The Earth Gods Are Coming (9 page)

"I'll see. you later, Colonel," Baylis managed to say.

The screen jiggered with that black and red checkerboard and Gus Rattigan's heavy voice came through, muffled and remote.

"My God! He's completely—perhaps Laura CWB wasn't inhuman, after all, in divorcing him."

"What's that?"

"Your wife divorced you. She couldn't wait for the official release on your death. Perhaps it might have been better if you had died out there."

The screen went dead. Inglis couldn't understand that last remark, and his feelings on Laura were dulled. His dominant emotion was one of intolerable triumph. He had succeeded in sending news of the Evil Ones into space. It was a great moment.

Toni rushed in. She squeezed between dancing Pogosan. She was not wet. Black smears lay over her body and she was coughing, red-eyed.

"Fire!" She swung on them, driving them. M'Banga caught her by the shoulders so that she winced.

"What is it, imp?"

"Commander Varese returned while we were talking to the admiral and the Pogosan were dancing. He acted most peculiarly. They were trying to tell him of the good news, and the Word of the Four Caves." Toni coughed, tears running from her eyes. "Now the city is on fire!"

In the shocked silence the sound of the crackling reached them all. The Pogosan heard. The air filled with shrill cries and bleats. Conch shell trumpets took up the alarm. Smoke began to drift in.

Inglis said, "Fire! But how?"

Toni shouted, "Commander Varese set the city on fire!"

-

The momentum of the dance slowed gradually. Even the magnitude of the disaster which was an age-old inbred fear in every Pogosan could not burst through the chains of delight in dancing and of shouting the joyous news of the Four Caves. Like inpooling ripples, the fear spread from the outer perimeter of the two cities, at last joining and co-mingling at the center. Because of that, when at last the Pogosan and the Terrans in the whaler realized fully what was happening, their reactions were more volatile, more urgent, more panic-stricken than the others. For, what was happening was the destruction of the two joined cities.

There was no need to go into laborious details of what fire meant aboard the wooden cities; the Terrans were aware of the menace of fire aboard spaceships. Here, the peril was all the greater for the lack of adequate fire-fighting facilities. The Pogosan had the sea, and this they used.

Inglis and the Terrans found themselves in bucket chains, lifting and hurling and returning for refills, endlessly, on and on, in the face of fire and smoke and lack of air and heat that singed and roasted them. The red face of the fire demon glared out, and the end was blackness and death. They toiled in a shower of sparks, retreating as the flames hurled themselves across tarred ropes, varnished masts and fragile sails. Great sections of the cities broke free, to sail off raggedly before the breeze. There was no thought in Inglis' mind of lifting in the whaler and of escaping from the holocaust. Any decency, gratitude, reverence of the Evil Ones, would have precluded that base action.

Spread across the sea the fiery shambles roared on, and the water curdled with the red reflections.

Of Varese and the other Terrans there was no sign. Inglis understood from an admiral, in gasps between hurling buckets and beating out the Pogosan's silky singeing hair, that the outrage perpetrated by Varese was the major crime in the Pogosan calendar. Despite the smallness of the Pogosan and their mildness, they had rounded up Varese and his pyromaniacs and confined them aboard a ship which, ironically enough, was clear of flames.

Inglis had no time to spare for Varese now. The fire threatened everything that he felt worthwhile, here; his plain duty was to do all he could to extinguish it fast.

The fire was conquered in the end only by abandoning to it its already won victories and much wealth that he had already fastened its teeth upon. They cut free the flaming ships and houseboats, the rafts and floating warehouses full of treasure. They sank ships in a long, wavering line to form a barrier, and then sailed with slatted sails before the wind, outracing the hunger of the fire. Until they were exhausted they beat out the chips of flame and fiery embers sweeping down on the wind. The guilt the Terrans felt would not let loose upon the Pogosan by men from Earth; other men from Earth could do nothing less than attempt to give everything they could in reparation.

Inglis, thinking of the Pogosan and their toothy smiles and their friendship, had no wish to meet Varese just yet.

He felt an atavistic impulse to hurl the man back into the flames he had set and escaped.

For some reason, perhaps a quirk of his exhausted mind, he thought of Abd al-Malik ibn-Zobeir. He wondered if Varese had found the stranded ... stranded? Abdul had landed here. Into the tired mind of Inglis strange fantasies paraded. He seemed to be seeing double; rather, to be thinking double. He went to find Gerda and M'Banga and took them with him as support when he called on Varese. He felt lightheaded and unsure of himself.

Varese and the rest of the survivors were aboard a Pogosan ship, sitting moodily in the hold. Lights were brought and Inglis, stern-faced, descended the ladders.

"Well, you've made a fine mess of things," Varese said.

Inglis was astounded. These were the very words he had intended to use himself.

"What do you mean?" he said, his anger black and boiling. "You deliberately set fire to the Pogosan cities! Are you mad? Don't you understand what you've done?"

"I understand that I have tried to root out the work of the Evil Ones! I am a man of Earth and I see all about me the dark forces of evil. They must be smitten with the full might of the sword!" Varese spoke quietly, very intensely, as though hoping that what he said might have some special and quite other meaning for Inglis. Inglis was still angry.

"The Tenth Task Force is on its way here," he said. "I'll leave Admiral Baylis to deal with you. Until he arrives I'd try to think of excuses. What excuses you can possibly contrive for deliberately burning friendly cities, I leave to your own twisted mind."

Lieutenant Chung said, "It is useless arguing with them, Commander. They're not sane any more."

Varese said, "I think you're right Lieutenant. At least they've had the sense to repair the subspace radio and call out. As soon as the admiral arrives—"

"I advise you to have your excuses, or your prayers, ready," Inglis said. He turned his back on the pyromaniacs and climbed up onto the deck again.

Altogether, a most unsatisfactory interview.

Perhaps Varese might more fully comprehend his mischief if he saw personally the blackened ships, the gaps in the Cities, the burial parties. Inglis half turned to return below. A voice stopped him. Toni and M'Banga were pointing off to leeward and Gerda, who had called him, faced about again as soon as she had attracted his attention. Inglis walked across. A ship was tacking against the wind, bearing up under skilfully handled sails. In the dusk lights blazed from every part and cord so that the ship appeared a floating lantern, giant-sized, ethereal, enchanting across the dark water.

"Don't you feel it?" Toni whispered.

Gerda put her hand quite unselfconsciously on Inglis' arm. He could feel an odd, exciting thrilling sensation vibrating from the approaching ship. It made his chest expand, lightened him, sloughed off his worry and fretfulness, so that he assumed larger, more magnificent proportions. He felt uplifted.

"What is it?" Gerda said, softly. Pogosan were crowding up now, quietly, their feet shuffling on the decks. The magic of that silent ship, radiant with light and color like a many-faceted Chinese lantern caught at all their throats. The wind had slackened, the ship glided almost without a sound. From that eerie, beautiful and yet supremely friendly vision flowed wave on wave of reassurance, of calmness, of comfort and balm. Inglis wanted to sink all his worries into that ship out there—into whatever being it might be who was radiating those intense waves of compassion and understanding.

The ship neared. Torches woke to light all about. Slowly, with absolute authority, an organ note began to sound, rising and falling, linking in measured cadences into music that stirred the emotions. The music swelled. The Pogosan remained perfectly quiet.

On a sweetly balanced yet crashing chord the music thinned into a prolonged high note that dwindled effectively; riveting all attention. The voice spoke to them from the shining ship.

"I am the Son of Man. I bring you good tidings of great joy, for Man is seeking his friends in the Galaxy. Soon, he will come to this world, bringing gifts that pass all comprehension. I have been sent as a herald, unworthy though I am. Prepare ye the way! For Man in his goodness deals kindly with his friends."

Inglis felt as though a red hot band of fire around his head was crushing in his temples.

"From Earth have I come. Know ye all that in the fullness of time men will descend to this world, and they would joy in finding friends to receive them, good friends with whom to share their secrets and with whom to voyage in amity among the stars."

The voice talked on. The waves of mental power radiated, assuring, comforting, bringing promise of help and sustenance, of understanding of the Pogosan problems and of surcease from all worry and pain. And Inglis recognized the words.

He had, for nine long years, studied them, programed them onto tape, fed them into the electronic brains of androids ready to be dropped upon many unknown planets.

The Universe tilted upside down. Everything fell into place.

He understood what he had done.
He understood ...

He remembered little of what happened after that.

Varese was talking to him, with Gerda close, and M'Banga and Ranee and the others sitting about the desk, heads sunk into hands, taking no notice of the quietly talking Pogosan. The golden glory was still in the air. Pogosan were exchanging fragments of what the voice from the Prophet of Earth, the Son of Man, had said. There was no wild dancing. But many people were singing, happily. All night, for the erstwhile crew of the
Swallow
control room ship, the mental readjustments went on.

Someway through that night Inglis found himself and Gerda under the stars seeking comfort and succor from each other. Thought of Laura and the divorce washed away in the flood of passion. In Gerda, at last, he had found the girl who could stand by his side out in the beckoning star lanes.

With the sun came the dawning hope. Strengthened, he looked across at his crew, haggard, eyes rimmed in black, and knew that now if ever they would need from him inspired leadership.

With that growing understanding pulsing newly in him he went across to the bulwarks and put his elbows down on them, looking across at the ship rocking in the swell. Gerda joined him, the blonde hair with its brown tips free to the air. He knew that she would never again need to dye it to hide its beauty from men.

On that ship swaying gently over there was the capsule and the equipment that produced that radiated aura of goodwill. There the Prophet of Earth was waiting with the patience of nuclear energy and electronics to talk once more to these people, to spread the Word of Man. Inglis knew, without the need to prepare for a martyrdom that, on another world, would seal irrevocably the stamp of Earth upon the world.

And he ... he had been spreading the Word of the Evil Ones!

Varese was gentle with him. Gerda and M'Banga had done the explaining. And, after all, there was little to say. Control of the brain through induced electric currents was no novelty; that the unknown aliens had controlled the minds of Terrans meant merely that their technique was on a par with that of the Solarians. It made them just that much more dangerous as opponents.

"I've been in touch with Admiral Baylis. They want to talk to you, Inglis."

"I'll come." He stood up like an old man.

Baylis had lost that puffed-turkey look. He was calm and reasonable. "You do comprehend what has happened, Inglis?"

"Yes."

"If I hadn't heard you myself, if we didn't have it all on tape, I don't think I'd believe it. A Solarian officer, a Terran of the Space Marines, spouting gibberish direct from the mortal enemies of Earth, on their side, rooting for them. You've corrupted that planet. I suppose you realize that?"

"Not all of it. It's quite large. We contacted four cities apart from our own."

"We'll have to get to those fast. Varese, can you organize the Prophet?"

Varese said, "I haven't so far contacted the Prophet, sir. We failed to find them; that is, the Prophet and Abdul. They found us. Or the Prophet did."

"You haven't checked on the man who was marooned?"

"No, sir. There was rather a lot to do, besides—"

"I understand."

A mellow chime gonged. A new voice said, "Hullo, Roy."

The screen flickered in red and black chequers, and then split. Half showed the familiar work room and Admiral Rattigan with Dick Myrtle at his shoulder. "You have been having yourself a time."

"I ... I'm sorry, Gus ... Admiral. Very sorry. There is one rather interesting ray of hope, however—"

"I'll say there is!" Rattigan was effervescent. He radiated good humor. "You admit fully and freely that you were under the influence of the mental control radiating from the alien spaceship? That you wanted more than anything else for the aliens to return? That you would have done anything—anything—for the Evil Ones?"

The smell of burning hanging over the floating city tasted sourly in his mouth. "It's useless to deny it. It's all on tape. Yes. Yes, I admit all that."

"Excellent."

"What's that?" Inglis was jolted from his apathy.

"I can't explain over an open hook-up, Roy. But I'll just say that the Prophet down there on that planet you're on did a job that couldn't have been bettered. We were waiting for a miracle. A gentleman called Cyrus demanded a miracle. The future of the CDB depended on it. You, my dear Roy, by being reconverted by the Prophet, afford us that miracle." Rattigan was full of it. "We owe you our thanks."

Inglis wasn't following this.

The very extent of the tragedy had been so vast that his muted reactions had been the only possible ones; he was too stunned to take it all in. He had passed beyond the stage where suicide had seemed the only honorable avenue left; but only just passed it. Gerda, of course, had saved him. Under that depth of understanding and in his present inmost mental agony, any extravagant show of horror, remorse, sorrow, would have been childish ranting. He understood what he had done and why, and he had an inkling now of what Rattigan was talking about. In a straight contest of wills and influences, the Solarian mental control operating through the Prophet, had ousted the implantations of the Evil Ones.

It was a very real victory.

"I somehow wish I hadn't been the battlefield for it, though," he told Rattigan.

Gerda's hand rested on his arm. He felt the fingers press into him with a peculiar, profound sense of gratitude.

A disturbance at his back failed to distract him. Toni, wet as usual, was trying to attract his attention.

Toni said in high excitement, "The Prophet was—" Rattigan, using his heavy voice, cut in, "Yes. The Prophet is to be put hard at work at once." Toni had pushed past M'Banga now. Rattigan was still speaking, "The Prophet must chase up those cities who are still influenced by the Evil Ones. The damage on that planet of yours—what d'ye call it, Pogosan?—must be cleared up even though the basic problem remains—"