The Officer of the Deck. |
Frederick Pohl
Double Cross
Revolt was brewing on Venus, led by the descendant of the first Earthmen to land. Svan was the leader making the final plans—plotting them a bit too well.
Planet
Stories Winter 1944.
The
Officer of the Deck was pleased as he returned to the main lock. There was no
reason why everything shouldn't have been functioning perfectly, of course, but
he was pleased to have it confirmed, all the same. The Executive Officer was
moodily smoking a cigarette in the open lock, staring out over the dank
Venusian terrain at the native town. He turned.
"Everything
shipshape, I take it!" he commented.
The
OD nodded. "I'll have a blank log if this keeps up," he said.
"Every man accounted for except the delegation, cargo stowed, drivers
ready to lift as soon as they come back."
The
Exec tossed away his cigarette. "If they come back."
"Is
there any question?"
The
Exec shrugged. "I don't know, Lowry," he said. "This is a funny
place. I don't trust the natives."
Lowry
lifted his eyebrows. "Oh? But after all, they're human beings, just like
us—"
"Not
any more. Four or five generations ago they were. Lord, they don't even look
human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don't like them."
"Acclimation,"
Lowry said scientifically. "They had to acclimate themselves to Venus's
climate. They're friendly enough."
The
Exec shrugged again. He stared at the wooden shacks that were the outskirts of
the native city, dimly visible through the ever-present Venusian mist. The
native guard of honor, posted a hundred yards from the Earth-ship, stood
stolidly at attention with their old-fashioned proton-rifles slung over their
backs. A few natives were gazing wonderingly at the great ship, but made no
move to pass the line of guards.
"Of
course," Lowry said suddenly, "there's a minority who are afraid of
us. I was in town yesterday, and I talked with some of the natives. They think
there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that we know Venus is
habitable. And there's some sort of a paltry underground group that is
spreading the word that the immigrants will drive the native Venusians—the
descendants of the first expedition, that is—right down into the mud.
Well—" he laughed—"maybe they will. After all, the fittest survive.
That's a basic law of—"
The
annunciator over the open lock clanged vigorously, and a metallic voice rasped:
"Officer of the Deck! Post Number One! Instruments reports a spy ray
focused on the main lock!"
Lowry,
interrupted in the middle of a word, jerked his head back and stared
unbelievingly at the tell-tale next to the annunciator. Sure enough, it was
glowing red—might have been glowing for minutes. He snatched at the hand-phone
dangling from the wall, shouted into it. "Set up a screen! Notify the
delegation! Alert a landing party!" But even while he was giving orders,
the warning light flickered suddenly and went out. Stricken, Lowry turned to
the Exec.
The
Executive Officer nodded gloomily. He said, "You see!"
***
"You
see?"
Svan
clicked off the listening-machine and turned around. The five others in the
room looked apprehensive. "You see?" Svan repeated. "From their
own mouths you have heard it. The Council was right."
The
younger of the two women sighed. She might have been beautiful, in spite of her
dead-white skin, if there had been a scrap of hair on her head. "Svan, I'm
afraid," she said. "Who are we to decide if this is a good thing? Our
parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will be trouble at first, if colonists
come, but we are of the same blood."
Svan
laughed harshly. "They don't think so. You heard them. We are not
human any more. The officer said it."
The
other woman spoke unexpectedly. "The Council was right," she agreed.
"Svan, what must we do?"
Svan
raised his hand, thoughtfully. "One moment. Ingra, do you still
object?"
The
younger woman shrank back before the glare in his eyes. She looked around at
the others, found them reluctant and uneasy, but visibly convinced by Svan.
"No,"
she said slowly. "I do not object."
"And
the rest of us? Does any of us object?"
You heard them. |
Svan
eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture of assent.
"Good,"
said Svan. "Then we must act. The Council has told us that we alone will
decide our course of action. We have agreed that, if the Earth-ship returns, it
means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must not return."
An
old man shifted restlessly. "But they are strong, Svan," he
complained. "They have weapons. We cannot force them to stay."
Svan
nodded. "No. They will leave. But they will never get back to Earth."
"Never
get back to Earth?" the old man gasped. "Has the Council
authorized—murder?"
Svan
shrugged. "The Council did not know what we would face. The Councilmen
could not come to the city and see what strength the Earth-ship has." He
paused dangerously. "Toller," he said, "do you object?"
Like
the girl, the old man retreated before his eyes. His voice was dull. "What
is your plan?" he asked.
Svan
smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at his feet, held up
a shiny metal globe. "One of us will plant this in the ship. It will be
set by means of this dial—" he touched a spot on the surface of the globe
with a pallid finger—"to do nothing for forty hours. Then—it will explode.
Atomite."
He
grinned triumphantly, looking from face to face. The grin faded uncertainly as
he saw what was in their eyes—uncertainty, irresolution. Abruptly he set the
bomb down, savagely ripped six leaves off a writing tablet on the table next
him. He took a pencil and made a mark on one of them, held it up.
"We
will let chance decide who is to do the work," he said angrily. "Is
there anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think...."
No
answer. Svan jerked his head. "Good," he said. "Ingra, bring me
that bowl."
Silently
the girl picked up an opaque glass bowl from the broad arm of her chair. It had
held Venus-tobacco cigarettes; there were a few left. She shook them out and
handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidly creasing the six fatal slips. He
dropped them in the bowl, stirred it with his hand, offered it to the girl.
"You first, Ingra," he said.
She
reached in mechanically, her eyes intent on his, took out a slip and held it
without opening it. The bowl went the rounds, till Svan himself took the last.
All eyes were on him. No one had looked at their slips.
Svan,
too, had left his unopened. He sat at the table, facing them. "This is the
plan," he said. "We will go, all six of us, in my ground car, to look
at the Earth-ship. No one will suspect—the whole city has been to see it
already. One will get out, at the best point we can find. It is almost dusk
now. He can hide, surely, in the vegetation. The other five will start back.
Something will go wrong with the car—perhaps it will run off the road, start to
sink in the swamp. The guards will be called. There will be commotion—that is
easy enough, after all; a hysterical woman, a few screams, that's all there is
to it. And the sixth person will have his chance to steal to the side of the
ship. The bomb is magnetic. It will not be noticed in the dark—they will take
off before sunrise, because they must travel away from the sun to return—in
forty hours the danger is removed."
There
was comprehension in their eyes, Svan saw ... but still that uncertainty.
Impatiently, he crackled: "Look at the slips!"
Though
he had willed his eyes away from it, his fingers had rebelled. Instinctively
they had opened the slip, turned it over and over, striving to detect if it was
the fatal one. They had felt nothing....
And
his eyes saw nothing. The slip was blank. He gave it but a second's glance,
then looked up to see who had won the lethal game of chance. Almost he was
disappointed.
Each
of the others had looked in that same second. And each was looking up now,
around at his neighbors. Svan waited impatiently for the chosen one to announce
it—a second, ten seconds....
Then
gray understanding came to him. A traitor! his subconscious
whispered. A coward! He stared at them in a new light, saw their
indecision magnified, became opposition.
Svan
thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was a coward, it would do
no good to unmask him. All were wavering, any might be the one who had drawn
the fatal slip. He could insist on inspecting every one, but—suppose the
coward, cornered, fought back? In fractions of a second, Svan had considered
the evidence and reached his decision. Masked by the table, his hand, still
holding the pencil, moved swiftly beneath the table, marked his own slip.
In
the palm of his hand, Svan held up the slip he had just marked in secret. His
voice was very tired as he said, "I will plant the bomb."
***
The
six conspirators in Svan's old ground car moved slowly along the main street of
the native town. Two Earth-ship sailors, unarmed except for deceptively
flimsy-looking pistols at their hips, stood before the entrance to the town's
Hall of Justice.
"Good,"
said Svan, observing them. "The delegation is still here. We have ample
time."
He
half turned in the broad front seat next to the driver, searching the faces of
the others in the car. Which was the coward? he wondered. Ingra? Her aunt? One
of the men?
The
right answer leaped up at him. They all are, he thought. Not one of
them understands what this means. They're afraid.
He
clamped his lips. "Go faster, Ingra," he ordered the girl who was
driving. "Let's get this done with."
She
looked at him, and he was surprised to find compassion in her eyes. Silently
she nodded, advanced the fuel-handle so that the clumsy car jolted a trace more
rapidly over the corduroy road. It was quite dark now. The car's driving light
flared yellowishly in front of them, illuminating the narrow road and the pale,
distorted vegetation of the jungle that surrounded them. Svan noticed it was
raining a little. The present shower would deepen and intensify until midnight,
then fall off again, to halt before morning. But before then they would be
done.
A
proton-bolt lanced across the road in front of them. In the silence that
followed its thunderous crash, a man's voice bellowed: "Halt!"
The
girl, Ingra, gasped something indistinguishable, slammed on the brakes. A
Venusian in the trappings of the State Guard advanced on them from the side of
the road, proton-rifle held ready to fire again.
"Where
are you going?" he growled.
Svan
spoke up. "We want to look at the Earth-ship," he said. He opened the
door beside him and stepped out, careless of the drizzle. "We heard it was
leaving tonight," he continued, "and we have not seen it. Is that not
permitted?"
The
guard shook his head sourly. "No one is allowed near the ship. The order
was just issued. It is thought there is danger."
Svan
stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. "It is
urgent," he purred. His right hand flashed across his chest in a
complicated gesture. "Do you understand?"
Confusion
furrowed the guard's hairless brows, then was replaced by a sudden flare of
understanding—and fear. "The Council!" he roared. "By heaven,
yes, I understand! You are the swine that caused this—" He strove
instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan was faster. His gamble had
failed; there was only one course remaining. He hurled his gross white bulk at
the guard, bowled him over against the splintery logs of the road. The
proton-rifle went flying, and Svan savagely tore at the throat of the guard.
Knees, elbows and claw-like nails—Svan battered at the astonished man with
every ounce of strength in his body. The guard was as big as Svan, but Svan had
the initial advantage ... and it was only a matter of seconds before the guard
lay unconscious, his skull a mass of gore at the back where Svan had ruthlessly
pounded it against the road.
Svan
rose, panting, stared around. No one else was in sight, save the petrified five
and the ground car. Svan glared at them contemptuously, then reached down and
heaved on the senseless body of the guard. Over the shoulder of the road the body
went, onto the damp swampland of the jungle. Even while Svan watched the body
began to sink. There would be no trace.
Svan
strode back to the car. "Hurry up," he gasped to the girl. "Now
there is danger for all of us, if they discover he is missing. And keep a watch
for other guards."
***
Fuck. No moon. |
Venus
has no moon, and no star can shine through its vast cloud layer. Ensign Lowry,
staring anxiously out through the astro-dome in the bow of the Earth-ship,
cursed the blackness.
"Can't
see a thing," he complained to the Exec, steadily writing away at the
computer's table. "Look—are those lights over there?"
The
Exec looked up wearily. He shrugged. "Probably the guards. Of course, you
can't tell. Might be a raiding party."
Lowry,
stung, looked to see if the Exec was smiling, but found no answer in his stolid
face. "Don't joke about it," he said. "Suppose something happens
to the delegation?"
"Then
we're in the soup," the Exec said philosophically. "I told you the
natives were dangerous. Spy-rays! They've been prohibited for the last three
hundred years."
"It
isn't all the natives," Lowry said. "Look how they've doubled the
guard around us. The administration is co-operating every way they know how.
You heard the delegation's report on the intercom. It's this secret group they
call the Council."
"And
how do you know the guards themselves don't belong to it?" the Exec
retorted. "They're all the same to me.... Look, your light's gone out now.
Must have been the guard. They're on the wrong side to be coming from the town,
anyhow...."
***
Svan
hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned the lights out and
stopped the car. Then he reached in the compartment under the seat. If he took
a little longer than seemed necessary to get the atomite bomb out of the compartment,
none of the others noticed. Certainly it did not occur to them that there had
been two bombs in the compartment, though Svan's hand emerged with
only one.
He
got out of the car, holding the sphere. "This will do for me," he
said. "They won't be expecting anyone to come from behind the ship—we were
wise to circle around. Now, you know what you must do?"
Ingra
nodded, while the others remained mute. "We must circle back again,"
she parroted. "We are to wait five minutes, then drive the car into the swamp.
We will create a commotion, attract the guards."
Svan,
listening, thought: It's not much of a plan. The guards would not be drawn
away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. If they must be destroyed,
it is good that their destruction will serve a purpose.
Aloud,
he said, "You understand. If I get through, I will return to the city on
foot. No one will suspect anything if I am not caught, because the bomb will
not explode until the ship is far out in space. Remember, you are in no danger
from the guards."
From
the guards, his mind echoed. He smiled. At least, they would feel no pain,
never know what happened. With the amount of atomite in that bomb in the
compartment, they would merely be obliterated in a ground-shaking crash.
Abruptly
he swallowed, reminded of the bomb that was silently counting off the seconds.
"Go ahead," he ordered. "I will wait here."
"Svan."
The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reached for him, kissed
him. "Good luck to you, Svan," she said.
"Good
luck," repeated the others. Then silently the electric motor of the car
took hold. Skilfully the girl backed it up, turned it around, sent it lumbering
back down the road. Only after she had traveled a few hundred feet by the feel
of the road did she turn the lights on again.
Svan
looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean? Was it an
error that the girl should die with the others?
There
was an instant of doubt in his steel-shackled mind, then it was driven away.
Perhaps she was loyal, yet certainly she was weak. And since he could not know
which was the one who had received the marked slip, and feared to admit it, it
was better they all should die.
He
advanced along the midnight road to where the ground rose and the jungle plants
thinned out. Ahead, on an elevation, were the rain-dimmed lights of the
Earth-ship, set down in the center of a clearing made by its own fierce
rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circling figures of sentries, and
knew that these would be the ship's own. They would not be as easily overcome
as the natives, not with those slim-shafted blasters they carried. Only deceit
could get him to the side of the ship.
Svan
settled himself at the side of the road, waiting for his chance. He had perhaps
three minutes to wait; he reckoned. His fingers went absently to the pouch in
his wide belt, closed on the slip of paper. He turned it over without looking
at it, wondering who had drawn the first cross, and been a coward. Ingra? One
of the men?
***
The attack of the androgynous androids. |
He
became abruptly conscious of a commotion behind him. A ground car was racing
along the road. He spun around and was caught in the glare of its blinding
driving-light, as it bumped to a slithering stop.
Paralyzed,
he heard the girl's voice. "Svan! They're coming! They found the guard's
rifle, and they're looking for us! Thirty Earthmen, Svan, with those frightful
guns. They fired at us, but we got away and came for you. We must flee!"
He
stared unseeingly at the light. "Go away!" he croaked unbelievingly.
Then his muscles jerked into action. The time was almost up—the bomb in the
car—
"Go
away!" he shrieked, and turned to run. His fists clenched and swinging at
his side, he made a dozen floundering steps before something immense pounded at
him from behind. He felt himself lifted from the road, sailing, swooping,
dropping with annihilating force onto the hard, charred earth of the clearing.
Only then did he hear the sound of the explosion, and as the immense echoes
died away he began to feel the pain seeping into him from his hideously racked
body....
The
Flight Surgeon rose from beside him. "He's still alive," he said
callously to Lowry, who had just come up. "It won't last long, though.
What've you got there?"
Lowry,
a bewildered expression on his beardless face, held out the two halves of a
metallic sphere. Dangling ends of wires showed where a connection had been
broken. "He had a bomb," he said. "A magnetic-type,
delayed-action atomite bomb. There must have been another in the car, and it
went off. They—they were planning to bomb us."
"Amazing,"
the surgeon said dryly. "Well, they won't do any bombing now."
Lowry
was staring at the huddled, mutilated form of Svan. He shuddered. The surgeon,
seeing the shudder, grasped his shoulder.
"Better
them than us," he said. "It's poetic justice if I ever saw it. They
had it coming...." He paused thoughtfully, staring at a piece of paper
between his fingers. "This is the only part I don't get," he said.
"What's
that?" Lowry craned his neck. "A piece of paper with a cross on it?
What about it?"
The
surgeon shrugged. "He had it clenched in his hand," he said.
"Had the devil of a time getting it loose from him." He turned it
over slowly, displayed the other side. "Now what in the world would he be
doing carrying a scrap of paper with a cross marked on both sides?"
END
Frederick Pohl. |
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