Albert dePina - A Collection

By ALBERT DePINA-2

Lynn's eyes widened. "Ten thousand credits? I've had to work as many years for that amount!"

Doctor Fortun smiled. "May you live to spend them, Spacer Lynn," she said cryptically. "Greetings!"

Mark Lynn wanted to speak, to ask her social name, anything that would delay his departure from her office. But he knew the interview was at an end even before she turned to the mass of figures and data on her desk.

Spacer Lynn threw a rapid glance around the room. They were still alone, but he knew that the entire interview had been minutely recorded—the august body of scientists of the first order who composed the Council took no chances, especially with Internationals, the adventurers, the pioneers who opened up new worlds for the maddeningly impersonal efficiency of the Council to take over and remold. But Mark didn't care. There was little that they didn't know about him, in detail.

Mark Lynn in common with a few million others was a product of his time and station. One of the immense legion of war orphans that the constant and increasingly destructive warfare of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries had left behind, he was automatically a ward of the Executive Council.

Now that wars had finally been abolished as wasteful and inefficient, the ultimate goal of the social order was "Achievement." It had become a religion. It was instilled into infantile minds with the first toddling steps; it was propagated through a thousand subtle means; it was a constant threat in the background of every living being under the government of Terra. Achievement was the inexorable law. It might mean producing so many tons of vitaminic flora during a span of so many years, or perhaps the production of metallic substances, or the exploration of so many worlds, as in Mark's case. Regardless of the task imposed, its final, successful and unequivocal completion was the "Achievement" for that particular being. And, woe unto him who failed to achieve!

In Mark Lynn's case, having been given over to the International Police for training as an astrogator and having finished his course with brilliant honors, he had been given a first-class exploration rating, and trained in outer space navigation. Years of successful interplanetary and outer space exploration and research had given him an unequaled experience as an explorer. It was his duty to give the Council implicit obedience—and to reserve his thinking for the problems of unexplored worlds and outer space. The Council, Rulers of the World State, frowned on thinking without directives, especially by those beyond control, such as the Internationals, of which Mark Lynn was a great leader.

Thinking led to individualism, and the latter to conflict of opinions, eventually to become conflict of a far more deadly sort. The recent past was an unerasable record of promiscuous thinking; it had brought too many problems, social and economic—it was wasteful, slipshod and inefficient. So it became a matter of unalterable policy to train each individual rigidly in that station in life to which he was best fitted, where he or she could function with maximum efficiency toward achievement. It became essential to apply control "one," which instilled into the mental patterns a dreadful guilt of waste—whether of energy, credits or time, much as the ancient Puritans lived in the fear of their consciences and could never be comfortable or enjoy frivolous moments or leisure. Control "six" became an obsession to achieve, subtly replacing the emotional complex of what in an earlier day was called "ambition," until nothing, literally nothing could stand before that one, all-important goal. And finally, control "fifteen" became an absolute need for guidance, a pattern that subtly replaced the instinct for security of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, so that all problems, all crises were solved by the Council. An attempt to make individual solutions, resulted in an awful sense of "aloneness," of absolute insecurity that could drive a civican or ruralian to the verge of a psychosis. There were other controls, some major and some minor, but these three, one, six and fifteen, were the three imperatives. Mark Lynn was impervious to them—he had to be to belong to the Internationals.

With the sealed cylinder in an inner pocket of his tunic, that boasted a golden sun embroidered on the chest, Mark left the building and made his way through the milling crowds in the streets. They were all hurrying to some individual task—office workers in the black gowns of their calling; artisans with wide, tooled belts. The violet-eyed Martian proctors who acted as guards, and the tiny, slender Venusians, with their vari-colored wings and melodious voices. Scientists of the various orders were hurrying to the transportation belts, while technicians in their bright blue tunics went in and out of different buildings. There was no confusion, no disorder, despite the evident haste.

Shops were closed, deserted or wrecked by earthquakes. Many buildings were in partial ruins, others had huge cracks along the sides. Yet, from the public visi-screens posted along the street came glimpses of beautiful scenes and soft, seductive music. A light powdery snow was falling, and the wind danced a sara-band unchecked.

"Weather control stations must have failed," Mark said inwardly, and breathed deeply, gratefully, the keen, icy freshness of the wind.

An old woman, a ruralian carrying a huge bundle, spied him and eagerly grasped his arm. "Greetings, International! Pray give an old woman information! I've farmed my allotment and achieved ten years ahead of my plan, and now they tell me I must move to Venus! I don't mind the moving—though I mistrust those winged creatures—but I'm old and very tired. Does my moving mean I'll have another allotment to achieve? Must I clear Venusian land? Tell me International, if I'm assigned to a freighter, will the gravs be likely to shorten what remains of my life-span?"

Mark laughed at the loud avalanche of questions. "Peace, Ruralian," he managed through his laughter. "I doubt if you'll be required to achieve another allotment. Didn't the government grant you sufficient credits for a new start?"

The ruralian woman pulled out a package of rank, Venusian cigarets and contentedly puffed on one after lighting it. "Yes, when the earth-temblors ruined my land and a mouth of fire finished it, a proctor came from the Council and gave me enough credits to last a body a life-time, then told me to make my way to transportation. But I can't bring myself to spend those credits, International—its wasteful.... I'd rather achieve another allotment. Why, I haven't bought a thing for fifty years that I could grow or make myself!

"I've been some time getting here from the Arizona sector, for the shakes disrupted the conveyor roads, and I lost a lot of things when another mouth of fire pushed up where the road was and blew my cart to the four winds—It's a miracle I'm here at all! But about the freighter, will the gravs...."

"Ask for the sleep-freeze ... it will be given you, in any event. If anything, it'll lengthen your span, and the journey will seem like an overnight trip to you. If you need directing, a proctor will assist you. Greetings Ruralian!" Mark tried to make his tones as kindly as he possibly could, but realizing the woman was eager to make conversation, he ended the incident—he was still on duty.

"Greetings, International," she replied disappointed, and heaved the bundle to her shoulder.

Mark had not walked ten paces when instant correlation between his senses, mental synthesis and muscular reaction made him swerve aside, bending over at the same time. It had been the horror-shocked expression in the eyes of a technician barely three paces before him, that had sent the Spacer hurtling to one side, half bent over, bowling pedestrians aside like ten-pins. A thin pencil of light flashed where Mark's head had been seconds before. Mark had turned without pausing and he saw a tall International whose yellow tunic bore the red whorl insignia of a conveyor-road inspector.

Mark's molecular rate was faster than any other strata, purposely, because of his calling, and to the spectators it seemed as if he'd twisted, turned and flung himself into a prodigious tackle all in one motion. The attacking International, fully as tall as Mark, went down under the terrific impact, his atomo-pistol sailing through the icy atmosphere in a falling arc. But with the agility of a Martian Hellacorium, he was up and snarling: "Traitor!" through clenched teeth. With a cry of baffled fury he launched himself at Mark unhesitatingly, one hand fumbling at his belt.

But Mark ducked, side-stepping. He was icy calm now, although the reason for this attack baffled him. Mark was in his element in a fight; the International Police trained its wards to be fighting machines, deadly in their efficiency. Explorers had to be!

II

Mark wheeled as the attacker hurtled past him and his straight left went unerringly to the man's head, jarring him. Automatically Mark's training came to the fore, as everything else faded until it was only Spacer Lynn and a murderous enemy. Mark's right was a peg upon which he hung the attacker's blasting blow, while he used the boxer's left, long and weaving, throwing it swiftly like a cat sparring with a mouse dangling by the tail from its teeth. His left bounced off the attacker's chin. It was a little high, but the man rocked on his heels.

The killer rushed. Mark let his heels touch the ground, refused to run. The attacker was too aggressive and eager for complete defense. Mark caught him with a left and right and calmly took a murderous hook to the belly without flinching, then he let his right hand ride, dropping it like a sledge-hammer. The attacker's face seemed to lose contour, its features blurred as the face went gory; his feet crossed and his knees went suddenly rubbery. The conveyor-road inspector fell with a crash and didn't get up.

Mark became suddenly aware that two Martian proctors flanked him, deadly atomo-pistols pressing at his sides.

"Silence and obedience, International! Follow!" came the crisp, laconic order from the senior proctor.

Instantly a visi-screen lighted and a cold, imperious voice directed:

"Remove the attacker, dispose as power reserve. Spacer Lynn proceed on mission!"

In unison, the two proctors saluted and the atomo-pistols disappeared. It was the voice of the Council, through some subordinate.

"The eyes and ears of the universe!" Mark Lynn exclaimed ironically in a whisper. The cometary reaction must have been psychological as well as physical to bring about crime in a social order where for centuries it had disappeared. Or had it? Mark wondered. How many secrets, how much factual data the Council kept from the people? No one would ever know. But why try to liquidate him? He'd just arrived from years in outer space; surely he couldn't possibly have enemies on Terra! Was his mission known? And come to think of it, just what was his mission actually? Meditatively, he tapped the cylinder in the inner pocket of his tunic. Could that have been the motive for the assault?

"Palanth!" Mark Lynn exclaimed delightedly as he spied a dandified Martian leaning against a column of chrysophrase, upon entering the lobby of the International Police headquarters to report.

Tall and sinewy-lean, with the exaggeratedly narrow waist characteristic of the Martians, Palanth gazed startled at his companion of many adventures, from behind a silken square of Venusian-spider silk drenched in the overpowering fragrance of Venusian Jasmines. Only the violet eyes were visible, startling against the background of his flaming hair.

In the tight-fitting yellow tunic of an International, he resembled an ancient, narrow-waisted cretan come to life, but for the flaming mane and towering height.

"Greetings! O bird of ill-omen, what malodorous wind blew you in from outer space?" He dropped the handkerchief long enough to reveal chiselled nostrils and white even teeth as he smiled heart-warmingly. He placed his left hand on Mark's shoulder, in the immemorial gesture Mars reserved for the closest friends.