“So when our observers gathered enough data to enable them to predict the abrupt decline of the native variety of Benign Socialism it took them fifty years to warn the Congress, and it has taken another fifty years to transport you to the trouble spot. Clear?”
“I don’t feel as if I’ve been travelling that length of time.”
“Because I didn’t activate you until a few days ago, stupid! I’m sorry, Harold. My nerves are a little strained, and I sometimes find it difficult to adjust to the many … ah … variegated forms of Benign Socialist leader that have sprung into existence across the galaxy.”
“It’s all right. Am I to assume that we’re close to Earth?”
“We’re in Earth orbit.” Vaulter flowed across to the instrument panels. “I’m tuning in to the orbiting telepathic field boosters now. The population of Earth has increased alarmingly in the last century, but luckily human brain dissipates only about ten watts so we still have ample power reserves. You will be able to blanket the entire planet with Wilsonian thinking.”
A faint smile puckered Mr. Wilson’s lips as he sucked noisily on the stem of his pipe.
Vaulter adjusted a series of verniers with a delicate tendril. “I’ll give the hook-up a final inspection at close range before you take over. Everything seems to be functioning smoothly with our transmitter network. Good! Now, I’ll just make sure that … No! No!” Vaulter hit a master switch with a convulsive movement of his puce-coloured body and rippled to the centre of the control room.
Mr. Wilson looked concerned. “What has happened?”
“The egotistical fools,” Vaulter said in a shocked whisper.
“What’s going on?”
“There has been an awkward development, I’m afraid. Earth technology has reached the level of the fairly complex computer, and they’ve been misusing the techniques to try immortalising selected individuals.”
“How does that affect me? I mean, us.”
“The computerised identities operate at vastly higher voltages than they did in the biological state and we can’t influence them. They will create huge pockets of resistance to your telepathic control.”
Mr. Wilson’s face darkened. “That’s bad.”
“There’s worse to follow. One of the identities appears to have screened out all local data inputs which normally render any sentient being insensible to telepathic probing. I made direct two-way contact with him for an instant. I’m afraid, Harold, that he may be on to us.”
Mr. Wilson’s pipe fell from his mouth and bounced on the floor, creating further little heaps of ash. “I knew it was too good to be true,” he said bitterly. “I just knew it.”
Vaulter remained motionless for a second, and when he spoke his voice was firm. “We aren’t giving up so easily. Benign Socialism deplores the use of violence, but technically speaking these individuals are already dead. I don’t think I would be violating the code of the Galactic Congress if I destroyed the computer installations at once, before any alarm can be raised.”
“I too deplore violence, naturally,” Mr. Wilson grated. “But I do see what you mean.”
A cognac on the computer reality vector:
Colonel Mason Crowley unsheathed his bolt rifle and climbed down from the huge dragon’s back. He had been riding hard for two days and his thigh muscles were aching from the effort of retaining his seat while Shalazzar bounded over the broken, ochreous landscapes of Tal. Now his quarry was trapped and the hunt was almost over.
“Do we rest here?” Professor Chan Isaacs, his lieutenant, wiped his face with a rag as he reined in his mount on the rocky ridge where Crowley had stopped.
Crowley pointed at the rag and issued a sharp command. “No textiles!”
“But how do I get rid of this filthy dust?”
“You don’t—not till we reach water.”
For a moment Isaacs looked as though he might rebel, then he held out the stained scrap of red cloth and let it fall. It fluttered downwards slowly and vanished before touching the ground. The coating of saffron dust reappeared on Isaac’s round face, turning it into an Oriental mask.
“That’s better,” Crowley said, checking the fuel cell output of his rifle. “Just remember—no wool-bearing fauna, no fibrous plants, therefore no textiles.”
Isaacs looked tired. “How about artificial fibres?”
“There is no plastics industry,” Crowley reminded him. “Tal is still in an early agrarian phase of its development.”
“Then, for Christ’s sake, how can you have that fancy rifle?”
Isaacs’ angry words ripped into Crowley’s consciousness, and the distant ramparts of the Mountains of Morida swam like reflections on the surface of a lake. You’re dead, a cold grey voice told him. You’re dead, and your soul is trapped in a black box. Queen Elanos does not exist…. He took a deep shuddering breath and pointed at Isaacs, who had dismounted from his dragon.
“Isaacs,” he said harshly. “You had a fall yesterday. Your left arm is dislocated at the elbow.”
Isaacs’ face twisted in sudden pain as the dark mounds of bruises appeared on his arm. “No! There was no fall. My arm is all right.”
“Then heal it.”
Black smears of dried blood changed their shape beneath the coating of dust on the swollen arm as the wills of the two men clashed, but after a few seconds Isaacs submitted. “My arm is out of joint,” he muttered. “And it hurts like hell.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Crowley said. “We’ll put a bandage on it as soon as we’ve dealt with Browne.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
Crowley walked to the southern side of the ridge and shaded his eyes from the lowering sun. The plateau sloped away gently for less than a kilometre, then there was a sheer drop of a thousand metres to the Cythian Plain. Browne, the rebel, was trapped somewhere in the triangular area of rocks and stunted trees, and his dragon was too exhausted to make a successful break past the hunters.
“I’ll go forward alone on foot. Queen Elanos has given me personal responsibility in this matter, and I want it ended before dark.” Crowley signalled his dragon to rest and the huge beast settled on its haunches, electric-green and magenta scales clicking as the sack-like belly flattened out on the ground.
“Good luck,” Isaacs said drily.
Ignoring him, Crowley set the bolt rifle for maximum charge and moved downwards into the triangle. He had discarded all clothing except for a breech clout of fine leather, and the heat of the rocks seared through his skin at every contact. The hunt had taken more out of him than he liked to admit, but he had the consolation of knowing that Browne must be in worse condition. Browne was tenacious, but he had no experience in this type of country which was remarkably similar to Crowley’s native Losane. Losane? Repetition of the name caused an obscure flickering pain far back in Crowley’s mind. That can’t be right. I was born in Perigore, in the castle of Rembold the Bright, and I was called to Tal from afar by Queen Elanos to defend her against …
Something moved in the rocks and scrub a hundred paces to Crowley’s right. He instinctively dropped into a crouch, and levelled the rifle as the figure of an almost naked man appeared from behind a dessicated tree. It was Browne—but unarmed, and without his dragon.
“Crowley!” The man’s voice was faint. “I want to talk to you.”
Crowley straightened up, still aiming the rifle. “Here I am, traitor, and I advise you not to try any of your tricks.”
“No tricks—I simply want to speak to you.”
“Do you acknowledge the sovereignty of Queen Elanos?”