The End of the Matter Page 18

  “How could anyone, especially Ab, least of all the creatures in the galaxy, help you? Nothing can turn or destroy a collapsar. At least,” he added quickly, “nothing I ever heard of. I see no connection, Tru, sir.” For a moment he displayed the attitude of a schoolboy ignorant of the answer to a teacher’s question.

  “I would not feel foolish at that failure,” Truzenzuzex confided to him. “You have much company.” Some bitterness crept into his voice. “Both the Commonwealth High Council and the Court of Last Resort of the United Church are of the opinion that nothing can be done to save the three worlds. They are attempting to rescue small groups of the three populations without causing panic, which will be inevitable. They refuse to consider the alternative.”

  “There’s an alternative?” Flinx looked startled.

  “We are hopeful” was all the philosoph would admit to. “But both Bran and myself feel that anything which might save billions of lives and uncounted trillions of credits, no matter how absurd it sounds, is worth serious and not jocular consideration. Our strongest assurance that we are on the track of something potentially helpful has been the frantic attempts of other parties to eliminate that hope. How your poetically inclined alien is involved in this I will tell you in a moment.

  “While Bran and I are no longer connected to the Church, we still retain sympathetic connections in the bureaucracy. In the Commonwealth government, too. Through these we learned of the death sentence hanging over the three worlds in the path of the rogue. We felt as helpless and sorrow-filled as anyone. However, we elected to try to do something. Our specialty is the pre-Commonwealth, pre-Amalgamation history of this part of the galaxy. To make many weeks of tedious research brief, we learned of a possible connection between an ancient race and a similar destructive appearance of a rogue collapsar. Somehow, somewhere on this side of the galactic center, the menace was met and dealt with.

  “That in turn led us to search for anything that might tell us what became of the device which dealt with the first rogue. Rumors of a being of unknown type were brought to us by our agents. The being was at that time reported to be in the city of Drallar, on Moth. This being sang nonsense rhymes and performed as a comic foil in a simple street entertainment. We were not on Drallar at the time, but we succeeded in obtaining copies of recordings from a tourist who witnessed the being’s performance. This intellectual expressed astonishment that Bran and myself should be interested in such things.

  “We were very excited when we saw the first images of your Ab,” the philosoph went on. “He matches up with no known race. However, it was not his appearance, rather, one of his rhymes we heard while viewing the recording, which caused my breathing spicules to lock to the point of fainting and caused Bran to utter an oath I had not heard from him in eighteen years. You see, Flinx, one of the rhymes contained a mention of the race we believe successfully stopped the intrusion of a rogue collapsar approximately eight hundred thousand Terran years ago on the near side of the Shapely Center. That race was called the Hur’rikku.”

  There was a gasp, followed by a metallic clattering. Isili Hasboga had dropped the armload of tapes she had so laboriously salvaged. They sprawled across the floor. Several of them had cracked, and thin microscopic tape had unreeled from the twisted spools.

  She made no move to recover the tapes. Her expression showed shock; her eyes were wide in disbelief.

  Flinx saw something moving nearby: A truhand was plunging into a pouch in the philosoph’s thorax vest. Perhaps it was the abrupt shock of Hasboga’s reaction—perhaps his talent chose that perverse moment to function—in any case, he sensed what was racing through the elderly thranx’s mind.

  “No, Tru!” he shouted, rising and stepping between the insect and Hasboga. “She’s not a spy, she’s an archeologist. Wouldn’t she know of the Hur’rikku?”

  Truzenzuzex turned blazing compound eyes on Flinx and considered his words. The hand relaxed; the concealed weapon in the pouch never emerged.

  All at once, Hasboga came out of her moment-long trance. She turned her gaze to the floor, saw and remembered what had happened. Suddenly she was scrambling to retrieve her precious tapes. Occasionally she would glance back at the watchful Truzenzuzex, aware that something had upset him, but she never suspected that the old insect had been prepared to kill her simply on the basis of her reaction to what he had told Flinx.

  “You are not a spy,” he decided, the fire fading from his eyes. “I see that now.”

  “Me?” She looked back in confusion. “A spy? Spy for whom?”

  “I will tell you in time,” he murmured. “When you indicated a familiarity with the Hur’rikku I . . . Excuse me.” He executed a thranx gesture of apology seasoned with contrition at his own stupidity. “Too many deaths are already involved in this matter. Bran and I can take no chances. The Commonwealth and the Church are already suspicious of our actions, and they dislike having others inquire into matters they consider wasteful. Then there are those who would like to see the rogue proceed unchallenged on its course of destruction.”

  “Who or what are the Hur’rikku?” Flinx was still a bit shaken from the severity of the kindly philosoph’s murderous reaction to Hasboga’s knowledge.

  His antennae still aquiver, Truzenzuzex proceeded to explain. “The Hur’rikku are the half-legendary race who, scientists postulate, erupted from the region near the galactic center some nine hundred and fifty thousand years ago.”

  “They weren’t half legendary,” argued Hasboga. “They were completely legendary. Myths about them exist, but no physical proof has ever been found for which alternate explanations couldn’t be provided.”

  “No physical proof, this is so,” admitted Truzenzuzex. “But they frightened the ovipositors off the Tar-Aiym.” His mandibles clicked in thranx laughter. “Of the Tar-Aiym we do have physical proof.”

  Flinx knew the truth of that statement from his experiences of over a year ago.

  “We know that about the time the Hur’rikku are rumored to have begun their expansion outward from the galactic center, this entire section of space was dominated by the Tar-Aiym. Roughly half a million Terran years ago, the indomitable Tar-Aiym were thrown into a racial panic. It seems reasonable to assume that the Hur’rikku were the cause of this.”

  Hasboga made a derisive sound. Truzenzuzex ignored her and continued on. “The Tar-Aiym scientists constructed numerous new weapons to counter the Hur’rikku threat. One was the defensive weapon known as the Krang. Another was a simple plague. That destroyed not only the Hur’rikku but the Tar-Aiym themselves, and all life in the region we know today as the Blight, before finally destroying itself.

  “At this point in time the Hur’rikku are mostly a legend. They exist because your friend Ab sings of them.” A truhand gestured to where the alien was delightedly juggling a dozen rocks. “The Hur’rikku are like the rogue. Like it, we have no direct perception of existence. But we can see how it acts upon other objects. Similarly, we know the Hur’rikku existed because we know of their effect upon the Tar-Aiym. In fact, that is all we know so far of the Hur’rikku—that they existed. That and the fact that perhaps they may have found a way to counter the danger posed by a wandering collapsar—and a few other less-impressive myths.”

  “But you need physical proof!” Hasboga objected.

  “Evidence need not be physical,” was the insect’s calm reply.

  “You philosophical scientists are all the same,” she said in exasperation. “You support hypotheses with dreams embedded in foundations of supposition.”

  Truzenzuzex was not upset by the disparaging of his chosen field. “So, Flinx, as little as we know of the Tar-Aiym, we know even less of the Hur’rikku. And yet . . . your alien talks of them.”

  Flinx turned disbelieving eyes on the humming Ab. “You think that Ab might be . . . ?”

  “No.” Truzenzuzex was quick to correct a blossoming misconception. “We do not think your Ab is a Hur’rikku. The last Hur’rikku died five hun
dred thousand years ago. What Bran and I believe is that he is more likely to be a very old member of some race living on the periphery of the Blight, a race that retains memories of both the Tar-Aiym and the Hur’rikku and their exploits. The legends of the Hur’rikku and the collapsar are known. It is part of one legend that the Hur’rikku threatened to use on the Tar-Aiym worlds the device which had stopped their rogue. If true, that would go far to explain the unprecedented panic among the warrior Tar-Aiym.”

  Flinx turned to watch Ab’s juggling act. Noting the smoothness of the blue skin, the supple arms and legs, the clearness in the four limpid blue eyes, he reflected that the alien didn’t look old. He reminded himself that he was judging Ab’s appearance by human standards. Among Ab’s race, smooth skin and bright eyes might be signs of advancing senility.

  “The legends seem to imply,” Truzenzuzex went on, “that beside this Hur’rikku device, something like the Krang is a larva’s toy.”

  Flinx was pacing the floor worriedly. “Couldn’t we try to use the Krang against this new rogue?”

  Thranx laughter spiced with sarcasm preceded the philosoph’s response. “Just how would you move it, Flinx? You’d have to move the entire world of Booster, on which the Krang is located and from whose core it draws its power. Besides, if my initial supposition is correct and the Krang does generate a Schwarzschild Discontinuity it would not harm a collapsar. Quite the contrary.”

  He leaned forward and stared hard at Flinx. “Then there is the question of who could operate the Krang. I recall your saying that you had no idea how to operate it.”

  “Well, that’s true also,” Flinx almost panicked, trying to cover his mistake. Truzenzuzex had always been suspicious of Flinx’s abilities. He hid his concern in wonder. “Something that would make the Krang seem to be a child’s toy . . . incredible.”

  “An ultimate weapon.” Truzenzuzex nodded slowly.

  A sharp laugh sounded from nearby. “Ultimate weapons indeed! You and your tall friend are madder than this alien. No such thing as an ultimate weapon can exist. If it did, it would have destroyed everything in the galaxy by now, once it had been activated.”

  “Not if in activation it neutralized itself,” Truzenzuzex argued charmingly.

  “You can’t convince me with semantics.”

  “I know, young lady. You require physical proof.” More Thranx chuckling, a sound like seashells sliding against each other. “We think it worth trying to locate such proof, if it does exist. We have nothing to lose except three worlds.”

  Chapter Eleven

  After a moment’s silence, Flinx pointed back at Ab, “How do you know Ab knows anything more about the Hur’rikku than he’s already said?”

  “He appears to be a limitless fount of information, Flinx. Or haven’t you noticed that he never repeats the same rhyme twice?”

  “That may be so,” Flinx conceded, “but he only talks nonsense.”

  “Much of it probably is nonsense that will always remain incomprehensible to us.” Truzenzuzex was agreeable. “But some of it is not.”

  “How do you propose to get any more Hur’rikku information out of him?”

  Truzenzuzex sighed deeply, an eerie whistling sound in the near-empty chamber. “We’ve chased him across two planets now so that I can do just that. But why don’t you do it, Flinx?”

  “Do what, sir?”

  “Ask him. Ask him about the Hur’rikku.”

  “I . . .” Flinx noticed that the philosoph had switched on a tiny recorder attached to his thorax vest. The insect was serious about this. Well, he could play along. Turning, he faced Ab and said sharply, “Ab! Abalamahalamatandra!” All twelve rocks fell to the stone floor, their juggler ignoring them save for a single blue orb. He gazed wanly at the stones until they stopped bouncing.

  “What about the Hur’rikku, Ab?” Flinx asked, feeling like an idiot as he talked sensibly to his ward. “Tell us about the Hur’rikku. Tell us about how they stopped the collapsar rogue.”

  “Nine and five, five and nine, loverly to dine if fine. ‘Ricku, ‘Ricku, sing to hicku, haiku you, you key me.”

  “There, you see?” Flinx turned and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “It’s useless—he’s crazy.”

  “Not completely,” countered Truzenzuzex. “It’s simply a matter of points of tangency. You have none. Bran and I have learned several. For example, Neinenive is a Geeprolian translation for Hur’rikku neuter. They had three sexes, it seems. Ab is trying to convey information, but it’s garbled through maybe a dozen languages at a time, all of which he’s trying to pronounce as Terranglo.”

  Flinx threw Ab a look of pure incredulity before returning his attention to the expectant philosoph. “You mean Ab’s been making sense all along?”

  “No. Some of his chattering seems to be pure nonsense. The trouble is separating out the sense. Or perhaps I am wrong and everything he is saying would make sense if only we had some way of breaking it down. His name, Abalamahalamatandra, for example. I wonder if that’s just a collection of conveniently collected syllables, or if it actually means something.” The philosoph rose from his squatting position. “Let us take your Ab along, probe and prod him, and see what other insightful nonsense he can spout.”

  Tse-Mallory and September clambered back down the steps and stood at the base. “Patience, ship-brother,” Truzenzuzex called to his companion. “We are coming.”

  “Now,” Tse-Mallory responded in Terranglo. “We’ve wasted too much time here. September and I killed two Otoid scouts a few minutes ago. They must be returning. There are also the Qwarm to consider.”

  Flinx started. He had almost forgotten about the professional assassins, with all the amazing talk of lost races, ultimate weapons, and a coherent Ab.

  “You brought a fair-sized skimmer, sirs,” said September. “I think we can all fit inside.”

  “We can if you take no more than that.” Tse-Mallory indicated Hasboga, who was laden with tapes, real books, and a few modest Mimmisompo artifacts.

  “Nothing here for me,” September commented with a grunt. “I can always come back for whatever the abos leave.”

  “Why bother, Skua?” Hasboga wanted to know. “We found nothing here. We probably never would.” Her gaze roamed the chamber floor a last time. “We tried the wrong building. I see no profit in returning. Next time we’ll try somewhere else.”

  “Sure we will, silly,” September said reassuringly. “We’ll raise the credit somewhere, don’t worry.” He shifted the enormous Mark Twenty from his shoulder to a ready position. “Gentlesirs, if you’ll lead the way I’ll endeavor to keep an eye or two on the tree trunks, in case the need rises for me to incinerate one or two overcurious little green brothers.”

  “We will chance your expertise in the jungle.” Tse-Mallory’s mouth twisted in distaste. “Though I wish you’d phrase your intent in a less primitive fashion. All intelligent beings are brothers, you know. The Otoid as well.”

  A reflective grin split the giant’s tanned face. “I had a brother once. Didn’t like him either. I . . .” He cut the story short with an expansive gesture. “After you, gentlesirs and lady.”

  As they emerged from the sheltering stone walls of the temple, Flinx found himself nervously eying every branch and vine and creeper, convinced that a thousand Otoid were concealed nearby. At any second he expected to feel a rain of darts, loosed from the nearest trees.

  Ahead of him, Truzenzuzex was murmuring deeply in Low Thranx. Nonsense rhymes and songs emanated from Ab with the usual unconcern of the mad. Only now they seemed to be in response to the philosoph’s hypnotic mutters. Some were in Ab’s mangled Terranglo, the rest in languages unknown to Flinx. But twice, he thought he heard mention of the Hur’rikku, so perhaps the philosoph was learning something after all. Privately, Flinx couldn’t help but think his two wizened friends were engaged in a fruitless chase founded on a futile assumption.

  All the jungle noises which assaulted his ears were animalis
tic and indifferent. There was no sign of the native Otoid. It was only a short walk to the hovering skimmer.

  Tse-Mallory employed a control panel on his belt to deactivate the protective energy shield surrounding the craft and then to have it sink to the ground for easy boarding. It was a small cargo craft, much larger than the tiny two-man ship Flinx and Pocomchi had traveled in.

  That forced Pocomchi and Habib into his thoughts again. Indirectly, at least, he was the cause of their deaths.

  Why, he mused in anguished fury, did so many people have to perish around him, when what he sought was neither wealth nor power but only knowledge of his origins?

  Tse-Mallory boarded the skimmer first, followed, with the always unexpected agility, by Truzenzuzex, then Hasboga and September. As soon as Flinx entered the broad cockpit, with Ab bringing up the rear, Tse-Mallory touched a switch and the canopy door slid shut.

  The engine whined expectantly. Soon they would be back in Alaspinport, where he could press September to finish his explanation, no matter how much the giant tried to put off Flinx’s questions this time. His gaze rose curiously, why he didn’t know, to the transparent roof. Something moved against the clear sky. Squinting, he stood on tiptoes and peered so hard the back of his eyes hurt. Then Flinx was jumping up and down, shouting violently, “Stop the skimmer, stop, stop!”

  Tse-Mallory hit a switch reflexively, and the craft, which had commenced a slow turn, came to an abrupt halt. September was struggling to reclaim his rifle from the cargo area, while Truzenzuzex was digiting the skimmer’s heavy armament uncertainly.

  “What troubles you, Flinx?” the philosoph inquired, glancing back over a shoulder turned Tyrolean purple.