Authors: Ben Bova
Leoh nodded grimly, hurriedly finished his lecture, and then accompanied the assistant professor to the university president’s office. They stood in silence as the slideway whisked them through the strolling students and blossoming greenery of the quietly busy campus.
Leoh was balding and jowly, the oldest man at the university. The oldest man anyone in the university knew, for that matter. But his face was creased from a smile that was almost habitual, and his eyes were active and alert. He wasn’t smiling, though, as they left the slideway and entered the administration building.
They rode the lift tube to the president’s office. Leoh asked the assistant professor as they stepped through the president’s open doorway, “You say he was in a state of catatonic shock when they removed him from the machine?”
“He still is,” the president answered from his desk. “Completely withdrawn from the real world. Cannot speak, hear, or even see. A living vegetable.”
Leoh plopped down in the nearest chair and ran a hand across his fleshy face. “I don’t understand it. Nothing like this has ever happened in a dueling machine before.”
The president said, “I don’t understand it either. But, this is your business.” He put a slight emphasis on the last word, unconsciously perhaps.
“Well, at least this won’t reflect on the university. That’s why I formed Psychonics as a separate business enterprise.” Then Leoh grinned and added, “The money, of course, was only a secondary consideration.”
The president managed a smile. “Of course.”
“I suppose the Acquatainians want to talk to me?” Leoh asked academically.
“They’re on tri-di now, waiting for you.”
“They’re holding a transmission frequency open over two thousand light-years?” Leoh looked impressed.
“You’re the inventor of the dueling machine and the head of Psychonics, Incorporated. You’re the only man who can tell them what went wrong.”
“Well, I suppose I shouldn’t keep them waiting.”
“You can take the call here,” the president said, starting to get up from his chair.
“No, no, stay at your desk,” Leoh insisted. “There’s no need for you to leave. Or you either,” he added to the assistant professor.
The president touched a button on his desk communicator. The far wall of the office glowed momentarily, then seemed to dissolve. They were looking into another office, this one in distant Acquatainia. It was crowded with nervous-looking men in business clothes and military uniforms.
“Gentlemen,” Dr. Leoh said.
Several of the Acquatainians tried to answer him at once. After a few seconds of talking simultaneously, they all looked toward one of their members—a tall, determined, shrewd-looking civilian who bore a neatly trimmed black beard.
“I am Fernd Massan, the Acting Prime Minister of Acquatainia. You realize, of course, the crisis that has been precipitated in my government because of this duel?”
Leoh blinked. “I realize that there’s apparently been some difficulty with one of the dueling machines installed in your cluster. Political crises are not in my field.”
“But your dueling machine had incapacitated the Prime Minister,” one of the generals bellowed.
“And at this particular moment,” a minister added, “in the midst of our difficulties with the Kerak Worlds.”
Massan gestured them to silence.
“The dueling machine,” Leoh said calmly, “is nothing more than a psychonic device... it’s no more dangerous than a tri-di communicator. It merely allows two men to share a dream world that they create together. They can do anything they want to in their dream world—settle an argument as violently as they wish, and neither of them is physically hurt any more than a normal dream can hurt you physically. Men can use the dueling machine as an outlet for their aggressive feelings, for their tensions and hatreds, without hurting themselves or their society.
“Your own government tested one of the machines and approved its use on Acquatainia more than three years ago. I see several of you who were among those to whom I personally demonstrated the machine. Dueling machines are becoming commonplace through wide portions of the Terran Commonwealth, and neighboring nations such as Acquatainia. I’m sure that many of you have used the machine yourselves. You have, General, I’m certain.”
The general flustered. “That has nothing to do with the matter at hand!”
“Admittedly,” Leoh conceded. “But I don’t understand how a therapeutic machine can possibly become entangled in a political crisis.”
Massan said, “Allow me to explain. Our government has been conducting extremely delicate negotiations with the governments of our neighboring star-nations. These negotiations, concern the rearmament of the Kerak Worlds. You have heard of Kanus of Kerak?”
“Vaguely,” Leoh said. “He’s a political leader of some sort.”
“Of the worst sort. He has acquired complete dictatorship of the Kerak Worlds and is now attempting to rearm them for war. This is in direct contravention of the Treaty of Acquatainia, signed only thirty Terran years ago.”
“I see. The treaty was signed at the end of the Acquataine-Kerak War, wasn’t it?”
“A war that we won,” the general pointed out.
“And now the Kerak Worlds want to rearm and try again,” Leoh said.
“Precisely.”
Leoh shrugged. “Why not call in the Star Watch? This is their type of police activity. And what has all this to do with the dueling machine?”
“Let me explain,” Massan said patiently. He gestured to an aide, and on the wall behind him a huge tri-di star map glowed into life.
Leoh recognized it immediately: the swirling spiral of the Milky Way galaxy. From the rim of the galaxy, where the Sun and Earth were, in toward the star-rich heart of the Milky Way, stretched the Terran Commonwealth—thousands of stars and myriads of planets. On Massan’s map the Commonwealth territory was shaded a delicate green. Just beyond its border was the golden cluster of Acquatainia. Around it were names that Leoh knew only vaguely: Safad, Szarno, Etra, and a pinpoint marked Kerak.
“Neither the Acquataine Cluster nor our neighboring nations,” said Massan, “have ever joined the Terran Commonwealth. Nor has Kerak, for that matter. Therefore the Star Watch can intervene only if all the nations concerned agree to intervention. Naturally Kanus would never accept the Star Watch. He
wants
to rearm.”
Leoh shook his head.
“As for the dueling machine,” Massan went on, “Kanus has turned it into a political weapon...”
“But that’s impossible. Your government passed strict laws concerning the use of the machines. The dueling machine may be used only for personal grievances. It’s strictly outside the realm of politics.”
Massan shook his head sadly. “My dear Professor, laws are one thing, people are another. And politics consists of people, not words on tape.”
“I don’t understand,” said Leoh.
“A little more than one Terran year ago, Kanus picked a quarrel with a neighboring nation—the Safad Federation. He wanted an especially favorable trade agreement with them. Their minister of trade objected most strenuously. One of the Kerak negotiators—a certain Major Odal—got into a personal argument with the minister. Before anyone knew what had happened, they had challenged each other to a duel. Odal won the duel, and the minister resigned his post. He said he could no longer fight against the will of Odal and Kerak... he was psychologically incapable of it. Two weeks later he was dead—apparently a suicide, although I have my doubts.”
“That’s... extremely interesting,” Leoh said.
“Three days ago,” Massan continued, “the same Major Odal engaged Prime Minister Dulaq in a bitter personal argument. Odal is now a military attaché of the Kerak embassy here on Acquatainia. The argument grew so loud before a large group at an embassy party that the prime minister had no alternative but to challenge Odal. And now...”
“And now Dulaq is in a state of shock, and your government is tottering.”
Massan’s back stiffened. “Our government will not fall, nor shall the Acquataine Cluster acquiesce to the rearmament of the Kerak Worlds. But...” his voice lowered, “without Dulaq, our alliances with neighboring nations may dissolve. All our allies are smaller and weaker than Acquatainia. Kanus could pressure each one individually and make certain that they won’t take steps to prevent his rearming Kerak. Alone, Acquatainia cannot stop Kanus.”
“But if Kerak attacks you, surely you could ask the Star Watch for help and...”
“It won’t be that simple or clear-cut. Kanus will nibble off one small nation at a time. He can strike a blow and conquer a nation before the Star Watch can be summoned. Finally he’ll have us cut off completely, without a single ally. Then he’ll strike Acquatainia, or perhaps even try to subvert us from within. If he takes Acquatainia, he’ll have whetted his appetite for bigger game: he’ll want to conquer the Terran Commonwealth next. He’ll stop at nothing.”
“And he’s using the dueling machines to further his ambitions,” Leoh mused. “Well, gentlemen, it seems I have no alternative but to travel to the Acquataine Cluster. The dueling machine is my responsibility, and if there’s something wrong with it, or with the use of it, I’ll do my best to correct the situation.”
“That is all we ask,” Massan said. “Thank you.”
The Acquatainian scene faded away, and the three men in the president’s office found themselves looking at a solid wall once again.
“Well,” Leoh said, turning to the president, “it seems that I must request an indefinite leave of absence.”
The president frowned. “And it seems that I must grant it—even though the year isn’t even half-finished.”
“I regret the necessity,” said Leoh. Then, with a broad grin, he added, “My assistant, here, can handle my courses for the remainder of the year quite easily. Perhaps he’ll even be able to deliver his lectures without being interrupted.”
The assistant professor turned red from collar to scalp.
“Now then,” Leoh muttered to himself, “who is this Kanus, and why is he trying to turn the Kerak Worlds into an arsenal?”
Chancellor Kanus, Supreme Leader of the Kerak Worlds, stood at the edge of the balcony and looked across the wild, tumbling gorge to the rugged mountains beyond.
“These are the forces that mold men’s actions,” he said to his small audience of officials and advisers. “The howling winds, the mighty mountains, the open sky, and the dark powers of the clouds.”
The men nodded and made murmurs of agreement.
“Just as the mountains thrust up from the pettiness of the lands below, so shall we rise above the common walk of men,” Kanus said. “Just as a thunderstorm terrifies them, we will make them cower and bend to our will.”
“We will destroy the past,” said one of the ministers.
“And avenge the memory of defeat,” Kanus added. He turned and looked at the little group of men. Kanus was the smallest man on the balcony: short, spare, sallow-faced. His gaudy military uniform looked out of place on him, too big and heavy, too loaded with braid and medals. But he possessed piercing dark eyes and a strong voice that commanded attention.
He walked through the knot of men and stopped before a tall, lean, blond youth in a light-blue military uniform. “And you, Major Odal, will be a primary instrument in the first steps of conquest.”
Odal bowed stiffly. “I only hope to serve my Leader and my Worlds.”
“You shall. And you already have,” Kanus said, beaming. “Already the Acquatainians are thrashing about like a snake whose head has been cut off. Without Dulaq, they have no brain to direct them. For your part in this triumph...” Kanus snapped his fingers, and one of his advisers quickly stepped to his side and handed him a small ebony box, “I present you with this token of the esteem of the Kerak Worlds, and of my personal high regard.”
He handed the box to Odal, who opened it and took out a small jeweled pin.
“The Star of Kerak,” Kanus announced. “This is the first time it has been awarded to anyone except a warrior on the battlefield. But, then, we have turned their so-called civilized dueling machine into our own battlefield, eh?”
Odal smiled. “Yes, sir, we have. Thank you very much, sir. This is the supreme moment of my life.”
“To date, Major. Only to date. There will be other moments, even higher ones. Come inside. We have many plans to discuss... more duels... more triumphs.”
They all filed into Kanus’ huge, elaborate office. The Leader walked across the plushly ornate room and sat at the elevated desk, while his followers arranged themselves on the chairs and couches placed about the floor. Odal remained standing, near the doorway.
Kanus let his fingers flick across a small control board set into his desk top, and a tri-dimensional star map appeared on the far wall. At its center were the eleven stars of the Kerak Worlds. Off to one side of the map was the Acquataine Cluster—wealthy, powerful, the most important political and economic power in this section of the galaxy. Farther away from Kerak, the slimmest edge of the Terran Commonwealth showed; to put the entire Commonwealth on the map would have dwarfed Acquatainia and made Kerak microscopic.
Pointing at the map, Kanus began one of his inevitable harangues. Objectives, political and military. Already the Kerak Worlds were unified under his dominant will. The people would follow wherever he led. Already the political alliances built up by Acquatainian diplomacy since the last war were tottering, now that Dulaq was out of the picture. Kerak was beginning to rearm. A political blow
here,
at the Szarno Confederacy, to bring them and their armaments industries into line with Kerak. Then a diplomatic alliance with the Etra Domain, which stood between the Acquataine Cluster and the Terran Commonwealth, to isolate the Acquatainians. Then, finally, the military blow against Acquatainia.
“A sudden strike, a quick, decisive series of blows, and the Acquatainians will collapse like a house of paper. Even if the Star Watch wanted to interfere, we would be victorious before they could bring help to the Acquataine Cluster. And with the resources of Acquatainia to draw on, we can challenge any force in the galaxy—even the Terran Commonwealth itself!”
The men in the room nodded and smiled.
They’ve heard this story many times,
Odal thought. This was the first time he had been privileged to listen to it. If you closed your eyes, or looked only at the star map, the plan sounded bizarre, extreme, even impossible. But if you watched Kanus and let those piercing, almost hypnotic eyes fasten on yours, then the Leader’s wildest dreams sounded not only exciting, but inevitable.
Odal leaned a shoulder against the paneled wall and looked at the other men in the room.
There was fat Greber, the Vice Chancellor, fighting desperately to stay awake after drinking too much wine during luncheon and afterward. And Modal, sitting on the couch next to him, was bright-eyed and alert, thinking only of how much money and power would come to him as Minister of Industry once the rearmament program went into full speed.
Sitting alone on another couch was Kor, the quiet one, the head of Intelligence and—technically—Odal’s superior. Silent Kor, whose few words were usually charged with terror for those whom he spoke against. Kor had an unfathomed capacity for cruelty.
Marshal Lugal looked bored when Kanus spoke of politics, but his face changed when military matters came up. The Marshal lived for only one purpose: to avenge his army’s humiliating defeat in the war against Acquatainia. What he didn’t realize, Odal knew, was that as soon as he had reorganized the army and reequipped it, Kanus planned to retire him and place younger men in charge. Men whose only loyalty was not to the army, nor even to the Kerak Worlds and their people, but to the Leader himself.
Eagerly following every syllable, every gesture of the Leader, was little Tinth. Born to the nobility, trained in the arts, a student of philosophy, Tinth had deserted his heritage to join the forces of Kanus. His reward was the Ministry of Education. Many teachers had suffered under him.
And finally there was Romis, the Minister of Foreign Affairs. A professional diplomat, one of the few men in government before Kanus’ sweep to power who had survived this long. It was clear that Romis hated the Chancellor. But he served the Kerak Worlds well. The diplomatic corps was flawless in their handling of the Safad trade treaty, although they would have gotten nowhere without Odal’s own work in the dueling machine. It was only a matter of time, Odal knew, before one of them—Romis or Kanus—killed the other.
The rest of Kanus’ audience consisted of political hacks, roughnecks-turned-bodyguards, and a few other hangers-on who had been with Kanus since the days when he held his political monologues in cellars and haunted the alleys to avoid the police. Kanus had come a long way: from the blackness of oblivion to the dazzling heights of the Chancellor’s rural estate.
Money, power, glory, revenge, patriotism: each man in the room, listening to Kanus, had his reason for following the Chancellor.
And my reasons?
Odal asked himself
. Why do I follow? Can I see into my own mind as easily as I see into theirs?
There was duty, of course. Odal was a soldier, and Kanus was the duly elected Leader of the government. Once elected, though, he had dissolved the government and solidified his powers as absolute dictator of the Kerak Worlds.
There was gain to be had by performing well under Kanus. Regardless of his political ambitions and personal tyrannies, Kanus rewarded well when pleased. The medal—the Star of Kerak—carried with it an annual pension that would nicely accommodate a family.
If I had one,
Odal thought sardonically.
There was a power, of sorts, also. Working the dueling machine in his special way, hammering a man into nothingness, finding the weaknesses in his personality and exploiting them, pitting his mind against others, turning sneering towers of pride like Dulaq into helpless whipped dogs—that was power. And it was a power that did not go unnoticed in Kerak. Already Odal was easily recognized on the streets; girls especially seemed to be attracted to him now.
“The most important factor,” Kanus was saying, “and I cannot stress it too heavily, is to build up an aura of invincibility. This is why your work is so important, Major Odal. You must be invincible! Because you represent the will of the Kerak Worlds. You are the instrument of my will, and you must triumph at every turn. The fate of your people and your Chancellor rests squarely on your shoulders each time you step into a dueling machine. You have borne that responsibility well, Major. Can you carry it even further?”
“I can, sir,” Odal answered crisply, “and I will.”
Kanus beamed at him. “Excellent! Because your next duel—and those that follow it—will be to the death.”
It took the star ship two weeks to make the journey from Carinae to the Acquataine Cluster. Dr. Leoh spent the time checking over the Acquatainian dueling machine, by direct tri-di communication link. The Acquatainian government gave him all the technicians and time he needed for the task.
Leoh spent as much of his spare time as possible with the other passengers of the ship. They were all enormously wealthy, as star-ship travelers had to be, or else they were traveling on government business—and expense. He was gregarious, a fine conversationalist, and had a nicely balanced sense of humor. Particularly, he was a favorite of the younger women, since he had reached the age where he could flatter them with his attention without making them feel endangered. But still, there were long hours when he was alone in his stateroom with nothing but memories. At times like these, it was impossible not to think back over the road he had been following.
Albert Robertus Leoh, Ph.D., professor of physics, professor of electronics, master of computer technology, inventor of the interstellar tri-di communications system. And more recently, student of psychology, professor of psychophysiology, founder of Psychonics, Incorporated, inventor of the dueling machine.
During his youthful years, with enthusiasm unbridled by experience, Leoh had envisioned himself as helping mankind to spread its colonies and civilizations throughout the galaxy. The bitter century of galactic war had ended in his childhood, and now human societies were linked together across the stars into a more-or-less peaceful coalition of nations.
There were two great motivating forces at work on those human societies, and these forces worked toward opposite goals. On the one hand was the urge to explore, to reach new stars, new planets, to expand the frontiers of man’s civilizations and found new colonies, new nations. Pitted against this drive to expand was an equally powerful force: the realization that technology had put an end to physical labor and almost to poverty itself on all the civilized worlds of man. The urge to move off to the frontier was penned in and buried alive under the enervating comforts of civilization.
The result was inescapable. The civilized worlds became constantly more crowded. They became jam-packed islands of humanity sprinkled thinly across a sea of space that was still studded with unpopulated islands. The expense and difficulty of interstellar travel was often cited as an excuse. The star ships
were
expensive: their power demands were frightful. They could be used for business, for the pleasure of the very rich, for government travel; but hauling whole colonies of farmers and workers was almost completely out of the question. Only the most determined (and best financed) groups of colonists could afford them. The rest of mankind accepted the ease and safety of civilization, lived in the bulging cities of the teeming planets.
Their lives were circumscribed by their neighbors and by their governments. Constantly more people crowded into a fixed living space meant constantly less freedom. The freedom to dream, to run free, to procreate, all became state-owned, state-controlled privileges.
And Leoh had contributed to this situation.
He had contributed his thoughts and his work. He had contributed often and regularly. The interstellar communications system was only one outstanding achievement in a long career of achievements.
Leoh had been nearly at the voluntary retirement age for scientists when he realized what he and his fellow scientists had done. Their efforts to make life richer and more rewarding had only made it less strenuous and more rigid. With every increase in physical comfort, Leoh discovered, came a corresponding increase in spiritual discomfort—in neuroses, in crimes of violence, in mental aberrations. Senseless wars of pride broke out between star-nations for the first time in generations. Outwardly, the peace of the galaxy was assured except for minor flare-ups; but beneath the glossy surface of man’s civilization smoldered the beginnings of a volcano. Police actions fought by the Star Watch were increasing ominously. Petty wars between once-stable peoples were flaring up steadily.
Once Leoh realized the part he had played in all this, he was confronted with two emotions: a deep sense of guilt, both personal and professional; and, countering this, a determination to do something, anything, to restore at least some balance to man’s collective mentality.
Leoh stepped out of physics and electronics, and entered the field of psychology. Instead of retiring, he applied for a beginner’s status in his new profession. It took considerable bending and straining of the Commonwealth’s rules, but for a man of Leoh’s stature the rules could sometimes be flexed a little. Leoh became a student once again, then a researcher, and finally a professor of psychophysiology.
Out of this came the dueling machine. A combination of electroencephalograph and autocomputer. A dream machine that amplified a man’s imagination until he could engulf himself in a world of his own making. Leoh envisioned it as a device to enable men to rid themselves of hostility and tension, safely. Certainly psychiatrists and psychotechnicians used the machines to treat their patients. But Leoh saw further, saw that—as a
dueling
machine—the psychonic device could be used to prevent mental tensions and disorders. And he convinced many governments to install dueling machines for that purpose.
When two men had a severe difference of opinion, deep enough to warrant legal action, they could go to the dueling machine instead of the courts. Instead of passively watching the machinations of the law grind impersonally through their differences, they could allow their imaginations free rein in the dueling machine. They could settle the argument as violently as they wished, without hurting themselves or anyone else. On most civilized worlds, the results of properly monitored duels were accepted as legally binding.
The tensions of civilized life could be escaped—temporarily—in the dueling machine. This was a powerful tool, much too powerful to allow it to be used indiscriminately. Therefore Leoh safeguarded his invention by forming a private company, Psychonics, Incorporated, and securing an exclusive license from the Terran Commonwealth to manufacture, sell, install, and maintain the machines. His customers were government health and legal agencies. His responsibilities were: legally, to the Commonwealth; morally, to all mankind; and finally to his own restless conscience.
The dueling machines succeeded. They worked as well, and often better, than Leoh had anticipated. But he knew that they were only a stopgap, only a temporary shoring of a constantly eroding dam. What was needed, really needed, was some method of exploding the status quo, some means of convincing people to reach out for those unoccupied, unexplored stars that filled the galaxy, some way of convincing men that they should leave the comforts of civilization for the excitement and freedom of new lands.
Leoh had been searching for that method when the news of Dulaq’s duel had reached him. Now he was speeding across light-years of space, praying to himself that the dueling machine had not failed.
The two-week flight ended. The star ship took up a parking orbit around the capital planet of the Acquataine Cluster. The passengers trans-shipped to the surface.
Dr. Leoh was met at the landing disk by an official delegation, headed by Massan, the Acting Prime Minister. They exchanged formal greetings at the base of the ship while the other passengers hurried by, curious, puzzled. As they rode the slideway toward a private entrance to the spaceport’s administration building, Leoh commented:
“As you probably know, I have checked your dueling machine quite thoroughly via tri-di for the past two weeks. I can find nothing wrong with it.”
Massan shrugged. “Perhaps you should have checked the machine on Szarno instead.”
“The Szarno Confederation? Their dueling machine?”
“Yes. This morning, Kanus’ assassin killed a man in it.”
“He won another duel,” Leoh said.
“You do not understand,” Massan said grimly. “Major Odal’s opponent—an industrialist who had spoken out against Kanus—was actually killed in the dueling machine. The man is dead!”
One of the advantages of being Commander in Chief of the Star Watch, the old man thought to himself, is that you can visit any planet in the Commonwealth.
He stood at the top of the hill and looked out over the grassy tableland of Kenya. This was the land of his birth, Earth was his home world. The Star Watch’s official headquarters was in the heart of a star cluster much closer to the center of the Commonwealth, but Earth was the place the Commander wanted most to see as he grew older and wearier.