The Alien by Raymond F. Jones (best motivational books to read TXT) 📗

and fled in panic. The blue radiance of the Atom Stream played about the ship, clearing a space beyond Jandro. Then the view of all the ancient city and the fleeing Disciples was cut off as the impenetrable force shell went out. Mason and two of the crew were already in suits and in the lock. They opened it the instant the force shell stabilized.

Jandro had been lying in the sunlight. That might have saved him. Underwood thought, for the suit absorbed the radiant heat.

The three men reached the Dragboran and lifted him carefully. They did not know whether he was dead or alive as they gently rolled him onto a stretcher and carried him to the ship.

Underwood located Akers, the surgeon next in skill to Illia, who ordered the surgery prepared. Underwood left his post and sought Illia. Jandro would need all her skill if he still lived. But he wondered if the engineer, Armstrong, did too.

Underwood found her still in the room where Armstrong lay. She was rising from her knees as he entered.

"There was nothing to be done for him," said Illia. "I stayed until he died. Do you need me anywhere else?"

"Yes. Jandro was shot outside. Akers is making ready, but I want you to take over. Jandro is the key to our whole success here. If he's alive, he's got to be kept alive."

Illia looked at him questioningly.

"I'll do my best," she cried.

Akers was quite willing for Illia to take over when he saw Jandro. The wound was ghastly to see, slashing across the full width of the chest.

While Jandro was in surgery, Underwood called a general meeting. They gathered rapidly in the conference room, but their worn and strained faces were little short of tragic.

"We've lost our chance for any Dragboran super-weapon we might have found in the ruins here," said Underwood without preamble. "We're defenseless—except for the shell—and outnumbered. We can't run because the fleet can run faster, and we can't stay bottled up here forever. I can think of only one thing possible that we can do."

The others did not need to be reminded of the hopelessness of their situation, but their eyes lighted with interest at the last sentence. Then he outlined briefly his idea of obtaining the organs and powers that Jandro possessed and allowing themselves to be captured and taken to Demarzule.

"It sounds good for a last-ditch stand," said Mason. "But you haven't explained how we are going to get back to the moon so that we can obtain these things from the Dragbora."

"That is the one missing element of the plan," said Underwood. Then he added fiercely, "And it's got to be solved! That's why I called you here. I haven't the answer, but together we've got to find it. It's our last chance to stop Demarzule."

Mason jumped to his feet. "There ought to be several hours yet before the fleet arrives. We might have time to rig up a field generator and set up a dummy here to make the Disciples believe we're hiding under it, while we actually take off for the moon."

"That's it!" Underwood exclaimed. "Only we'll have to move around the planet to avoid detection by the local garrison. But that will do it!"

The interphone sounded. Illia said, "We're finished, Del. Jandro is alive, but he'll be dead within an hour. If you want to see him, you'd better come now."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Underwood started for the door without hesitation. "We'll try your plan, Mason. Take over. Dreyer, Phyfe—please come along with me."

They hurried to the room next to surgery where Jandro lay in bed, motionless and unseeing. Only Illia and Akers were with him.

At the sight of that unmoving figure, Underwood experienced a depth of sorrow and pity that wiped out all other thoughts for a moment. He felt that he alone of all the Earthmen could understand the deep rebellion, the dreams and the hopes that had been the driving force in Jandro's life. And this was a mean end for such bright dreams—death at the hands of crazed fanatics on a Heaven World that had proved to be anything but that.

Underwood thought of the green, shining moon of the refugee Dragbora where men lived in peace with one another. The moon that Jandro would never see again.

Jandro's eyes fluttered open slowly and gradual recognition came into them. Dreyer said softly, "We're sorry. If there were anything within our power to get you back to your own world and your own people, we would do it. I hope you know that."

"Of course," said Jandro slowly. "I would like my seaa-abasa to be with those of my ancestors for the day when life will return. But I think perhaps it never will. It is like our dream of the gods, only a delusion. As for death, that is certain for every man. How or when it comes is not important. It is strange for me to observe the grief of animals for a man. Strange—"

"Doesn't he suppose there was a time when the Dragbora never had the mother-flesh and the secret of the abasa?" Asked Underwood, and Dreyer translated for him.

"Naturally," Jandro replied. "We were merely animals then, as you are now. When you came in your ships of metal, all of us thought surely the gods had come to return us to Heaven World again. You did us a great favor in showing us how wrong we were in our legends and our dreams. But until we arrived on this planet, I still thought you were superior beings because I could not detect your epthalia. None of us have the ability to hide it from each other."

"But you knew it when we were attacked?" said Dreyer.

"I could not understand why you did not act to forestall your enemies who were so apparent to me. Then I realized that it was because you did not possess the abasa at all. I was frightened because I did not know what to do. I had never dreamed in all my life that I would meet with creatures who might be gods because they possessed the metals, and yet were lower than men because they did not have the abasa. I did not understand."

"We do not understand many things about each other," said Underwood, "but perhaps you understand us well enough now to know that we need your help against these enemies of ours—and of yours.

"Many hundreds of thousands of years ago, there was a race, called the Sirenians, and they were deadly enemies of your race, the Dragbora. Like you, they possessed the abasa, but instead of living peacefully they set out to conquer all the worlds and the Galaxies. In the end they were defeated by your people who had some mysterious weapon that penetrated every defense of the Sirenians. We came to your ancient world to find a clue to that weapon because one of the Sirenians succeeded in surviving and is now at large upon our own world. He has seized control over our people and is setting out to sweep the Galaxies with conquest and blood. In time he will find even your little world. The civilizations of many Galaxies will suffer centuries of retrogression.

"We didn't find the weapon we came for, and now our chance is gone, for the fleet of Demarzule, the Sirenian, is almost upon us. There is just one hope left to us.

"We believe that his men will capture us alive and take us to him if we permit it. If we could be taken into his presence bearing the power of destruction that lies in the abasa, we might be able to destroy him.

"Can you—will you—make it possible for us to gain that power by grafting the abasa in some of us upon your world?"

Dreyer translated as rapidly as possible the swift spoken words of Underwood while Jandro lay with closed eyes, as if sleeping a dreamless sleep. It was a long time after Dreyer finished that Jandro slowly opened his eyes again.

His voice was so low that Dreyer had to lean forward to catch his words.

"It is a strange story you tell," he said, "but I am impressed that what you say is true. As to your request—no. It would be utterly impossible for you to be given fresh abasa as are the young of our race. Not that I wouldn't make it possible for some of you—a very few—to receive them, if I could, but the abasa can be installed in only the very young.

"The use of the abasa is similar to that of the organs of walking or speaking. The organs must develop from their rudimentary forms through long years of usage, and skill with them comes much more slowly than any of the other common skills. Though they are installed in us in infancy, most of us are well matured before we gain great skill. For this reason alone it would be impossible for you to have the organs."

Across the bed, Underwood's eyes met Illia's and held for an endless moment. In her he sought strength to endure the crushing disappointment. Illia's eyes gave him blind assurance that there would yet be a way.

"Your race will, in time, develop and learn the use of the abasa," Jandro went on, "but not for many hundreds of generations. From what I have seen of your people, I wonder what your world would be like if every one possessed the power to kill at will, silently, and without detection. I do not know the answer to that, but I ask you to answer it for yourselves. The mere fact that you have not yet developed the abasa is proof that you are not ready for it.

"The Dragbora live in peace not because they have such terrible power; they can live with such power because they have first learned how men must live with one another. You cannot understand why the power of death is inherent in the abasa. It is merely one of the inevitable functions that accompany the other greater and more useful powers, most of which you shall, of course, never know. I wonder if you would want the abasa, even if it were possible for you to possess it," Jandro finished.

"For our race? No!" Underwood shuddered at the thought of every man of Earth possessing instant, undetectable powers of death over his neighbor. "You are right in that, Jandro. Whatever the other powers of the abasa may be, we could not live with it. But Demarzule is a totally extraneous factor not considered in our own evolution. We have no defense against him. If the power of death in the abasa could be used to destroy him, it would give our race its one chance of staving off this threat.

"Yet you say it is impossible. It means for us no hope against the barbarism that will destroy our civilization and brutalize our people, not to mention what it means to the other civilizations of the Galaxy—including your own."

There was scarcely the sound of their breathing within the room as the Earthmen avoided each others' eyes now, staring down at the closed ones of Jandro.

"Your people hardly deserve the scourge of Demarzule and the Sirenian demand for supremacy," said Jandro slowly. "And what you say of the rest of the Universe is true. In a way, the Dragbora are responsible. Demarzule is a product of the Sirenian-Dragboran culture. My ancestors should have made more sure of the total extinction of the Sirenian branch. Perhaps there is one way in which we could yet help."

"You can help?" Underwood asked eagerly and incredulously.

"I have little longer to live. It would be worthwhile if, in that hour left to me, I could complete the task of extinction—or at least enable you to do so. If one of you is willing to take the risk, I will do what I can."

"No risk is too great! But what can be done?"

"As far as I know, it has never been attempted, but perhaps my own abasa could be transferred to you."

Dreyer translated the offer, his glance going from Illia to Underwood. Something of hope seemed to come again into his eyes.

Underwood caught his breath sharply. "A set of fully developed abasa transferred to my own body! There would be one of us to meet Demarzule on his own level. Illia—"

Her face was suddenly white. "It's impossible, Del! I couldn't perform such an operation without any previous study with their anatomy. I can't do it!"

"It's got to be done, Illia. I'll take a chance on your skill."

"That's an utterly ridiculous statement. I have no skill in a case like this. Tell him, Dr. Dreyer. He can't expect that much of me."

"I don't know, Illia," said the semanticist. "It seems to me that you are confusing your