Part 4

From the cabinet he took slides of glass. He took Cliff's hand between his gloved fingers and pressed the human's fingers to the slide. He caught the human's breath on another slide. He made a convulsive motion with his face, and Cliff smiled and coughed on another slide. From the cabinet he took a scalpel and with a deft motion--and before Cliff could act--the doctor took a neat slice out of the small finger of Cliff's left hand. He doused the cut immediately; the substance removed the pain, at any rate.

He took a sample of Cliff's blood, scraped the skin of Cliff's forearm, and clipped off eight or nine of Cliff's crisp black hairs.

Then he closed the cabinet and sealed it. From the plane he took a large spray, and setting it up aground, the doctor proceeded to stand, turn, and generally bathe in the atomizer output. He sprayed the outside of the cabinet with it, and then proceeded to work the ground and air over, spraying in all directions, including the other catman, Linzete. The doctor finished his proceedings by spraying Cliff Lane's ship on the outside, and turning the spray into the spacelock and liberally drenching the runway and entrance of the Solarian vessel.

Cliff nodded understandingly. He didn't even object to being sprayed himself, for the stuff was aromatic though a bit sticky when it started to dry.

The doctor took off.

"Wonder what he'll find," mused Cliff. And then a large white craft landed. It was completely inclosed, and the driver's compartment was set off from the rest.

"The paddy-wagon," grinned Cliff. Clad as the doctor had been, four catmen came from the craft bearing sprays. One of them approached Cliff and motioned for him to follow. Cliff nodded, but turned and called back:

"Let 'em sterilize to their heart's content, fellows. After all, we want their co-operation!"

He entered the large ship as the other three catmen entered the spacelock of Lane's ship and went to work.

Within fifteen minutes, Cliff Lane was residing in a sterile, spotlessly white room. The windows were sealed and the door was air-tight. A portable atmosphere-cleaner purred in one corner, freshening the air and cooling it. From a speaker in the wall there came music--of a sort--and through a double window in the wall Lane and the catmen indulged in mutual inspection.

A large block of paper hung on an easel, and a heavy black crayon lay in the tray. Cliff nodded. Heavy black crayon so that his sketchings could be seen from the distance. He smiled, scowled at the music, and then started to sketch.

The Little People had not been able to convey the reasons for their desires to the humans, but human and catmen were not possessed of any form of telepathy to augment their communications. Cliff was a fair cartoonist, and he progressed well.

The catmen began to understand.

* * * * *

The days sped past, marked only by the clock and the chiming of watch-change bells. Dymodines returned from their mountings on the living rock of the innermost planet, they entered the ships of the combined commands, and were converted, one by one. The machine shops in the bellies of the ships hummed and racketed, and the stockroom stores went down. The scrap pile outside on the airless face of One grew as the dymodines were converted; parts of no use were tossed out.

The catmen did not molest them. Not once during the twenty days of labor was there any report, or any sight of the catmen. If the catmen were using scanners on them, the catman scanner used frequencies never tried by humans, for the detectors gave the spectrum a clear ticket.

Yet the strain was there, and the men worked furiously to convert the dymodines to snatchers, because they knew that until they were finished, they were a group of sitting ducks. Dymodines had been blocked by the catmen--and that left them unarmed.

Then on the twentieth day, Stellor Downing gave the order to lift and head for the fourth planet.

In a close formation, the sixty-three ships arrowed into the sky, hit superdrive, and headed away from the sun.

They arrived above Four and began to look for trouble. They circled the planet twice, took a few tentative stabs at the ground with their improved snatchers, and generally let it be known that they were there and seeking either their fellow or knowledge of his whereabouts.

The recognition detectors flashed Lane's trace, and they put direction-finding equipment into gear. They circled above the field upon which lay Cliff Lane's craft.

There was no sign of human life there. The spacelock was closed, and it could not be known whether from the inside or from the outside. Signals gained no answering flash, but the complete confidence with which they circled this field did get them an answer of sorts.

Beams flashed up, and spattered against the barriers of the flight. A pair of extra heavy battlecraft leaped out of underground slides and drove up into Downing's flight. The heavy beams lashed about, and four of Downing's ships folded over their torn midsections. Then Downing's ship answered fire.

It was not spectacular. The sphere of energy was not visible, nor was it heterodyned. It closed upon the midsection of the heavy battlecraft. It cut, quietly and with lightning swift precision. It moved, swinging on a force beam and taking with it a sphere of the battlecraft's middle--a perfect sphere, mirror-finished on the plates, girders, and equipment that met the surface.

The energy ceased and the perfect sphere dropped toward the planet.

Smoke poured from the gaping hole, and the battlecraft buckled, folded, and exploded like a bomb. Bits of broken ship spread far and wide, and the main mass fell back upon the spaceport.

It lay there, inert, smoke trickling from its shapelessness.

It was a blackened monument to two hundred thousand years of civilization.

The other battlecraft sped on through the flight unscathed. It looped high in the space above Downing's flight and crossed around, looped away and came back on the level against Thompson's group. It drove in through the flight, lashing sidewise at Thompson's ships.

And four of them reached out and sliced four large spheres from the battlecraft. Shredded, the ship died in the air. It disintegrated, and it rained metal parts for fifty square miles--a rain of smoking, shapeless masses of deadly steel.

"More?" snapped Stellor Downing.

Blatantly, the flight landed on the field, covered the other ships, and then waited for a move. As Downing said, "It's their move this time!"

* * * * *

The white ship landed in their midst. From it came Lane and his crew. The crew entered their ship, but Lane remained, waiting for Downing. In the crook of his arm he held a small, white-furred creature, and he stroked it gently with his free hand.

"Just lucky," grunted Downing.

"You talk big," retorted Lane. "But stay back, Downing. You're contaminated."

"Meaning?"

"You're alive with deadly bugs."

"Nuts. So are you."

"No I'm not. I've been sterilized within an inch of my life. Look," he said, holding up the Sscantovian equivalent of a guinea pig.

"Cute--but so what?"

"I've got the catmen scared of all Solarians--and from here on in, I'd hate to be any race that bucks us. Take hold of this animal, just for a moment."

Stellor Downing put his hand on the creature's back. He held it for a moment and then let go. Lane put the little animal on the ground and stood back.

"Well?"

"Wait a minute, will you? Even potassium cyanide takes time to kill--"

The little creature was running around, sniffing the ground and obviously looking for food. For three minutes it searched quietly, and then with a plaintive mew, it sat on its haunches and scratched its back. The plaintive cry became louder--and tufts of hair came from the back where the hind paw was scratching.

The creature scratched furiously--and succeeded in de-hairing its back, _in the shape of Stellor Downing's hand_!

"What in--?"

"Wait."

Downing looked at his hand in a sort of horror.

The scratching increased, and bits of skin followed the pattern of the bare patch. The plaintive cry became strident in a tiny voice. The little animal stopped scratching, turned over on its back and wriggled in the dirt of the spaceport. It wrenched itself back and forth sharply, and with squeals of pain. Its four feet opened and closed against its stomach, and the whites of its eyes gleamed.

A black patch appeared on the pink of the abdomen, and the paws scratched at the spot. It grew, and the pig cried continuously.

Cliff Lane took out his modine and blasted the suffering pig with a shake of his head.

Both he and Downing were a little sick.

"What--?"

"Fungus. As I gather it, the Solar sector of the Galaxy is alive with a violent evolution of fungus. We live in it, we breathe it, and we--eat it. They cringed in horror at what they found on the microscope slides, and this is the fourth pig I've killed. But I'm completely fungicided now, and I can handle 'em. But you see, Downing, you are alive with fungus spores looking for a place to live. They can't live on you, but what few that do escape the bactericidal action of the skin find it quite easy to go to work on an animal that has never been required to strive for life against fungi."

"Are the whole race like this?"

"No. Not entirely. But they haven't our strength against such--not by a jugful. They're right on the edge of the Solar sector, as I get it. They have some fungi, but it's nothing like the stuff we have on Terra. I think that Sol may be the center--the evolution may well have started there, mutated there, and anything that grows elsewhere may be spore-born on the Arrhenius Theory to the rest of the Galaxy. Brother, we're tough!"

"Well, what have we accomplished besides killing guinea pigs, discovering a set of new weapons, and blasting the guts out of a couple of their best craft?"

Lane smiled. "I've succeeded in carrying over to them the problem of why we're here. They do not understand any more than we do, but they're willing to let us seek out the machine."

"What about blasting their ships?"

"Won't bother them too much. They'll rather enjoy the development of the slicing cut--after all their human appearance, they're still cats. They like to fight silently, and slash quietly, and then to slink away in the night. They're strictly predators, and their evaluation of life is rather low."

"So?"

"You may have to prove your prowess with a bit of fighting, Downing. Personal, I mean."

"Well--"

"And you may not. You've always accused me of being brash, bold, and impulsive. All three of 'em got me across to this gang. I've always accused you of being quiet, shy, and coldly-calculating. They'll like those features, too."

* * * * *

Three white-clad doctors surrounded Downing with their sprays.

"That stuff they have is better than the glook they sprayed me with," remarked Lane. "But it doesn't smell as good and it is inclined to sting a bit. They developed it after making me live in a glass-inclosed laboratory for about two weeks."

Downing submitted to the spray with scratching and shrugging. "Tell me," he clipped, "how're the women?"

"Cats," grinned Lane.

Downing grunted. "Sounds like 'sour grapes' to me."

"Frankly, they ain't bad, Downing. But a guy can't do much when he's living in a laboratory."

Downing laughed. "People who live in glass houses shouldn't."

"Shouldn't what?"

"Shouldn't--period!"

"Well, I intend to return after we get this thing off of our chests. This gang is not human. They aren't the kind you could trust, but they are interesting. It is really something to see their civilization--and to see just how catlike they behave. They never laugh. Their exhibition of amusement is a deep-throated purr. And when one of 'em gets his feet stepped on, he hisses like a couple of cats squaring off on the back fence."

* * * * *

Thompson came up, followed by the spraying doctors. "This is all very fine," he said. "But we've wasted a lot of time. The Little Men are getting quite nervous."

Downing looked at Lane. "I'm sort of glad you turned up," he said flatly. "Especially with permission to hunt that thing."

Lane smiled bitterly. "If I hadn't turned up, Downing, you'd have spent the next fifteen years combing this system for confirmation, wouldn't you?"

"Naturally. Now let's find that machine. I've got a little project of rivet-clipping ahead."

Thompson intervened. "Seems to me that you've both accomplished plenty. Lane here gained the confidence of the catmen and Downing has the fleet equipped with heavy stuff."

"Who?" asked Lane. "I have a hunch that it was your doing, Billy."

"And any confidence-getting he did was strictly fear of our natural environment coming here," returned Stellor Downing.

"All right, break it up."

"We're all to return here as soon as we get the machine destroyed," said Lane. "They want to know what the answer is, just as we do. I have a hunch that finding the machine itself will tell us plenty."

VII.

Toralen Ki turned from the communicator. "Hotang," he called. "They have the answer!"

"Good. Then our time has not been wasted! For now we have the other one back."

"The technicians on Tlembo have just given me full and complete instructions on how to lower the sensitivity of the detector to a proper level."

"Not shielding?" asked Hotang Lu skeptically.

Toralen Ki laughed. "What manner of shielding would stop the suppressor wave? Nothing, I know. Absolutely nothing can deflect or stop it."

Toralen opened the detector case and started to fumble inside. He was not deft, and the tools from the equipment case did not fit his hand. But in an hour he had made the changes suggested by the technicians on Tlembo--but aided finally by one of Thompson's crew of technicians who went to work on the thing with dexterity but complete ignorance of its principles of operation.

* * * * *

Then with the one detector in operation, in Thompson's ship, the flight took off and began to take the last measures necessary to the completion of their task.

Hour after hour they went, out into the space beyond the last planet of the catmen, and out and out, running slowly so that they would neither collide with the machine nor overrun it.

It was a matter of days.

"Dead ahead," said Thompson on the communicator.

"Target?" asked Lane.

"Meteor, it looks like."

"Might be camouflage," suggested Downing. "Remember if it must be destroyed, it is a sign that those who made it knew that it would be against the wishes of _somebody_."

"Did either of you think that it might be a good thing?"

"You mean the machine might be benign?"

"Yes," answered Thompson.

"That's why you are going to analyze it before we destroy it," said Lane.

"Yes?"

"If we destroy it and discover it is benign, then we can reproduce it. Follow?"

"Excellent idea," said Thompson. "Kennebec thought of that?"

"Kennebec is a smart man," said Lane. "He wanted the stuff in the Little Man's ship--stuff none of us can understand yet. He agreed to come out here and blast the machine. But he considered it likely that the Little Man was making a cat's-paw out of the human race and he wanted to repair any damage done as soon as we found out we'd made a mistake."

"Did you ever think that the interval between destroying this and getting the reproduction in working order might be just time enough?" demanded Thompson.

"Yup. I've figured all of that. But I'm following orders, Billy. I'm going to wreck that thing as soon as you tell me you can reproduce it."

Downing interrupted. "You're going to do it? I am."

"Want to bet?" snapped Lane.

"Cut it," said Thompson.

"Make you a deal," said Lane, ignoring Thompson.

"Go on."

"I order you to stop it," snapped Thompson.

"Go fly a kite," growled Lane. "Look, Downing, I'll fight you for the privilege of destroying that machine."

"Deal. How?"

"When Billy has his pictures and data, we'll take off in our fleeters. The idea will be to see who can blast the thing first--no holds barred, right?"

"It's one way of finding out who's the best flier," agreed Downing.

Toralen Ki looked up at Thompson. Billy smiled. He made motions, conveyed the idea to the Little Man that Downing and Lane were going out to destroy the machine personally.

Toralen Ki fumbled for the meaning and then understood. He agreed vigorously, nodding and smiling.

"The Little Man here says to go ahead," Thompson said, into the communicator. "I'm supposed to be a buffer until this mission is complete--it will be complete when that machine is blasted. Everybody knows that you fellows are going to go rivet-cutting sooner or later--might as well have something to do it over."

"Thanks," said Downing dryly. "And the guy that loses makes a public announcement of his inferiority, see?"

"I'll be listening to you," came Lane's taunting laugh.

"What you'll be hearing is my acceptance," returned Downing.

* * * * *

Thompson left them quibbling and took his crew over to the meteor that carried the machine. It was a real meteor, a huge one almost a half mile in jagged diameter. A well penetrated it, sealed by huge metal doors. They breached the doors and resealed them, once they were inside, to pressurize the cavern.

Then they went to work on the huge machine.

It was bizarre. It was unreal and unearthly. Atomic generators powered it silently, pouring torrents of high power into its apparently senseless circuits. Great silvery crystals twisted and distorted slowly under piezoelectric stress, and sputtered-silver contacts carried off the impulses to other circuits.

Solid metal bars carried some sort of circulatory impulse from place to place--they were reminiscent of wave-guide plumbing but no microwave set-up could function in a system like this.

Then, slowly, the thing appeared to have pattern. Whatever it was, the output of the slowly-distorting crystals was fed in or out of phase through filters and transmission bars to the topmost crystal. It was multi-faceted and obviously not a natural formation. It scintillated and pulsed rapidly, and the facets gleamed against the lights as the crystal throbbed in tune with the feeding currents.

"This," said Thompson, "is going to be reproduced later if for no other reason than just sheer curiosity. Whoever built it is a little ahead of our time and I want to get caught up. Benign or malignant, it must be remade and studied."

Then for hours, Thompson's technicians went over the machine with a fine-tooth comb. Pictures--tridimensional shots, moving pictures, microtime film, and hand sketches. Technicians measured potentials, made pictures of wave shapes from the oscilloscope patterns, and drew endless schematic diagrams. Metallurgists took minute samples of the metals, of the dielectrics, of the crystals themselves, cutting bits out with microscopic modine beams.

Then, as they ran out of things to measure, Thompson took one last look at it. "O.K., fellows," he said, "can you rebuild it?"

"To the last decimal place."

"It's alien," warned Thompson.

"It's still made of metal and crystal."

"O.K." He turned to Toralen Ki and made suggestive motions. He turned off the main feed line, and the atomics thrummed to a stop. Then he suggested that now it was off, why didn't they just take it back to Terra and not bother reproducing it. Toralen Ki shook his head--No. He waved Thompson to come along, and they left the machine in the meteor forever.

"I'm finished," said Thompson, "but wait before you blast. The Little Man seems to want me to confer with him for a moment."

Thompson's ship took off. Toralen Ki emerged from his stateroom with the instrument. He planted it on a table, turned it on, and strapped the plate to his forehead. He offered the other one to Thompson.

Thompson understood. He knew that the Little People had a means of mental communication that augmented their speech. He accepted the plate and strapped it on his own head.

"Now," said Toralen Ki, "I may at last converse with you and your race."

"What is the machine?" asked Thompson.

"The others--they are all right?"

Thompson nodded. "They are destroying the machine. Tell me, what is it?"

Toralen Ki nodded in agreement. "Tell them to destroy it and then to return, for I must speak with them through this, now that the machine is stopped and I may. But destroy it, for the Loard-vogh may have remote control and if they have, it may be started again at any moment."

"Before I blast any alien machine," said Thompson, "I must know what it is. You insist that it be destroyed. How do I know that the machine is not benign?"

* * * * *

"The machine," explained Toralen Ki, "is a device which suppresses the mental activity of all races within its field of radiation. It was built by a ruthless and predatory race to hold down the overall galactic mentality. It must be destroyed, for even though it is not running, full and complete regaining of the mental strength will not be possible until the machine is destroyed because a certain amount of residual power exists in the radiating crystal."

Thompson smiled, nodded, and went to the communicator. "O.K., fellows, have your fun. Blast it!"

Two ships circled Thompson's craft--two tiny ships, both as fleet as a beam of light and as maneuverable as thought. They circled one another, winding away from Thompson's ship in a tight twin-corkscrew spiral.

"Twenty thousand years ago--of your years--this race planned to conquer the Galaxy. They were an old race then, a mad race, with dreams of grandeur. Their numbers were countless, for they were spreading through their own section of the Galaxy like a mobile gas.

"They struck trouble, twenty thousand years ago. They hit a race that fought them--that almost succeeded in holding them to their line. Unfortunately, they were too numerous. They won. And then they decided that it would take many thousands of years of work to conquer the Galaxy. And in those years, younger, lustier races might evolve. Races that by sheer youth and strength might outstrip them. And so they made and sent forth horde upon horde of these suppressors.

"Your race," continued Toralen Ki, "has never been able to use its full mental power. That is because of the suppressor. True, you are a long way from the suppressor, but its power is fearsome and its effect is lasting. It passed through your system thousands of years ago and it held sway over your mental ability to now.

"Your race," said Toralen Ki, "is best equipped to fight the Loard-vogh."

"I don't feel any more intelligent than I did before," objected Thompson.

"No, because you have been under the influence of the suppressor for countless generations. It has become an inherited trait. It will remain an inherited trait until the mentality of the human race is energized, or triggered by a rather powerful wave of mental energy.

"The Loard-vogh will enslave the Galaxy if they are not stopped. Our original home was overrun three thousand years ago, and fourteen times they have caught up with us. Again, Tlembo is being attacked, or perhaps it has not started yet. Fourteen planets named Tlembo lie in our history, and fourteen times have we combed the Galaxy waiting and seeking a race with the proper mental power and technical ability. It would have been useless to energize your minds a thousand years ago, Solarian, for you had not the technical skill to accept it. The shock would have made you all mad. You believe me of superior intellect and knowledge because I have been able to make this machine. I am acknowledged the highest intellect among the Tlembans. I intend to sacrifice my intellect for humanity. The energizing will destroy me."

* * * * *