Europa was the only sanctuary for Earth's
doomed millions. Yet to hold it, Mark Lynn
had to fight his traitorous Overlords. And
he was destined to lose--for his weapons were
antiquated, his allies a fragile peaceful race.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1943.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"Your business?"
The Martian Proctor's parchment-like face was blank as he examined
Lynn's pass-card impassively.
"Since when are Internationals given explanations?" Mark Lynn's dark
green eyes glowed. "I've been given none."
"In the Council Hall, humility's essential." The tall Martian drew
himself erect, arrogantly.
"See that you observe it, then." Lynn barked laconically and turning
entered the tube, while the violet-eyed Planetarian gasped in
incredulity.
When the door of the tube in which he'd been transported opened
silently, Mark Lynn found himself before a blank, polished wall of
Beryloy, but as he stepped before it, the wall slid aside to reveal an
austere room of dura-plon whose walls were buckled in places, as if
they'd endured tremendous pressure; part of the room was marked off by
beryloy cables, where a _bas-relief_ of man's progress had crumbled to
the floor and had not been removed as yet. The ceiling seemed uneven,
the polished expanse of floor was asymmetrical.
Across an enormous desk, now covered by a plotting chart, a figure
dressed in the purple uniform of a scientist, with the golden cord of
the Psychologists, gazed at him placidly out of level hazel eyes.
The short-cropped hair that escaped the confines of the tight, silver
kepis, was golden-brown, unruly, and the oval face freckle-sprinkled
had the serious expression of a precocious child.
* * * * *
Mark regarded the girl gravely, startled at her youth, although being
accustomed to female scientists her sex did not surprise him. He
remained silent, as the etiquette of 2,022 demanded when before the
ruling class.
"You've made a characteristic beginning, Spacer Lynn," the girl
observed coldly and gestured toward a visi-screen at her side. "Was it
necessary to leave the Proctor frothing?"
"At the moment, yes!" Mark replied evenly. "Martian arrogance annoys
me, scientist."
The girl frowned slightly. "I'm Doctor Fortun," she stated after a
pause. "The Council has decided to honor you with a mission. It is a
problem particularly suited to your ... er ... talents; your record
shows a rare agility of mind impossible to find among Civicans."
"That's because controls one, six and fifteen failed to affect me,"
Mark said smiling, unconsciously displaying magnificent teeth, dazzling
against the background of his space-tanned features.
"Because you're a ..." the girl began irritably and then checked
herself. "No matter, Spacer Lynn."
"Why not finish it?" Mark sat down, stretching long, sinewy legs
until he sprawled relaxed and loose-jointed, so that it seemed even
his magnificent muscles would never be able to lift the great body.
"Atavistic, is the word." He grinned engagingly and hooded his eyes
slightly as he appraised Doctor Fortun with undisguised admiration.
The young scientist reddened, but she continued in a quiet voice.
"You were selected because you evolved the expedient of taking
Internationals on space exploration, in defiance of the Council Law
that no International can serve more than two years in one position,
by simply shifting them to different levels of work on the Spacers,
where they would be unlikely to contact each other, and, incidentally,
managed to keep yourself as a Spacer long after your term had expired.
"Your record shows also that you circumvented the non-voting status
of Internationals by organizing Civicans into groups to vote for the
interests of Internationals in exchange for confidential information on
planetary resettlement, so that they could obtain choice localities...."
"There's a fundamental necessity of calling worn-out laws to the
attention of the Council by evasion, when they refuse to listen," Mark
explained affably.
Doctor Fortun straightened angrily, her hazel eyes gold-bright with
annoyance. "You were not summoned to discuss revision of existing
laws," she flashed. "That impudence of yours hardly becomes...." She
was at a loss for words. Belonging as she did to the highest hereditary
rank in the realm, the smiling assurance of Spacer Lynn, three ranks
beneath her, and his frank insolence was a new experience to the girl.
Mark Lynn laughed joyously. The admiration in his eyes deepened.
"Thank the eternal stars!" He exclaimed.
"Have you gone mad?" The girl's voice was tight with fury. "Dare you
laugh at a scientist?"
"No, not mad--merely happy! First the Council calls me because being
_International_ and beyond Civican control my individualism and my
freedom of action are useful; you, of course, approve. Then when I
show those very qualities, you're furious. And, I'm happy because ..."
his voice dwindled.
"Yes, go on!" Her words were sheathed in velvet, but her eyes were
feral, like flaming topaz.
"Because it's paradoxical and shows you're still a woman--lovelier than
any I've ever seen," he finished almost in a whisper.
* * * * *
Doctor Fortun looked as if she were about to slap his face. Remembering
the dignity of a scientist in time, she gazed at Mark Lynn with a
mixture of feelings. Finally, something of his infectious good-nature,
of his open admiration touched her and she laughed quietly.
"You are right, Spacer Lynn," she acknowledged. "For a moment I forgot
I was a Psychologist--it's a quality about you that for an instant
made me feel less a scientist and more a ... but never mind. We'll be
together for the Deity knows how long, and it's futile to begin by
quarrelling. Lean forward so you can see this chart, I'll explain."
"We'll be together, did you say?" Mark was delighted. "Then give me a
dozen problems!"
"Yes," she replied dubiously. "As a Psychologist I'll be part of
the expedition. You'll find that this one problem will be more than
enough." The girl pressed a button on her desk and one of the undamaged
walls began to glow until it became an astro-map, a reproduction of
charted space. Each planet was indicated in relative size, and in the
lower center, pulsing angrily a thin red line marked "Comet" seemed to
be approaching inferior conjunction with Terra.
"Is that the problem?" Mark asked. "Simple! When it enters Terra's
orbit, life on Terra ceases. Evacuation's the only possible solution.
I knew that comet was approaching, but not being an Astronomer I
didn't compute its trajectory. Besides, being on Io is like being
in exile--news hardly ever reaches us there. Will it destroy Terra
completely?"
"No, not entirely. At first, indications were that it would enter the
orbit of our system at such an angle that Terra would be destroyed.
However, we've checked with the observatories on Pluto since then,
and it has been determined that it will merely enter the field of
attraction sufficiently to shift the axis to opposition. Of course,
this will render Terra unfit for habitation ... perhaps for a century
or two ... therefore, as you realized, evacuation's the answer."
"I'm listening," Mark said earnestly, as the magnitude of the problem
before them struck him. "However, you're aware I'm not an astronomer,
and the technique of evacuation could best be handled by the Council
itself. I'm afraid I still don't quite see what my role's to be.... But
whatever it is, I'm ready."
"Turn your attention to this plotting chart," Doctor Fortun indicated
the map on her desk. "These areas marked in red have already been
affected. Tremors have increased and volcanic openings are occurring
in these and these areas, never dangerous before. While you were on Io
awaiting orders for another exploratory journey, we began to attempt
resettlement of our _Civicans_ and _Ruralians_ on other Planets--even
giving them their choice of occupations and of planets ... quite a
concession you must agree."
"Quite!" The irony in his voice seemed to escape her.
* * * * *
"We have succeeded in resettling two-thirds of Terra's population
on Mars and Venus, and a limited number on Mercury; this last world
only offered limited space at best in its twilight zone, and it was
necessary to construct subterranean cities beneath its dark side--the
frigid half--but that's another problem. Now, however, Venus refuses to
accept any more Terrans and Mars has also closed its doors to us. Under
existing treaties they have no right to exclude Terrans, but we're
hardly in a position to enforce them now."
"Hardly!" Lynn agreed sardonically.
"The problem's further complicated by the innate characteristics of
this remaining third," Doctor Fortun paused, and gazed very intently
into the dark green eyes of the Spacer before she resumed.
"They're for the most part internationals, ruralians who originally
refused to undergo controls one and six, and were not condemned to
Power Reserve because of the increasing need for Vitaminic Flora, as
you no doubt know that vibroponics, due to some peculiarity of the
radiations are greatly deficient in certain vitamins. The balance
are Planetarians from throughout the system who flatly refuse to
be repatriated. And, last but certainly not least, religious and
philosophic groups--the former, fanatical believers in _ancestrals_
and atavistic cults, who chose to regard this cosmic tragedy as a
manifestation of Divine Wrath and devote their time to frenzied,
masochistic meetings and revivals. The latter have turned stoic, and
choose to see nothing in our civilization worth living for, claiming
that all incentive has been removed, consequently, they prefer to
meet their fate on Terra. In short, this last third is completely
intractable."
"I'm amazed the Council's taken no measures!" Mark exclaimed.
"Oh, measures have been taken, of course. The philosophers
have had rank and prerogatives--even when they had scientific
honors--nullified. The religious groups have had their food allowance
reduced to the starvation point and all their privileges recalled.
The Internationals ..." here she paused again as she regarded Mark,
"since they're free-thinkers, and the most dangerous of the lot, were
ordered to report for control-treatment under penalty of death. They
promptly took to the fastnesses in the mountains and deserts by the
millions, and are existing on game and vegetables to be found in the
now abandoned regions. They are armed for the most part."
Mark Lynn was openly grinning now, but the girl chose to ignore it and
continued:
"Unfortunately, our armed forces are too busy keeping order in the
new resettlements, or they would have been subdued long ago. The
resettlements have been supplied with seed, tools, cattle, metallic
substances, concentrated fuel, machinery ... in fact, everything
necessary for a successful evacuation. This last group would have
been similarly supplied, they were even given a reprieve for their
insubordination and offered special terms--the Council can be
munificent!" For an instant her voice rang with exaltation. "But they
absolutely refuse evacuation, except...."
"Except what?" Lynn was all attention, sensing that this was the core
of the problem.
"Except on their own terms!" The young scientist exclaimed with a trace
of bitterness.
"But why don't you permit them to decide what manner of death they're
to have? What possible interest can the Council have in what to them
is an atavistic, intransigent group that detests our system of planned
existence? If the prospect of a continuation of this civilization gags
them, even in another planet, then obviously their choice to remain and
die here should be respected." Mark's voice was very soft.
The limpid hazel eyes of the girl mirrored her shock at Mark's words.
"Impossible! It would be horribly wasteful. And, a distinct failure on
the Council's part. Those lives can be useful--the Council never fails!"
"Amen!" Mark Lynn exclaimed archaically. "And where do I come in?"
The irony of his present situation didn't escape him. That he, an
_International_, a strata of the highly complex social order considered
most dangerous, should be called in to solve a problem of such
magnitude, involving (of all people) Internationals and intransigents,
would have been fantastic to anyone not acquainted with the subtle and
at times Machiavellian methods of the Council.
* * * * *
Doctor Fortun handed him a rolled, tissue-thin, metallic cylinder for
an answer.
"Those are your orders from the Council," she said soberly. "I'm but an
agent, as you know. Just one among the scientists who will be in charge
upon arrival. Do not read it now. It is final. Take this card, it's a
permit to enter a scientific News-Casting Booth and scan all available
data for the past year. We know that out of the remaining third,
roughly three or four hundred million at best will be transportable.
The balance are far too old to withstand the journey--their power
potential is negligible, and in any case, they'd much rather die than
leave. But it's the three or four hundred million transportables who
are highly useful for the particular purpose of the Council, that
we must ... or rather," she smiled faintly, "you must convince." She
opened a drawer and extracted a gleaming metal disk. "These credits
will be ample," she said, extending it to Mark.
Lynn's eyes widened. "Ten thousand credits? I've had to work as many
years for that amount!"
Doctor Fortun smiled. "May you live to spend them, Spacer Lynn," she
said cryptically. "Greetings!"
Mark Lynn wanted to speak, to ask her social name, anything that would
delay his departure from her office. But he knew the interview was at
an end even before she turned to the mass of figures and data on her
desk.
Spacer Lynn threw a rapid glance around the room. They were still
alone, but he knew that the entire interview had been minutely
recorded--the august body of scientists of the first order who composed
the Council took no chances, especially with Internationals, the
adventurers, the pioneers who opened up new worlds for the maddeningly
impersonal efficiency of the Council to take over and remold. But Mark
didn't care. There was little that they didn't know about him, in
detail.
Mark Lynn in common with a few million others was a product of his time
and station. One of the immense legion of war orphans that the constant
and increasingly destructive warfare of the twentieth and twenty-first
centuries had left behind, he was automatically a ward of the Executive
Council.
Now that wars had finally been abolished as wasteful and inefficient,
the ultimate goal of the social order was "Achievement." It had become
a religion. It was instilled into infantile minds with the first
toddling steps; it was propagated through a thousand subtle means; it
was a constant threat in the background of every living being under
the government of Terra. _Achievement_ was the inexorable law. It
might mean producing so many tons of vitaminic flora during a span of
so many years, or perhaps the production of metallic substances, or
the exploration of so many worlds, as in Mark's case. Regardless of
the task imposed, its final, successful and unequivocal completion was
the "Achievement" for that particular being. And, woe unto him who
_failed_ to achieve!
In Mark Lynn's case, having been given over to the International
Police for training as an astrogator and having finished his course
with brilliant honors, he had been given a first-class exploration
rating, and trained in outer space navigation. Years of successful
interplanetary and outer space exploration and research had given
him an unequaled experience as an explorer. It was his duty to give
the Council implicit obedience--and to reserve his thinking for the
problems of unexplored worlds and outer space. The Council, Rulers of
the World State, frowned on thinking without directives, especially by
those beyond control, such as the Internationals, of which Mark Lynn
was a great leader.
* * * * *
Thinking led to individualism, and the latter to conflict of opinions,
eventually to become conflict of a far more deadly sort. The recent
past was an unerasable record of promiscuous thinking; it had brought
too many problems, social and economic--it was wasteful, slipshod and
inefficient. So it became a matter of unalterable policy to train
each individual rigidly in that station in life to which he was
best fitted, where he or she could function with maximum efficiency
toward achievement. It became essential to apply control "one," which
instilled into the mental patterns a dreadful guilt of waste--whether
of energy, credits or time, much as the ancient Puritans lived in the
fear of their consciences and could never be comfortable or enjoy
frivolous moments or leisure. Control "six" became an obsession to
achieve, subtly replacing the emotional complex of what in an earlier
day was called "ambition," until nothing, literally nothing could stand
before that one, all-important goal. And finally, control "fifteen"
became an absolute need for guidance, a pattern that subtly replaced
the instinct for security of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, so
that all problems, all crises were solved by the Council. An attempt to
make individual solutions, resulted in an awful sense of "aloneness,"
of absolute insecurity that could drive a civican or ruralian to the
verge of a psychosis. There were other controls, some major and
some minor, but these three, one, six and fifteen, were the three
imperatives. Mark Lynn was impervious to them--he had to be to belong
to the Internationals.
* * * * *
With the sealed cylinder in an inner pocket of his tunic, that boasted
a golden sun embroidered on the chest, Mark left the building and
made his way through the milling crowds in the streets. They were all
hurrying to some individual task--office workers in the black gowns
of their calling; artisans with wide, tooled belts. The violet-eyed
Martian proctors who acted as guards, and the tiny, slender Venusians,
with their vari-colored wings and melodious voices. Scientists of
the various orders were hurrying to the transportation belts, while
technicians in their bright blue tunics went in and out of different
buildings. There was no confusion, no disorder, despite the evident
haste.
Shops were closed, deserted or wrecked by earthquakes. Many buildings
were in partial ruins, others had huge cracks along the sides. Yet,
from the public visi-screens posted along the street came glimpses of
beautiful scenes and soft, seductive music. A light powdery snow was
falling, and the wind danced a sara-band unchecked.
"Weather control stations must have failed," Mark said inwardly, and
breathed deeply, gratefully, the keen, icy freshness of the wind.
An old woman, a ruralian carrying a huge bundle, spied him and eagerly
grasped his arm. "Greetings, International! Pray give an old woman
information! I've farmed my allotment and _achieved_ ten years ahead
of my plan, and now they tell me I must move to Venus! I don't mind
the moving--though I mistrust those winged creatures--but I'm old and
very tired. Does my moving mean I'll have another allotment to achieve?
Must I clear Venusian land? Tell me International, if I'm assigned to
a freighter, will the gravs be likely to shorten what remains of my
life-span?"
Mark laughed at the loud avalanche of questions. "Peace, Ruralian,"
he managed through his laughter. "I doubt if you'll be required
to _achieve_ another allotment. Didn't the government grant you
sufficient credits for a new start?"
The ruralian woman pulled out a package of rank, Venusian cigarets
and contentedly puffed on one after lighting it. "Yes, when the
earth-temblors ruined my land and a mouth of fire finished it, a
proctor came from the Council and gave me enough credits to last a body
a life-time, then told me to make my way to transportation. But I can't
bring myself to spend those credits, International--its wasteful....
I'd rather achieve another allotment. Why, I haven't bought a thing for
fifty years that I could grow or make myself!
"I've been some time getting here from the Arizona sector, for the
shakes disrupted the conveyor roads, and I lost a lot of things when
another mouth of fire pushed up where the road was and blew my cart
to the four winds--It's a miracle I'm here at all! But about the
freighter, will the gravs...."
"Ask for the sleep-freeze ... it will be given you, in any event. If
anything, it'll lengthen your span, and the journey will seem like an
overnight trip to you. If you need directing, a proctor will assist
you. Greetings Ruralian!" Mark tried to make his tones as kindly as he
possibly could, but realizing the woman was eager to make conversation,
he ended the incident--he was still on duty.
"Greetings, International," she replied disappointed, and heaved the
bundle to her shoulder.
Mark had not walked ten paces when instant correlation between his
senses, mental synthesis and muscular reaction made him swerve
aside, bending over at the same time. It had been the horror-shocked
expression in the eyes of a technician barely three paces before him,
that had sent the Spacer hurtling to one side, half bent over, bowling
pedestrians aside like ten-pins. A thin pencil of light flashed where
Mark's head had been seconds before. Mark had turned without pausing
and he saw a tall International whose yellow tunic bore the red whorl
insignia of a conveyor-road inspector.
Mark's molecular rate was faster than any other strata, purposely,
because of his calling, and to the spectators it seemed as if he'd
twisted, turned and flung himself into a prodigious tackle all in
one motion. The attacking International, fully as tall as Mark, went
down under the terrific impact, his atomo-pistol sailing through the
icy atmosphere in a falling arc. But with the agility of a Martian
Hellacorium, he was up and snarling: "Traitor!" through clenched teeth.
With a cry of baffled fury he launched himself at Mark unhesitatingly,
one hand fumbling at his belt.
But Mark ducked, side-stepping. He was icy calm now, although the
reason for this attack baffled him. Mark was in his element in a fight;
the International Police trained its wards to be fighting machines,
deadly in their efficiency. Explorers had to be!