetched upward of five thousand dollars at the markets; a good solid
mutie went for only five hundred.
Besides, Kesley had argued, the Old Kind belonged with the Old
World--dead five hundred years, and long covered with dust. Only the
distant towers of New York still blazed with radiation; the chain
reaction there would continue through all eternity, as a warning and a
threat. But Kesley wasn't concerned with that.
He started down a new furrow, guiding the plough smoothly and well,
strong arms gripping the beam while the horse moved steadily onward. In
front of him, the broad expanse of Iowa Province stretched out till it
looked like it reached to the end of the world. The brown land rolled
on endlessly, stopping only where it ran into the hard blueness of the
cloudless sky.
Suddenly, the horse whinnied sharply. Kesley stiffened. The old mutie
could smell trouble half a mile away. Kesley had learned to value the
animal's warning. He stepped out from behind the plough and looked
around. The horse whinnied again and raked the unbroken ground with its
forepaws.
Kesley shaded his eyes and squinted. Far down at the other end of the
field, near the rock fence that separated his land from Loren's, a
dark-blue animal was slinking unobtrusively over the ground.
_Blue wolf._
_And today I'll have your hide, old henstealer_, Kesley thought
jubilantly.
He patted the horse's flank once again and started to run, crouching
low, moving silently across the bare field. The wolf hadn't seen him
yet. The blue-furred creature was edging across the field down below,
probably heading past the farmhouse to rob the poultry yard.
A daylight raid? Times must be bad, Kesley thought. The blue wolf
normally struck only at night. Well, something had brought the old wolf
out in broad daylight, and this time Kesley would nail him.
He circled sharply, staying downwind of the animal, and stepped up his
pace. Without breaking stride, he unsheathed his knife and gripped it
tightly. The wolf was nearly the size of a man; if Kesley caught up
with him, it would be a bloody fight for both of them. But a wolf's
hide was a treasure well worth a few scratches.
The wolf caught the scent, now, and began to run up the path toward the
farmhouse. Kesley realized the animal was confused, was running into a
dead end.
So much the better. He'd kill the beast in the sight of Loren and the
farm wenches and old Lester.
He clenched his teeth and kept running. The wolf looked back at him,
bared its mouthful of yellow daggers, snarled. Its blue fur seemed to
glitter in the bright morning sunlight.
Kesley's breath was starting to come hard as he ascended the steep
hill that led to the farmhouse. He slackened just a bit; he'd need to
conserve his strength for the battle to come.
As he reached the crest of the hill, he saw Loren stick his head out of
the second floor of the farmhouse.
"Hey, Dale!"
Kesley pointed up ahead. "Wolf!" he grunted.
The animal was drawing close to the poultry yard now. Kesley stepped
up his clip again. He wanted to catch it just as it passed the door of
the farmhouse. He wanted to nail it there, to plunge the knife into its
heart and--
Abruptly, a strange figure stepped out of the farmhouse door. In one
smooth motion, the figure put hand to hip, drew forth a blaster, fired.
The wolf paused in mid-stride as if frozen, shuddered once, and
dropped. There was the sickening smell of burning fur in the air.
Kesley felt a quick burst of hot anger. He looked down at the
smouldering ruin of the wolf huddled darkly against the ground, then to
the stranger, who was smiling as he reholstered the blaster.
"What the hell did you do that for?" Kesley demanded hotly. "Who asked
you to shoot? What are you doing here, anyway?"
He raised his knife in a wild threatening gesture. The stranger moved
tentatively toward his hip again, and Kesley quickly relaxed. He
lowered his knife, but continued to glare bitterly at the stranger.
"A thousand pardons, young friend." The newcomer's voice was deep and
resonant, and somehow oily-sounding. "I had no idea the wolf was yours.
I merely acted out of reflex. I understand it's customary for farmers
to kill wolves on sight. Believe me, I thought I was helping you."
The stranger was dressed in courtly robes that contrasted sharply with
Kesley's simple farmer's muslin. He wore a flowing cape of red trimmed
with yellow gilt, a short stiff beard stained red to match, and a royal
blue tunic. He was tall and powerful looking, with wide-set black
eyes and heavy, brooding eyebrows that ran in a solid bar across his
forehead.
"I don't care if you _are_ from the court," Kesley snapped. "That wolf
was mine. I chased it up from the fields--and to have some city bastard
step out of nowhere and ruin my kill for me just as I'm--"
"_Dale!_"
The sharp voice belonged to Loren Harker, Kesley's farming partner, a
veteran fieldsman, tall and angular, face dried by the sun and skin
brown and tough. He appeared from the farmhouse door and stood next to
the stranger.
Kesley realized he had spoken foolishly. "I'm--sorry," he said, his
voice unrepentant. "It's just that it boiled me to see--dammit, you had
no _business_ doing that!"
"I understand," the stranger said calmly. "It was a mistake on my part.
Please accept my apologies."
"Accepted," Kesley muttered. Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Say,
what kind of tax-collector are you, anyway? You're the first man out of
Duke Winslow's court who ever said anything but '_Give me_'."
"Tax-collector? Why call me that?"
"Why else would you come to the farmlands, if not for the tithe?
Don't play games," Kesley said impatiently. He kicked the worthless
wolf-carcass to one side and stepped between Loren and the stranger.
"Come on inside, and tell me how much I owe my liege lord this time."
"You don't understand--" Loren started to say, but the stranger put one
hand on his shoulder and halted him. "Let me," he said.
He turned to Kesley. "I'm not a tax-collector. I'm not from the court
of Duke Winslow at all."
"What are you doing in farm country, then?"
The stranger smiled evenly. "I came here because I'm looking for
someone. But what are _you_ doing here, Dale Kesley?"
The question was like a stinging slap in the face. For a moment, Kesley
remained frozen, unreacting. Then, as the words penetrated below the
surface, a shadow of pain crossed his face. His mouth sagged open.
_What are you doing here, Dale Kesley?_
The words blurred and re-echoed like a shout in a cavern. Kesley felt
suddenly naked, as the mask of self-deception and hypocrisy that had
erected itself during his four years in Iowa Province crumbled inward
and fell away. It was the one question he had dreaded to face.
"You look sick," Loren said. "What's wrong, Dale?" The older man's
voice was hushed, bewildered.
"Nothing," Kesley said hesitantly. "Nothing at all." But he was unable
to meet the stranger's calm smile and, worse, he had no idea why.
His thoughts flashed back to that moment at the plough earlier that
morning, when Iowa had seemed like the universe and he had made life
appear infinitely good.
_Lies._
Farm life was his natural state, he had pretended. He _belonged_ behind
the plough, here in Iowa.
_Lies._
But--where _did_ he belong?
He realized that he was acting irrationally. Loren's face hung before
him, uncomprehending, frightened. The stranger seemed almost gloatingly
self-confident.
"What did you mean by that?" Kesley asked, slowly. His voice sounded
harsh and unfamiliar in his own ears.
"Have you ever been in the cities?" the stranger asked, ignoring
Kesley's question.
"Once, maybe twice. I don't like it there. I'm a farmer; always have
been. I came down from Kansas Province. But what the hell--?"
The stranger raised one hand to silence him. An amused twinkle crossed
the cold black eyes, and the thin lips curved upward. "They did a good
job," the stranger said, half to himself. "You really believe you're a
farmer, don't you, Dale? Have been, all your life?"
Again the words stung; they bit deep into a hidden reservoir of fear,
and rose to the surface again, leaving Kesley strangely disturbed.
"Yes," he said stubbornly. "What are you trying to do?" Anger came over
him again, and he snapped, "Suppose I order you off my farm?"
The stranger laughed. "_Your_ farm?" His eyes probed searchingly. "How
can you call this _your_ farm?"
Kesley quailed at the incomprehensible pain this third attack brought.
_What is he after? Why can't he leave me alone?_
_This is my farm._
_I belong here._
He stood poised, swaying on the balls of his feet, staring mystifiedly
at his tormentor. _I belong here_, he thought fiercely--but without any
conviction, this time. Something within his mind kept insisting that it
was a lie, that he belonged elsewhere.
The glitter of the cities suddenly rose as an image in his mind.
Rage boiled over. "Let me alone!" he shouted, and jumped forward,
raising the knife high.
"_No!_"
The stranger's voice was almost a shriek of fear, but he was cool
enough to draw and fire. A bright spurt of flame nudged from the
muzzles of the blaster, and Kesley felt a sudden intolerable warmth in
his hand. He dropped the hot knife and stepped back, panting like a
trapped tiger.
"I wish you hadn't done that," the stranger said.
"I wish you had never come here," Kesley retorted. It was like a
nightmare. He felt blind, unable to defend himself, unable even to
understand the source of the attack.
Loren was watching the scene in utter horror, and Kesley noticed a
couple of the farm girls standing a short distance away, watching, too.
The stranger stood with arms folded.
"Let's go inside," he suggested. "We can talk better in there."
Kesley remained rooted, unable to think, unable to move. "This is my
farm," he said out loud, after a moment. "Isn't it?" It was nearly a
whimper.
The harshness vanished abruptly from the stranger's face. Kesley
watched uncomprehendingly as hard lines melted, sharp cheekbones no
longer seemed so austere. It was the eyes, he thought curiously. They
controlled the expression of the face. And now the cold eyes seemed to
radiate warmth.
"Of course this is your farm," the stranger said. He gripped Kesley's
arm. "They really did a job on you, didn't they?"
"They?"
"Never mind. I don't want to hurt you any more than I have already.
Let's go inside, and we can talk about it in there."
* * * * *
Word had somehow travelled rapidly around the farm, and within minutes
the farmhouse living room was crowded with curious people. Kesley
looked around. He saw Loren, and toothless old Lester, who had owned
the farm once and sold it to Loren and Kesley. There were Lester's
three daughters, brawny, tanned girls who did the women's work on the
farm. There was Tim, the slow-witted hired hand.
And there was the stranger in the gilt-bordered red cloak.
The stranger glanced from one face to another, then at Kesley. "Can we
talk in privacy?"
"You heard what he said," Kesley snapped to the others. "Get about your
jobs."
"You sure you want us to leave you alone?" Loren asked. "You looked
pretty wobbly a minute ago out there, and--"
"Don't cross me, Loren!"
The older man shrugged. "You're the boss, Dale. Come on, Tim, let's
leave them alone."
"Pretty nice city clothes he's got," old Lester cackled.
Tina, Lester's oldest daughter, nudged him scornfully. "Let's get
moving, Lester. The _men_ want to talk." She indicated with a smirk her
disapproval of the exclusion order.
When the others were gone, Kesley turned to the stranger. "We're alone.
Now tell me who you are and what you want with me."
The stranger tugged at his stiff red beard for a moment. "I'm Dryle van
Alen. Does that enlighten you?"
"Not at all. Where are you from?"
"The Dukedom of Antarctica," van Alen said.
* * * * *
For the second time in half an hour, Kesley did a double take. The
words sank in slowly, burrowed into his mind--and then exploded into
pinwheeling brilliance.
"_Antarctica!_"
"Why the surprise?" van Alen asked mildly. "There are people in
Antarctica too, you know. You'd think I had said Mars, or some other
impossible place."
"If this is a joke, van Alen, I'm going to feed you to the hogs with
tomorrow's swill."
"It's no joke. I'm attached to the court of the Duke of Antarctica."
"So they've got a Duke, too," Kesley said. He smiled. "I never thought
that they'd have one just like us. And I suspect the Twelve Dukes don't
even know that. But this is crazy! If you're from Antarctica, what do
you want with me?"
"All in good time," van Alen said calmly. "First: the Twelve Dukes are
very much aware of the existence of their Antarctic confrere. He is,
like them, an immortal. Unlike them, he is not interested in striving
for power."
"Why does Antarctica cut itself off from the rest of the world?"
"A matter of choice," van Alen said. "Our Duke doesn't care for the
company of his twelve colleagues, nor for that of their subjects. But
you're leading me astray with your questions. You're not letting me
explain why I came here to you."
"Go ahead, then." Kesley sat back, trying to conceal his tenseness.
It made no sense at all. The Twelve Dukes had ruled the world four
hundred years, and in that time no contact between men of the Twelve
Empires and the people of the continent of Antarctica had ever taken
place. A barrier had always surrounded that continent. Antarctica was
as unapproachable as frozen Pluto, or one of the stars.
And now the barrier had lowered long enough to let this Dryle van Alen
out into the world of the Twelve Dukes. Van Alen had made his way to
America, to Duke Winslow's land--merely to see Dale Kesley? It was
impossible.
Van Alen peered at Kesley. "You have lived in Iowa Province for four
years--is that right?"
Kesley nodded.
"And before that, where?"
"Kansas Province. I was a farmer there, too."
One of van Alen's heavy eyebrows twitched skeptically. "Oh? How long
did you live in Kansas Province, then?"
"All my life. I was born there. I lived there twenty-one years. I came
here four years ago."
Van Alen chuckled. "You cling to that story the way you would a straw
in a maelstrom." He leaned forward; his voice deepened. "Suppose you
try to tell me why you left Kansas Province to come here."
"Why, I--"
Kesley paused. A muscle began to throb painfully in one cheek, and he
looked down at his heavy work-boots in confusion. He had no answer. He
did not know.
Once again, the same malaise that had spread over him outside hit him.
He sucked in a deep breath, but said nothing.
"You don't know why you left Kansas?" van Alen asked gently. "Think,
Dale. Try to remember."
Kesley clenched his fists, fighting to keep back a cry of rage and
frustration and fear. Finally he said, "I don't know. I don't remember.
That's it--I don't remember." His voice was glacially calm.
"Very good. You don't remember." Van Alen tugged at his beard again, as
if to signify that he had won a telling point. "Next question: describe
in detail your life in Kansas Province. What your farm was like, what
your mother looked like, how tall your father was--little things like
that. Eh?"
The questions poured down on Kesley like an unstoppable torrent; they
seemed to wash his feet out from under him and leave him struggling
helplessly and impotently to regain his footing.
"My mother? My father? I--"
Again he stopped. The room was blurred; only the smiling, diabolical
face of the Antarctican seemed to be fixed, and all else was whirling.
Kesley elbowed himself up from his chair and crossed the room in two
quick bounds.
"Damn you, I don't remember! _I don't remember!_"
He grabbed van Alen roughly by the scruff of his cloak and hauled him
to his feet.
"Let go of me, Dale."
The sharp command was all but impossible not to obey, but Kesley,
shaking hysterically, continued to hold tight. He clutched for the
Antarctican's throat, burning to choke the life out of this torturer
before he could ask any more questions.
His hands touched the skin of the Antarctican's throat and then, quite
coolly, van Alen broke Kesley's grip. He did it easily, simply grasping
the wrists with his own long fingers and lifting.
Kesley struggled, but to no avail. The Antarctican was fantastically
strong. Kesley writhed in his grip, but could not break loose. Slowly,
without apparent effort, van Alen forced him to his knees and let go.
Kesley made no attempt to rise. He was beaten--physically and mentally.
Van Alen stooped, lifted him, eased him to the couch. Drawing forth
a scented handkerchief, he mopped perspiration first from Kesley's
forehead, then from his own.
"That was unpleasant," van Alen remarked.
Kesley remained slumped on the couch. "You shouldn't have tried to
attack me, Dale. I'm here to help you."
"How?" Kesley asked tonelessly.
"I'm here to show you the way back to your home."
"My home's in Kansas Province." Stubbornly.
"Your home is in Antarctica, Dale. You might as well admit it to
yourself now."
Strangely, the words had little effect on Kesley. He had already been
shocked past any point of surprise.
For four years, he had been persuading himself that he had come
from Kansas Province. He had gone on thinking that, all the while
subliminally aware that there was no rational reason for that belief,
that he had no memories of his earlier life whatever.
Kansas Province had seemed as likely a homeland as any, and he had
clung to the idea. As each year passed, it had seemed more and more the
truth to him--until van Alen came.
Now he was ready to believe anything. The barriers were down.
"Antarctica?" he repeated.
Van Alen nodded. "You've been the subject of the most intensive
manhunt in the history of humanity." That seemed to amuse him; he
stopped, chuckled. "A history, to be sure, that stretches back all of
four hundred years--but a history, nevertheless. Dale, we've searched
through every one of the Twelve Empires for you. You were finally
located here, in Iowa Province. The search is over; it took four years."
"I'm happy for you," Kesley said. "You must be pleased to have found
me." His voice was restrained, matter-of-fact. "So the search is over?"
"Partially," van Alen said. "We have the treasure, now; we lack only
the key to the box. Daveen the Singer, the blind man. The search for
him continues."