Recruit for Andromeda
by MILTON LESSER
ACE BOOKS, INC.
23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.
RECRUIT FOR ANDROMEDA
Copyright 1959, by Ace Books, Inc.
All Rights Reserved
Printed in U.S.A.
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence
that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
TOURNAMENT UNDER NIGHTMARE SKIES
When Kit Temple was drafted for the Nowhere Journey, he figured that
he'd left his home, his girl, and the Earth for good. For though those
called were always promised "rotation," not a man had ever returned
from that mysterious flight into the unknown.
Kit's fellow-draftee Arkalion, the young man with the strange, old-man
eyes, seemed to know more than he should. So when Kit twisted the tail
of fate and followed Arkalion to the ends of space and time, he found
the secret behind "Nowhere" and a personal challenge upon which the
entire future of Earth depended.
CHAPTER I
When the first strong sunlight of May covered the tree-arched avenues
of Center City with green, the riots started.
The people gathered in angry knots outside the city hall, met in the
park and littered its walks with newspapers and magazines as they
gobbled up editorial comment at a furious rate, slipped with dark of
night through back alleys and planned things with furious futility.
Center City's finest knew when to make themselves scarce: their
uniforms stood for everything objectionable at this time and they might
be subjected to clubs, stones, taunts, threats, leers--and knives.
But Center City, like most communities in United North America,
had survived the Riots before and would survive them again. On
past performances, the damage could be estimated, too. Two-hundred
fifty-seven plate glass windows would be broken, three-hundred twelve
limbs fractured. Several thousand people would be treated for minor
bruises and abrasions, Center City would receive half that many damage
suits. The list had been drawn clearly and accurately; it hardly ever
deviated.
And Center City would meet its quota. With a demonstration of
reluctance, of course. The healthy approved way to get over social
trauma once every seven-hundred eighty days.
* * * * *
"Shut it off, Kit. Kit, please."
The telio blared in a cheaply feminine voice, "Oh, it's a long way
to nowhere, forever. And your honey's not coming back, never, never,
never...." A wailing trumpet represented flight.
"They'll exploit anything, Kit."
"It's just a song."
"Turn it off, please."
Christopher Temple turned off the telio, smiling. "They'll announce the
names in ten minutes," he said, and felt the corners of his mouth draw
taut.
"Tell me again, Kit," Stephanie pleaded. "How old are you?"
"You know I'm twenty-six."
"Twenty-six. Yes, twenty-six, so if they don't call you this time,
you'll be safe. Safe, I can hardly believe it."
"Nine minutes," said Temple in the darkness. Stephanie had drawn the
blinds earlier, had dialed for sound-proofing. The screaming in the
streets came to them as not the faintest whisper. But the song which
became briefly, masochistically popular every two years and two months
had spoiled their feeling of seclusion.
"Tell me again, Kit."
"What."
"You know what."
He let her come to him, let her hug him fiercely and whimper against
his chest. He remained passive although it hurt, occasionally stroking
her hair. He could not assert himself for another--he looked at his
strap chrono--for another eight minutes. He might regret it, if he did,
for a lifetime.
"Tell me, Kit."
"I'll marry you, Steffy. In eight minutes, less than eight minutes,
I'll go down and get the license. We'll marry as soon as it's legal."
"This is the last time they have a chance for you. I mean, they won't
change the law?"
Temple shook his head. "They don't have to. They meet their quota this
way."
"I'm scared."
"You and everyone else in North America, Steffy."
She was trembling against him. "It's cold for June."
"It's warm in here." He kissed her moist eyes, her nose, her lips.
"Oh God, Kit. Five minutes."
"Five minutes to freedom," he said jauntily. He did not feel that way
at all. Apprehension clutched at his chest with tight, painful fingers,
almost making it difficult for him to breathe.
"Turn it on, Kit."
He dialed the telio in time to see the announcer's insincere smile.
Smile seventeen, Kit thought wryly. Patriotic sacrifice.
"Every seven-hundred eighty days," said the announcer, "two-hundred
of Center City's young men are selected to serve their country for an
indeterminate period regulated rigidly by a rotation system."
"Liar!" Stephanie cried. "No one ever comes back. It's been thirty
years since the first group and not one of them...."
"Shh," Temple raised a finger to his lips.
"This is the thirteenth call since the inception of what is popularly
referred to as the Nowhere Journey," said the announcer. "Obviously,
the two hundred young men from Center City and the thousands from all
over this hemisphere do not in reality embark on a Journey to Nowhere.
That is quite meaningless."
"Hooray for him," Temple laughed.
"I wish he'd get on with it."
"No, ladies and gentlemen, we use the word Nowhere merely because we
are not aware of the ultimate destination. Security reasons make it
impossible to...."
"Yes, yes," said Stephanie impatiently. "Go on."
"... therefore, the Nowhere Journey. With a maximum security lid on
the whole project, we don't even know why our men are sent, or by what
means. We know only that they go somewhere and not nowhere, bravely and
not fearfully, for a purpose vital to the security of this nation and
not to slake the thirst of a chessman of regiments and divisions.
"If Center City's contribution helps keep our country strong, Center
City is naturally obligated...."
"No one ever said it isn't our duty," Stephanie argued, as if the
announcer could indeed hear her. "We only wish we knew something about
it--and we wish it weren't forever."
"It isn't forever," Temple reminded her. "Not officially."
"Officially, my foot. If they never return, they never return. If
there's a rotation system on paper, but it's never used, that's not a
rotation system at all. Kit, it's forever."
"... to thank the following sponsors for relinquishing their time...."
"No one would want to sponsor _that_," Temple whispered cheerfully.
"Kit," said Stephanie, "I--I suddenly have a hunch we have nothing to
worry about. They missed you all along and they'll miss you this time,
too. The last time, and then you'll be too old. That's funny, too old
at twenty-six. But we'll be free, Kit. Free."
"He's starting," Temple told her.
A large drum filled the entire telio screen. It rotated slowly from
bottom to top. In twenty seconds, the letter A appeared, followed by
about a dozen names. Abercrombie, Harold. Abner, Eugene. Adams, Gerald.
Sorrow in the Abercrombie household. Despair for the Abners. Black
horror for Adams.
The drum rotated.
"They're up to F, Kit."
Fabian, Gregory G....
Names circled the drum slowly, live viscous alphabet soup. Meaningless,
unless you happened to know them.
"Kit, I knew Thomas Mulvany."
N, O, P....
"It's hot in here."
"I thought you were cold."
"I'm suffocating now."
R, S....
"T!" Stephanie shrieked as the names began to float slowly up from the
bottom of the drum.
Tabor, Tebbets, Teddley....
Temple's mouth felt dry as a ball of cotton. Stephanie laughed
nervously. Now--or never. Never?
Now.
Stephanie whimpered despairingly.
TEMPLE, CHRISTOPHER.
* * * * *
"Sorry I'm late, Mr. Jones."
"Hardly, Mr. Smith. Hardly. Three minutes late."
"I've come in response to your ad."
"I know. You look old."
"I am over twenty-six. Do you mind?"
"Not if you don't, Mr. Smith. Let me look at you. Umm, you seem the
right height, the right build."
"I meet the specifications exactly."
"Good, Mr. Smith. And your price."
"No haggling," said Smith. "I have a price which must be met."
"Your price, Mr. Smith?"
"Ten million dollars."
The man called Jones coughed nervously. "That's high."
"Very. Take it or leave it."
"In cash?"
"Definitely. Small unmarked bills."
"You'd need a moving van!"
"Then I'll get one."
"Ten million dollars," said Jones, "is quite a price. Admittedly, I
haven't dealt in this sort of traffic before, but--"
"But nothing. Were your name Jones, really and truly Jones, I might ask
less."
"Sir?"
"You are Jones exactly as much as I am Smith."
"Sir?" Jones gasped again.
Smith coughed discreetly. "But I have one advantage. I know you. You
don't know me, Mr. Arkalion."
"Eh? Eh?"
"Arkalion. The North American Carpet King. Right?"
"How did you know?" the man whose name was not Jones but Arkalion asked
the man whose name was not Smith but might as well have been.
"When I saw your ad," said not-Smith, "I said to myself, 'now here must
be a very rich, influential man.' It only remained for me to study a
series of photographs readily obtainable--I have a fine memory for
that, Mr. Arkalion--and here you are; here is Arkalion the Carpet King."
"What will you do with the ten million dollars?" demanded Arkalion,
not minding the loss nearly so much as the ultimate disposition of his
fortune.
"Why, what does anyone do with ten million dollars? Treasure it. Invest
it. Spend it."
"I mean, what will you do with it if you are going in place of my--"
Arkalion bit his tongue.
"Your son, were you saying, Mr. Arkalion? Alaric Arkalion the Third.
Did you know that I was able to boil my list of men down to thirty when
I studied their family ties?"
"Brilliant, Mr. Smith. Alaric is so young--"
"Aren't they all? Twenty-one to twenty-six. Who was it who once said
something about the flower of our young manhood?"
"Shakespeare?" said Mr. Arkalion realizing that most quotes of lasting
importance came from the bard.
"Sophocles," said Smith. "But no matter. I will take young Alaric's
place for ten million dollars."
Motives always troubled Mr. Arkalion, and thus he pursued what might
have been a dangerous conversation. "You'll never get a chance to spend
it on the Nowhere Journey."
"Let me worry about that."
"No one ever returns."
"My worry, not yours."
"It is forever--as if you dropped out of existence. Alaric is so young."
"I have always gambled, Mr. Arkalion. If I do not return in five
years, you are to put the money in a trust fund for certain designated
individuals, said fund to be terminated the moment I return. If I come
back within the five years, you are merely to give the money over to
me. Is that clear?"
"Yes."
"I'll want it in writing, of course."
"Of course. A plastic surgeon is due here in about ten minutes, Mr.
Smith, and we can get on with.... But if I don't know your name, how
can I put it in writing?"
Smith smiled. "I changed my name to Smith for the occasion. Perfectly
legal. My name is John X. Smith--now!"
"That's where you're wrong," said Mr. Arkalion as the plastic surgeon
entered. "Your name is Alaric Arkalion III--_now_."
The plastic surgeon skittered around Smith, examining him minutely with
the casual expertness that comes with experience.
"Have to shorten the cheek bones."
"For ten million dollars," said Smith, "you can take the damned things
out altogether and hang them on your wall."
* * * * *
Sophia Androvna Petrovitch made her way downtown through the bustle of
tired workers and the occasional sprinkling of Comrades. She crushed
her _ersatz_ cigarette underfoot at number 616 Stalin Avenue, paused
for the space of five heartbeats at the door, went inside.
"What do you want?" The man at the desk was myopic but bull-necked.
Sophia showed her party card.
"Oh, Comrade. Still, you are a woman."
"You're terribly observant, Comrade," said Sophia coldly. "I am here to
volunteer."
"But a woman."
"There is nothing in the law which says a woman cannot volunteer."
"We don't make women volunteer."
"I mean really volunteer, of her own free will."
"Her--own--free will?" The bull-necked man removed his spectacles,
scratched his balding head with the ear-pieces. "You mean volunteer
without--"
"Without coercion. I want to volunteer. I am here to volunteer. I want
to sign on for the next Stalintrek."
"Stalintrek, a woman?"
"That is what I said."
"We don't force women to volunteer." The man scratched some more.
"Oh, really," said Sophia. "This is 1992, not mid-century, Comrade. Did
not Stalin say, 'Woman was created to share the glorious destiny of
Mother Russia with her mate?'" Sophia created the quote randomly.
"Yes, if Stalin said--"
"He did."
"Still, I do not recall--"
"What?" Sophia cried. "Stalin dead these thirty-nine years and you
don't recall his speeches? What is your name, Comrade?"
"Please, Comrade. Now that you remind me, I remember."
"What is your name."
"Here, I will give you the volunteer papers to sign. If you pass the
exams, you will embark on the next Stalintrek, though why a beautiful
young woman like you--"
"Shut your mouth and hand me those papers."
There, sitting behind that desk, was precisely why. Why should she,
Sophia Androvna Petrovitch, wish to volunteer for the Stalintrek?
Better to ask why a bird flies south in the winter, one day ahead of
the first icy gale. Or why a lemming plunges recklessly into the sea
with his multitudes of fellows, if, indeed, the venture were to turn
out grimly.
But there, behind that desk, was part of the reason. The Comrade. The
bright sharp Comrade, with his depth of reasoning, his fountain of
gushing emotions, his worldliness. _Pfooey!_
It was as if she had been in a cocoon all her life, stifled, starved,
the cottony inner lining choking her whenever she opened her mouth,
the leathery outer covering restricting her when she tried to move.
No one had ever returned from the Stalintrek. She then had to assume
no one would. Including Sophia Androvna Petrovitch. But then, there
was nothing she would miss, nothing to which she particularly wanted
to return. Not the stark, foul streets of Stalingrad, not the workers
with their vapid faces or the Comrades with their cautious, sweating,
trembling, fearful non-decisions, not the higher echelon of Comrades,
more frightened but showing it less, who would love the beauty of
her breasts and loins but not herself for you never love anything
but the Stalinimage and Mother Russia herself, not those terrified
martinet-marionettes who would love the parts of her if she permitted
but not her or any other person for that matter.
Wrong with the Stalintrek was its name alone, a name one associated
with everything else in Russia for an obvious, post-Stalin reason. But
everything else about the Stalintrek shrieked mystery and adventure.
Where did you go? How did you get there? What did you do? Why?
A million questions which had kept her awake at night and, if
she thought about them hard enough, satisfied her deep longing
for something different. And then one day when stolid Mrs.
Ivanovna-Rasnikov had said, "It is a joke, a terrible, terrible joke
they are taking my husband Fyodor on the Stalintrek when he lacks
sufficient imagination to go from here to Leningrad or even Tula. Can
you picture Fyodor on the Stalintrek? Better they should have taken me.
Better they should have taken his wife." That day Sophia could hardly
contain herself.
As a party member she had access to the law and she read it three times
from start to finish (in her dingy flat by the light of a smoking,
foul-smelling, soft-wax candle) but could find nothing barring women
from the Stalintrek.
Had Fyodor Rasnikov volunteered? Naturally. Everyone volunteered,
although when your name was called you had no choice. There had been
no draft in Russia since the days of the Second War of the People's
Liberation. Volunteer? What, precisely, did the word mean?
She, Sophia Androvna Petrovitch would volunteer, without being told.
Thus it was she found herself at 616 Stalin Avenue, and thus the
balding, myopic, bull-necked Comrade thrust the papers across his desk
at her.
She signed her name with such vehemence and ferocity that she almost
tore through the paper.