The silver sphere bobbed beside the Brain. It
began to glow, and suddenly to expand, and I
felt myself drawn toward it. Then I became
part of it, part of the heat and brightness
and whirling, and I could feel myself melting
away--until I became nothing....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1946.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
There are all kinds of men labeled with all sorts and degrees of psycho
tags. For what it's worth, I have always been primarily motivated by an
insatiable urge for action.
I have always awakened with faculties sharp and eyes clear, ready for
any emergency of which there are plenty in these chaotic years of
social adjustment from the Twentieth to the Twenty-fifth Century. This
awakening I knew would exceed in magnitude any I had known. I knew I
was in a place to which the little alien man had brought me.
I was stretched out on a smooth cold table of metal. I was also
aware of a contraption of unknown purpose clamped about my skull,
and my entire store of bodily faculties seemed vitally prepared for
any eventuality, as though steeling itself for a subconsciously
preconceived super-human effort.
I still hesitated about opening my eyes. It wasn't from physical fear
which I have learned to convert into mental and physical energy. There
was a fear of that alienness. Alien was the word for the little man
with the bulbous head and crinkled little face of a premature child.
I knew that his outer dress and hairless, swollen and blue-veined
skull, and the invisible electronic force that had brought us here,
were all of some other time, world, dimension, or something of all
three.
It wasn't exceptional on my part to be thinking of such fantastic
possibilities in such a calm and detached a manner. Nothing seems
fantastic anymore to a Twenty-fifth Centurian. Nothing. What we have
not actually seen practiced through the marvels of chemistry and
electronics, we have been trained to believe possible. We have two
great goals facing us around the corner of probability--an Elixir of
Life from some bio-chemical laboratory, and a ship constructed for an
ultimate landing on a distant star.
But first, we must readjust the various political factions which
prevent integration of human potential.
The last effort is the gigantic one. All other sciences have advanced
beyond the science of society which is still infantile, but learning to
walk more or less alone. The goal of global social integration is in
sight, but the battle will still be long and difficult. This all leads
to the body of this story--to the World-City of Mohln, to which the
Scientist, Draken, brought me for the fulfillment of a grandiose and
necessary, but horribly destructive destiny.
When the Fascisti wormed their way underground after their crushing
defeat by the forces of World Democracy, after the close of that
episode of evolutionary birth pangs called World War II, they created
a small, evil and powerful recalcitrant force of reaction, seeking to
regain minority control over the Earth Mass. Their threat is their
secrecy. They never work openly; they are too small in number; but
their acts of sabotage and political intrigue is disheartening at
times, and a constant threat to our Administrative balance.
As elected Commander of the International Secret Police, my sole duty
is to combat the specially trained cult of sabateurs of our democratic
World-State, the Black Spartans.
Somehow that night--I've never been able to find the leak--two of them
gained the top of my apartment building and were hiding on the roof
landing as I stepped out to enter my jet-car.
* * * * *
There was no warning, no challenge. Their aim was simply to burn me
out. Some well-trained intuitive sense threw me in a long dive forward
and sidewise as the shaft of deadly heat crackled past and smoked
beside my outstretched hand.
My E-special blaster was out and ready even as I hit the fine plastic
mesh of the roof. I twisted over and burned a swath in their direction.
I came up to one knee, keeping their area lanced with rays, then to my
feet, going to one side and trying to distinguish their black plastic
suits from the shadows.
A form stumbled out of the thick dark. It was half bent forward,
grasping its middle. I smelled scorched flesh and knew he must be
mortally injured, but I couldn't afford to underestimate the fanatical
power of a Spartan.
He was still coming at me, so I burned him again, watched him crumble
and sag. That was an error. The other Spartan, who was still somewhere
back in the shadows of the collonade, blasted my arm, burning it half
through. I watched my fingers curl and my E-special fall out and away
slowly as in a dream.
There wasn't pain, physical pain. There was sheer mental anguish as
I visualized myself closing my career of duty for the World-State, a
failure. I knew what they wanted with my corpse. Dead, my cerebrum
would be removed, activated, and its mental storage released through
electronic recorders the Spartan scientists had developed. They
preferred a brain taken from death as there was no slightest difficulty
from conscious or even subconscious resistance.
But the Spartan couldn't burn me without a parting voice. His egomania
demanded that I see and hear the power that had defeated me. He came
out of the shadows, a black muscled melodramatic outline.
"Goodby," he slurred in a thick accent. "For a reputed great man, you
employ pathetic guards. Your force is growing weak and negligent,
Allinger. Soon our long wait and our long fight will reach its
victorious end, even as you reach your shameful end now."
The Spartan tensed his blaster and I leaped straight into it,
desperately, because I had nothing to lose.
I never got to him, and his blaster never got to me. I hit something
painfully and bounced off. My arm was a lump of burning agony as I
thudded to the roof, stunned by an impact with an invisible barrier.
The Spartan was discharging his blaster at me, but the power rebounding
flung him to his knees. The blaster was knocked over the side of the
roof-landing, and the Spartan staggered to his feet again, and weaved
back.
Then, abruptly, his eyes bulged with awe that changed to terror. He
backed away, staring, not at me, but at something beside me. Then the
Spartan disappeared suddenly. I heard a faint _whirring_ that rose up
and faded rapidly. For an instant I followed the sound of the jet-car
as it receded toward the red moon outlining the archaic structure of
the Golden Gate Bridge, then I turned to see what had saved my life. It
had been prolonged at least.
I hadn't been at all surprised to see the little man appear on the
private jet-car landing of my San Francisco apartment. There had been
no sound, only coruscating shifting hues of light that materialized
him, not like the magic of old, but with all the magnificent and
unlimited magic of science.
He stood there juggling the huge silver globe like a bubble toy, but
one that certainly could never burst. His long, delicate arms and legs
and torso couldn't have lifted twenty pounds without straining. The
silver sphere must be elevated by unknown forces of its own.
The little man's body, only a bit more than bone tightly stretched over
with transparent, form fitting material, swayed toward me. The pinched
up, chalk face in the midst of that bulging head studied me with
enigmatic lack of expression that was extremely disconcerting. I could
read plenty of purpose behind the blankness. So much elaborate ritual
demanded proportionate purpose.
The ancient bulky structure of the Bridge twinkled its lights against
the night sky behind the little man. Or was it the twitching of my
eyes? I was preparing for a run over to the Federal Building for
a meeting of the Pacific Defense Zone of the International Peace
Maintenance Fleet, but, important as that meeting was to be, I had
forgotten it completely.
* * * * *
His voice was nasal, squeaky, and somehow contemptuous. It was halting,
too, difficult to follow. I doubted if he had ever employed the
International symbols before. In fact, I intuitively knew that he was
either not of my time at all, or not of my world.
"I have studied the psychology of all potential men for the task that
is to follow. I have chosen you, Ivan Allinger."
"Should I be flattered?"