The Saga of Lost Earths Read online

  Instant nothing.

  It was as if he were painfully clawing his way out of some deep cavern. Mentally, he strained every morsel of his being. Finally he made it.

  He blinked up at Silia. It took a few seconds to remember what had happened. How the beautiful girl with sea-green eyes had unbelievably interrupted his routine job at the computer complex and brought him down to the underground passageway where he had seen Her.

  Silia's oval face wore an anxious frown.

  “He's coming out of it, Uncle,” Carl heard her say to somebody out of his view. Her raven hair swung down when she turned back to Carl, who was, he realized, lying on a lab table of some kind.

  “Feel better now?” she asked.

  Carl grimaced and tried to sit up. He didn't make it. It was as if something had sucked the strength out of him, back in that passageway. He fell back weakly. Sleep threatened, but he fought it. His mind roiled with questions. But for the moment his talk organs wouldn't work any more than his arm and back muscles would.

  He surrendered provisionally to lassitude, vaguely conscious of low voices above him. Once a needle jabbed his arm.

  “Ouch,"

  “Sorry,” Silia's voice said. He blinked open his eyes. She was smiling crookedly. “I rather enjoyed that, after you tried to kill me and all."

  “Tried to kill you!"

  He bolted up painfully. “Where am I? What happened? And who the hell-"

  “Easy, Carl."

  The little man standing next to Silia was misshapen; one shoulder was higher than the other, one hand, his left, was half-normal size. But under a startling amount of gray-white frizzle were sharp eyes in a triangular face that glowed with a kind of impatient fervor.

  “I'm Dr. Clifford Enoch. You have already met my niece. Silia works with me on my experiments. She is my right hand, literally.” He held up the withered member.

  Carl managed to swing his legs down off the padded table; a rapid glance to orient himself and make some small sense out of all that had happened revealed that he was indeed in a small experimental laboratory of some kind.

  “And I suppose I'm one of your experiments,” he groused, wriggling his shoulders and members to set the sluggish juices flowing again.

  “No, no.” Dr. Clifford Enoch smiled faintly. “You were brought here after the ... um ... invasion."

  “Invasion?"

  “Yes. And a lucky thing it was that I became worried when Silia didn't get back as soon as expected, when she was sent to fetch you. I stopped you just in time. You were going to kill her, you know."

  “I don't know!” Carl gave his head a savage shake. “I don't know anything!"

  “You will, presently."

  “Take it easy, Carl.” Silia's hand on his arm pushed back the bogies. “You must rest for a few minutes more, before Dr. Enoch takes you into the council chamber. They must be livid by now."

  “Let ‘em wait!” the little hunched doctor snorted. “He'll need all his wits about him, facing them and their pat little illusions!"

  “My uncle doesn't always see eye to eye with the council,” Silia explained. “They consider him something of a maverick.” She added, laughing, “Like you, come to think of it."

  “They lump me in with the old wizards and warlocks,” Dr. Enoch told him, “Just because I believe that there are alien powers, alien forces, hovering just out of sight. That the primitives were right to fear the dark and to invent runes to cast out what they called demons. My niece and I have traveled to all the dark musty corners of the world to find and tape such invocations.

  “Them and their tight little minds!” He snorted like a stallion. “Who can even conceive of what is out there in the great immensity of Space, and what it feeds on? What it wants? Not to mentioned...” He interrupted himself with another snort. “Think this over, boy. If the history of this cinder of a planet in the great eye of space and time could be condensed into a single year, the whole history of man and his futile grabs at intelligence would occupy only one minute! Ah! So what about all the rest of Earth's history, eh? What about all the other ‘legendary’ eras?"

  Carl shrugged wryly.

  “Don't over-excite yourself, Uncle,” Silia soothed. She turned to Carl anxiously. “Uncle has made so-called myths and legends his life's study; he believes that the answer, or part of it, lies in sonics: songs, chants, combinations of raw bound and light spectra, too, that can put mankind in touch with creatures from...” She shrugged and sighed, “Who knows?"

  Carl slipped down from his perch and paced, scowling. “What I want to know is where I come in? And what about this ‘possession’ that took hold of me?"

  Dr. Enoch pointed to the light-tube cradled in a cloth lab napkin, on a nearby table. Carl followed his grim look. He shrugged.

  “Looks harmless enough, except for the weapon part,” he observed. He reached out his hand.

  “Don't touch it!” Silia grabbed Carl's arm.

  “Why not? What-"

  “It's one of the new alloys. Made in part from one of the Rare Earths recently discovered in a North European mine."

  “Rare Earths?"

  “Oxide mineral substances. Valence of 3. Once we thought they only numbered atomically from 57 to 71. We're not sure what, right now. The ones we've known about a long time—lanthanum, cerium, thorium and so on—have many industrial uses. It's been less than three years since the rarest of all of them, considered non-existent there on Earth, has been identified and commercialized in alloys which-"

  A sharp buzzing cut him off, followed by a tart angry voice.

  “We are still waiting!” it told them severely. “Will you kindly cut out the chatter and get the subject into the interrogation chamber! At once!"

  * * *

  CHAPTER III

  THE CHAMBER was ovoid, with one end chopped off; around a long table, likewise oval-shaped, sat twenty-two men and women whose white or yellow or black faces all wore expressions of taut anxiety and impatience.

  Carl sucked in a sharp breath. This was no ordinary fussy little business group. Represented here were the top Psychs, including Professor Anson Graves himself. Plus the pinnacle level politicals and business bigwigs from all of the Cities.

  Silia and her uncle took their places at two empty chairs at one side. Carl just stood there, squirming inwardly to realize that he was the focal point of all those critical looks. His drab brown uniform contrasted with the vivid yellows, scarlets, and greens of these world leaders, made him all the more self-conscious. He could scarcely believe what he was seeing.

  Professor Anson Graves presided at the head of the table, a long-nosed cadaver of a man. He wore thick glasses which concealed a hearing aid. Graves was old, old, old.

  “You may sit, Carl Lempi.” He pointed a long forefinger at a chair on a dais, where they could a see Carl and assess his every eyeffick.

  Carl restrained a grin; everybody was so solemn, so pompous, and of all human foibles, Carl considered pomposity most absurd.

  “We represent the great leaders of all the Cities. I am Professor Anson Graves."

  Carl could only nod.

  “Now...” The Chairman toyed nervously with his gavel. “Do you have any idea why you were brought here?"

  “No. Sir."

  Carl frowned and nibbled at his lip. The news-vids on Level 7b gave his sector periodic views of the machinations of World Government. They were called The Cities because they covered half the planet but the vid-conclaves showed them impressive halls, with much pomp and circumstance involved. This little room was a hole-and-corner, by comparison.

  Why?

  Was it possible that, some kind of rebellion was brewing? Rebellion against Earth's cushioned regimentation?

  He blurted out his thought. Some of the faces smiled. Some exchanged significant glances.

  The weary hawk's face of the Chairman smiled glumly. He nodded at the others.

  “Yes. This is Carl Lempi. Such a fantastic idea is quite compatible wi
th his psych record."

  Something very like anger tightened Carl's jaw, rushed heat prickles to the surface of his face. He had been asked what he thought. He had answered, truthfully. Now what? Back to the old tedious grind?

  Professor Grave's dry voice cut short the small approving murmur that rippled across the conference table.

  “While it is most improbable that we should find such an anomaly here in our enlightened age, with all symptomic aggressiveness weaned out by controlled eugenics, perhaps, as Dr. Enoch points out, we are fortunate to find among us a creature with just these qualifications."

  “What qualifications?” Carl demanded.

  “The fight-syndromes of a savage. Knowledge of Finnish, even. That was a stroke of luck! And, above all, his incredibly high esp-emp faculty."

  A bluff business tycoon spoke up, his voice booming out crankily. “Let's get down to cases, shall we? We've held off too long as it is. The cartel I represent is losing money hand over fist since the mine shut down!"

  Dr. Enoch gave his stallion snort. “Who cares about you and your damn stock sales curves? We have far worse things to fear than losing money! If we don't find an answer to what's happening, our slick Psych-patterned civilization will go down the drain with the dinosaurs and the dodos!"

  The excited chatter that followed was stilled by the Chairman's gavel. “Please! We must progress with some semblance of order!” He stared at Carl as at a specimen under a microscope. “Now, we must have the facts straight. You are Carl Lempi. Son of John Lempi and Hanna Lempi, nee Koski. Born in Saginaw, Michigan on April 12, 2133. Age, 27. Level of education as prescribed by early psych-tests, 33a. Your Psych Code Number is G3pt6lhhhhh. Seventeen jobs since school. Failure to adjust in sixteen. Currently operating a computer in Level 7b, Unit jk7. Correct?"

  “I guess so.” Carl grinned. “I'm not much on mathematics."

  “So we understand. Tell us what you know about your parents?"

  Carl's bulky frame squirmed in his chair. “My father was born in Turku. Suomi. His parents came from the north. Around Inari Lake somewhere. He met my mother up that way on a summer trip.

  “After they got married, both pretty young, they came to Michigan. They were both killed on a hike into the Canadian Rockies. I was only four, but I remember them well. They were beautiful. Beautiful and wild and wacky."

  “Maladjusted, psychwise."

  Carl shrugged. “They were wonderful,” he insisted. A haunt of misted memories flooded his mind. “Hanna talked to the animals. I remember once when she found a wounded fawn in-"

  “Never mind. To proceed, you were brought up in a Cities-G orphanage. Your record indicates that you were taught Finnish by an old peasant woman who knew your parents, followed them from Suomi, in fact. She lived alone in the Woods. You used to sneak off periodically and-"

  Carl swallowed hard. Old Touni. He'd never forget her. She had never even seen a City, nor wanted to. He grinned to remember what a wild kid he had been, running off, hiding, half-starving sometimes, then eventually being dragged back to the World-Fed orphanage.

  Professor Graves brought his life's history crisply up to date. Then he asked, sharply, “Carl, do you know what the Sh's at the end of your psych-code-number stand for?"

  “Ordinarily you never would find out. Now—” He waved a hand brusquely. “The h's signify that your sense of esp-emp is fantastically strong. Five times normal, in fact."

  “Emp-esp?"

  “Extra, sensory perception. Random telepathy at moments of stress. Mental control on a staggering level. The ‘emp2’ signifies ‘empathetic transference,’ which means simply that you can, under certain conditions, enter into another emp mind and become interlocked with it. Form a oneness with it. Usually there has to be some kind of catalyst."

  Carl's blood leaped. “Like that light-tube!"

  “Not quite. Partially. Hell, I don't know! We're getting into Dr. Enoch's department and, frankly, I don't quite—” He brushed a set of fingers over his bald bead in exasperation. “You probably will recall times when you touched responsive minds. Momentarily. Finns are well-known to be high on the emp-esp lists. Irish, too. The folklore tales of these countries, and others, are cluttered with just this sort of thing, all of which can be explained in scientific terms.” He shot a sour look at Dr. Enoch and Silia. “This is where we part company. Perhaps you care to amplify, Doctor?” He grimaced distaste.

  Dr. Enoch nodded.

  “The Finnish legends of the Kalevala tell of great heroes who could sing magical things into existence. In the old sailing days a Finn was a jonah because he could chant up a storm any time he wanted to. To my niece and me, all of these things have their bases in supernormal occurrences. Cosmically important occurrences that predate our civilization's brief flick of existence on this planet. Things that reach out into the black reaches beyond our galaxy—into Time."

  The business tycoon growled a loud protest.

  “Can the fairy stories! Let's get to the meat!"

  “Very well."

  Professor Graves reached under his cut-off end of the table and lifted out something carefully wrapped in heavy fabric. He held it gingerly as if it were a deadly snake. Then, with a reflective toss, he slid it across the table in front of Carl.

  “Would you please take out what is wrapped in this cloth and tell us what you think of it, Carl?” His lips were a grim line; his tone was sardonic.

  “No, Carl!” Silia cried. “Don't!"

  Carl looked down at the wrapped thing for a few seconds, then he picked it up and unwrapped it, fast.

  “Just a raw chunk of ore of some kind,” he told all those eager faces.

  He was hefting it and trying to decide, from his limited experience with minerals, what the black striations in the rock were, when it happened.

  A sudden riot of images exploded in his mind: Emotion fraught patterns, a wild ecstasy, then stark terror that blotted the saliva from his mouth. He was aware of a kind of mindless chattering of alien voices.

  “Drop it!” Dr. Enoch shouted. “Fast!"

  He tried to, but he couldn't let go. The chunk of ore seemed to have become part of him; it was alive with inimical Force.

  * * *

  CHAPTER IV

  HIS PANIC was blind to everything except one thing: he must kill himself; it was the only way to relieve himself of this engulfing wave of horror.

  Silia moved first. Her surgical-gloved hand slapped the thing out of his hands; it went spinning to the table's center, once again a harmless chunk of inert raw ore.

  “W—What in the living hell-"

  Professor Graves proceeded, in his dry, crisp, Anglo accent. “Sorry, Carl. But it seemed the best way to demonstrate what our world is up against."

  “You mean there are more of these things?"

  “Quite. A mineful of them, apparently. Of course we have sealed it off, but before we were aware of the hideous danger, our manufacturing cartels had put it to thousands of uses. It alloys beautifully, lends itself to innumerable production facilities. And the Cities are in dire need of raw resources. Watch."

  He pressed some buttons on the arm of his chair. The room lights softened, while an oblong section of wall to his left slid away to disclose a tri-D Vid's characteristic glow.

  “This part of your briefing will give you some idea of just what is happening randomly, all over the world. Some of these scenes were actual routine psych monitorings; others were simulated. But they all happened. These and thousands like them."

  Carl felt his mind and muscles tense up for shock.

  First came a prosaic shot of an elderly man shaving himself, using a straight razor. He was obviously something of a codger, pensioned off, living alone in a cubicle that was cluttered up with old time artifacts. Shaving and humming in a tuneless, routine way.

  The old man stopped shaving suddenly. He looked down at his hand with the sharp razor in it. He let out a scream, a yell of animal terror. Then, equally sudden, a smile of pur
e rapture grew in the Santa Claus froth of shaving soap. He chuckled; then, with one blithe stroke, he cut his throat from one ear to the other.

  Next came an old lady, a fusty type, puttering at her windowbox of flowers. First, she watered them with a plastic sprinkling can, then she noticed with a frown that several of the marigolds were withered brown. She slipped a small garden shears out of a new wrapping to snip off the dead blooms. She never made it. That puzzled stare, again, followed by shuddering terror. Then she began to giggle. Then she stabbed herself in the heart with the new shears.

  A teenage youth, a food-processing engineer's new helper, was moving about his duties in one of the great plants serving the mechafes. His overseer moved through, shooting out critical glances; he stopped to give the youth some directions before he moved off between the rows of enormous vats. The youth wore a white uniform and white gloves. He proceeded to twist faucets and check dials, feeding pipelined components of vitaminized gruel into a great mixer at the center of the kitchen. Later the gruel would be flavored and solidified into psuedo-steaks and psuedo-vegetables; for the moment it was just so much gray-white goo.

  He whistled, checking the color coded dials; then, as if in a spate of boyish curiosity, he climbed up the ladder to watch the guck spill out and the sharp blades far below do their work of blending. He grinned down at the whirling blades, checking the quantity-dial from time to time. His nose began to itch, so he took off a glove to scratch it. This put him offbalance on the high ladder; he grabbed hold of the edge of the great mixing vat.

  He yelled out and tried to pull his hand off. It wouldn't pull. Then he wasn't terrified any more; he was laughing, gleefully, hysterically. Blissfully he jumped down on the sharp whirling blades.

  “Had enough, Carl?"

  Carl nodded. “You mean to tell me this is happening in all the Cities?"

  Graves nodded. “Every day, every hour, we receive news of dozens more. So far we have kept the truth from the general populace. We can't much longer. Conceive, if you will, what the result would be on all our billions, living their patterned, orderly lives in all of our cities! The panic!"