Part 1

The Star Guardsman

By ALBERT DePINA

Europa was the only sanctuary for Earth's doomed millions. Yet to hold it, Mark Lynn had to fight his traitorous Overlords. And he was destined to lose--for his weapons were antiquated, his allies a fragile peaceful race.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

"Your business?"

The Martian Proctor's parchment-like face was blank as he examined Lynn's pass-card impassively.

"Since when are Internationals given explanations?" Mark Lynn's dark green eyes glowed. "I've been given none."

"In the Council Hall, humility's essential." The tall Martian drew himself erect, arrogantly.

"See that you observe it, then." Lynn barked laconically and turning entered the tube, while the violet-eyed Planetarian gasped in incredulity.

When the door of the tube in which he'd been transported opened silently, Mark Lynn found himself before a blank, polished wall of Beryloy, but as he stepped before it, the wall slid aside to reveal an austere room of dura-plon whose walls were buckled in places, as if they'd endured tremendous pressure; part of the room was marked off by beryloy cables, where a _bas-relief_ of man's progress had crumbled to the floor and had not been removed as yet. The ceiling seemed uneven, the polished expanse of floor was asymmetrical.

Across an enormous desk, now covered by a plotting chart, a figure dressed in the purple uniform of a scientist, with the golden cord of the Psychologists, gazed at him placidly out of level hazel eyes.

The short-cropped hair that escaped the confines of the tight, silver kepis, was golden-brown, unruly, and the oval face freckle-sprinkled had the serious expression of a precocious child.

* * * * *

Mark regarded the girl gravely, startled at her youth, although being accustomed to female scientists her sex did not surprise him. He remained silent, as the etiquette of 2,022 demanded when before the ruling class.

"You've made a characteristic beginning, Spacer Lynn," the girl observed coldly and gestured toward a visi-screen at her side. "Was it necessary to leave the Proctor frothing?"

"At the moment, yes!" Mark replied evenly. "Martian arrogance annoys me, scientist."

The girl frowned slightly. "I'm Doctor Fortun," she stated after a pause. "The Council has decided to honor you with a mission. It is a problem particularly suited to your ... er ... talents; your record shows a rare agility of mind impossible to find among Civicans."

"That's because controls one, six and fifteen failed to affect me," Mark said smiling, unconsciously displaying magnificent teeth, dazzling against the background of his space-tanned features.

"Because you're a ..." the girl began irritably and then checked herself. "No matter, Spacer Lynn."

"Why not finish it?" Mark sat down, stretching long, sinewy legs until he sprawled relaxed and loose-jointed, so that it seemed even his magnificent muscles would never be able to lift the great body. "Atavistic, is the word." He grinned engagingly and hooded his eyes slightly as he appraised Doctor Fortun with undisguised admiration.

The young scientist reddened, but she continued in a quiet voice.

"You were selected because you evolved the expedient of taking Internationals on space exploration, in defiance of the Council Law that no International can serve more than two years in one position, by simply shifting them to different levels of work on the Spacers, where they would be unlikely to contact each other, and, incidentally, managed to keep yourself as a Spacer long after your term had expired.

"Your record shows also that you circumvented the non-voting status of Internationals by organizing Civicans into groups to vote for the interests of Internationals in exchange for confidential information on planetary resettlement, so that they could obtain choice localities...."

"There's a fundamental necessity of calling worn-out laws to the attention of the Council by evasion, when they refuse to listen," Mark explained affably.

Doctor Fortun straightened angrily, her hazel eyes gold-bright with annoyance. "You were not summoned to discuss revision of existing laws," she flashed. "That impudence of yours hardly becomes...." She was at a loss for words. Belonging as she did to the highest hereditary rank in the realm, the smiling assurance of Spacer Lynn, three ranks beneath her, and his frank insolence was a new experience to the girl.

Mark Lynn laughed joyously. The admiration in his eyes deepened.

"Thank the eternal stars!" He exclaimed.

"Have you gone mad?" The girl's voice was tight with fury. "Dare you laugh at a scientist?"

"No, not mad--merely happy! First the Council calls me because being _International_ and beyond Civican control my individualism and my freedom of action are useful; you, of course, approve. Then when I show those very qualities, you're furious. And, I'm happy because ..." his voice dwindled.

"Yes, go on!" Her words were sheathed in velvet, but her eyes were feral, like flaming topaz.

"Because it's paradoxical and shows you're still a woman--lovelier than any I've ever seen," he finished almost in a whisper.

* * * * *

Doctor Fortun looked as if she were about to slap his face. Remembering the dignity of a scientist in time, she gazed at Mark Lynn with a mixture of feelings. Finally, something of his infectious good-nature, of his open admiration touched her and she laughed quietly.

"You are right, Spacer Lynn," she acknowledged. "For a moment I forgot I was a Psychologist--it's a quality about you that for an instant made me feel less a scientist and more a ... but never mind. We'll be together for the Deity knows how long, and it's futile to begin by quarrelling. Lean forward so you can see this chart, I'll explain."

"We'll be together, did you say?" Mark was delighted. "Then give me a dozen problems!"

"Yes," she replied dubiously. "As a Psychologist I'll be part of the expedition. You'll find that this one problem will be more than enough." The girl pressed a button on her desk and one of the undamaged walls began to glow until it became an astro-map, a reproduction of charted space. Each planet was indicated in relative size, and in the lower center, pulsing angrily a thin red line marked "Comet" seemed to be approaching inferior conjunction with Terra.

"Is that the problem?" Mark asked. "Simple! When it enters Terra's orbit, life on Terra ceases. Evacuation's the only possible solution. I knew that comet was approaching, but not being an Astronomer I didn't compute its trajectory. Besides, being on Io is like being in exile--news hardly ever reaches us there. Will it destroy Terra completely?"

"No, not entirely. At first, indications were that it would enter the orbit of our system at such an angle that Terra would be destroyed. However, we've checked with the observatories on Pluto since then, and it has been determined that it will merely enter the field of attraction sufficiently to shift the axis to opposition. Of course, this will render Terra unfit for habitation ... perhaps for a century or two ... therefore, as you realized, evacuation's the answer."

"I'm listening," Mark said earnestly, as the magnitude of the problem before them struck him. "However, you're aware I'm not an astronomer, and the technique of evacuation could best be handled by the Council itself. I'm afraid I still don't quite see what my role's to be.... But whatever it is, I'm ready."

"Turn your attention to this plotting chart," Doctor Fortun indicated the map on her desk. "These areas marked in red have already been affected. Tremors have increased and volcanic openings are occurring in these and these areas, never dangerous before. While you were on Io awaiting orders for another exploratory journey, we began to attempt resettlement of our _Civicans_ and _Ruralians_ on other Planets--even giving them their choice of occupations and of planets ... quite a concession you must agree."

"Quite!" The irony in his voice seemed to escape her.

* * * * *

"We have succeeded in resettling two-thirds of Terra's population on Mars and Venus, and a limited number on Mercury; this last world only offered limited space at best in its twilight zone, and it was necessary to construct subterranean cities beneath its dark side--the frigid half--but that's another problem. Now, however, Venus refuses to accept any more Terrans and Mars has also closed its doors to us. Under existing treaties they have no right to exclude Terrans, but we're hardly in a position to enforce them now."

"Hardly!" Lynn agreed sardonically.

"The problem's further complicated by the innate characteristics of this remaining third," Doctor Fortun paused, and gazed very intently into the dark green eyes of the Spacer before she resumed.

"They're for the most part internationals, ruralians who originally refused to undergo controls one and six, and were not condemned to Power Reserve because of the increasing need for Vitaminic Flora, as you no doubt know that vibroponics, due to some peculiarity of the radiations are greatly deficient in certain vitamins. The balance are Planetarians from throughout the system who flatly refuse to be repatriated. And, last but certainly not least, religious and philosophic groups--the former, fanatical believers in _ancestrals_ and atavistic cults, who chose to regard this cosmic tragedy as a manifestation of Divine Wrath and devote their time to frenzied, masochistic meetings and revivals. The latter have turned stoic, and choose to see nothing in our civilization worth living for, claiming that all incentive has been removed, consequently, they prefer to meet their fate on Terra. In short, this last third is completely intractable."

"I'm amazed the Council's taken no measures!" Mark exclaimed.

"Oh, measures have been taken, of course. The philosophers have had rank and prerogatives--even when they had scientific honors--nullified. The religious groups have had their food allowance reduced to the starvation point and all their privileges recalled. The Internationals ..." here she paused again as she regarded Mark, "since they're free-thinkers, and the most dangerous of the lot, were ordered to report for control-treatment under penalty of death. They promptly took to the fastnesses in the mountains and deserts by the millions, and are existing on game and vegetables to be found in the now abandoned regions. They are armed for the most part."

Mark Lynn was openly grinning now, but the girl chose to ignore it and continued:

"Unfortunately, our armed forces are too busy keeping order in the new resettlements, or they would have been subdued long ago. The resettlements have been supplied with seed, tools, cattle, metallic substances, concentrated fuel, machinery ... in fact, everything necessary for a successful evacuation. This last group would have been similarly supplied, they were even given a reprieve for their insubordination and offered special terms--the Council can be munificent!" For an instant her voice rang with exaltation. "But they absolutely refuse evacuation, except...."

"Except what?" Lynn was all attention, sensing that this was the core of the problem.

"Except on their own terms!" The young scientist exclaimed with a trace of bitterness.

"But why don't you permit them to decide what manner of death they're to have? What possible interest can the Council have in what to them is an atavistic, intransigent group that detests our system of planned existence? If the prospect of a continuation of this civilization gags them, even in another planet, then obviously their choice to remain and die here should be respected." Mark's voice was very soft.

The limpid hazel eyes of the girl mirrored her shock at Mark's words.

"Impossible! It would be horribly wasteful. And, a distinct failure on the Council's part. Those lives can be useful--the Council never fails!"

"Amen!" Mark Lynn exclaimed archaically. "And where do I come in?"

The irony of his present situation didn't escape him. That he, an _International_, a strata of the highly complex social order considered most dangerous, should be called in to solve a problem of such magnitude, involving (of all people) Internationals and intransigents, would have been fantastic to anyone not acquainted with the subtle and at times Machiavellian methods of the Council.

* * * * *

Doctor Fortun handed him a rolled, tissue-thin, metallic cylinder for an answer.

"Those are your orders from the Council," she said soberly. "I'm but an agent, as you know. Just one among the scientists who will be in charge upon arrival. Do not read it now. It is final. Take this card, it's a permit to enter a scientific News-Casting Booth and scan all available data for the past year. We know that out of the remaining third, roughly three or four hundred million at best will be transportable. The balance are far too old to withstand the journey--their power potential is negligible, and in any case, they'd much rather die than leave. But it's the three or four hundred million transportables who are highly useful for the particular purpose of the Council, that we must ... or rather," she smiled faintly, "you must convince." She opened a drawer and extracted a gleaming metal disk. "These credits will be ample," she said, extending it to Mark.

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.