Fantastic Stories Presents the Fantastic Universe Super Pack #2. William Logan
Dirrul stood in front of the metal-surfaced reflector, fingering the cap of his ear. To survive as a thinking being he must deafen himself. Yet he hesitated. Self-inflicted violence was the negation of the Rational Potential.
Then, slowly, he developed a new idea. He could use the power of Vinin, to save Agron if not himself!
There came a knock on his door. Dirrul drew on his tunic as a stranger entered the room.
“The Chief is impatient—you must come at once.”
Durril was led through a metal-roofed tunnel into a wide sunny transparent-walled room at the top of the building. The door closed behind him. He was alone with a tall smooth-faced man, exotically costumed in a tight black suit crusted with white jewels and framed by a white cloak thrown loosely around his shoulders. He sat back of a tremendous desk—behind his chair was a tilted panel of dials, levers and tiny glowing lights, running the length of the room under the ceiling-high window.
“It is always a pleasure to welcome a hero of the Vininese Confederacy,” the Chief said without getting up. His tone was slow, tired, emotionless. His eyes were without expression. “May I ask your name?”
“Dirrul—Edward Dirrul.”
“And you come from Agron with a message from our agent,” he said, speaking Agronian. “So much we got from your teleray. In fifty days—actually forty-nine from now, by your time—your local Movement will have use for a Vininese space-fleet. I have already dispatched Sub-units B and C. Now, if you will give me the details of your Plan I can code-wave them to my commander.”
“There’s been a mistake, sir. What I really meant when I sent the message was—”
“So you’ve discovered the truth.” The Chief’s hand darted toward a cubicle of his desk and he held a metal-barreled weapon aimed steadily at Dirrul. “These things are always so tedious. Give me your disk.”
“Of course,” Dirrul agreed readily but as he felt in his pocket the Chief gestured negatively with his weapon.
“No, keep it.” After a pause he added, “You’re certain that you know, Dirrul?”
“I’ve seen the transmitters.”
“Then why aren’t you afraid? Why do you consent so readily? The others are always terrified—they’ll confess to anything if I promise to let them keep the disks. Have you ever heard the sound, Dirrul? Do you really know what it’s like?”
“You want information from me. You have no chance of getting it if you deprive me of the ability to think.”
“Granted. And otherwise?”
“You won’t get it either.”
The Chief sighed wearily. “You are simply trading one romantic illusion for another. You have somehow convinced yourself that one man—one lone Agronian—can hold out against us. Let me tell you a little about our system, Dirrul, so you’ll understand how futile it is to waste your time and mine like this.” Not a trace of feeling came into his voice. He sounded slightly bored, reciting a matter-of-fact chronology of statistics.
“As you have guessed we create our leader-class on each of our planets by protecting them from the sound waves with the disks. If scattered groups among the general public should ever gain immunity—as far as we know only idiots and the deaf can do that—they could never carry out a successful revolt. The only way would be for the transmitter stations to be silenced.
“However, every unit operates independently on its own power. We have thousands of them on every planet. All but one could be destroyed, and that one transmitter would still be enough to control the planet. You begin to see, I think, that any kind of resistance is foolish. In time you can be made to do as I ask. Unfortunately, we have no time to spare.
“Perhaps you’re thinking that outsiders—tourists, let’s say—could come here and overthrow us. All rational beings in the galaxy are subject to the same physical laws. They still must hear and if they do they’re powerless.
“Besides, our secret is remarkably well-kept. The tourists and merchants come to our planet in droves. They notice nothing—because of the amusing idiosyncrasy of Vininese customs men, who are required to stamp the hand of each visitor with an identification mark. The coloring material is atomically constituted to act as a temporary disk while the tourist is among us. He notices nothing amiss. He sees what we want him to see—he goes home favorably impressed—and by that time the mark has worn away. You get the general picture, Dirrul? Nothing can ever defeat us.”
“Nothing but yourselves.”
“Romantic nonsense! Let me show you what I can do, Dirrul, even when you wear a disk. I think you’ll bargain then.” The Chief turned a little to face the panel behind his desk, feeling over the dials while he kept Dirrul framed in his gunsight.
“The young man you went to this morning for help is a sadist. The reception was his idea—so was your bath. He likes to have our traitors—and you are a traitor, of course, to your own people—he likes to have them discover the truth before we take their disks away. It’s an exquisite torture but in your case annoying, since it puts you in a position to bargain. Now it occurs to me that your host should be disciplined for his bungling.”
The Chief pointed to the surface of his desk. “Watch the screen, Dirrul.” An opaque rectangle glowed with light, slowly came into focus, and revealed a large mirrored lounge, where a number of official Vininese stood talking and drinking. The Chief twisted a dial, pulled a lever and one of the Vininese collapsed, writhing on the glassy floor in violent agony.
The screen went blank.
“I have not only decontrolled your friend’s disk,” the Chief explained blandly, “but I have doubled his receptability to sound. I can continue the treatment until he goes mad—or I can snap it off and let it serve as a warning.
“From this panel here I control every disk-wearer on Vinin—including yourself, Dirrul. You understand, I think, that there can never be any disloyalty among our leaders—they’re consciously aware of the consequences. And revolt in the ranks is physically impossible. We’re safe, you see, even from ourselves.”
Once again there was a slight trace of emotion in the weary voice. “No doubt you also gather, Dirrul, who is the real ruler of Vinin. There are a hundred thousand of us, more or less, scattered throughout the Confederacy. All right—tell me what I need to know. If your Plan succeeds I’ll deputize you for Agron when we annex it.”
Suddenly Dirrul saw the answer. His heart leaped with joy and it was difficult to keep the feeling out of his voice when he said, “You have been talking to me in my own tongue.” Carefully he inched toward the desk. “And understanding me.”
“Entirely beside the point.”
“Not entirely. You hear what I say—which means that you must wear a disk too.”
Dirrul sprang across the desk. At the same time the Chief raised his weapon and fired. Flame seared Dirrul’s cheek. A red mist welled before him and he reeled back against the control panel as the Chief fired again. The second explosion was so close it seemed to be within his own mind.
The Chief’s hand clawed at Dirrul’s tunic, ripping the disk away from him. Recoiling in anticipation of the dread shock wave, Dirrul hurled himself at the Chief.
But instead of the screaming terror he felt nothing. An inexplicable force seemed to close in on him. His head spun dizzily but his mind still functioned. He smashed his fist into the face of the Chief and the body sagged to the floor.
Dirrul stood bewildered, looking at his hand. A mass of flesh-like material, torn from the Chief’s face, clung to his knuckles. Dirrul bent over the man and touched his skin. It crumbled under pressure and the lifelike purple coloring ran. Dirrul peeled the putty away until he could make out the shape of the pale wrinkled