Part 1

FUGUE

By Stephen Marlowe

A NOVELET OF THE FUTURE

Most people actually know a good deal more than they may be aware of at any given moment. And perhaps one of the functions of dreams is to remind us of what we know, but will not let ourselves know on a conscious level....

"This revolt is hopeless, Ker-jon, because it only strikes at the symptoms of unrest, without touching the roots. You may succeed--you may unseat those now in authority. But whoever moves in will only perpetuate the tyranny against which you revolted--renew the same oppression, under different slogans."

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science Fiction Quarterly November 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

_The Space Ark left its home planet, Urth, two thousand years ago Canopus IV time, arriving here in the Canopus System some five hundred years later. That is all we know for certain; the rest is mere conjecture._

_Two salient features of the Space Ark's unique social institutions stand out above the myth and fairytale of our ancestors, however. The first is the fabled story of the Mutant-makers, and when one studies the conditions surrounding this phenomenon, the fabled story becomes cold scientific fact. On a giant balanced-terrarium of a ship which was largely automatic, seemingly isolated forever in the vastnesses of interstellar space, our ancestors lacked even a modicum of external challenge. They thus had to create their own artificial stimuli or face an inevitable retreat down the ladder of decadence to barbarism. It appears that for a time they went too far: they created mutants. These in turn gave rise to a rigid caste-system on the Ark, a system which afforded an extreme in internal challenges and responses._

_The second salient feature of the Space Ark's social institutions was its favoring of the biolo-mental sciences over the chemi-physical sciences. This, again, proves to be an inevitable by-product of the Space Ark's static environment. No physical world existed: physics became a useless dogma, a meaningless jumble of terms which bore no semantic relation to the world-at-large. On the other hand, the Space Ark was a universe of introversion. The biolo-mental sciences leaped ahead of what had developed into a something-less-than-static-civilization. This, as we have seen, gave rise to the Mutant-makers. But on a constructive level, it fostered the growth of a new science of psychology, vastly superior to the old Urth science, and, some suspect, considerably more refined than our own mental sciences. A particular manifestation of this lost science was the ability to project tri-dimensional images of dreams, to record them while the conscious mind slumbered, to play them back later and to interpret them unerringly...._

--_Andoos-Rob't_, A Short History of the Abortive Social Institutions of the Urth-Canopus Space Ark, _Introduction_.

* * * * *

Ker-jon awoke suddenly, sitting bolt-upright in bed. It was cool--night-period temperatures always were--but fine droplets of perspiration dotted Ker-jon's forehead and dark sweat-stains discolored the armpits of his sleeping robe.

Over and over, one thought twisted through his mind; he was not a mutant; he was one-hundred percent normal _homo sapiens_ and a bio-technician on the hydroponics staff at that. Yet--why did he always dream the same dream of a big hairless Ker-jon, his bald, shining dome topped with the three ridges of flesh which had manifested themselves in a series of mutations during the generation of his birth? Why did that dream always follow the same path....

He chuckled in spite of himself. The psych-technicians might yield the answer this time. He removed the electrodes from his temples, snapped the recorder off, rewound the dream-tape. Yes, he'd let the psycho-techs play with it in the morning, despite Cluny-ann's warning.

When the morning gong sounded, Ker-jon crept softly from his room. His way would lead past the quarters of the female bio-technicians, and he hoped to avoid a meeting with Cluny-ann. But the slim, fair-haired maid knew of his appointment with the psych-tech, and she had other ideas. Ker-jon barely got past the portal to the female quarters when its door slid into the wall with a faintly audible hiss. Arms akimbo, Cluny-ann stood there facing him, the crown of her head hardly reaching his chin.

"Good morning, Ker-jon," she greeted him coolly.

"Please, I'm busy."

"I only wanted to see you for a moment, Ker-jon; just a moment, that's all. Will you take breakfast with me?"

"No. I said I have an appointment."

"You're always rushing around like the enzymes we feed into the 'ponic-vats. I'm sure your appointment will keep. I'm also sure it is unwise, this appointment."

Ker-jon prayed silently that she wouldn't part her lips invitingly for a kiss, because then indeed he might decide to forego his appointment with the psych-tech. Apparently, that did not enter Cluny-ann's mind. She merely walked out into the corridor, hands still on hips, blocking his path.

"Tomorrow we try to smash the Mutant-makers," she told him. "But today you must carry your dream with you and have it interpreted. Won't it keep? If something lurks in that dream which holds the key to our plans--_poof!_ No more plans. Stay, Ker-jon."

Gently but firmly, he pushed her out of the way, smiled for a moment when she struggled futilely against the muscles of his good right arm. He said, as he went on down the corridor, "We can take lunch together. I'll feel more like eating after this nightmare is explained, anyway."

* * * * *

The psych-tech, Ab'nath-Jawg, wore an immaculate white smock over his scrawny frame, a pair of spectacles over his big, watery eyes. Ker-jon saw no reason for the white smock; perhaps tradition said all psych-techs were to wear white smocks, and that was that.

"Ker-jon," Ab'nath mumbled, looking at his records, "bio-tech first class, non-mutant, no mutations in the family line. Right?"

Ker-jon nodded.

"Your request for a visit says you've been having a dream which has recurred frequently. An unpleasant dream?"

"Ummmm, no; not in itself. But I think--"

"That somehow its implications are unpleasant for you--is that it? Yes? I see. May I have the tape, please?"

Wordless, Ker-jon handed him the little spool, waited while the psych-tech snapped it into place in a small projecting machine. After that, Ab'nath flicked a switch, and the lights in the little room dimmed.

In the center of the room stood a large transparent cube, as long in each of its three dimensions as a tall man. Within it now, lights pulsed, flashed, coalesced. Then they settled back, playing only at the corners, waiting.

Ker-jon held his breath. A tri-dimensional, full color replica of his dream filled the cube.

There was Ker-jon, but a hairless, three-ridged-mutant Ker-jon, and there in the crook of his left arm a slim blonde girl who could have been Cluny-ann, except that she too bore the marks of a mutant--different strain this time, with delicate silver scales covering parts of her fair body. Under a large bell-jar in the foreground, a compact black machine hummed shrilly, a light above its squat main body flashing on and off, on and off.

The queerest part of the dream was its background. Great concentric circles of color closed in on the bell-jar, broad bands of green, blue, red, orange, yellow. When first he'd had the dream, Ker-jon thought the circles emanated from the bell-jar, but clearly, this was not so. Rather, the bands of color surrounded it, almost as if they somehow attempted to crush it.

The dream Ker-jon did not think they could. He balled his right fist and struck down once, savagely, at the glass. It broke, but the machine hummed on and on. Ker-jon shrank back in horror, with a feeling of helplessness.

And that was all. Back to the cube came its flashing lights.

Ab'nath-Jawg scratched his balding head. "A very odd dream," he admitted. "Do you know the girl?"

"She is Cluny-ann, my betrothed."

"A mutant?" demanded the psych-tech.

"No. But then, neither am I."

"Yet you both look like mutants in the dream. Interesting."

Ker-jon frowned. "I didn't come here to show you something interesting; I came to have the dream explained. Last night was the sixth time. The same pattern, no change."

"Relax, my friend. These things take time. Strange, we don't understand the radio with which we communicate between sections of our Ark, but histories will tell you that both radio and dream-machine function on the same principle. I don't understand radio; I can only guess, but the dream-machine I know. The recorder is stimulated by electro-magnetic waves from the cerebrus when you dream. The projector takes these vibrations and reproduces the dream itself. A to B, back to A again. Simple."

Ker-jon shook his head wearily. "I didn't come for that, either. I know the theory--"

"Patience! Will you have patience? I will submit the record to a staff meeting of psych-techs this afternoon, and we'll have an interpretation ready for you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow! Tomorrow might be too late."

"That's ridiculous, Ker-jon. Even if the dream manifests itself again tonight, so what? Tomorrow is soon enough."

Ker-jon shook his head sadly, took his leave. He couldn't tell the psych-tech that tomorrow might be too late because by then his fellow-conspirators would be floundering in rebellion. It all depended on him, of course: he had access to the master controls in the 'ponics room. Few people did, and certainly no mutants. Ker-jon, then; but Ker-jon had a dream which bothered him, which awakened him, sweating and afraid, in the middle of the night....

* * * * *

Night-period. Dull blue lights casting eerie shadows in a little-used back room of the library. And six men who wove their plans for a _coup-d'Ark_ when morning came.

Ker-jon sat on the floor with Cluny-ann, squatting near the dusty stacks which held the un-used physical science books. Not a volume here had been disturbed for perhaps a score of years--perhaps more. Why study the physical sciences when there was no real physical world with which to correlate your findings? Why study them when your universe was bounded with walls of glistening beryl-steel?

Cluny-ann sat near Ker-jon, but she kept her back to him, angrily. She'd hardly spoken a word since he returned from the psych-tech's office, and lunch had been a sorry social failure.

Now Flam-harol got up, paced back and forth for a time, the dome of his three-ridged head gleaming under the blue lights. He licked his lips, fingered for a moment the central flesh-ridge atop his skull. Then he spoke in his deep, booming voice. "I can't help it if I'm nervous; we mutants have waited long and long for this--"

A chorus of "ayes" seconded that, and Flam-harol went on. "We can afford no mistakes. We do or we die--tomorrow. One slip--just one--could be fatal. But in the end, if all goes well, we'll smash the Mutant-making machinery, we'll smash the rule of the Mutant-maker. I don't have to tell you what that means. Whither we came from, that doesn't matter. A world called Urth, but I cannot picture Urth--a huge world a hundred times or more larger than the Ark, a world where you live on the outside, not on the inside.

"I cannot picture it, and so I won't try. But this I can picture. A hundred years ago, they started making mutants, to satisfy a warped craving for superiority. Half the people on the Ark now are mutants. Ridge-head, scaled, toe-less--what's the difference? Mutants all, living in the worst quarters, relegated to inferior positions, scorned, ridiculed....

"Tomorrow, we end it; by evening, no more. Equality on the Ark, yes, but that's not of primary importance. We will destroy the machinery which can make mutants. No fresh variants will arise, and that is more important. Now, your plans."

Another ridge-head stood up. "At ten hours, twelve minutes, my men take the astro-room."

A chunky mutant with scales covering his chest: "We converge, along with Flam-harol's squad, on the armory. Also at ten hours, twelve minutes."

Second scaled mutant: "The Mutant-maker's quarters. We take the reins of government at ten hours, thirty five minutes."

Lithely, Cluny-ann got to her feet. "The Chamber of Change, at ten hours, forty minutes. I lead my women there, and it is hoped that with so much confusion elsewhere, we'll be able to destroy the machinery. But--"

"But what?" Flam-harol said. "We appreciate the aid of you non-mutants. Yet if you have any doubts--"

"It's not that," Cluny-ann told him. "I don't think our revolution will be enough; that's all."

"What more is there?"

"I don't know! If I knew, that would be different. I suspect that the whole thing may start over again before we know it."

Flam-harol shook his head. "I don't understand."

"Well, something like this. We're seeking to destroy effects, not causes. Whatever the causes are, we should root them out first."

"The Mutant-maker and his government are the cause."

"No. I mean deeper than that. I mean--oh, I don't know! But something hovers in the background; I can feel it. A cause, a deepseated cause apart from any mutant-non-mutant bickering...."

Ker-jon stood up, smiling. "Don't mind her," he said. "Cluny-ann isn't happy unless she can worry, I think. Now, my job is this: at ten hours I lock myself in control in the 'ponics room, and if necessary, we can hold that as a sword over any ornery heads. I'll be ready to cut off the air-supply to any section of the Ark that needs such treatment, Flam-harol."

The big ridge-head nodded. "That appears to be it, then. Till tomorrow, when I hope to meet you all again at noon...."

2

Ker-jon felt very refreshed when he awoke. The dream had failed to appear; consequently, he slept well. He wondered idly if the psych-tech, Ab'nath, had decided anything yet. Actually, Ker-jon now regarded his visit to the psych-tech's office as a little on the impulsive side. He knew how the technicians worked, should thus have expected at least a twenty-four hour delay. Still, just depositing the spool with the psych-tech had relieved him considerably, and surely no harm could come of it.

He showered, shaved, glanced at the wall-chronometer. Nine. One to go--

So--in just three hours--it all would be over. By then they'd have gained control of the ship, or their martyred corpses would start on their eternal flight through space. If a third alternative presented itself, Ker-jon failed to consider it.

He heaped his plate with succulent synthetics in the crowded dining room, then decided he didn't feel much like eating. Once he caught a glimpse of Cluny-ann, but she sat far across the room, in earnest conversation with three tall strong women who probably were her squad leaders.

Nine forty-five....

Ker-jon crossed to the cashier's window, gave the woman mutant a six-credit slip, pocketed his change, left the dining room. He knew of no other way to kill time. He'd waited at the cashier's window, picking at his teeth, striking up meaningless conversation with the woman. Not accustomed to talk with a non-mutant, she'd been awkward. Now he still had fifteen minutes, and the way he felt, it would seem like hours.

He strode rapidly down the corridor, past the door to the astro-room. Nothing there, not yet. Too early.

He reached the ramp which led to 'ponics. Two men lolled there, insolently. Green-uniformed men--police. Why?

Ker-jon's palms were clammy when he reached them, but he tried to walk between them indifferently. They came together, barring his way. They didn't say a word.

"I'm on duty in 'ponics in ten minutes," Ker-jon told them.

"That's interesting," one said.

"Are you looking for anyone in particular?"

"Yes."

"Well, will you let me through?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether you're the guy we're looking for or not."

"Nine minutes," Ker-jon said; "it's important that I'm on time."

"Have you got a name, friend?"

"Bio-tech first class Ker-jon, hydroponics division."

"Ker-jon, eh? Come with us."

One policeman eased a needle-gun from his belt, the other wrapped a big hand around Ker-jon's elbow. "Come on."

"What did I do?"

"Don't ask me. This is just a job, but I'm sure they'll let you know." The man was snickering.

Ker-jon pulled his arm free. "Well, you tell me where to report; I'll go later."

"You promise?" said the man with the gun, smiling vapidly.

"Yes."

"That's good! He promises. Come on now!"

Ker-jon grunted, relaxed. The man's gun-hand wavered, only for a moment, but it was enough. Ker-jon swung his right fist up and felt his knuckles bruise against the man's jaw. Without waiting to see the effects, he darted for the 'ponics door and inserted his key.

Something crashed against his legs, behind the knees, and he stumbled against the door, striking his head sharply. When he came away he found himself reeling dizzily on hands and knees. The man who had tackled him scrambled off the floor first, waited while Ker-jon clambered half-way up. A heavy boot exploded against his face, then seemed to explode all over again inside his skull. He fell flat on his stomach, hands clawing at the floor feebly.

* * * * *

He got up groggily, felt the caked blood stiffening the skin of his face. His wrist-chronometer's dial marked off eleven hours and thirty minutes!

A withered old albino man peered at him anxiously, his face as white as the fungi which sometimes grow, if you are not careful, in the 'ponics room. His pink eyes blinked often against the strong day-period light. Ker-jon couldn't guess his age--eighty, perhaps.

"I see you're awake."

"Who the hell are you?"

"A counter-revolutionary, young man."

"What?"

"Don't be surprised; don't think your little revolution was such a closely-guarded secret that no one knew about it. For one, the Mutant-maker knew. The revolution was an abortive failure, I am sorry to say."

Ker-jon looked at him dully. "What happened?"

"Nothing much. The Mutant-maker had his forces deployed all along the line. Flam-harol didn't have a chance. Twenty-four mutants were killed, and eighteen women. Another two-score injured."

"Cluny-ann?"

"Who? Oh yes, the leader of the women. She's all right, I think. But she said something about tearing you apart limb from limb if she found you. It seems you weren't where you should have been, and for that as much as anything else the revolution backfired. It seems you disappeared." The old man chuckled softly.

"The police took me. So many dead...."

"Police--no! Police uniforms, but counter-revolutionaries, I assure you. Thanks to psych-tech Ab'nath, we got to you in time. Probably, the revolution would have failed either way, but more pointless carnage would have resulted."

"Damn you!" Ker-jon said bitterly. "You stand there yapping about what might or might not have happened. Forty days of planning went into that revolution, and all the dreams and hopes of so many mutants--"

The albino blinked. "Ah yes, forty days. Do you know how old I am, Ker-jon? I'm eighty-seven. I was one of the earlier mutants, and I've stood this thing a long time. I didn't want any scatterbrained scheme to knock the legs out from under a plan which is calculated to do more than you dream. How old are you, Ker-jon?"

"Twenty-four."

"Just a baby, and--"

"Go to hell," said Ker-jon, rising. "I'm going to find Cluny-ann. Maybe we can salvage something. Maybe--"

"Sit down, will you?" The two uniformed men came in, swaggering. One motioned Ker-jon back into a chair with his needle-gun, and Ker-jon sat down. The other said: "I'm sorry we had to hit you. But you fought, and you didn't give us any choice."

Wearily, Ker-jon turned to the old man. "Just where do you fit in? Are you working for the Mutant-maker?"

"I said we are counter-revolutionaries. We stood opposed to your plans, because you favored the wrong fight, at the wrong time, with the wrong people. Simple?" He chuckled again, a very irritating sound. "No, I suppose not. Perhaps psych-tech Ab'nath can help explain. Will someone call him?"

* * * * *

The little balding man with the watery eyes entered the room. "I'm here," he said. "Ah, I see you have Ker-jon," he smiled, handed a sheet of paper to the prisoner. "Here, you might be interested in this."

Ker-jon scanned it rapidly. Yesterday, yes, he'd have been interested. But not today--too much had happened since then.

_Subjects: Bio-technician first class Ker-jon, hydroponics division._

_Dream: (An objective description of the recurrent dream.)_

_Conclusions: a) Both Ker-jon and his betrothed, Cluny-ann, appear as mutants in the dream-sequence. Four votes for an unstable, neurotic personality; eleven for obvious feelings of sympathy with the mutants; one abstention. Alternative two is thus a logical certainty._

_b) The bell-jar machinery is a meaningless bit of gadgetry which defies analysis. Sixteen votes for symbolic representation of the Mutant-making machinery, esoteric and unknown to all technicians save the bio-techs, mutant-making division. Conclusion a logical certainty._

_c) Ker-jon destroys the bell-jar with brute force. Five votes for an un-neurotic personality's desired destruction of a major social institution. Eleven for uneasiness and a rigid anxiety concerning the revolution, for subconscious doubts on Ker-jon's part that a frontal assault against the Mutant-maker will solve the Ark's problem. Alternative two a logical certainty._

_d) The warped prismatic effect in the background is crucial. The red-orange-yellow-green-blue-indigo-violet of the spectrum is replaced by green-blue-red-orange-yellow, with indigo and violet out of the sequence entirely. Three votes for mistaken knowledge concerning the "rainbow" of the ancients, and for no other significance; three votes for a representation of star-colors (note that indigo and violet, not visible in any stellar object seen through the astro-port, are entirely lacking)--three votes for a representation of star-colors for the subject's desire to associate himself with the stars, hence with the void of space, hence with death; four abstentions; five for an immersed subconscious conviction that our knowledge of the "Rainbow" and hence of the physical sciences is lacking, and that this lack of knowledge may be crucial to the entire problem. No alternative a logical certainty, and while the conclusion is indeterminate, the final alternative is preferred...._

_Comments: Faced with violent action which his subconscious mind refused to accept as a satisfactory answer, Ker-jon also was confronted by a recurrent dream fostered by that subconscious rejection. Ker-jon's subconscious recognized the pending revolution as (1) a displacement in the order of events, a striving to conquer effects rather than causes and to leave the whole solution indeterminate, and (2) an inadequate course of action directed in a frontal assault against the most obvious effect of the hinted-at ailments which afflict the Ark._

_Solution: Not determined, because conclusion (d) remains inconclusive. (Once he understands his own problems, Ker-jon should be a great help to the counter-revolutionaries--Ab'nath.)_

"You see," Ab'nath said, taking the slip of paper back from Ker-jon, "your subconscious mind couldn't accept the pending revolution. It felt something was lacking. In that sense, then, your dream was a flight from reality, a fugue. But it had a constructive aspect as well. It--"