Читать книгу The Science Fiction Novel Super Pack No. 1 - David Lindsay - Страница 22

A miracle came to pass in Ranthoor when a man for whom all hope had been abandoned suddenly appeared within the city’s streets. But he appeared to be something not quite earthly, for he did not have the solidity of a man. He was pale, like a wraith from out of space, and one could see straight through him, yet he still had all the old mannerisms and tricks.

In frightened, awe-stricken whispers the word was spread ... the spirit of John Moore Mallory had come back to the city once again. He bulked four times the height of a normal man and there was that singular ghostliness about him. From where he had come, or how, or why, no one seemed to know.

But when he reached the steps of the federation’s administration building and walked straight through a line of troopers that suddenly massed to bar his way, and when he turned on those steps and spoke to the people who had gathered, there was none to doubt that at last a sign had come. The sign that now, if ever, was the time to avenge the purge. Now the time to take vengeance for the blood that flowed in gutters, for the throaty chortling of the flame guns that had snuffed out lives against a broad steel wall.

Standing on the steps, shadowy but plainly visible, John Moore Mallory talked to the people in the square below, and his voice was the voice they remembered. They saw him toss his black mane of hair, they saw his clenched fist raised in terrible anger, they heard the boom of the words he spoke.

Like a shrilling alarm the words spread through the city, reverberating from the dome, seeking out those who were in hiding. From every corner of the city, from its deepest cellars and its darkest alleys, poured out a mass of humanity that surrounded the capitol and blackened the square and the converging streets with a mob that shrieked its hatred, bellowed its anger.

“Power!” thundered the mighty shadow on the steps. “Power to burn! Power to give away. Power to heat the dome, to work your mines, to drive your spaceships!”

“Power!” answered the voice of the crowd. “Power!” It sounded like a battle cry.

“No more accumulators,” roared the towering image. “Never again need you rely on Spencer Chambers for your power. Callisto is yours. Ranthoor is yours.”

The black crowd surged forward, reached the steps and started to climb, wild cheers in their throat, the madness of victory in their eyes. Up the steps came men with nothing but bare hands, screaming women, jeering children.

Officers snapped orders at the troops that lined the steps, but the troopers, staring into the awful, raging maw of that oncoming crowd, dropped their guns and fled, back into the capitol building, with the mob behind them, shrilling blood lust and long-awaited vengeance.

*

Out of the red and yellow wilderness of the deserts, a man came to Sandebar on Mars. He had long been thought dead. The minions of the government had announced that he was dead. But he had been in hiding for six years.

His beard was long and gray, his eyes were curtained by hardship, his white hair hung about his shoulders and he was clothed in the tattered leather trappings of the spaceways.

But men remembered him.

Tom Brown had lead the last revolt against the Martian government, an ill-starred revolt that ended almost before it started when the troopers turned loose the heavy heaters and swept the streets with washing waves of flame.

When he climbed to the base of a statue in Techor Park to address the crowd that gathered, the police shouted for him to come down and he disregarded them. They climbed the statue to reach him and their hands went through him.

Tom Brown stood before the people, in plain view, and spoke, but he wasn’t there!

Other things happened in Sandebar that day. A voice spoke out of thin air, a voice that told the people the reign of Interplanetary was over. It told of a mighty new source of power. Power that would cost almost nothing. Power that would make the accumulators unnecessary ... would make them out of date. A voice that said the people need no longer submit to the yoke of Spencer Chambers’ government in order to obtain the power they needed.

There was no one there ... no one visible at all. And yet that voice went on and on. A great crowd gathered, listening, cheering. The police tried to break it up and failed. The troops were ordered out and the people fought them until the voice told them to disband peaceably and go to their homes.

Throughout Mars it was the same.

In a dozen places in Sandebar the voice spoke. It spoke in a dozen places, out of empty air, in Malacon and Alexon and Adebron.

Tom Brown, vanishing into the air after his speech was done, reappeared a few minutes later in Adebron and there the police, warned of what had happened in Sandebar, opened fire upon him when he stood on a park bench to address the people. But the flames passed through and did not touch him. Tom Brown, his long white beard covering his chest, his mad eyes flashing, stood in the fiery blast that bellowed from the muzzles of the flame rifles and calmly talked.

*

The chief of police at New Chicago, Venus, called the police commissioner. “There’s a guy out here in the park, just across the street. He’s preaching treason. He’s telling the people to overthrow the government.”

In the ground glass the police commissioner’s face grew purple.

“Arrest him,” he ordered the chief. “Clap him in the jug. Do you have to call me up every time one of those fiery-eyed boys climbs a soap box? Run him in.”

“I can’t,” said the chief.

The police commissioner seemed ready to explode. “You can’t? Why the hell not?”

“Well, you know that hill in the center of the park? Memorial Hill?”

“What has a hill got to do with it?” the commissioner roared.

“He’s sitting on top of that hill. He’s a thousand feet tall. His head is way up in the sky and his voice is like thunder. How can you arrest anybody like that?”

*

Everywhere in the System, revolt was flaming. New marching songs rolled out between the worlds, wild marching songs that had the note of anger in them. Weapons were brought out of hiding and polished. New standards were raised in an ever-rising tide against oppression.

Freedom was on the march again. The right of a man to rule himself the way he chose to rule. A new declaration of independence. A Solar Magna Carta.

There were new leaders, led by the old leaders. Led by spirits that marched across the sky. Led by voices that spoke out of the air. Led by signs and symbols and a new-born courage and a great and a deep conviction that right in the end would triumph.

*

Spencer Chambers glared at Ludwig Stutsman. “This is one time you went too far.”

“If you’d given me a free hand before, this wouldn’t have been necessary,” Stutsman said. “But you were soft. You made me go easy when I should have ground them down. You left the way open for all sorts of plots and schemes and leaders to develop.”

The two men faced one another, one the smooth, tawny lion, the other the snarling wolf.

“You’ve built up hatred, Stutsman,” Chambers said. “You are the most hated man in the Solar System. And because of you, they hate me. That wasn’t my idea. I needed you because I needed an iron fist, but I needed it to use judiciously. And you have been ruthless. You’ve used force when conciliation was necessary.”

Stutsman sneered openly. “Still that old dream of a benevolent dictatorship. Still figuring yourself a little bronze god to be set up in every household. A dictatorship can’t be run that way. You have to let them know you’re boss.”

Chambers was calm again. “Argument won’t do us any good now. The damage is done. Revolt is flaming through all the worlds. We have to do something.”

He looked at Craven, who was slouched in a chair beside the desk across which he and Stutsman faced each other.

“Can you help us, doctor?” he asked.

Craven shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said acidly. “If I could only be left to my work undisturbed, instead of being dragged into these stupid conferences, I might be able to do something.”

“You already have, haven’t you?” asked Chambers.

“Very little. I’ve been able to blank out the televisor that Manning and Page are using, but that is all.”

“Do you have any idea where Manning and Page are?”

“How could I know?” Craven asked. “Somewhere in space.”

“They’re at the bottom of this,” snarled Stutsman. “Their damned tricks and propaganda.”

“We know they’re at the bottom of it,” said Craven. “That’s no news to us. If it weren’t for them, we wouldn’t have this trouble now, despite your bungling. But that doesn’t help us any. With this new discovery of mine I have shielded this building from their observation. They can’t spy on us any more. But that’s as far as I’ve got.”

“They televised the secret meeting of the emergency council when it met in Satellite City on Ganymede the other day,” said Chambers. “The whole Jovian confederacy watched and listened to that meeting, heard our secret war plans, for fully ten minutes before the trick was discovered. Couldn’t we use your shield to prevent such a situation again?”

“Better still,” suggested Stutsman, “let’s shield the whole satellite. Without Manning’s ghostly leaders, this revolt would collapse of its own weight.”

Craven shook his head. “It takes fifty tons of accumulators to build up that field, and a ton of fuel a day to maintain it. Just for this building alone. It would be impossible to shield a whole planet, an entire moon.”

*

“Any progress on your collector field?” asked Chambers.

“Some,” Craven admitted. “I’ll know in a day or two.”

“That would give us something with which to fight Manning and Page, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” agreed Craven. “It would be something to fight them with. If I can develop that collector field, we would be able to utilize every radiation in space, from the heat wave down through the cosmics. Within the Solar System, our power would be absolutely limitless. Your accumulators depend for their power storage upon just one radiation ... heat. But with this idea I have you’d use all types of radiations.”

“You say you could even put the cosmics to work?” asked Chambers.

Craven nodded. “If I can do anything at all with the field, I can.”

“How?” demanded Stutsman.

“By breaking them up, you fool. Smash the short, high-powered waves into a lot of longer, lower-powered waves.” Craven swung back to face Chambers. “But don’t count on it,” he warned. “I haven’t done it yet.”

“You have to do it,” Chambers insisted.

Craven rose from his chair, his blue eyes blazing angrily behind the heavy lenses. “How often must I tell you that you cannot hurry scientific investigation? You have to try and try ... follow one tiny clue to another tiny clue. You have to be patient. You have to hope. But you cannot force the work.”

He strode from the room, slammed the door behind him.

Chambers turned slowly in his chair to face Stutsman. His gray eyes bored into the wolfish face.

“And now,” he suggested, “suppose you tell me just why you did it.”

Stutsman’s lips curled. “I suppose you would rather I had allowed those troublemakers to go ahead, consolidate their plans. There was only one thing to do—root them out, liquidate them. I did it.”

“You chose a poor time,” said Chambers softly. “You would have to do something like this, just at the time when Manning is lurking around the Solar System somewhere, carrying enough power to wipe us off the face of the Earth if he wanted to.”

“That’s why I did it,” protested Stutsman. “I knew Manning was around. I was afraid he’d start something, so I beat him to it. I thought it would throw a scare into the people, make them afraid to follow Manning when he acted.”

*

“You have a low opinion of the human race, don’t you?” Chambers said. “You think you can beat them into a mire of helplessness and fear.”

Chambers rose from his chair, pounded his desk for emphasis.

“But you can’t do it, Stutsman. Men have tried it before you, from the very dawn of history. You can destroy their homes and kill their children. You can burn them at the stake or in the electric chair, hang them or space-walk them or herd them into gas chambers. You can drive them like cattle into concentration camps, you can keep the torture racks bloody, but you can’t break them.

“Because the people always survive. Their courage is greater than the courage of any one man or group of men. They always reach the man who has oppressed them, they always tear him down from the place he sits, and they do not deal gently with him when they do. In the end the people always win.”

Chambers reached across the desk and caught Stutsman by the slack of the shirt. A twist of his hand tightened the fabric around Stutsman’s neck. The financier thrust his face close to the wolfish scowl. “That is what is going to happen to you and me. We’ll go down in history as just a couple of damn fools who tried to rule and couldn’t make the grade. Thanks to you and your damned stupidity. You and your blood purges!”

Patches of anger burned on Stutsman’s cheeks. His eyes glittered and his lips were white. But his whisper was bitter mockery. “Maybe we should have coddled and humored them. Made them just so awful happy that big bad old Interplanetary had them. So they could have set up little bronze images of you in their homes. So you could have been sort of a solar god!”

“I still think it would have been the better way.” Chambers flung Stutsman from him with a straight-armed push. The man reeled and staggered across the carpeted floor. “Get out of my sight!”

Stutsman straightened his shirt, turned and left.

Chambers slumped into his chair, his hands grasping the arms on either side of his great body, his eyes staring out through the window from which flooded the last rays of the afternoon Sun.

*

Drums pounded in his brain ... the drums of rebellion out in space, of rebellion on those other worlds ... drums that were drowning out and shattering forever the dream that he had woven. He had wanted economic dictatorship ... not the cold, passionless, terrible dictatorship that Stutsman typified ... but one that would bring peace and prosperity and happiness to the Solar System.

He closed his eyes and thought. Snatches of ambition, snatches of hopes ... but it was useless to think, for the drums and the imagined shouting drowned out his thoughts.

Mankind didn’t give a damn for good business administration, nor a hoot for prosperity or peace or happiness. Liberty and the right to rule, the right to go risk one’s neck ... to climb a mountain or cross a desert or explore a swamp, the right to aim one’s sights at distant stars, to fling a taunting challenge into the teeth of space, to probe with clumsy fingers and force nature to lay bare her secrets ... that was what mankind wanted. That was what those men out on Mars and Venus and in the Jovian worlds were fighting for. Not against Spencer Chambers or Ludwig Stutsman or Interplanetary Power, but for the thing that drove man on and made of him a flame that others might follow. Fighting for a heritage that was first expressed when the first man growled at the entrance to his cave and dared the world to take it from him.

Spencer Chambers closed his eyes and rocked back and forth in the tilting office chair.

It had been a good fight, a hard fight. He had had a lot of fun out of it. But he was licked, after all these years. He had held the biggest dream of any man who ever lived. Alexander and Napoleon, Hitler, Stalin and those other fellows had been pikers alongside of Spencer Chambers. They had only aimed at Earthly conquest while he had reached out to grab at all the worlds. But by heaven, he’d almost made it!

A door grated open.

“Chambers!” said a voice.

His feet hit the floor with a thud and he sat stiff and staring at the figure in the door.

It was Craven and the man was excited. His glasses were slid far down on his nose, his hair was standing on end, his tie was all awry.

“I have it!” Craven whooped. “I have it at last!”

Hope clutched at Chambers, but he was almost afraid to speak.

“Have what?” he whispered tensely.

“The collector field! It was under my nose all the time, but I didn’t see it!”

Chambers was out of his chair and striding across the room. A tumult buzzed within his skull.

Licked? Hell, he hadn’t even started! He’d win yet. He’d teach the people to revolt! He’d run Manning and Page out to the end of space and push them through!