The Beyond Read online

  The Beyond -- Jean and Jeff Sutton -- (1967) (Version 2002.08.21 -- Done)

  For Mary Hansen, Denmark, Wisconsin

  Prologue

  The planet Engo turns about the Giza sun, a dusky orange star that stands at the very apex of the galaxy's third spiral arm. Across a vast, sunless gulf, it stares toward the distant Magellanic Clouds.

  Racing along its lonely path, Engo carries with it a strange orange moon. At times the moon comes within 150,000 miles of the planet's brooding face; at times it accelerates outward to a distance of over 330,000 miles.

  When the moon is closest, rumbling land tides roil Engo's surface and violent winds, born of the moon's gravitational pull, bend and toss its giant weeping agora trees. At that time torrential rains lash its surface and its rivers tumble and roar from grotesquely serrated mountains, spilling out over the fields of bulla grass. At other times the heat comes -- the season of orange heat --

  and the world is still and stifling.

  The captain of the survey ship Star Probe that discovered the planet in Galactic Year 2850 had given it its name, a Vegan word meaning "outcast," and noted: "It is the single planet of a star which itself is incredibly remote, lying at the very brink of an unbridgeable abyss."

  Following a brief exploration, he described the planet and concluded:

  "Climate unsuitable for permanent development." Proceeding along the opposite side of the spiral arm in the direction of the seventeen island galaxies that formed the great cosmic corridor leading to the magnificent spiral nebula

  Andromeda, he promptly forgot that such a world as Engo existed.

  Over three standard centuries later, in GY 3155, an obscure official in the Planning Branch of Sector Three Social Administration ran across the notation and studied it with more than casual interest. Engo, it appeared, was a planet where humans could survive...for a while. It also was far from the mainstream of commerce and travel.

  Forwarding the survey report to his superior, he noted that this might prove a suitable planet on which to exile citizens of the Federation's Third

  Sector found "dangerous to the public weal" under Public Law 2435-T2-M, a sweeping edict recently passed by the High Council to control "telepaths, mutants, and other paranormal minds" (and thus quiet public hysteria arising from an alleged mutant conspiracy to infiltrate and seize the reins of galactic government).

  His superior agreed.

  In time the recommendation reached the highest level of government and was signed by the Imperator. In a short while a village was born on Engo. The planet promptly was decreed out of bounds to all but official ships. Commerce with it was prohibited, and all mention of the planet disappeared from the public media.

  Engo ceased to exist except for a few persons high in the Social Administration and, of course, the High Council of Ten which, headed by the Imperator, administered the affairs of the Federation's Ten Sectors with their almost three thousand inhabited planets.

  But the village clung to the edge of life.

  Despite periodic shipments of "dangerous elements," its size remained almost static; only its graveyard grew -- a small plot which became an acre, and then two acres of round white river stones which marked the closely packed

  graves.

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  Lying at the edge of a towering forest of weeping agora trees, the village huddled defensively against the cruel climate, at times all but lifeless; and yet life struggled on, a spark which even the planet's harsh climate couldn't extinguish.

  Then, in GY 3180, an incident occurred that brought Engo under the immediate scrutiny of the galactic overlords; a crisis loomed. In reality, the crisis started when a tramp freighter, violating the prohibition against commerce with the exile planet, put into Engo to trade utensils, tools, and cloth for the thick, furry catmel pelts so much in demand by the women of the three thousand planets.

  The freighter was the Cosmic Wind.

  One

  GORDON CROMWELL, captain of the Cosmic Wind, gulped noisily from a silver flask as he watched the dusky orange glow of Engo in the starport. For two days, since coming out of the time stream, the planet had grown steadily larger and -- in his mind -- more baleful. The exile planet. The planet of mutants, telepaths. Planet of death...Orange like its sun, orange like its racing moon -- orange and deadly and beyond the law.

  Cromwell regarded it philosophically.

  Beyond the law? He chuckled at the thought. Perhaps to the rest of the Federation, but not to him. The Cosmic Wind went where the profit lay, and the profit lay there, on Engo, where thick, furry catmel pelts were to be had, as many as the Cosmic Wind could carry. And no competition! The profit in the black markets of the Third Sector alone was a thousandfold, and the Federation be cursed, he thought. A trader's business was to trade.

  Aside from that, he made additional profit carrying cargo to the planet for a man known only to him as "Mr. Olaf." That cargo was given to the inhabitants free, a charitable attitude which Cromwell considered detrimental to the spirit of trade. Not that he objected; the space which it occupied returned a fair fee; he had to admit that was better than empty space, which returned nothing.

  At times Cromwell found himself vaguely perturbed over Mr. Olaf. But, he told himself, the man was merely a do-gooder, a breed that appeared to abound on the fringes of misery, eyeing the less fortunate much as a jackal eyes a potential meal. In more honest moments, he admitted that the man must be a hidden telepath, or perhaps even a member of the mutant underground which people spoke of in whispers. Yet he couldn't complain, he reflected. It all added up to profit.

  "She's a rarin' back on her heels," Snorkel called from behind him.

  Cromwell grunted. Snorkel, his first mate, made the comment every time the aged tramper went into retrofire. But it was true; the ship bucked and vibrated, the howl through her bulkheads giving the impression that she was coming apart at the seams. Not that it worried him; she had sounded that way since the day he'd bought her secondhand -- or was it third-hand? -- from a junk dealer on Mypor over forty years before. Snorkel had come aboard as first mate at the same time.

  Perhaps the old gal was coming apart, he reflected, but so was he. And so was Snorkel, and Prim the purser. And Grimp, the engineer. Especially

  Grimp. All he did was eat and sleep and play chess. Yes, they were all getting there together. But that was the way to go, in space somewhere, with the engines pounding, not planet-bound like an ordinary mortal.

  He took another pull from his flask and asked, "Checking the screens?"

  "Clear," Snorkel replied. He had a high screechy voice that suited his scrawny figure. "No patrols in this godforsaken hole."

  "Don't be too certain," admonished Cromwell.

  Snorkel chortled. "Never caught us yet."

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  "You're getting cocky. That's bad, Snorky." Cromwell shook his head warningly. Although the sleek Federation patrols mainly were concerned with smuggling and occasional acts of piracy within the Ten Sectors, a region containing almost three thousand inhabited planets and a thousand and one suns, they weren't entirely unknown in the region the Cosmic Wind was traversing. The thought was perturbing.

  He peered more closely at the starport. Off to one side, the dull orange Giza sun burned like a cooling ember against a backdrop almost devoid of light. Higher up, the perpetual purple-black was broken by two faintly glowing patches -- the Magellanic Clouds, which lay like detached fragments of the

  Milky Way. For all practical purposes the Giza sun, with its single miserable planet, lay at the edge of a tremendous gulf -- unbridged and unbridgeable --

  the gulf between galaxies that man could never span. Giza lay at the edge of nowhere.

  Watching it, he thought of the patrols again and fid
geted uneasily. On occasion they did come.

  So did the SocAd ship. Two or three times every standard year -- and at times more often a black ship crawled out along the edge of the third spiral arm, bearing a wretched cargo of mutants caught by the "searchers," the police arm of the Social Administration -- men, women, and children doomed to exile on Engo's storm-ravaged surface. It came bringing a load of humanity to populate Engo's growing graveyard, he thought, for only a few survived. If he were caught...

  "Dropping retro to three-quarters," Snorkel called.

  Cromwell nodded, watching their oblique rush toward the orange planet.

  Thinking of it, he regarded himself more as a saviour than a smuggler. Were it not for the medicine, tools, and equipment he traded for the catmel pelts, the exiles might perish altogether, as he suspected the government intended they should.

  Cromwell regarded the Federation wonderingly. Under Sol Golom, the Imperator -- Absolute Ruler of the High Council of Ten -- the Federation was all-powerful, all-benevolent. Its uncounted billions of citizens enjoyed a greater degree of security, freedom, and luxury than any people in the long and twisted history of man; the Imperator proclaimed that often and with assurance.

  And it was true, Cromwell knew. The third millennium of the Federation was an age of play, pleasure, sensual abandon -- absolute freedom from war, strife, poverty. People never had it so good. Yet he believed it a sterile life, mechanistic, routine, completely without adventure.

  Machines controlled machines that controlled machines -- that was his view. The Federation was a giant machine within which the people moved, stalking the lands like puppets, no longer their own masters. In eliminating war, poverty, insecurity, in conquering his total environment, man had eliminated challenge, hence had vitiated his own soul; he'd argued that with Grimp many times. It was imperative to be the same, unthinkable to be different. He suspected that was why the telepaths were feared and hated; they were different. He looked at the orange planet again.

  Wasn't exile the same as the death sentence? Puzzling over it, he nipped at the flask.

  As the planet grew in the starport, its orange atmosphere was broken by a darker blur that gradually resolved into a huge continent which, he knew, bordered the pinkish Badek Sea. Next, the jagged purplish slash of the Kavu range emerged, flanked by yellowish splotches which he knew to be meadows of ochre bulla grass that cut fingerlike into the towering agora forests.

  Cromwell glanced at the crude ephemeris he had plotted of the Giza system. At the moment the hurtling orange moon was near apogee, hence land

  tides on the planet would be at a minimum, nor would the atmosphere be seething from the moon's gravitational pull. And if the rains held off...He calculated, thinking he might wind up his business within a single day; he liked to keep his visits short.

  "Closing at orbital speed," Snorkel called. "You're positioned for communications."

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  "Don't I know that?" Cromwell grunted. He punched a button and sent out a series of call letters. A speaker beside him crackled to life almost immediately. He wasn't surprised. So dear was cargo that the villagers kept the radio shack manned continuously on the off chance that a stray smuggler might come in.

  The static settled down and a voice wheezed, "Simon, come in, Cosmic Wind."

  "Any visitors?" Cromwell asked cautiously.

  "Nary a soul, Cap'n."

  "How's the weather?"

  "So calm and clear you'd never believe it," cackled Simon. "The wind's at standard thirty. You'd better hurry; it won't last long."

  "Got a good load of pelts?"

  "More'n you can carry." Simon's voice grew anxious. "What's your cargo?"

  "Medicine, blankets, boots and tools, mainly. Some Ankara cloth for the ladies."

  "Anything else, Cap'n?"

  "Might have." Cromwell chuckled. The old caretaker liked his nip.

  "You more'n welcome," Simon declared.

  As the Cosmic Wind coasted in orbit, Snorkel plotted their position and extrapolated it against speed and direction. When the purplish Kavu mountains came around again, he put the main engines into full retrofire, bringing a pounding and bucking that caused Cromwell to reach for the silver flask.

  "You might pass it back," Snorkel remarked aggrievedly.

  Cromwell shook his head. "You know the rules, Snorky. Not till you land."

  "You could take her down."

  "Nope, you need the practice, Snorky."

  "Practice? I've been practicing for forty years."

  "Maybe next trip." Cromwell returned his attention to the planet, watching as its features took color and shape. Because no human hand had ever tilled its soil or crowned it with the artifacts of man, it was a completely ungeometric world -- a place of beauty, to Cromwell's eyes. If only it weren't for the rugged climate. No, he thought, it was better this way. If the planet were livable, a billion people would descend on it overnight.

  He watched the land flee past. Plains of bulla grass, towering agora forests, pinkish lakes, and jagged purplish mountains wheeled underfoot. The roaring and vibration increased as the tramper lost headway and began letting down on its powerful landing jets. Danged if the old gal wasn't really jumpin', he thought. Perhaps he'd better put her in for overhaul, get her face lifted.

  The engine sound changed and far ahead he discerned the small region of bulla grass that served as Engo's spaceport. As they drew closer, a scattering of log huts appeared, huddled against the forest edge. Here and there he caught glimpses of the black, sullen Dimbo river as it twisted among the trees and crossed small patches of meadow. Off to one side, several acres of small white river stones marked the graveyard. Bigger with each visit, he reflected.

  He disliked the graveyard from a practical viewpoint: dead people made poor catmel hunters.

  The trees and cabins wheeled toward him at an ever slower rate. The roaring grew to a din, ceasing abruptly as the Cosmic Wind touched down with a

  distinct thump.

  "Rough," Cromwell commented.

  "Never saw you do it any better," Snorkel snapped.

  "You need practice, Snorky."

  As Cromwell emerged from the ship with Snorkel at his heels, Simon emerged from the log shanty that served as the communication center and limped to meet them. Thin and bent, his Page 4

  snow-white hair and scraggly beard whipped in the wind.

  "Good to see you, Cap'n," he greeted. "You, too, Mr. Snorkel." His face took on an expectant look.

  Cromwell reached into his pocket and brought forth a twin to his own flask. "Drop of medicine," he said.

  "Thank you, Cap'n. I'm feeling poorly."

  As Simon unscrewed the cap, Cromwell glanced around. He'd never seen it so calm. The standard thirty wind Simon had mentioned scarcely rippled the tops of the bulla grass and only a faint sigh came from the slow-moving branches of the agora trees. Scattered clouds trailed like small ships across the orange sky. It was almost pleasant, he reflected.

  Simon sampled the flask, smacked his lips and screwing on the cap, dropped it into his own pocket. Cromwell didn't appear to notice.

  "Any newcomers?" he asked.

  "Several dozen a few months back." Simon gestured toward the graveyard.

  "Mostly dead now."

  "So soon?"

  "They don't last long," Simon cackled. "No, sir, especially them from the hot planets."

  Cromwell gazed at the village. Aside from a wisp of smoke trailing upward from one of the chimneys, it gave no indication of life. But then it always did appear deserted, he reflected. Aside from old Simon, the mutants were an elusive lot. There was a time when it had bothered him, but no more.

  Simon caught his glance and explained, "Most everyone's out trapping catmels."

  "Can't get too many," he observed.

  While Prim, the purser, set up the tables and piled them high with goods for trade, Cromwell drew Snorkel to one side. "Keep a sharp eye," he cautioned. "I'm going to stroll through
the village."

  The first mate glanced at the cabins under the towering trees. "Ever see it so quiet?" he asked.

  "It's like a bloomin' morgue."

  Cromwell suppressed a shudder and said, "It won't stay this way long.

  Make the dealing quick."

  Gazing back at the village, he started across the clearing. Although the wind was light, it was cold and he drew his coat tightly around him. Strange, the orange sun gleamed like a furnace, yet seldom gave much heat. But it felt good to tramp the sodden ground after three months in space, just as it would feel good to get back into space again. He particularly liked it when they entered the time stream, for then there was neither planet nor star; the Cosmic Wind was but a mote in some strange infinity.

  Drawing closer, he eyed the village interestedly. Despite more than a score of trips to the planet, he'd never really seen it before. Usually the wind was howling, the rain sweeping down, or a numbing cold kept him penned inside the ship while Snorkel and the purser conducted business with old

  Simon, who was the only inhabitant who ever approached the ship. But today was beautiful.

  Reaching the first of the crude log houses, he saw it was chinked against the harsh climate with some sort of clay or cement, and made a mental note to include weatherstripping in the next cargo. That should be worth quite a few pelts.

  The sucking sound of his boots pulling through the mud brought the realization of how quiet it was, how still the village. Aside from the single column of smoke, he saw no evidence of life.

  Strange, there should be voices, the laughter of children; but there wasn't. No one, no one at all, he thought.

  It was, he reflected uneasily, as if old Simon were Engo's sole inhabitant.

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  Silly, of course, but that's the way it felt. And yet...

  Perhaps a hundred eyes were watching him. For the first time he became conscious that perhaps someone was watching him, or reading his mind. It was an eerie sensation. Strange, but he'd never felt that way before, never thought of them as mutants, telepaths. Certainly not Simon. But here...He quickened his step.