Out of This World. Lawrence Watt-EvansЧитать онлайн книгу.
The Under-Secretary shoved papers across the desk, letting the telepath continue standing at attention. After a moment he looked up.
“The natives think our people are crazy?” he asked. “I mean, certifiably insane?”
The telepath nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said. “Either that, or perpetrating a hoax of some kind.”
“Will they gas ‘em?”
The telepath hesitated. “I don’t think so, sir,” she said. “When they were taken into custody, the arresting officers read each of the crewmen a statement of rights and privileges. It’s Prossie’s... it’s Telepath Thorpe’s impression that the culture is relatively non-violent and benevolent. Her cell is equipped with its own plumbing and electric light, and no one has struck her; she’s still wearing her own uniform, in fact, though they did take her helmet and search her for weapons. She’s seen no sign of a gallows or whipping post, nor any other means of torture or execution.”
The Under-Secretary stared at her. “Bunch of wimps,” he said. “Just like she said. And these are the people we thought might have super-weapons for us?”
The telepath didn’t respond. She resisted the temptation to ask just who had said what about wimps, and the even stronger temptation to snatch the answer from the Under-Secretary’s mind.
“All right,” he said. “Go away. Dismissed.” He turned back to his papers.
“Sir?” the telepath said.
The Under-Secretary looked up. “What is it?” he demanded.
Hesitantly, the telepath asked, “Will we be sending a rescue mission? What should I tell Prossie?”
“I’ll be taking it under advisement, Telepath, but you can tell her, provisionally, that we plan no rescue mission,” the Under-Secretary said. “It’d be a waste of time and money and manpower. How would we rescue anyone, anyway, when our warp comes out in mid-air and our anti-gravity doesn’t work there? And blasters don’t work; how would we get them out if our weapons won’t fire? No, they’re on their own. We can keep in touch, and re-open the warp if they can find a way to get to it, but beyond that I’m writing the whole thing off as a failure. We’ll take care of Shadow ourselves.”
“But, sir...” The telepath didn’t finish her protest; even before the Under-Secretary spoke she had inadvertantly, and against all her careful training and discipline, read his response.
“No buts. Ruthless was expendable, or we wouldn’t have sent her, and she’s lost. No point in wasting any more men trying to get her back. Copley probably shouldn’t have sent her in the first place, not without more advance work. It sounds to me as if Cahn and his crew aren’t badly off—hell, we’ve got plenty of men on active duty who live in worse than those cells, from what you’ve said. They may even be let go, and then they’ll be free to look around and maybe find a way back. You’ll be checking in with Thorpe every so often—say, every forty-eight hours, if your other duties allow. They’ll be all right. So we’ll get on to other things. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” The telepath offered no further argument. For one thing, she had seen at least part of the real reason underneath Under-Secretary Bascombe’s thoughts.
There were the usual petty political concerns that flavored almost everyone’s motivations, the personal jealousies and competitions that every telepath learned to ignore—in this case, the project was associated with Major Copley, who had been falling out of favor even before his appendicitis sent him to the hospital and knocked him out of the inner circle, so continuing it was a bad career move. Underneath that, though, Carrie found a good and logical reason.
If they sent in a rescue mission and shot up a jail in this other universe, they would be making an enemy of the people there, of the dominant nation, the United States of America, as it was called. If the super-weapons really did exist, they would then be more likely to be turned against the Empire than against Shadow.
She couldn’t argue with that.
“Dismissed,” the Under-Secretary said.
* * * *
“Our messenger is bespoke,” Valadrakul reported.
Raven sat up and thumped the chalice onto the table by his chair. “And?” he demanded.
“The sky-ship is fallen, and its crew prisoners in the land of Earth.”
“Ah, evil tidings, ‘twould seem,” Raven muttered. “Fallen, you say?”
“Aye,” the wizard said. “The magicks that hold it aloft failed, when the new realm was reached.”
Raven considered that for a moment, then asked, “Wherefore was this word so tardy—was it said?”
The wizard nodded. “Aye,” he said. “’Twould seem that the spells of telepaths have no virtue in Earth, as the flying spells have none, and as our own magicks do naught in the Empire.”
Raven nodded. “I see,” he said. He rubbed his temple, trying to think. “Prisoners, say you? Of whom, and wherefore?”
“Of—an’ it be I have this right—of the constabulary of the County of Montgomery, in Mary’s Land.”
“And wherefore?”
“For trespass upon a lady’s park, and the unlawful casting of debris upon the land, in that thereupon the ship was fallen.”
Raven stared for a moment, then started to speak, then thought better of it.
Valadrakul waited.
“At first,” said Raven, at last, “I thought to shout at you, good wizard, and denounce this tale as madness—knights held for letting fall their transport—but upon consideration, I fear you speak only simple truth, for the land of Earth is strange indeed. I saw as much with mine own eyes.”
“Aye, marry,” Valadrakul replied.
“What does the Empire intend, then? Have we word? Does mount an expedition to free the men, or offer ransom?”
“Nay,” said the wizard. “That lordling John Bascombe, him that they call Under-Secretary for Interdimensional Affairs, has but moments ago said that such an effort would serve no good purpose, that the people of Earth do not harm prisoners. Among themselves, the mind-readers say he fears lest Earth be affronted thereby and fight on the side of Shadow ‘gainst the Empire.”
“Think you this is truth?” Raven asked.
Valadrakul shrugged. “Who can say?”
“Think you, perhaps, that this Under-Secretary Bascombe might himself be a creature of Shadow?”
Valadrakul considered that carefully before replying, “In truth, I know not, but methinks he be otherwise. His reasoning is not valorous, yet ‘tis sound enough. Perchance he has such creatures among his counsellors, but I think he be not one himself.”
Raven nodded.
“What think you would befall,” he said, “should we free these men from durance, and bring them hither?”
Valadrakul spread his hands. “Who can say?” he said.
“Perhaps,” Raven said slowly, “Messire Pel Brown can say.”
* * * *
There was nothing on the six o’clock news Sunday evening about a spaceship, nor on the ten o’clock on Channel 5, nor the eleven o’clock; in desperation, Pel even tried CNN and CNN Headline.
“They wouldn’t have anything,” Nancy told him. “Not if the networks don’t.”
Pel protested, “Sometimes they have stuff the networks don’t. You remember the boys in Baghdad, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” Nancy said. “And I know they break a lot of