Peril Of The Starmen
By Kris Neville
Their space ships landed near Washington, and
they met Earthmen with friendly smiles. It
was a great day--and quite possibly, our last!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
January 1954
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"I called you three in," the Oligarch said, "because I have some very
important news."
Herb--he would later be assigned that name--was one of the three. He
hated the Oligarch, and he had no doubt that the Oligarch knew it.
"There are," the Oligarch said, "people on the planet. Unfortunately."
Dull rage and frustration and despair and helplessness bubbled up in
Herb. His face remained calm.
"We'll have to keep them from interfering with us," the Oligarch said.
Herb wanted to cry: Find another! Not this one! Not the only one we've
ever found with people on it!
But he said nothing. His anguished thoughts whirled like a dust
storm, handling and rejecting ideas like bits of paper. The remote
and inaccessible Scientists were beyond accounting. Perhaps only this
planet would serve. Perhaps there was insufficient time to locate
another of suitable mass. Perhaps.... But one could not know. One could
only submit to authority. The storm died away, and Herb acknowledged
bitter reality with helplessness. There even seemed a nightmare
inevitability about the selection.
"It would be dangerous to try to work secretly," the Oligarch said. "If
they were to discover us in the midst of planting the explosive, it
would be fatal. We'll go down and ask their permission."
No one protested.
"To that end," the Oligarch said, "I have selected you three competent,
trustworthy men. You will learn their language and when we land, lull
their natural suspicions. It will be your responsibility to see that we
blow up the planet on schedule."
The crush of the responsibility was terrifying. "I don't need to tell
you," the Oligarch said, "that you can't fail."
And it was true. Herb _believed_.
Unless the planet Earth were exploded, the ever-unstable Universe,
itself, would collapse. Already the binding force was dangerously
diminished. If new energy were not released within a month,
disintegration would begin. The Universe would alter and flow and
contract and after the collapse, slowly build itself into a new
form--that form itself containing the inherent stresses of change and
mutability. Only the arrival of starmen to space flight at the critical
time--only their continued vigilance--prevented disaster beyond
accounting for.
Herb _believed_.
CHAPTER II
Well inside the solar system the huge space ship plunged on, released
from the warp drive and slowly braking to establish an orbit around the
third planet.
Herb came up from the deep stupor of the drugs. He had been under their
influence for the last twenty hours while the sleep tapes hammered
information into his unconscious brain.
"All right," said Wezen, their private custodian, "time for exercise.
Two hours of work-outs, and then you eat."
Herb sat up and felt his head. It ached dully. "Give me a minute. Time
to think, Wezen. I'm--"
The other two starmen were also recovering.
"None of that! No time to think! Get up! Get up!"
Herb got reluctantly to his feet. Cold air washed over his nude body,
and he trembled. He wanted to return to sleep, not the drugged sleep
of the sleep tapes, but the genuine, untroubled sleep. Something
frightening and alien was taking place in his mind.
He looked around for a dream form. It was a subconscious response.
He realized with relief that it was not necessary to fill one in.
Technically, he had not been asleep.
The Oligarch came to witness the first awakening. "How goes it, Wezen?"
"Fine."
"I don't know," Herb said. "My mind, it's ... I can't think...."
One of the others said, "There's all kinds of information, but I
can't get at it. I ... can't ... get ... at ... it." He looked
around desperately. "Every time I try, something new comes up. It's
like a volcano. I can't control it. I think, the name of a river is
Mississi--and then I know that leaves are green, and...."
"The sun is 93 million miles away...."
"The day is divided into twenty-four equal periods of sixty minutes...."
"The largest ocean is the Pacific...."
"The Federal Government of the United States of America is composed of
three independent branches...."
They were all talking at once.
"It's awful. Not to be able to control...."
"Good, good," said the Oligarch. He was satisfied with the progress.
By the time they landed, they would be little more than mechanisms
designed to answer questions; they would not be able to think at all:
they would _respond_. Stimuli-response.
"Freedom," said the Oligarch.
"Is," Herb found himself saying, "is the basis of any government that
governs justly."
Wezen made a little intake of air that was loud in the shocked silence.
"I said that," Herb said unbelievingly.
"Excellent," said the Oligarch. "The proper reaction."
Wezen relaxed, but he was visibly shaken. He had _heard_ the heresy.
What might happen to him later, when this job was done?
"The indoctrination is beginning nicely." The Oligarch nodded. They
would be able to soothe suspicion and dispel fear when they arrived on
Earth. They would speak of love and assistance when the time came. "But
you still have much to learn."
"You have a lot of information about them," Herb said. "Their
history ... their.... You got it just in the last few days from their
radio and television shows? I don't see how...."
"We extrapolate; there are machines," the Oligarch said. He regarded
Herb narrowly. "I believe we better step up the pace." He was not going
to give Herb time to rest, to think, to understand, to correlate the
mind staggering mass of information he was receiving. "Let's hurry to
the recreation room for calisthenics."
In the corridor, Herb glanced around for microphones and saw he was in
an unwired stretch. He turned to the starman beside him. Their eyes
met. Identical information had been fed simultaneously to both of them.
"You heard what I said?"
"Yes."
"What kind of a place is this, this Earth?"
The other strained to think. "It's.... It's.... I don't believe it."
"All men are created equal," Herb said.
"And they hold these truths to be self evident...."
"Nor make any laws abridging...."
"Shhhhh!" the third starman whispered. "Microphones up here." They fell
silent.
* * * * *
The Oligarch went to his stateroom and ordered a meal. He had been
indoctrinated by the sleep tapes about Earth well over a Brionimanian
year previously. The tapes had been brought back by an extensive
scouting expedition composed solely of Oligarchs.
He found them a naive race. Weakness, of course, was their short
coming. As was often the case. He imagined his hand touching the lever
that would trigger the explosive. He saw, in imagination, the planet
fly asunder.
He had destroyed before. Five races had died beneath his hands. And
now--
Perhaps, he thought, I am growing old. Why is it I do not want to
destroy this race myself? Am I becoming weak?
He was angry with himself. Weakness! he thought. I'm acting like a
subject, he thought. _I'm an Oligarch._
Oligarch, he thought.
Five races, and now the sixth....
Where will it end? he thought.
_It will never end._
Slowly the smile came. We are supreme, he thought, the lords and
masters, and it will never end.
His scalp prickled with destiny.
Five races. He saw his hand reach out for the sixth.
He shuddered. Weeks ago he had reached his decision.
Bleakly he thought: I can't do it.
Perspiration crept down his spine. If a planet were not blown up, the
whole fabric of his society would collapse. Brionimar must never learn.
But Brionimar _would_ learn. Earth was on the verge of space flight.
Within a generation they would be listening for radio and television
extension-waves in hyperspace that would indicate the existence of
another civilization. In two generations they would be in the skies of
Brionimar. And then the subjects would see salvation: here (they would
reason) is another race capable of preserving the Universe. And there
would be no appeasing their blind and mindless wrath until the last
Oligarch was dismembered and bloodless.
His hand reached out and curled around an imaginary lever. It must be
done, he thought. But not by me. Not by me. Not this hand. He looked
down at his hands: white and immaculate and always clean. He washed
them frequently.
Someone else must pull the lever.
_I must leave a man behind at the bomb site to do it_, he thought.
Psychology was a science on Brionimar; and he was a scientist. There
was only one man he could be sure of out of all the crew. There were
several fanatics, but he distrusted them. There was one idealist who
would, of a psychological certainty, pull that lever and blow himself
up along with Earth in the belief that his action was necessary to
preserve the Universe.
Herb.