The Best Of Lester Del Rey Part 18

He opened the door to the precabin, strode through it, and into the cabin beyond. Then he stopped.

Skora sat in a seat there, staring at the great spread of stars that streaked across the ports. This time there were no pants of homespun and no sc.r.a.pe over the old shoulders. The beard was still there, but shortened and trimmed. It projected over the collar of a Federation Fleet uniform-and on the side of the collar was pinned the double cl.u.s.ter of a galaxy commander!

The old man saluted crisply, smiling in amus.e.m.e.nt at the gesture, and waited while Derek's arm automatically returned the honor. "As you were, Captain!"

Then he sobered. "As you can see, Derek, your words made an impression on me.

Vanir couldn't stand in a backwater, hoping that men would never catch up. Nor could we forget that we belonged to the race of mankind and were all brothers.

Telepaths are unusually sensitive to that argument, once it's pointed out to them. I couldn't convince enough of our council. But after I teleported myself to Sirius and convinced your command there, it was too late for Vanir to retrench. We aren't limited to one planet now, clinging to the memory of a decaying G.o.d. Now there are two million of us being fitted for your uniforms- enough to win your war without having to destroy the enemy we both fought once before."

"And I suppose headquarters took one look at what you could do and made you all officers," Derek said bitterly, remembering the years he'd spent fighting for a mere sector commander's rating.

The pain in his head broke over him again, and he doubled over. Skora seemed not to notice.

"It wasn't hard, Derek. They were paralyzed with fear of new weapons until they were beginning to lose the battle. Your command had its own superst.i.tions. And reading their minds helped me to find ways of convincing them. Then, when I could, I came to take you back. I've been waiting here for you for hours-though not idly."

The pain hit a sharp peak and faded somewhat. Skora was staring at him intently, and he covered the remaining pain under automatic questions. "How's Siryl? And I suppose Kayel is happy working out more of the mathematics for you?"

"Siryl-" Skora paused and shrugged. "Kayel had her promise to marry him, of course, and is a new man. She is recovering, we hope, since he made her a metal net and told her it would keep us from reading her mind. It won't, if we try, but she needs her little superst.i.tion, if she's to stop hating us."

Derek stared out at the stars rushing by, knowing he had won what he had been sent to win-and had lost the Federation. His jinx had outgrown him, and had spread to the whole race.

Now Siryl hated and feared the men of Vanir for their power to see the things which a prude must conceal within her own mind. She might get over that; perhaps she could learn to accept their power. But in time, all the women on Federation planets would have to hate the telepaths-not for themselves, but for the sake of the children who should never be born into the life that must come.

Skora had spent a few days gaining himself the coveted rank of Galaxy Commander, while Derek had never dared to hope he could rise that high in alifetime. And Skora's people could have everything they wanted for the asking.

Monsters were loose on the world. Until power could corrupt them, they might be kind monsters. But they were worse than any enemy defeat could have been.

They would save the Federation, but after the triumph, those most fit would own it. The men who had built the star ships would never control the future- that would be left for the conquering march of the men who .had done nothing, but had simply been given a power denied to the rest of the race.

"There was an old legend," Skora said suddenly. "About a boy who lived with some kind of animals. When men discovered him at the age of twelve, he was a savage. He was unable to talk-and n.o.body learned how to teach him. Yet his powers of speech were latently as good as those of any man."

The pain had lashed out again at the man's words. Derek let them slip over his mind without trying to understand. Skora was reading his mind, but it didn't matter. He went on thinking, forced to recognize that he had brought total defeat to all nontelepathic men. If there had been any hope . . .

But the psychologists and geneticists had looked for the power of telepathy in the current race, and had found none.

Skora stirred impatiently. "Telepathy never occurred strongly in men more than once in perhaps a billion births. Even in the group at the place where G.o.d found us, only Moskez had any great power, after all the careful breeding for it. He had to teach it to the others, so that they would not be wolf-boys in the world which the explosion left them. And Lari and Ferad are having a child-who will learn, like all the rest of us, even though Ferad is its father."

Derek groped for the hope, and then shrugged. It was a good line for the rest of the worlds. It would give them faith in their future, while Vanir replaced them. They could believe that with a little more work and time, they would slowly develop the power-and their "teachers" would find ways of convincing them they were succeeding. Maybe they needed that faith, no matter how wrong it was. They would forget the legends that spoke of a time when the strange psi factor was bred out of the, race-for the benefit of a few, as he now knew. They would pretend there was only one race, instead of the two into which it had been split.

The pain caught him again, and Skora got up sympathetically to rub the back of his neck. It helped. "Men," the old man told him, "have been finding ways to claim they are not all one race since there first were human beings. But it's still wrong. And science has made mistakes, while legends are only superst.i.tions."

The old fingers found the spot of greatest anguish and began rubbing it out.

Derek looked up, grateful in spite of his bitterness against what had been done. "The advantage of being a telepath," he admitted. "You know where the pain is. Thanks, Skora."

It always hurts at first, Skora's voice said softly.

His lips had been tightly shut, and he was smiling. Derek felt his body tauten, and his eyes froze on the unmoving lips, while the voice continued quietly somewhere in his mind.

It takes time, Skora's voice went on, with a warmth that had always been lacking in it before. And it hurts. So does the loss of some of the things we believe-that we are persecuted, that we must depend on G.o.d, that incomplete knowledge and old legends can tell us everything, or that we are more than one race. Telepathy is never easy for an adult, Derek. But with it, we can unite our whole race-perhaps even the ones we call an enemy!

The pain was gone now, leaving only a strange sense of completion behind it.

Derek stumbled to his feet, choking over words that would not come.

The old man caught his mind, smiling, and led him to the viewing port.

"Sector Commander Derek," he said aloud, while the warm soft echo of the words came into the former captain's mind, "out there is man's kingdom. All ofs.p.a.ce! But there's no room there for any more of the superst.i.tions we've all had too long."

Derek looked out through the ports toward the stars that rushed by the Sepelora, while the ship carried the two men into their future.

There was no jinx reflected in the port gla.s.s. There were only the images of two faces, smiling back at him.

For I Am a Jealous People!

i . . . the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves . . . and the doors shall be shut in the streets, when the sound of the grinding is low . . . they shall be afraid of that which is high, and fears shall be in the way, and the almond tree shall flourish . . . because man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets. . . .

Ecclesiastes, 12:3-5 THE BOOK OF THE JEWS.

THERE WAS THE continuous shrieking thunder of an alien rocket overhead as the Reverend Amos Strong stepped back into the pulpit. He straightened his square, thin shoulders slightly, and the gaunt hollows in his cheeks deepened. For a moment he hesitated, while his dark eyes turned upward under bushy, grizzled brows. Then he moved forward, placing the torn envelope and telegram on the lectern with his notes. The blue-veined hand and k.n.o.bby wrist that projected from the shiny black serge of his sleeve hardly trembled.

Unconsciously, his eyes turned toward the pew where his wife should be, before he remembered that Ruth would not be there this time. She had been delayed by the arrival ofe^he message and had read it before sending it on to him. Now she could not be expected. It seemed strange to him. She hadn't missed service since Richard was born nearly thirty years ago.

The sound of the rocket hissed its way into silence over the horizon, and Amos stepped forward, gripping the dusty surface of the rickety lectern with both hands. He straightened and forced his throat into the pattern that would give, his voice the resonance and calm it needed.

"I have just received final confirmation that my son was killed in the battle of the moon," he told the puzzled congregation, which had been rustling uncertainly since he was first interrupted. He lifted his voice, and the resonance in it deepened. "I had asked, if it were possible, that this cup might pa.s.s from me. Nevertheless, not as I will, Lord, but as Thou wilt."

He turned from their shocked faces, closing his ears to the sympathetic cries of others who had suffered. The church had been built when Wesley was twice its present size, but the troubles that had hit the people had driven them into the worn old building until it was nearly filled. He pulled his notes to him, forcing his mind from his own loss to the work that had filled his life.

"The text today is drawn from Genesis," he told them. "Chapter seventeen, seventh verse; and chapter twenty-six, fourth verse. The promise which G.o.d made to Abraham and again to Isaac." He read from the Bible before him, turning to the pages unerringly at the first try. "And I will establish my covenant between me and thee, and thy seed after thee, in their generations, for an everlasting covenant, to be a G.o.d unto thee, and to thy seed after thee.

"And I will make thy seed to multiply as the stars of heaven, and will give unto thy seed all these countries: and in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed."

He had memorized most of his sermon, no longer counting on inspiration to guide him as it had once done. He began smoothly, hearing his own words in s.n.a.t.c.hes as he drew the obvious and comforting answer to their uncertainty.

G.o.d had promised man the earth as an everlasting' covenant. Why then should men be afraid or lose faith because alien monsters had swarmed down out of theemptiness between the stars to try man's faith? As in the days of bondage in Egypt or captivity in Babylon, there would always be trials and times when the faint-hearted should waver, but the eventual outcome was clearly promised.

He had delivered a sermon from the same text in his former parish of Clyde when the government had first begun building its base on the moon, drawing heavily hi that case from the reference to the stars of heaven to quiet the doubts of those who felt that man had no business in s.p.a.ce. It was then that Richard had announced his commission in the lunar colony, using Amos' own words to defend his refusal to enter the ministry. It was the last he saw of the boy.

He had used the text one other time, over forty years before, but the reason was lost, together with the pa.s.sion that had won him fame as a boy evangelist.

He could remember the sermon only because of the shock on the bearded face of his father when he had misquoted a phrase. It was one of his few clear memories of the period before his voice changed and his evangelism came to an abrupt end.

He had tried to recapture his inspiration after ordination, bitterly resenting the countless intrusions of marriage and fatherhood on his spiritual forces.

But at last he had recognized that G.o.d no longer intended him to be a modern Peter the Hermit, and resigned himself to the work he could do. Now he was back in the parish where he had first begun; and if he could no longer fire the souls of his flock, he could at least help somewhat with his memorized rationalizations for the horror of the alien invasion.

Another ship thundered overhead, nearly drowning his words. Six months before, the great ships had exploded out of nothing in s.p.a.ce and had fallen carefully to the moon, to attack the forces there. In another month they had begun a few forays against Earth itself.

And now, while the world haggled and struggled to unite against them, they were establishing bases all over and apparently setting out to conquer the world mile by mile.

Amos saw the faces below him turn up, hate-filled and uncertain. He raised his voice over the thunder, and finished hastily, moving quickly through the end of the service.

He hesitated as the congregation stirred. The ritual was over and his words were said, but there had been no real service. Slowly, as if by themselves, his lips opened, and he heard his voice quoting the Twenty-seventh Psalm. "The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?"

His voice was soft, but he could feel the reaction of the congregation as the surprisingly timely words registered. "Though an host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear; though war should rise against me, in this will I be confident." The air seemed to quiver, as it had done long ago when G.o.d had seemed to hold direct communion with him, and there was no sound from the pews when he finished. "Wait on the Lord: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart;-wait, I say, on the Lord."

The warmth of that mystic glow lingered as he stepped quietly from the pulpit.

Then there was the sound of motorcycles outside, and a pounding on the door.

The feeling vanished.

Someone stood up and sudden light began pouring in from outdoors. There was a breath of the hot, droughty physical world with its warning of another dust storm, and a scattering of gra.s.shoppers on the steps to remind the people of the earlier damage to their crops. Amos could see the bitterness flood back over them in tangible waves, even before they noticed the short, plump figure of Dr. Alan Miller.

"Amos! Did you hear?" He was wheezing as if he had been running. "Just came over the radio while you were in here gabbling."

He was cut off by the sound of more motorcycles. They swept down the single main street of Wesley,heading west. The riders were all in military uniform, carrying weapons and going at the top speed of their machines. Dust erupted behind them, and Doc began coughing and swearing. In the last few years, he had grown more and more outspoken about his atheism; when Amos had first known him, during the earlier pastorate in Wesley, the man had at least shown some respect for the religion of others.

"All right," Amos said sharply. "You're in the house of G.o.d, Doc. What came over the radio?"

Doc caught himself and choked back his coughing fit. "Sorry. But d.a.m.n it, man, the aliens have landed in Clyde, only fifty miles away. They've set up a base there! That's what all those rockets going over meant."

There was a sick gasp from the people who had heard, and a buzz as the news was pa.s.sed back to others. Faces grayed. Some dropped back to the hard seats, while others pressed forward, trying to reach Doc, shouting questions at him.

Amos let himself be shoved aside, hardly noticing the reaction of his flock.

It was Clyde where he had served before coming here again. He was trying to picture the alien ships dropping down, scouring the town ahead of them with gas and bullets. The grocer on the corner with his nine children, the lame deacon who had served there, the two Aimes sisters with their horde of dogs and cats and their constant crusade against younger sinners. He tried to picture the green-skinned, humanoid aliens moving through the town, invading the church, desecrating the altar! And there was Anne Seyton, who had been Richard's sweetheart, though of another faith. ...

"What about the garrison nearby?" a heavy farmer yelled over the crowd. "I had a boy there, and he told me they could handle any ships when they were landing! Sh.e.l.l their tubes when they were coming down . . ."

Doc shook his head. "Half an hour before the landing, there was a cyclone up there. It took the roof off the main building and wrecked the whole training garrison."

"Jim!" The big man screamed out the name, and be- gan dragging his frail wife behind him, out toward his car. "If they got Jim ...".

Others started to rush after him, but another procession of motorcycles stopped them. This time they were traveling slower, and a group of tanks were rolling behind them. The rear tank drew abreast, slowed, and stopped, while a duty-faced man in a major's untidy uniform stuck his head out.

"You folks get under cover! Ain't you heard the news? Go home and stick to your radios, before a snake plane starts potshooting the bunch of you for fun.

The snakes'll be heading straight over this town if they're after Topeka, like it looks!" He jerked back down and began swearing at someone inside. The tank jerked to a start and began heading away toward Clyde.

There had been enough news of the sport of the alien planes in the papers. The people melted from the church. Amos tried to stop them for at least a short prayer and to give them time to collect their thoughts, but gave up after most of the people began moving away. A minute later, he was standing alone with Doc Miller.

"Better get home, Amos," Doc suggested. "My car's half a block down. Suppose I give you a lift?"

Amos nodded wearily. His bones felt dry and brittle, and there was a dust in his mouth thicker than that in the air. He felt old, and for the first time, almost useless. He followed the doctor quietly, welcoming the chance to ride the six short blocks to the little house the parish furnished him.

A car of ancient age and worse repair rattled toward them as they reached Doc's auto. It stopped, and a man in dirty overalls leaned out, his face working jerkily. "Are you prepared, brothers? Are you saved? Armageddon has come, as the Book foretold. Get right with G.o.d, brothers! The end of the world as foretold is at hand, amen!""Where does the Bible foretell alien races around other suns?" Doc shot at him.

The man bunked, frowned, and yelled something about sinners burning forever in h.e.l.l before he started his rickety car again. Amos sighed. Now, with the rise of their troubles, fanatics would spring up to cry doom and false gospel more than ever, to the harm of all honest religion. He had never decided whether they were somehow useful to G.o.d or whether they were inspired by the forces of Satan.

"In my Father's house are many mansions," he quoted to Doc as they started up the street. "It's quite possibly an allegorical reference to other worlds in the heavens."

Doc grimaced, and shrugged. Then he sighed, and dropped one hand from the wheel onto Amos' knee. "I heard about d.i.c.k, Amos. I'm sorry. The first baby I ever delivered-and the best-looking!" He sighed again, staring toward Clyde as Amos found no words to answer. "I don't get it. Why don't we ever drop atom bombs on them? Why didn't the moon base use their missiles?"

Amos had no answer to that, either. There was a rumor that all the major powers had sent their whole supply of atomic explosives up to the moon base early in the invasion, and that a huge meteorite had buried the stockpile under tons of debris, where there had been no chance to excavate it. It matched the other cases of accidents that had beset all human resistance.

He got out at the unpainted house where he lived, taking Doc's hand silently and nodding his thanks.

He would have to organize his thoughts this afternoon. When night fell and the people could move about without the danger of being shot at by chance alien planes, the church bell would summon them, and they would need spiritual guidance. If he could help them to stop trying to understand G.o.d, and to accept Him . . .

There had been that moment in the church when G.o.d had seemed to enfold him and the congregation in warmth-the old feeling of true fulfillment. Maybe, now in the hour of its greatest need, some measure of inspiration had returned.

He found Ruth setting the table. Her small, quiet body moved as efficiently as ever, though her face was puffy and her eyes were red. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it, Amos. But right after the telegram, Anne Seyton came. She'd heard-before we did. And . . ."

The television set was on, showing headlines from the Kansas City Star, and he saw there was no need to tell her the news. He put a hand on one of hers. "G.o.d has only taken what he gave, Ruth. We were blessed with Richard for thirty years."

"I'm all right." She pulled away and picked up a pot, turning toward the kitchen, her back frozen in a line of taut misery. "Didn't you hear what I said? Anne's here. d.i.c.k's wife! They were married before he left, secretly- right after you talked with him about the difference in religion. You'd better see her, Amos. She knows about her people in Clyde."

He watched his wife move fromjhe room, his heart heavy with her grief, while the words penetrated. He'd never forbidden marriage, he had only warned the boy, who had been so much like Ruth. He hesitated, and finally turned toward the tiny second bedroom. There was a m.u.f.fled answer to his knock, and the lock clicked rustily.

"Anne?" he said. The room was darkened, but he could see her blonde head and the thin, almost unfemi-nine lines of her figure. He put out a hand and felt her slim fingers in his palm. As she turned toward the weak light, he saw no sign of tears, but her hand shook with her dry shudders. "Anne, Ruth has just told me that G.o.d has given us a daughter . . ."

"G.o.d!" She spat the word out harshly, while the hand jerked back. "G.o.d, Reverend Strong? Whose G.o.d? The one who sends meteorites against d.i.c.k's base,plagues of insects and drought against our farms? The G.o.d who uses tornadoes to make it easy for the snakes to land? That G.o.d, Reverend Strong? d.i.c.k gave you a daughter, and he's dead! Dead! Dead!"

Amos backed out of the room. He had learned to stand the faint mockery with which Doc p.r.o.nounced the name of the Lord, but this was something that set his skin into goose pimples and caught at his throat. Anne had been of a different faith, but she had always seemed religious before.

It was probably only hysteria. He turned toward the kitchen to find Ruth and send her in to the girl.

Overhead, the staccato bleating of a ramjet cut through the air in a sound he had never heard. But the radio description fitted it perfectly. It could be no Earth ship with such a noise!

Then there was another and another, until they blended together into a steady drone.

And over it came the sudden firing of a heavy gun, while a series of rapid thuds came from the garden behind the house. Rover let out two loud barks, and then screamed in animal agony!

Amos stumbled toward the back door, but Ruth was already ahead of him. "d.i.c.k's dog! Now they've got his dog!" she cried out.

Before Amos could stop her, she threw back the door and darted out. There was another burst of shots and a sick cry. Ruth was crumpling before he could get to the doorway.

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