Collision with Chronos Page 9

  The generals opened their eyes with a snap, summoned from their meditation, and stood to attention while Planetary Leader Limnich seated himself at the head of the table. Then, stiffly, they seated themselves again.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” greeted Limnich in a distant, but conversational tone. “You must be wondering why I’ve convened the Council at this particular time, when our annual retreat together is so near. As you may guess, there’s news of import. But first, I’ll hear your reports.”

  One by one the generals gave a brief résumé. The accounts were no more than recapitulations – each man commanded a vast area of activity and his real reports were massive documents handled by computers. But Limnich was never one to skimp on ritual. He bent his head to give closest attention to the remarks dealing with the pursuit of the Panhumanic League and the hunting down of racially impure persons, numbers of which still existed in normal society, even years after the last of the deviant wars.

  “The work is long and arduous, but its conclusion is inescapable, gentlemen,” he commented. “It must be prosecuted with unremitting vigour. Earth’s destiny is dependent on a one hundred per cent purity of racial stock … but now to the main burden of my information tonight. …”

  In the dimly lit chamber, whose illumination was supplied by shaded cressets, his voice fell to a dramatic murmur, the tone of voice he used on his extremely rare vidcasts – Planetary Leader Limnich was the most powerful man on Earth, but he was the power behind the throne, not the man on the throne itself. Ostensibly his title referred only to his command of the Titanium Legions. There was a World Racial President, a civilian, whom the Legions were sworn to protect. But in actuality Limnich handled nearly all practical affairs, and made nearly all important decisions, though frequently after conferring with the President.

  “You all know of the work being undertaken at the Sarn Establishment, and of the discoveries that have been made there,” he said, placing both hands on the table and directing his gaze at the shining mahogany. “You were all informed, by secret memo, of the mysterious disappearance of our first functional time travelling machine, together with Chief Physicist Leard Ascar and archaeologist Rond Heshke.

  “The loss of Ascar is a blow to our efforts, since his genius was instrumental in developing time theory, but luckily developments had already reached a stage where we were no longer dependent on him. We were able to bring our Marks Two and Three machines into use fairly quickly, and a search was undertaken for the expedition that failed to return. It was established that the expedition had actually landed at its destination. But although the whole of the route covered in the flight plan was thoroughly searched, as well as its environs and possible alternative routes that might have been taken in an emergency, no sign of the machine itself could be found.”

  He paused, lifting his eyes to glower through his lenses like some frightening goblin. “We formed the conclusion that the machine had been intercepted by alien interventionists, and its occupants kidnapped.”

  A tremor of consternation went around the table; backs stiffened. This was the stuff of which nightmares were made – the nightmares they had all experienced at some time since childhood, of strange beasts that dragged their victims into the abyss. And there was no abyss more bottomless, or more unknown, than that of time.

  “Taking account of the possibility that the prisoners might be made to reveal the whereabouts of the Sarn Establishment, I immediately ordered the dispersal of its activities around the globe and the rapid building-up of our time travelling capabilities. With a determined allocation of resources, it was possible to bring to completion about twenty apparatuses and in the ensuing weeks a good start was made toward a more complete exploration of our time environment.

  “Early on, one of the time machines was fired upon while in flight and destroyed. I had, however, given orders that the machines were only to travel in squadrons of three or more. The victim’s companions gave chase to its attacker and pursued it into the future, where they lost track of it. Later, more signs of the aliens’ presence were found, and revealed a situation of utmost danger. It seems that the aliens are extremely active in time, not only in the past, and in our present, but in the future also.”

  “The future, Leader? But how can that be?” One of the burly Titan generals, a man in his sixties, turned to Limnich in puzzlement. He was like many of these older Titans who had been born and bred in the deviant wars. His life had been one of conquest and heedless force, and he had difficulty in understanding these abstract concepts.

  Limnich himself recognised his generals’ limitations in the context of the modern world. Some of these old-time soldiers, he told himself, would have to be phased out. They would need to be replaced by younger men of greater sophistication. Men who understood theory, as well as the necessity for action.

  “There is increasing evidence that the enemy has established a massive base some centuries in the future,” he replied. “Presumably he believes himself to be out of the reach of retaliation there – but he is wrong!” His pale fish-like features suddenly burning with passion, Limnich thumped the table with his fist. “Gentlemen, what I am trying to tell you is that we must once again put ourselves on a wartime footing. The second confrontation with the alien, which we have suspected would come one day, is imminent.”

  And the gleam of excitement that followed his words swept aside any incomprehension that might have bedevilled the Titanium Council. Here was one thing they did understand – and gloried in.

  War!

  “You will set to work in all your sectors to bring industry up to the pace of wartime production,” Limnich told them more calmly. “Specific blueprints will be issued shortly, when we’ve trained sufficient technical teams in the new science of time manipulation. I’ve already taken the steps that will lead to the creation of time travel equipment on a large scale. This will result in new battalions being raised for the Titanium Legions: battalions trained and equipped to wage war across the centuries.” He paused again, and launched into the evocative language he could never resist on such occasions. “Mother Earth is once again calling her offspring to her defence. We must gird our loins, muster our strength, and strike before we’re overwhelmed by the alien onslaught that we must assume is being prepared. There’s no time for rest: we’re entering upon a new era of conflict.”

  Limnich rose to his feet, paused with dignity while the assembly too, rose, and arms shot out, hooking themselves with clenched fists in the Titan salute. Then, without a further word, he turned and walked quietly from the chamber.

  7

  Up until the second day the inevitability of death was something Heshke’s mind had been unable to encompass. Stubbornly his thoughts had kept running in the same grooves as before, as though he were going to continue to live.

  The second day was when their water ran out. The Titan tech officer, Lieutenant Gann, had suggested that they go searching for more, but Leard Ascar had ridiculed the idea.

  “What for?” he sneered. “We’ll probably find water – but one thing we won’t find is food. We’re on a dead planet.” He stroked his pistol. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. When I start to get too thirsty I’m using this.”

  And yet, though Ascar constantly licked his dry lips, his voice became cracked and he complained plaintively of thirst, he still had not killed himself. Heshke believed he knew why: the man’s incredible brain was still at work, determined to wrest as much knowledge as possible from the enigma of time before he died.

  They had dug a shallow grave to bury the dead Titan and now sat in the shade of the wrecked time traveller, talking desultorily. At first Lieutenant Gann had dwelt on the failure of their mission; but Ascar reassured him.

  “It will only be a matter of weeks before they start sending out more probes. The truth will come to light. They’re a thickheaded group, but it will penetrate in time … to start preparing for the holocaust.”

  Heshke shivered at the other�
��s matter-of-fact acceptance of the calamity to come. “Then what chance have we of being rescued?” he enquired.

  “None; don’t harbour any hope on that score. They’ve got a whole planet and centuries of time over which to look for us. It’s impossible.”

  “But they will find the alien civilisation?”

  “Yes. Not as quickly as we did – it won’t occur to them the way it did to me – but yes.”

  “But they might get shot down the way we were.”

  “Probably the first few will. Then they’ll realise what it’s all about, send out armed machines, and so on.”

  Lieutenant Gann came into the conversation, speaking in a hollow voice. “What we’ve discovered is almost too horrible to think about. This head-on collision you speak of – it’s incredible! Are you sure, Ascar?”

  “I don’t understand it at all,” Heshke admitted. “What are they, a time travelling civilisation? Have they found a way to make their whole society travel in time?”

  Ascar shook his head. “It’s even more than that. It’s a whole biota – a world of biological life – that’s unconnected with our own. I think it’s a natural phenomenon, not an artificial one. Plainly, our own present – our own time-stream – is not unique. There are two of them – at least two – sweeping toward one another through four-dimensional space. When they meet it will be like God clapping his hands together, with all living creatures caught in the middle. …”

  “You make it sound like the end of the universe!”

  The physicist shrugged, then sighed. “Probably not. The end of time, maybe. I don’t know; I just can’t figure it out.”

  “Something else bothers me,” Heshke continued after a pause. “The other civilisation is supposed to be only four centuries away from our own. But from the state of their remains, such as the Hathar Ruins, I would say they were definitely abandoned more than four centuries ago. It’s hard to date these things, but an age of eight hundred, maybe even a thousand years, would strike me as more reasonable. It’s an anomaly.”

  Despite his discomfort, a weird smile came over Ascar’s features. “As a matter of fact that was one of the clues that turned my mind in the right direction. There are two ways that things can decay. They can decay with the progress of the Absolute Present – just normal entropy. But there’s another kind of decay: the decay that sets in beyond the margin of the travelling time-wave – decay in non-time. Where the constructive forces of the present moment leave off, decay sets in. And at first entropy acts much more rapidly than in the present. So as you travel into the future things are falling to pieces very quickly. That’s why living forms vanish altogether, for instance.”

  They all pondered his words. “Of course,” Ascar added casually, “as the now-wave draws closer things magically reconstruct themselves, as it were.”

  Heshke framed a further question, but before he could speak he was astonished to hear a whining sound from above. They all glanced up, and what they saw made them shout incoherently and cringe back in sudden fear, seeking the useless shelter of the time traveller.

  Against the blue of the sky a metallic shape was falling rapidly toward them. They all fumbled for their weapons. Heshke was debating the futility of fleeing when the oncoming missile, with extraordinary agility, braked and came to a landing only a few hundred yards away.

  “Looks like those damned aliens are back to get us,” Ascar said through gritted teeth.

  The Titan laid a cautionary hand on Heshke’s arm. “They mustn’t take us alive,” he said evenly. “It’s our duty to die by our own hands.”

  “Yes, of course,” Heshke muttered.

  But they all delayed the fatal moment. Heshke fingered his gun, secretly fearing to put a bullet through his own brain. Ascar snarled and stepped out a pace or two in front of the others, facing the vessel defiantly and hefting his weapon.

  He’s going to try to take one or two of them with us, Heshke thought, admiring the man’s irrational courage. Perhaps I should do the same.

  It surprised him that the machine standing out in the desert bore no resemblance to any of the time travellers he had seen. Vaguely, it reminded him of a space shuttle. It had an ovoidal shape and stood on its tail, supported by piston-powered legs. Just like something a human engineer would design that landed from space, he thought.

  His perplexity was increased when a hatch opened and down stepped human figures. Ascar let his gun sag in his hand, while Lieutenant Gann started forward, his sharp features creasing into a frown of scrutiny.

  “I’ll be damned!” Ascar exploded.

  Heshke started to laugh weakly. “And you said we wouldn’t be rescued.”

  “Shut up!” snapped Ascar irritably.

  And Heshke did stop. The men who came toward them were not wearing either Titan uniform or Titan insignia. Neither, for that matter, did they wear the familiar combat suits.

  There were three of them (three of them, three of us, Heshke told himself with relief; they must be friendly) wearing what appeared to be light, one-piece garments without badges or symbols of any kind. On their heads were simple bowl-shaped helmets each sprouting a feathery antenna. And as they came closer they held up their hands palms outward, smiling and speaking in strange, singsong voices.

  Heshke put up his gun; their friendly intent was obvious. Now he could discern their faces. … Their skin was sallow, virtually yellow; their cheekbones were unnaturally high, their noses some-what flat, and they were slant-eyed. …

  Heshke felt a long moment of uncontrollable nausea.

  Beside him Lieutenant Gann drew in a loud, shuddering breath.

  “Devs!”

  Ascar fell back to join them, his pistol wavering. “Who the hell are those animals? Where did they come from? What are they doing here?” He stared wildly, half out of his mind.

  There could be no doubt about it. The newcomers were not of the race of True Man. True, their points of physical difference did not make them as grotesque as some of the races mankind had fought recently, but even so anyone with even a smattering of racial science could see that they were beyond the pale of true humanity as defined by Titan anthropometricians. In other words, they belonged to a deviant subspecies.

  A loud report banged in Heshke’s ears. Lieutenant Gann was firing, his face hard and determined. One of the devs spun around and fell, holding his arm where he had been hit.

  Heshke drew his gun again, confused but thinking that he, too, should help fight the enemy. As it was he was given no time to fire. The two unhurt devs dropped to one knee and took careful aim with objects they held in their hands, too small for him to be able to see properly. He felt a momentary buzzing in his brain, before he lost consciousness.

  Awareness returned suddenly and clearly, like a light being switched on. Nevertheless Heshke knew that there had been a lapse of time.

  The strange surroundings took a few moments to become familiar with. He lay, half reclined, on a sort of chair-couch, in a room that was long and narrow, decorated at either end with burnished gold filigree. He was alone except for a yellow-faced dev who stood by an instrument with a flat grey screen, and who gave Heshke a distant, rather cold smile.

  “You—all—right—now?” he asked in a weird, impossible accent, pronouncing each word slowly and carefully.

  Heshke nodded.

  “Good. Solly—stun.”

  Heshke studied the offbeat face that belonged to his slim, youthful captor. These devs reminded him of something. … They were not representative of any modern subspecies, but he believed he had seen something like them in photographs of subspecies long exterminated. What had they been called? Shings? Chanks? It had been only a small grouping, in any case. It was perplexing to find them operating a time traveller – or spaceship? – now.

  “Where are my two friends?” he demanded.

  The other listened politely but did not seem to follow him. Apparently his grasp of the language was limited.

  Nothing bound him t
o the chair-couch; he stood up and approached the dev threateningly. “What have you done with my friends?” he said, his voice rising to a shout.

  The dev staved him off with a gesture; an elegant, flowing gesture.

  “You–have–nothing–fear,” he said, smiling broadly. He pointed to a table on which stood various articles: a pitcher, a cup, plates of food. Then he sauntered away from Heshke, opened a door Heshke had not noticed before, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Heshke went to the table and sat down at the chair provided, inspecting the fare with great interest. From the pitcher – in passing he noticed its almost glowing glaze, its light, almost fragrant yellow colour, its fine shape – he poured a lemon-coloured liquid into the wide-brimmed cup and drank greedily. It was delicious; heavenly, unsurpassable lemonade. He drank again, and only then did he pause to examine the excellent craftsmanship involved in the cup. It was of a feather-light, bone-like material, but so thin and delicate that it was translucent. It had no decoration; its whole form was so perfect that it needed none.

  He realised that he had fallen into the hands of a people who knew how to gratify the senses.

  Next, being ravenously hungry, he attacked the food. It was a mixture of spiced meat, vegetables, and a near-tasteless mass of white grains he couldn’t identify. At first he was disappointed to find the meal only lukewarm – he liked his food hot – but the flavours were pleasing and he gulped it swiftly down.

  Afterward, his stomach satisfied, he felt much better. He could not altogether quell his alarm at having fallen into the hands of devs – but after all, this was such a totally mysterious situation.

  And he was alive – and, hopefully, would remain so. Things were much better than they had been a short while ago.

  He sat brooding, exploring the room with his eyes. Its shape was pleasing, he realised. A ratio of – four to one? Hardly the proportions he would have chosen, but somehow it worked; it was aesthetic. These people, dev or not, were artists.