The Centauri Device Part 9

John Truck, like most s.p.a.cers, was strictly contemporary. He preferred the latest things. He had no particular use for history, little knowledge of it except where it coincided with fas.h.i.+on, and no desire whatever to live in it.

He regarded Pater*s rose bowl with suspicion, feeling that he might be the b.u.t.t of some rare intellectual joke, and Pater himself with a faint hostility.

He couldn't understand the dualism of character suggested by the rich studio on one hand and this monkish living room on the other; he couldn't discover a reason for any of it.

So when Pater, eyeing Himation's hands with severe appreciation as they pa.s.sed the gla.s.ses round the table, said, "I admired your effort on Morpheus, Captain," he didn't quite know how to respond. After a moment: "I only did it for the money," he said curtly. He sensed an opening gambit and was determined not to 75 be enlisted. "It was a long time ago, and on another world; I don't remember much about it; it was the last time I ever pushed dope. I didn't even realize your lot were organizing a revolution until quite late on. I prob-ablv wouldn't have done it if I had."

This last wasn't wholly true. He had enjoyed the last days on Morpheus when it became plain through the smoke and the smarting eyes that the putsch hadsucceeded. Living among the ruins had made no demand on him; and, like Himation, the anarchists who had used his peddling operation as a cover had been self-contained, amiable, demanding little. But he had been used, nonetheless. He scowled at himself, opened his mouth; but before he could make.it plain that he wouldn't be used again, Himation had interrupted.

"Come on, Pater," he reproved. "Your studio's a proverb in porcelain; Chalice Veronica is quite without taste among plastic furniture; and Captain Truck's a hero on Morpheus"-his eyes glittered ironically at Truck from underneath his hatbrim-'*whether he likes it or not. But he's also come all the way from Earth on your invitation; at least tell him why you asked him here." He winked broadly. Truck looked away.

"In these days of rapid and convenient travel," said Pater thoughtfully, "to come from Earth does not necessarily denote any great strength of character.

Honesty does, however, despite its determination to undress all over my living room-do you imagine that I care in the least what the artist's motives are, Captain?" He showed his white teeth at Himation across the table. "As for why, you Philistine, you conjuror: out of courtesy. What else? Since we're going to steal the Captain's birthright from General Gaw the Bearded Lady, I feel we ought at least to tell him first."

Tiny Skeffern understood even less of his surroundings than Truck, and found even less to say. He groaned and drank his thin astringent wine. He was wondering where he could steal a decent guitar. "Take it easy, Truck," he said.

76.

The Centauri Device John Truck got to his feet and gripped the edge of the table. He stared at the head of Bacchus on the wail, then at Himation the anarchist. "You brought me here," he said bitterly. "You can take me back to my s.h.i.+p." His gaze pa.s.sed on to Pater, (but could only see filmy images of Alice Gaw's eyepatch and the eager gray face of the hermaphrodite pusher king). "I'm sick of saying it," he whispered. "You can stuff your b.l.o.o.d.y Centauri Device. You can stuff it!" H walked back along the narrow corridor and stood in Pater's studio, resting his forehead on a cool wall. He heard Tiny hurrying after him, determinedly gave his attention to a print that seemed to depict an old man standing under a tree by a chasm. Tiny went away. After a whilef though, Pater came in. He mounted the dais and considered the easel. He took up a fine bristling hog-hair and dabbed it at his canvas. The result of this he considered lengthily. "Captain, I don't want the Device," he said, his voice echoing slightly hi the tall room. "All I want to do, dear boy, is take it from General Gaw. You understand? M she wants it, if UASR want it, badly enough for them to fight openly in the street for the man who can make it work-if they are prepared to do that, then I don't care for either of them to have it. You see?" He sighed. "You don't."

Truck ignored him, but he had abandoned the print despite himself and was staring at the busy shoulders of the white linen suit. Painting unconcernedly, Pater went on: "I certainly don't want you. I may have gathered my following from 'rag pickers, knife grinders and tinkers,* but at least they're decently dressed; you, on the other hand, look like one of Veronica's tramps. You have no aesthetics and less education. You fail even in your responsibility for this thing dug up on a dead planet by a lunatic. Ah! So far, you have saved the Galaxy immense pain solely by your own selfishness! If Gaw gets her hands on it, and if it's what she thinks it is, some The Centauri Device

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vast new atrocity will eclipse Centauri itself; yet you've made no attempt to ensure it won't happen-all you've done so far is to run away from people you don't much like."

He swung round from his palette, an awful contempt distorting his face (for an instant, Truck glimpsed the brilliant carnivore beneath the skin andunderstood that, against all odds, it was a moral animal); caught Truck staring at him; laughed.

"What could you and I possibly have hi common?"

He frowned.

"I sense in you something 1*11 never possess. A strength, a vast and implacable iconoclasm. We live in a sick charade of political polarities; of death, bad art, and wasted time-all hi the cause of ideologies that were a century out of date in their heyday. I sense that you of all people have it in you to end that, and make me as obsolete as Earth (for Til be redundant if IWG and UASR give up their corpse's grip). Ridiculous, isn't it?"

He left the easel.

"So: a deal then, Captain, after all! If I take the tiling from the b.i.t.c.h of All the Galaxy and give it to you instead, will you accept your responsibility for its final disposition? Take it, dear boy. You ore the last Centauran, and 111 only lose it somewhere if you don't." - And he held out his hand.

They returned to the sitting room, where Pater poured more wine. Himation left them soon after that. He glittered at Truck from under his hat and said: "Well be moving out soon, so I'd better go and arm the Atolanta. But well meet again, Captain, I hope. If not, good luck. Bore him, Pater, and I'll make you vanish in filthy smoke." He swept out, cloak billowing; and as his long legs carried away down the corridor, they heard him intone: "Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, Maiden most perfect, lady of light. . ."

78 "He's good at that conjuring stuff," said Tiny Skef-fern, belching reminiscently. "I'll give him that."

The Interstellar Anarchist smiled. "He's my son," he told Tiny quietly, "but despite that the best cruiser captain I've ever had."

"Christ," said Truck, rolling some wine round his mouth. "This ethanol's some rough old stuff."

Pater winced.

SEVEN.

The Interstellar Anarchist, an Aesthetic Adventure Part Two "She's transferring the Device to Earth, Captain-a decision taken against the advice of her staff nearly three days ago, when she thought she had you safe in Albion Megaport. She is most anxious to effect an introduction between the two of you."

It was some hours after the conversation in the studio. Truck had bathed, eaten, even slept a bit, and was now nearing the end of Pater's guided tour of Howell (which he did in fact insist on calling "Ver-saUles").

"But it seems the Device will not abide the dyne fields for more than a second or two at a time, so a journey that should have taken hours is still in progress. They send the transporter into Dynaflow drive and-pop!-out it comes again, for no reason that can be discovered. They have gained a few light days. In it goes again-and so it goes on. A comic process with a real attraction for us."

Pater stood, ridiculously neat and dapper, beneath 79

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The Centauri Device the great ventral curve of a s.h.i.+p named Driftwood of Decadence, which had squeezed itself into one of the ma.s.sive repair silos of the asteroid like a wasp in an apple. To his white suit and green carnation he had added a fantastic low-crowned hat of cream straw. Here at the rim of Howell, away from the generators at the core, the artificial gravity was a little feeble: Pater bounced in it as if perpetually embarking on an entrechat, thumbs stuck into his -waistcoat pockets.

"To keep pace with its charge, the Fleet escort must spend a lot of time out of Dyne. If we catch the convoy there, they can be embarra.s.sed-we are lightly armed, but these vessels are quicker in ordinary s.p.a.ce, and more maneuverable,than anything IWG or UASR has ever been able to field against us."

Truck squinted the bright length of the Driftwood of Decadence. Turquoise arabesques glimmered mysteriously down her side; the smell of hot metal drifted about her like musk of a sleeping, barbaric priestess; the light of plasma torches exploded soundlessly off her hull to fill the silo with a ceremonial aurora. Pater-whom he had grown to like despite his incomprehensible humors and affectations-regarded him with a quizzical smile.

He scratched his head. He was on the stony verge of some revelation.

"Who designed them for you?" he murmured. "Who built them?" He reached out to touch one of the great anhedral tail-surfaces; she was warm and vibrant.

Suddenly, he was at the very edge of it all. "Where did they come from, Pater?" and-tumbling down the steep scarp of understanding-"Where?" This almost a sigh, because for s.p.a.cers there is one ritual enigma, and he was within sight of something unbelievable.

Pater laughed and took his arm. "You could say I found them," he suggested, "or again, that they were given to me.'* He examined these ideas for a time; neither seemed to satisfy him. "Shall we walk back? Til tell you something of it as we go." But he said nothing 81 more until they had reached the sphere of armories, the sphere of stillness. There, head tilted as if to catch the ghost of ecclesiastical music, he gazed at a bank of long black torpedoes and began abruptly, "Imagine it, Captain!

"My s.h.i.+p was experimental. Some discontinuity, some lapse of topology-a woman nervously twisting a lilac stalk-had torn her out of the dyne fields. She was spiraling along the vacant rim of the Galaxy, her Dynaflow drivers gone.

Imagine the horror with which I stared at the place they had occupied, watching a few thin-film control circuits drift about the engine room. Nothing more remained, just those few flakes of technology-as if lunaria annua had shed its seeds in free fall!

"I rushed to the exterior screens, despairing. But there! A clinker, a cinder, the merest of dim, dead suns! It took me two years to reach that place, Captain. I knew it was useless to me, I saw ahead only the cemetery orbit; but what else was I to do?

"I became irresolute, drifting for a month round that sJagheap sun, the s.h.i.+p like a wounded arum lily. Can you see me? Then, a point-source on screens, a collision alarm! And there they were, seven times seven of them, slipping past like a train of comets approaching aphelion. I signaled them on all frequencies-they ignored me; I expended the last of my sub-Dyne fuel to overhaul them-they were undeviating; I boarded them-they were deserted.

"I boarded all of them-how bright their interiors were, how complicated and alien!-and all were empty but one; on the last, I discovered him.

"He came from nowhere you or I will ever see, Captain. He was heraldic. His exoskeleton glowed dark green like oiled metal, his wings were shot with bizarre gold veins, and his eye-cl.u.s.ters caught the light like globes of rough obsidian. Complex chrome-yellow symbols covered his carapace!

82 "He was dying, he had been dying out there for fifty years, adrift alone with his magnificent fleet. Ocher fluids leaked from his joints, strange burns cross-hatched his thorax.

"Imagine us! For months we strive to communicate. His weak forelimbs scrabble against the floor, creating pointless, agonized patterns! But he understood me long before I him. He came from outside, Captain; his s.h.i.+ps had crossed the cruel gap between the Galaxies. He could not tell me where. He spoke of his race's millennia-long search for the metaphysical nature of s.p.a.ce; of a disease or madness that had led his crews at last to blow their hatches and beat their wings deliriously against the vacuum, like the hawk moth against the attic lamp!

"I sent him to join them out there the day he died. In his ultimate throes he stung himself repeatedly, his long abdomen thras.h.i.+ng. He was desperate to explain the InterGalactic drive-he was desperate that someone should continuethe search. But I could not grasp its principles, save perhaps to dimly comprehend this: the continuum has emotions-and the golden s.h.i.+ns are the culmination of an Art addressed to s.p.a.ce itself!"

For some tune, Pater brooded quietly over his dyne-torpedoes as if exhausted by his queer eloquence, even his gestures limp as they continued to sketch or imitate the feeble scratching limbs of the dead alien commander. When Truck prompted, **But you learned to fly the s.h.i.+ps in Dyne?" he snapped his fingers impatiently and muttered, "Yes, of course. What does that matter? It was easy: their drivers are quite similar to our own; but what use are such engines when-T He contemplated that wasted opportunity.

"None," agreed Truck, and walked on through the corridors of Howell-speechless, as s.p.a.cers are when they consider that pillar of enigma at the closed gates of the Galaxy: the unattainable, the post-Galactic drive.

83.

But five minutes later, Howell was shuddering to the clangor of alarms: In the "Hotel Pimodan, 1849," the laser holograms of Maryx and Baudelaire faded like specters, caught between a whisper and a significant smile, as the asteroid drew power for the launch of Pater's raiders.

Out in the repair shops, grimy stunted engineers paused to scratch then*

horrid armpits and speculate about the target.

The crew of the Driftwood of Decadence stared at their s.h.i.+p and spat, gloomily reflecting that Pater would never allow her to lift in that condition.

And, pausing outside the doors of his apartments, the Interstellar Anarchist peeled his lips back off his feral teeth and winked at John Truck, his depression evaporating as the klaxons wailed. "Now! We have them located!

Fetch your friends, if they want to join the dirty work-but quickly! Meet me on the Green Carnation within the half hour!"

It was easier said than done. Howell boiled with anarchists: mad dandified gunners wearing mutton-chop whiskers and outrageous sideburns; navigators favoring the leather flying helmets and Sidcot-suits of a forgotten war; barrel-chested mechanics in striped jerseys and tight knee-breeches-and all of them making book on their chances of survival or spoils as they scrambled, shedding tarotcards, poems, and poker dice, for their s.h.i.+ps.

Himation, glimpsed on a crowded corridor; his crew bobbed behind him like gulls in the wake of a black-sailed lugger. Pale hands flickered and danced, but the madness was infectious. AH he said was, "After the strike, Captain!"

and he was gone.

Truck found Tiny in a small square room where faded charcoal sketches covered the brown and crumbling plaster. Over his knee was an old acoustic guitar with a warped rosewood fretboard; .on the bra.s.s bed

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that filled the place sat Heloise the model, her tight sallow body glowing in the deteriorating northlight. She regarded Tiny sulkily and sang, "Us sont des artistes gens" in her pretty, muted voice. "Can't you tell him to play less accompaniment?'* she appealed to Truck. "It's the song that counts." And she got up to stare out of the artificial window at the ateliers of a Paris long blown to h.e.l.l by the Rat Bomb wars, her little bottom quivering petulantly.

"You don't need any electricity for this," explained Tiny. "Isn't that something?"

Truck dragged him through the bedlam of militant Howell. Their half hour was almost up, the asteroid was trembling to the pulse of warming engines, expectant. "What about Fix?" cried Tiny, hugging his new acquisition.

"No time. He'd only want to bring that sodding chopper."

They stumbled aboard the Green Carnation.

The klaxons died.

In the ensuing silence, Swinburne Sinclair-Pater smiled and adjusted the set of his coat, the tilt of his elegant hat. He raised his hand. "Go!" he commanded. With a raffish cheer the engineers fed power, the navigatorstouched their good-hick charms, and forty-seven golden raiders took to the aether like a pack of lush Byzantine hounds, racing and quivering and vying for the scent. But however they tried, none could outdo the Green Carnation, and she ran out ahead of them, an incitement, a triumph, and a hard gemlike flame.

Aboard the flags.h.i.+p, Truck and Tiny, immobile, awed. A blue-gray waxy light drowned her pentacular command-bridge, running like tepid fire down the slippery perspectives of an extra-Galactic geometry, forming optical verglas on planes of alien metalwork, tracing the formal interlacing designs that covered the inner hull. Every four or five seconds, banks of stro-boscopic lamps fired off, freezing and quantifying The Cenfaur; Device

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jagged areas of shadow, but defining no shape the eye could appreciate.

Nothing was perpendicular or dependable.

Now white and dazzling, now hard black silhouettes, Pater's quarterdeck crew moved at ease through this disjointed medium, tending the bizarre original equipment of the s.h.i.+p or settling like insects among more identifiable machinery bolted roughly to the deck. They trailed loops of cable from portable computing facilities, calling off queries and co-ordinates in a rising chant. A subsonic ground ba.s.s reverberated through the body cavities; other voices chattered and decayed in the foreground like the cries of autistic children heard in a dream.

Above them, ribbons of circuitry framed a layout of enormous screens, on which were visible the rest of the fleet: They hung in gay ambush, Maupin, Trilby, and Les Fleurs du Mal; the Whistler, the Fastidious, and the Strange Great Sins. In two long wings of twenty-four, they poised themselves "at the sharp apex of the present moment between two hypothetical eternities"-Madame Bovary and the Imaginary Portraits: Syringa and White Jonquil. Centauri was nearer here, a bare actinic jewel off the port bow of Atalanta in Calydon, from which Himation the conjurer led the second wing. s.p.a.ce enfolded them as they waited for their prey, they were embedded: a bracelet of gold in black volcanic gla.s.s-the Forsaken Garden, the Let Us Go Hence, and the Melancholia that Transcends Att Wit.

"Here we begin to guess at the nature of s.p.a.ce," said Pater softly to Truck.

"Our palette is prepared. The Galaxy has given us our canvas, a dead dragonfly had bequeathed us the brushes we have to hand. We make s.p.a.ce. We define it.

Look out there. IWG and UASR see at best a conduit for Earth's rubbish of politics. We infer reality. None of this belongs to Earth or to ideology. It is inviolate."