The Beyond Read online

  Selby looked back at Wig. "What do you propose to do?"

  "That matter falls under my jurisdiction," the executor replied coldly.

  "Without the boy being certified?"

  "That's not your problem."

  "As principal investigator on the director's staff, I have the right of enquiry," he returned, wondering whether or not he did, or even why he was there. The subject had nothing to do with his own work. Yet Smithson had summoned him. He watched Wig unflinchingly.

  "It's a problem for all of us," Smithson broke in quietly. "We know the truth," Wig answered heatedly. "The captain was under psychic probe."

  "Do we know the boy's identity?" asked Smithson. He turned his attention to the psymaster.

  "That's your province, Hallam. Can you recall a boy of around ten or twelve?"

  "Did the captain give a physical description?"

  "None to speak of. I imagine he was too excited. Even the age was an impression. The therapist couldn't get much, except..." He paused.

  "Except what?" asked Wig quickly.

  "He had a dog -- the one he raised in the air. Cromwell described it as huge, shaggy, yellow. He remembered it particularly because he'd once had one like it."

  "That would be David Gant," the psymaster murmured.

  "David Gant?" Wig repeated the name as if memorizing it.

  "The dog was a Hurder," Vogel added reminiscently. "They're bred on Hazelrod, in the Trail system. The boy had the puppy when he was apprehended and we let him take it along."

  Wig leaned forward intently. "How did he test?"

  "David?" Vogel pursed his lips musingly. "Extremely high."

  "Telepathically or IQ?"

  "Both," the psymaster answered. "We sent him out there with his sister about three years ago."

  "Sister?" Wig raised his eyes.

  "She revealed herself as a telepath to go with him," Vogel explained.

  "Her name was Lora...Lora Gant. She'd be around twenty-two or three now."

  Wig asked, "Any other possibilities?"

  "We sent a boy named Johnny Sloan about four years ago. He'd be about the right age."

  "I remember," Smithson mused. "A dark, stocky boy."

  "He didn't test very high," Vogel commented.

  "Is that all, just two?" Wig cocked his head.

  "We don't get many of the younger ones. The trait often is slow in developing." Vogel eyed the Page 11

  executor imperturbably.

  "Then you'd say it was the Gant boy?"

  "I'm describing who the captain might have seen," Vogel answered. "I'm not saying he's a beyond."

  "But if there is one?" Wig insisted.

  "I'd say it would have to be David Gant, yes." Vogel rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "If he's alive.

  He was quite frail, sickly. He had a crippled leg."

  Jonman snickered and said, "We can cure that."

  Listening, Selby had the feeling of unreality, that it was all a dream.

  The director, Vogel, Wig, and his two aides -- all of them calmly discussing the possibility of murdering a ten-year-old boy. His mind revolted at the prospect. He'd never sat in on anything like this before. Was it commonplace?

  No, it couldn't be. But why had the director summoned him?

  Suppressing his emotion, he said tightly, "You don't really know if David is the boy, or if there is a pk." He swung toward Vogel and demanded, "How could there be a pk on Engo? You probe everyone who is sent there."

  Vogel regarded him thoughtfully. "I agree," he said finally. "David showed no indication of traits beyond telepathy."

  "How about Johnny Sloan?"

  "Definitely not Johnny." Vogel shook his head. "Even his telepathy was minimal."

  "The talent could have been latent," declared Wig. "How do you know it hasn't developed since?

  You can't make a flat statement on that."

  Selby eyed the executor distastefully, realizing that his persistence was born of scented opportunity. If he could turn up a genuine pk, prove the threat beyond a reasonable doubt and resolve it, his niche would be assured.

  Such a feat could propel him into the director's job.

  Vogel's face remained unchanged. "You're talking theory."

  "Theory? My job is to ascertain the truth of these matters," Wig snapped.

  "And mine."

  Wig jerked his head toward the director. "Does the High Council know of this? Does Ewol Strang? The Imperator?"

  "They will...in due time," Smithson answered shortly.

  "My guess is that the Imperator would order immediate action," Wig said bluntly.

  Smithson's eyes grew cold. "We're taking immediate action. That's the purpose of this meeting.

  The High Council will be informed when there is something to report."

  "May I offer a suggestion?" Vogel asked.

  "Certainly." The director looked at him.

  "I feel like Alek," Vogel stated. "We can't take action -- the kind of action we might take --

  without absolute knowledge of the facts."

  "There's no disagreement on that score, Hallam."

  "I'd like to suggest that Alek conduct the investigation," Vogel continued quietly.

  "Selby?" Wig spat the name like an epithet. "That's a function of my department -- Department 404."

  "Not necessarily," Smithson corrected. "As principal investigator on my staff, Alek's jurisdiction extends throughout SocAd."

  "He's never investigated mutant activities," Wig exclaimed heatedly.

  "It's not in his province."

  "Exactly," Vogel cut in.

  "What do you mean by that?"

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  "Alek will have no preconceived opinions."

  "You're saying that I have?" demanded Wig.

  Vogel nodded slightly. "Yes, I believe that's what I've been saying."

  Wig sneered. "You won't believe there's a pk."

  "I will if Alek says so," Vogel returned calmly.

  "I know Alek will do a good job," Smithson interceded firmly. Selby stared at him, and then at the psymaster, not knowing whether to feel elated or depressed. The shock of Vogel's suggestion had left him numb. He understood now why he'd been summoned. The director and the psymaster had discussed the case beforehand, had recognized it as the executor's ladder to power and were determined to keep it out of his hands. But it would throw the burden on him.

  Yet he had to admit it was a victory in the interest of justice. He glanced at the executor.

  Wig had turned, his eyes locked with Jonman's in secret understanding.

  Conrad had leaned back and was watching the proceedings coldly. Selby had another thought, one that startled him. He would be propelled into the world of mutants, telepaths...The world he feared!

  Dimly he heard Wig demand, "Is that decision final?"

  "It is, Philip." The director pushed back his chair and rose. "The conference is adjourned, gentlemen."

  As Selby rose to leave, Smithson detained him with a gesture. Sinking back into his seat, he caught the quick glance that passed between Smithson and the psymaster -- a glance filled with hidden meaning, he thought -- before the latter moved leisurely from the room.

  Wig hesitated by his chair, his eyes filled with undisguised hostility, then wheeled abruptly and stalked out. Jonman and Conrad trailed behind.

  When they were alone, Smithson said, "I'm sorry to foist this job on your shoulders, Alek, but I feel it's a good move. So does Hallam. Truthfully, we had a few ideas along that line to begin with. That's why I asked you to sit in."

  "I appreciate your confidence," he answered.

  "In all honesty, it was Hallam's suggestion, but you have my fullest confidence. I want you to know that."

  "I'll do my best."

  "I realize the responsibility," continued Smithson. "At the same time, I want to be satisfied that justice is done. I know your investigation will be fair."

  "Death, if the boy is a beyond? You call that justice?"

>   "Council policy, Alek."

  "Policy." He enunciated the word bitterly.

  "It's seldom been put into practice, and never in this sector," the director answered. "I suppose that's why the humanists haven't raised their voices against it. If they even know of it," he added.

  "Ewol Strang..." Selby looked up slowly.

  "He's death on mutants, Alek. I tell you that in confidence. He's been sold a bill of goods and in turn he's sold it to the Imperator."

  Selby asked, "Who's this Mr. Olaf the executor mentioned?"

  "Ah, the mutant underground leader." Smithson smiled. "He exists, all right, but he's scarcely the threat the executor would have him."

  "There is an underground?"

  The director gazed into the distance. "There's always an underground, Alek. It's the historical weapon of the ostracized, but I suspect most of the rumors are fanned by people intent on keeping the issue alive."

  Selby smiled grimly. "I can see the value of that."

  "If the truth were known, I'd suspect that most of the so-called underground are traders and Page 13

  smugglers, like our Captain Cromwell. I don't believe they're as interested in the telepaths as the markets the telepaths have to offer. Hallam's right on that score. It's common knowledge -- at least in the upper echelons -- that the prohibition against such commerce is broken repeatedly.

  We can't police all of space."

  "I can't exactly see the harm in it," Selby replied.

  "Nor can I."

  He eyed the director candidly. "I'll have to be honest and tell you ahead of time that I won't be impartial, at least not in my beliefs. I can't see a boy of ten as deserving death."

  "No man is impartial, Alek. We all favor our own viewpoints. Frankly, I feel as you do, but I have to divorce my beliefs from my work."

  Selby smiled. "That might be difficult."

  "Yes, but I know you can do it."

  "I'll do it," he promised.

  "I have scant doubt of that, Alek." The director hesitated before continuing, "I don't like this any more than you do, but we're agents of the orders that come to us. Have you ever considered Hallam's burden? He's a gentle man, Alek, yet he has to certify around a hundred people a year for exile, and that includes children. Engo's tantamount to death. Do you believe he doesn't suffer?"

  "I know he must," he answered humbly. Put that way, the burden of his own task diminished in his mind.

  "Hallam has nightmares, Alek."

  "I suspect he would."

  "At the same time, we manage to be fair," Smithson pursued.

  "Fair?" He raised his eyes.

  "Assigning you was an act of fairness," the director rebuked. "I could have allowed Wig to conduct the investigation."

  "The psymaster would have to certify his findings before any action could be taken."

  "Or would an accident occur first?"

  Selby sighed heavily. The director had him on every point. "Wig won't let this drop," he commented.

  "I'm aware of that."

  "Suppose the Imperator hears of this?" He watched the other expectantly.

  "I imagine he will," Smithson replied drily. He didn't say so but his tone implied that Wig would see to that. Instead, he said, "Getting accurate information on Engo won't be easy, Alek. The exiles will be bitter, suspicious, uncooperative, nor can I blame them. In all honesty, they're political scapegoats, and know it. Not that I would say that in public," he added wryly.

  "There might be complications," Selby observed.

  "Conducting the investigation?" Smithson nodded. "That's another reason I didn't send Wig. If a patrol craft landed, the people would melt into the forest. You can't go as an investigator, Alek."

  "Are you suggesting that I try and pass as an exile?"

  "In a village of telepaths?" The director shook his head. "Impossible."

  "What then?"

  "I believe you should go in the Cosmic Wind."

  "The Cosmic Wind?" Selby sat straighter.

  "Cromwell's tramper," Smithson explained. "I'm certain we could get the captain's cooperation in taking you as a crew member in return for immunity against the charge of illegal commerce."

  "Would he go back there?"

  "There or to a detention planet," Smithson returned equably. "What would be your choice?"

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  "He'll go," he assented.

  "The scoundrel will make a profit on the trip, Alek." Smithson's eyes twinkled. "Do you believe I'm putting my head into a noose...legalizing smuggling to an exile planet?"

  "We both are," he answered. Suddenly he grinned. "Remember, I'm a crewman."

  Three

  HUNCHED OVER his desk in the privacy of his office, Selby reviewed the data he'd got from the computer file. It wasn't much -- a few names suggested by Vogel, some descriptive matter relating to the village and planetary environment, a collection of facts that weren't pertinent. He was surprised at how little there was. He could find no personal records beyond the dates of exile, nothing to suggest that Engo was, after all, peopled by humans. Hallam Vogel had called it "the forgotten world," and looking at the data, he could believe it. A forgotten world filled with forgotten people. Or were they discards?

  He picked up a card. John Sloan, b. in Nadak, p. Laska, s. Polhaut, GY

  3171. The city of Nadak on the planet Laska, third from the star Polhaut -- he reached deep into his mind, seeing a neocybernetic culture that once had aspired to greatness, then had subsided into what SocAd termed "the equilibrium of civilization." It was, he knew, jargonese that meant the culture had lost its early momentum, slowed by the more static planetary civilizations with which it had contact. Civilization was a brake -- they'd told him that in school and he'd always found it so. A culture couldn't expand beyond adjacent cultures; each one acted as a drag on the others.

  He scanned the card quickly. Johnny's IQ was average, his telepathic sense minimal. In all else he appeared normal, a robust boy who'd had the misfortune to discern his teacher's thoughts, and promptly had come to the attention of the local psymaster. Clinical findings had been transferred to

  Sector Three SocAd; Hallam Vogel had reviewed them, signing the boy's order of exile. His death warrant, Selby thought.

  "Have you ever considered Hallam's burden, Alek?" And, "He's a gentle man." Selby let the card slip to the desk, considering the director's words.

  Hallam Vogel was gentle; it was there in his eyes and voice, in his reluctance to turn Wig loose on Engo despite the gravity of the situation. Yet he could exile a boy into almost certain death on the basis of minimal telepathy. Did

  Vogel believe the precaution necessary, or was he forced by revelation of the boy's talent? Did he sleep nights?

  Selby smiled grimly and looked at the next card.

  David Gant, b. Denport, p. Hazelrod, s. Trail, GY 3171. He noted with interest that David had been detected at age eight, almost three years before, when he'd won the prize as the best

  "guesser" at a friend's birthday party. A

  suspicious hostess had reported his "guesses" as "too good to be natural."

  The psymaster had described the boy as frail and sickly. Walks with a limp. Telepathic sense maximal. If Cromwell's story were true -- in his own mind he was coming to think of it as true, a bias he knew he shouldn't allow to develop -- then David certainly appeared the logical choice.

  An accompanying photograph showed a gangling blonde boy with delicate features and alert eyes that appeared enormous in the thin face. Could anyone look at that and call it a criminal face?

  He flipped over the next card and stopped short. Lora Gant, b.

  Denport...He'd forgotten that David's sister also had been exiled. He read the card quickly. The girl would be twenty-two now. Her IQ, like her brother's, was exceptionally high. So was her telepathic sense. The report described her as "embittered." Well, he could understand that; he'd be bitter himself.

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  A note at the bottom caught
his eye. So, the girl hadn't been detected; she'd revealed her telepathy so she could accompany her brother into exile.

  Vogel had remarked on that at the meeting. Selby leaned back, pondering her courage and loyalty. For all practical purposes, she'd sacrificed her life to guard her brother for the few years he might have to live.

  If the boy proved a pk? Selby realized the tremendous burden the director had placed on him. If the boy were a beyond, his report would be tantamount to a death sentence. More, it would be a tremendous blow to the girl, perhaps hasten her own death.

  He let the card slip from his fingers, wondering at the trap in which he'd let himself be caught.

  What was SocAd really? The humanitarian branch of government dedicated to the social and cultural welfare -- that was the claim.

  In a sense, it was true. SocAd was one of nine major administrations which, together, governed the nearly three hundred planets of Sector Three. The same system prevailed in each of the ten sectors that comprised the Federation. Of course, the High Council of Ten, presided over by the Imperator, actually ruled; but in reality, it more often than not acted on recommendations made by the sector administrators. The Federation was too vast for it to be otherwise.

  Broken down the other way, each administration was represented on each planet within its sector by a local office which administered local affairs, hence Smithson sat at the apex of a pyramid consisting of nearly three hundred world directorates. As such, he was responsible for the social and cultural well-being of nearly nine hundred billion people. From among that number, perhaps a hundred or so a year were exiled to Engo. Looked at in that way, the government undoubtedly considered it a small price to pay to soothe the public nerves.

  "Justice was the will of the people" -- he remembered the statement from long ago. At the time, the cynicism hadn't struck him, as it did now.

  Injustice was justice if it served the common cause; might made right. Wasn't that the crux of the present situation? It was, exactly, he decided. In

  Smithson's eyes, and Vogel's, he was out to perpetrate an injustice in the name of justice. Small wonder the Gant girl had been bitter.

  He leaned back, pondering it. No matter what happened, the present course was better than allowing Wig to investigate. In the executor's eyes the boy's doom had been a foregone conclusion; his attitude had made that clear.