Thin rain fell like a soft mist over the city. Street lights shone through the murk of approaching evening and now and then a passing vehicle sent scuds of spray across the walkway. The thin man scuttled along the side of an old, grey wall, the light from the street lanterns casting an unreal, gigantic shadow across the crumbling stonework. Glancing twice over his shoulder the man made his way to the entrance of a dingy looking apartment block. He twisted a key in the door, which slid open with a smoothness of action not natural in such an ancient structure. The door open, the man passed into the hallway of the house, making sure that the door was fastened securely behind him before he moved on. He passed up a long flight of stairs, halting finally before a door marked only with the number '7'. Upon this door he knocked, a coded succession of staccato taps. A rumbling voice from within bade him enter. Unbuttoning his coat he went into the room, once again experiencing the thrill of unreality as he took in his new surroundings. On most planets of the Galaxy the room would have been instantly recognised as a laboratory. To the thin man there were no such things; his people had not advanced sufficiently to be familiar with the concept. To him it was a place of magic and, as such, to be greatly feared. As indeed was the man who lived here. That man rose now from his chair behind a ponderous desk and strode swiftly across to the messenger. He was a lean man with ascetic features but his body held no trace of the gauntness which characterised the natives of the planet. Instead his was the leanness of strength and power. His dark eyes smouldered with the fire of ambition. "What news have you?" he hissed to the Thrahan. "The tribes mass all across the plains," the native replied, awed by the hum of dormant machinery. "In five days we shall be ready." The offworlder rubbed thin hands in satisfaction. "Five days," he murmured to himself. "It will be an easy matter to take over the cities. The inhabitants are lazy - slothful. They have no adequate defences." A sly smile flickered across the native's features. "There will be much slaughter," he muttered gleefully. "And women." "You'll get your women," the gaunt man said disdainfully. "Now go and bid the armies be ready." The Thrahan bolted out of the door and the alien took his seat behind the desk once more. "Women!" he spat, "all those scum think about." A feeling of disgust coursed through him as he realised just how dependent he was upon the natives. Barbarians. Still, he reassured himself, it was only temporary. Once the planet was effectively under his control, things would be different. "At last," he murmured, "a new foothold for Rorn." As he spoke the words a globe at his side flickered into life. From across a five dimensional void a message was arriving. The alien knew that the globe bore messages from one source only. Rorn was calling! Rorn - the Galactic intelligence to whom human beings were mere bacteria, a worrisome infection that had to be stamped out before they destroyed his health. Acting swiftly, the gaunt man sent a thought winging across to the lambent globe. He knew that by some mechanism that he didn't understand and didn't particularly want to, his thought would impress itself upon that five dimensional ball of light and thus be instantaneously transmitted to Rorn. "Acknowledged," he thought. Immediately Rorn's 'voice' was inside his mind The alien heard nothing, no whisper, no sound. It was more as though a section of his memory had suddenly been awakened - as if the words that Rorn spoke had always been known to him, in. some dim segment of his subconscious and had only now come to the surface. Thus Rorn communicated with his servant on Thraha 5. "You have news?" his query came. "The natives tell me they will be prepared to move in five days. They are resentful of humankind's domination, beneficial though it might be to them in the long run. I have stirred up that resentment by every means known to me. They will fight well and the colonists in the cities are slothful. It may not be an easy matter but the natives will win. Of course, it will only be a matter of time before the authorities on Earth come to realise what is going on." "One week after your world is in my power, Earth will matter no more," Rorn replied. "I just require a starting point. If you carry out your part of the bargain as agreed, Fosthee, you will be well rewarded when the time comes." Fosthee smiled cunningly. "My part will be adhered to, within a week, Thraha 5 will be yours." He was about to boast further but a strange emptiness inside his skull told him that Rorn was gone. Fosthee knew little of Rorn's true nature - few did; even among his most devoted servants. The only members of humanity who were aware of the truth were a few of the highest ranking members of the Galactic .government on Earth and the highest authorities of the Stellar Guard, including that body's, top two agents, Stormont and Shader, who had been the first to discover the numbing truth about the fantastic being known to mankind as Rorn For Rorn was no ordinary alien, He was a conscious Galaxy! The Milky Way - every star a neurone of his vast brain, connected by synapses of subspace vibration, In his cold inhuman manner Rorn thought and lived, But he was worried, his vast Galactic brain was being infected - by life! Humanity was, to him, nothing more than a bacterial culture, spreading like wildfire, among the star systems that composed his consciousness. As nearly as he could, he experienced an emotion akin to fear when he thought of the stars of his brain ravaged and plundered by the disease of intelligent life. Delicate balances upset, irreparable damage maybe already done. Rorn did not hate humanity, Could you hate a virus? No, but as humanity would combat the spread of a virus so Rorn was determined to halt the spread of mankind, He used specially mutated alien races scattered throughout the Galaxy to combat humanity - they were his 'antibiotics'. After the destruction of his best agent, the Multiple Man, superbrained co-ordinator of his forces in the settled part of the Galaxy, Rorn knew he would have to think again, Thraha 5 was the result of that cogitation. In the silence of a five dimensional environment the strange entity that was Rorn pondered his/her/its actions. He/she/it planned and schemed, disturbed all the time by the inevitable reliance on others to fight his/her/its battles, All he/she/it could do was direct operations. Surely this new scheme must wipe the worriesome infection from the cells of his/her/its brain, But it was a persistent infection - that had been shown before. In his/her/its own strange, alien way, Rorn worried. But there were some worried humans about too! Stellar Guard (First Class) Shader spread his hands hopelessly and stared blankly at his superior officer. "I just don't see how we can ever hope to communicate with this being, sir," he admitted. "Despite Guard Stormont's optimism I would guess that meaningful communication is forever impossible between two entities as different as a man and a conscious Galaxy." He sat down heavily and the Guard Commander motioned for Stormont to have his say. He rose to his feet a faint frown creasing his brow. "I must admit that a lot of what Shader has said is true," he began, "but I don't think that it is the whole story. In the long term our continued existence probably depends upon our reaching some sort of compromise agreement with this ... being. Whether or not that can be achieved I don't know, but I am fairly sure that there is a method - somehow, somewhere, of getting in touch with Rorn. After all, the Multiple Man and his like must have had some way of receiving orders, so channels of communication must exist. We probably severed them when we smashed the Stronghold, but I would guess that they can be opened up again." The Commander nodded. "In time, yes," he agreed. "But have we got that time?" Shader broke in: "I doubt it, sir. If that thing thinks anything like us he'll be mighty annoyed at his failure with the Multiple Man. I'd estimate that he'll try something else as soon as possible." "That's my estimate of the situation, too," the Commander agreed. "Hoewever the real question is - what? Any ideas?" Stormont frowned. "There's so much going on in the Galaxy at the moment. Half of it may be the work of Rorn and his stooges." "Does anything particular come to mind?" "Well, there was the mine disaster on Arcadia 7 and the loss of 'The Crypton' off Thebes, although there were meteor storms around at the time. Those items seem a bit minor to be Rorn's work. Still, there's unrest on a hundred different worlds at present." The Commander nodded. "Talking of unrest I had a disturbing report in this morning about the situation on Thraha 5. Seems that there's been some rabble rousing going on amongst the native population. Our agents report that the situation could turn ugly. I'm not too happy about things out there at all as a matter of fact. The colonists are too used to the easy life at the expense of the locals, they've gotten soft. A full scale revolt could lead to a terrible bloodbath." "Rorn, you think?" Stormont enquired. "I wouldn't like to say, but Rorn or not I'd like you to try and put a stop to it. Take a Guard cruiser. I'll arrange for one to be put at your disposal. It's about two days flight so the sooner you start the better. If it's Rorn, smash the scheme the best you can, but try and find the communications link -if one exists on that world. We need to get through to this being that we're not out to destroy him. If you need back-up I'll arrange for Z Squadron to be on standby. Yes, Stormont?" "Just one thing, sir. Could we be assigned the cyborg ship that was with us on the Multiple Man affair? We've got a sort of rapport going between us." "Hmm. Yes, of course. Saved your life last time. That's an uncommonly intelligent cyborg." Stormont nodded. "True.We might need something a cut above average, too, if Rorn is mixed up in this business." From a million miles out Thraha 5 was a blueish ball about the size of a penny. It was slightly farther from its primary than is Earth from Sol, but Thraha being a white Sun the planet was somewhat warmer than Earth, with less ocean and more desert. The green coastal areas of the continents had been colonised by one of the early waves of stellar explorers and settlers and the indigenous natives had been pushed back into the desert interiors, a state of affairs that they had naturally resented. Violence had been seething beneath the surface for almost a century and the arrival of Fosthee had aggravated the situation to the point where an explosion was almost inevitable. "Report, Ship, please," Stormont requested. "Terrestrial type, planet, class E6," the cyborg responded instantaneously. "Diameter 9,236 miles, gravity 1.21G. Three main continents, of predominantly similar make-up, consisting of fertile coastal belts and mountainous desert interiors. Ocean covers 47.2% of the proportion of the planet's surface that is free of ice." "Those mountainous deserts would be a good place from which to conduct guerrilla warfare," Shader commented dryly. "Yes," Stormont agreed. "They'd also be a good place to construct a stronghold for Rorn. I wouldn't be surprised if there was one down there somewhere." "You wish me to conduct a search?" Ship asked. "Just a general scan," Stormont decided. "I doubt whether you'll find anything immediately obvious. The base, if there is one, is probably underground. It's worth a look though. The natives may have built it above ground level, knowing that the colonists weren't likely to come nosing around. "What cultural level are these natives?" Shader enquired. "Nomadic tribesmen," Ship replied. '"They herd wild animals, but have no farms or stable abodes." "They seem a bit primitive to be agents of Rorn," the guard murmured. "After all, these bases require complex equipment to make there functional, I doubt if many of our colonists are up to that rnark let alone the Thrahans themselves." "I've no doubt that the natives are merely providing the brawn, not the brains," Stormont opined. "Rorn has probably got at least one of his agents down there - assuming that this brewing revolt is his doing - and the equipment would have been imported, from one of the cells of activity that he still has scattered in unexplored parts of the Galaxy." "How can a being like that adapt to fighting what are, to him, little more than germs," Shader wondered aloud. "He must have a very flexible intellect." "Let's not carry the germ analogy too far," Stormont warned. "No doubt Rorn knows just what we are - our weaknesses and our strengths. It must be strange for him to have to fight us, but think of the dilemma we face. We can't let him beat us, but we can't go for all-out victory ourselves, even if such a victory was remotely conceivable, which it isn't, because such a victory would mean a dead Galaxy, which would be a pyrrhic victory indeed." Their conversation was cut short by Ship, who announced the fact that they were now in orbit around the planet. "I'm going to complete one polar and one equatorial orbit," the cyborg stated. "If there is a visible base down there that'll be enough to allow me to spot it." The next hour passed in inactivity, while Ship swept on around the planet, searching its barren interior with questing sensors. The two agents completed a check of the equipment they would need on the planet and had just finished when Ship announced a negative result.. "It looks as though we'd better go down and pick up some first-hand information, then," Stormont decided. "Where do you wish me to drop-you off?" Ship asked. "In the urban areas or in one of the deserts?" Stormont pondered. "Well, I don't want to start off without knowing the facts behind this trouble. You'd better set down at the main space-port to start off with, so that we can have a word with the Administrator. He might be able to enlighten us a bit, give us some clue as to whether it really is Rorn behind all this trouble." The City Administrator proved to be a short tubby man by name of Rattigan. He shook hands with a moist grip and motioned the two agents to seats before his desk. "The Sector Commander told me that you'd be coming," he said, mopping his brow with a large silk handkerchief. "We are glad to see you. Things are about to start getting nasty." Shader's eyebrows went up. "Oh? What's the latest?" "The natives are massing at the edge of the deserts, adjacent to the cities. They refuse to meet our envoys. They haven't issued any direct threats, but we are afraid that they mean to attack us." "Have you no defensive armament?" Shader rapped. "Surely you can beat off a few nomads." The Administrator looked uncomfortable. "This has always been a peaceful planet in the past," he said slowly. "It's over a century since we were last troubled by native uprisings. Since then they've kept themselves to themselves and haven't bothered, us. I'm afraid that our weapons are not in as good a state of repair as they might be. Also, there is a marked lack of trained personnel to use them. Of course, we will do the best we can." "This doesn't hang together," Stormont said. "Why should there be trouble now, after a century of calm?" "Well, in the past the natives have kept from bothering us more because of their own disunity rather than from any love of Earthmen," the Administrator replied. "Being nomadic, they are, of necessity, split up into small units, with a history of internecine strife. They have no love for each other, these tribes, and despite their dislike of we colonists, have never managed to band together to form a fighting force. We can handle the individual tribes with ease, but banded together they're a different matter." "And why do you think that they have banded together?" "Well, this isn't fact - not that I can prove, anyway - but there's talk of a new leader, someone stirring them up, swaying them with sophisticated weaponry and promises of power and riches. We think he's an off-worlder - the natives probably regard him as some kind of magician; they are rather superstitious. What his motives are I can't guess, unless he intends to set himself up as some sort of King." Stormont glanced across at his fellow agent. "It fits," he said tersely. Shader nodded while the Administrator watched them puzzledly. "You know something about this?" he enquired. "Only surmise at this stage," Stormont said. "Tell me, have there been any rumours as to the whereabouts of this offworlder?" Rattigan shook his head. "None." "In that case," said Stormont, chewing reflexively at his bottom lip, "it would seem that the only thing for us to do is to investigate personally." "I couldn't guarantee your safety," the Administrator pointed out. "The mood that the Thrahans are in at the moment it would be touch and go whether you got out alive, always supposing that they don't erupt into open revolution." "It's the only way," Stormont insisted. "There may be more at stake than just the future of this one planet." Rattigan looked perplexed, but did not attempt to question the two agents further. Probably he was glad to have the responsibility of attempting to find a solution to his problems passed on to somebody else, Shader reflected sardonically. Rorn contemplated. His/her/its latest scheme was a good one. With Thraha 5 in his/her/its control it would require not much more than a week to erect the machinery that would set his/her/its plan into operation. From that point on it would be merely a matter of time - and he/she/it had plenty of that until the troublesome infection was stemmed at last. True, Thraha 5 was only the first link in that plan, but it was a link that, once forged, would ensure the success of the remaining operations. For the first time in a long five-dimensional spell, he/she/it felt the first stirrings of what passed, in that cold, unemotional, brain, for triumph. Ship hovered over a deserted jumble of rocks, sand and scrub. Shader surveyed the scene below with disdain. "If this is what the natives have to live off, I'm not surprised that they're close to revolt," he said. Stormont agreed. "It's even worse than I imagined it. I suspect that when territories for colonisation were allocated, a bit of political pressure was brought by someone back on Earth. We shall have to see what we can do about rectifying the situation when we get back." "Always assuming that we do get back," Shader interjected in his usual optimistic fashion. "Do you want me to conduct a search pattern?'' Ship broke in. "Yes," Stormont ordered. "It is essential that we land near an encampment of these nomads. I shouldn't particularly care to go tramping across the desert on foot, searching for them." Shader nodded his assent. Ship swept over the barren expanses in a long, wide curve. Even from inside the air-conditioned cabin Stormont could sense the heat outside. The rush of their passing sent swirls of dust high into the air behind them and once Shader spotted a lizard like creature scuttling for cover behind a mound of rocks. Apart from that one glimpse there was no hint that life existed on the barren waste. Far to the north, mountains reared their snow-covered peaks towards the sky, marking the edge of this particular stretch of desert. Beyond the mountains, Stormont knew, was more desert, stretching on and on to the far green belt of the coastal strip. But that fertile area was in the hands of the colonists, whilst the native Thrahans had been left to battle with the inhospitable wilderness. "I am detecting humanoid life readings on my meters," Ship announced. "About five kilometres to the west." "Take us over the area," Stormont instructed. There was a hum of deceleration as Ship lowered his speed sufficiently to carry out the required manoeuvres. He banked and swept low across the desert until they passed slowly over a disorganised jumble of tents. Pack animals chewed morosely on dry bales of fodder at one end of the encampment and a few tiny humanoid figures stood around gazing up as Ship passed overhead. "They've seen us," Ship stated. Stormont nodded. "I wanted them to. At least now they have some conception of the power we can bring to bear if they turn nasty." "I doubt that'll cut any ice, grunted Shader. "This type of nomadic tribesman is notoriously contemptuous of superior weaponry; there's what amounts to a psychological block against the belief that they are not the predestined rulers of their environment. If, as in this case, they are engaged in a struggle for their homelands, this is likely to manifest itself in an unreasoning hatred for the more advanced civilisations, in this case represented by the Colonists. There's also the possibility, of course, that Rorn may have issued them with advanced weaponry." "I am picking up indications of a large group of nomads moving in from the direction of the mountains," Ship stated. "This would seem to be some kind of a rendezvous, then," Stormont said. "And with a culture of this kind, where contact with other tribes is normally abhorred that means that the crunch must be near." "Hadn't we better get back and warn the Administrator?" Shader asked. "No. I think that our best bet of stopping this business is to try and do so here, at the source. Anyway, the Colonists have only got themselves to blame for their present predicament. If they had kept their weapons ready and their youth trained, they would have no worries." "You wish me to set you down?" Ship interrupted. "Yes. Right in the centre of their camp. Keep handy in case of trouble." To Shader Stormont added: "We'll wear our armour, just in case they've got hold of anything more advanced than bows and arrows." As Ship descended slowly, on contra-grav, to the centre of the sprawl of tents the two agents donned their protective armour. Anything short of a fusion rifle would be useless against the suits. When they stared out of the forward port it was to see the hostile faces of the tribesmen grouped all around the craft, which had come to rest in an open space, making a sizeable dent in the ground. Stormont took a deep breath. "Now we go out," he said. Shader shrugged. "In for a penny in for a pound. Keep your sensors peeled, Ship." "Assuredly," the cyborg agreed. The two agents moved to the forward lock and Stormont operated the control. The doors hissed back in unison, the pressure difference between the ship's interior and the outside atmosphere being negligible. Seconds later they were face to face with a horde of hostile tribesmen. There was some muttering among the nomads as the Earthmen stepped from the protection of their vessel stocky and cumbersome in their protective suits. A spear glanced from Stormont's faceplate and a volley of arrows whistled about them. Seeing this first onslaught fail the tribesmen decided to rely on the overwhelming force of superior numbers. As a body, doubtless to some unseen signal, twenty or more of them rushed at the two men. As they surged forward faces contorted with hate; Stormont switched on his automuscles. Thus braced, his suit easily withstood the nomads' onslaught, his arms and legs sweeping out in a flurry of well aimed blows. Nomads went scattering in all directions before his power assisted onslaught, nursing bruises, fractures and contusions. Picking out one native who seemed more adventurous than the rest, Stormont lifted the hapless humanoid high above his head and hurled him clean over a nearby tent. A sickening thud followed by absolute silence ensued. Stormont noticed that Shader had beaten off his adversaries in a like manner and the two of them stood their ground firmly, staring coldly at the battered nomads, who still hung about fixing their victorious adversaries with stares of sullen hatred. "We may have saved our skins but I don't think we've made any friends," Shader muttered. "If looks could kill we'd be dead meat." "It wasn't my wish to make friends," Stormont stated. "Among nomadic tribes such as these friendship is cheap. The only thing that they appreciate is a show of strength. We've given that to them all right. Perhaps they'll listen now." Ship's voice broke in over their communicators. "The group of tribesmen approaching have fission guns," it rapped. "I am picking up neutron emission from the Thorium power packs." Stormont was startled. "Are you sure?" "Positive. The emission is quite singular. It is not strong enough to be an atomically powered vehicle or ship, but is at a level consistent with fission guns unused for a week or more and inadequately shielded." "But if those guns have no shielding the people using them will be dead within a few more days from slow radiation poisoning," Shader stated. "I doubt if' Rorn is worried about that," Stormont grated. "In a fortnight he'll either have succeeded or failed. After that he'll have no further use for the natives." "You have decided then that Rorn is definitely at the heart of this uprising?" Ship broke in. "The fission guns would indicate that," Stormont said, "Few other agencies would arm natives with such weapons." "Agreed," Ship said. "However, they still appear to be reliant on draught animals for transport and thus will not arrive for over an hour." "Good," said the agent. "That gives us time to prepare a little reception committee for them. Can you lock in a translator so that I can get through to these people?" "Done," Ship affirmed. "Their language is well known. My memory banks have full vocabularies. As your speech passes through my power cells from your communicators I will translate." Stormont turned his attention back to the tribesmen. He switched on the loudspeaker in his helmet and sent his voice booming across the encampment. "I would speak to your chieftain." A gaunt, lean warrior stepped from the throng and glared balefully at the agents. "Why have you come to our lands with war?" he barked, seemingly determined to at least put on a brave face. "Spawn of lizard's droppings," Stormont spat at him. "Treacherous animal! You speak to us of war when you are planning the destruction of the colonists who dwell by the three oceans." The chieftain's face contorted with fury at the insults, his lips a thin bloodless gash in his face. Yet for all his rage, he had no wish to die. He controlled himself with a visible effort and said: "These strangers have usurped our lands. We have been forced into this dry waste. We have been promised the return of all our lands and been given weapons with which to win them back. We fight only for our rights." "Fight and you will die," Stormont promised. "Thousands of warriors like my companion and I are being rushed in to defend the colonists' lands." "He who has offered us our freedom is now approaching with a mighty army," the nomad said. "What can you offer us that he cannot?" "He offers you nothing but death," Stormont mocked. "For, against the likes of us, you surely shall perish." The nomad's face twisted in hatred. "Better death than eternal exile in this accursed desert!" "There is no need of exile,"' Stormont stated. "I pledge to you full rights to one continent out of three. On that land your people will be free to do as they wish. The colonists will withdraw completely and there will be no need of bloodshed. The numbers of your people are small compared to the land available, The large continent on which we stand will be more than sufficient for your needs. That is your choice, that or death." Switching to intersuit communication he muttered to Shader: "I think the Administrator will be glad to agree to such terms, especially if I threaten to investigate the way the Thrahans were treated when the original colonisation took place." The nomad chief seemed undecided however. "Your words are sweet,'' he said, "but will your actions match them? I will agree to your terms on one condition. That you can convince Fosthee, our Saviour and chief of chiefs from beyond the sky." "This Fosthee must be an agent of Rorn," Shader's voice hissed in Stormont's earphones. Stormont nodded. Turning his attention back to the chief he said: "I agree to this, chief, but know your talk is not our method of persuasion. Like you we are great warriors -" He noted the chieftain's expression lose some of its hostility at the implied comparison - and I will convince this Fosthee of the error of his ways in combat. Let the Gods judge the victor." The nomad nodded. "This is the just way," he agreed. "so be it. Should you emerge victorious we shall know the Gods are with you and that to fight against their desires would be futile. Should the other win, however, assuredly the blood of the colonists shall flow like the sap of the Raga tree in Spring." The natives withdrew, muttering among, themselves and Shader looked worried. "Was that wise?" he asked. "This Fosthee might have some pretty powerful weaponry." "They respect me for making that offer," Stormont said, "and I have no doubt that they can convince the Thrahan army that force is the correct way of settling this dispute. Had it not been for that I doubt that we could have stopped them. Fosthee no doubt has a few tricks up his sleeve but that's a chance I'm going to have to take." The two Earthmen settled down by Ship's side to await the arrival of the Thrahan army. A cloud of dust on the horizon was the first sign of its approach and soon a fairish sized mass of humanoids came galloping across the deserted plain. The vanguard reined to at the outskirts of the encampment and the chieftain to whom Stormont had spoken earlier went across and spoke to them. There followed much waving of hands and low muttering but at length the nomad came across to Stormont. "I have spoken with the Chiefs of the other tribes," he announced. "We are agreeable to your plan. Fosthee follows with his bearers at the centre of our army. When he arrives, you will fight. To the winner we pledge our alliegance." Stormont nodded. The agents sat down once more, scanning the horizon for the first sighting of the main Thrahan force. At length it trundled up, surly looking tribesmen astride ponderous mounts, blast rifles cocked at their shoulders. In the very centre of the army was a magnificent golden wagon covered from the sun. Guards with fission guns rode at each side of it. "That looks likes Fosthee," Shader whispered. Stormont nodded. "Yes, and, see, the chieftains are going across to him - probably to tell him of the contest. I don't think he's going to care for the news too much." Stormont's assumption proved correct. A tall ascetic alien clambered haughtily from the wagon and stood in animated conversation with the chiefs. Now and again he glanced at the two Earth agents and Ship. At length he must have realised that further argument was futile, for with a toss of the rich cloak that hung from his shoulders he strode across to them, hate etched on his gaunt features. "Very clever, Earthmen," he hissed defiantly, "but you will regret your trickery yet. The lizards will feed on your bones tonight. Be warned that Rorn does not retreat in his ambitions." "So Rorn is behind this," Shader ejaculated. Fosthee smiled evilly. "Yes," he agreed, "Rorn is my master. When Earth has been wiped clean from the face of the Galaxy I shall be lifted to a position of high power. Whole clusters I will rule. Rorn has promised. Your deaths are but a small step in my progress." Stormont shook his head sadly. "You think Rorn will let you live once you've served his purpose. To him you are nothing but a micro-organism - useful on a temporary basis, but of no concern thereafter. Your death is near, Fosthee, win or lose. Your only chance is to surrender now." Fosthee smiled sardonically, "Lies," he said. "Rorn will reward me. We will fight in five of your minutes, Terran. Prepare to die." Stormont caught the alien by the arm as he turned to walk away. "What is the importance of this world to Rorn?'" he asked, banking on the hope that, like the Multiple Man, this vassal of Rorn would also be unable to resist arrogant boasting. "Why is it worth the death of all the colonists?" Fosthee shrugged. "Since you can do nothing to stop it I will tell you," he decided sneering. "What do you know of five dimensional matrices in time and space?" "Just a mathematical concept," Shader muttered. The alien smiled cunningly. "To you maybe, but to Rorn they are tools to be used for his ends. Know this, in five dimensional, superspace each point in the Universe touches four others. With knowledge of the mathematics involved it is possible to calculate which points impinge upon which others. If Earthmen knew this it would be possible for you to build ships that would traverse the entire Galaxy in less than a second. Such is the speed of Rorn's thought for he is a five-dimensional entity. This world on which we stand is co-existent with your native Earth in superspace. I have equipment which, when assembled in the right place will disrupt this whole world and tear it apart - not just in three dimensions but in all five. The shock wave will rip through superspace and tear your homeworld in shreds. With the administrative heart of your culture gone it will be simple for Rorn to wipe out your colonies." As the two agents stood, stunned, Fosthee strode off. "Can he really do that?" Shader whispered. "If Rorn really does have the knowledge of controlling forces which work through five dimensions - and there is little reason to doubt that he does - then I'm afraid he can," Stormont replied. "But why doesn't he just set up his apparatus out here in the desert?" "I suspect that it's rather like setting off an earthquake; the force has to be applied in just the right spot. Possibly there's some five-dimensional equivalent of a crustal fault in this area of superspace and it coincides with the fertile area the colonists hold." Shader shook his head. "Think you can handle Fosthee?" "I don't know. He seemed a bit too confident for my liking. It's my bet he's got something up his sleeve." "But he'd need something on the order of a fusion blaster to get through your suit and they're not exactly portable." "True, but he may have weapons we haven't got a clue about. Ship, I want you to stay alert for any tricks he might try and do your best to combat them, should the need arise." "You've got it," the cyborg agreed. Stormont strode out to a clear area in the centre of the encampment, his armour glinting in the bright sunlight. At length Fosthee emerged from his wagon, likewise covered in protective suiting, a snubby gun cradled in his arm. "That's not a fission gun," Ship said in Stormont's ear. "There is no detectable neutron emission." "Might just be perfect shielding," the agent responded." "No such thing," Ship retorted. "Even if all the primary neutrons were blocked there would still be secondary radiation set up which, although harmless, would be detectable. There is none." "So he's got something new, eh? Stormont said. "Well, we suspected as much. I'm not going to let him get too close. I'll test his defences with a laser blast, although I doubt I'll cause him any damage with that." As the alien stepped into the cleared. area Stormont sent an intense laser burst flashing across the intervening distance. It hit Fosthee clean in the centre of the chest, but was reflected from his breast, leaving him unscathed. He laughed and kept coming. "Let's see how he likes this then," Stormont muttered, pulling a sunburst grenade from his pocket. He sent it high into the sky, a tiny black object that spun in the air, it seemed momentarily to hang motionless, above the alien, then plummeted down. All hell broke loose as it hit. A huge explosion tore every tent in the encampment from its moorings, sending the great beasts of burden lumbering clumsily away, squealing in terror and blowing the nomads from their feet like corn in a gale. Flames licked at the scrubland at the perimeter of the camp but the enigmatic figure of the alien seemed unaffected by the blast. He climbed from the crater left by the grenade and strode on towards the Earthman. "I don't like this," Stormont grated. "Even if his defences stopped the heat he should have been toppled by the blast. He must have something new in the way of defensive suiting. Either that, or .. Ship!" "Yes," the cyborg's voice came back instantly. "Analyse that alien there. Put everything you've got onto him! Ship fell silent, his sensors probing towards the still advancing figure. Stormont pulled his fission rifle from its straps and sent burst after burst of screaming atomic death hurtling across the clearing Blinding coruscations of light seared the watchers' eyeballs as bolt after bolt was deflected from Fosthee. Stormont cursed luridly as his antagonist marched on unscathed, as though the atomic blasts had been flybites. Ship's voice broke in urgently. "That creature is not flesh and blood. It could not survive such an attack without a powerful force field and I cannot detect one. It must be a sim-man!" Stormont's heart sank. He knew all about the simulated energy beings. Earth had used them itself in the past, notably against the energy stronghold of the Multiple Man. Bundles of energy forced into precise replicas of the human form; they were invincible against all normal forces. "No wonder my blasts didn't harm it," Stormont muttered. "It just absorbed the energy to strengthen its own form. Each bolt I fired simply made it stronger." The sim-man halted about twenty feet from Stormont. It pointed an arm towards the agent, index finger levelled at his chest. The agent knew he had never been nearer to death. The sim-man was preparing to release the vast energies in its body in one tremendous burst. Against powers of that magnitude no Earthly protection could stand up for more than a fraction of a second. The sim-man and Stormont would be mutually consumed in a ravening burst of power. As Stormont tensed himself' for the blast that would send him to eternity a thin line of crackling fire shot from Ship's side. As it struck the sim-man a flash of light that surpassed everything that had gone before lashed across the clearing. Nomads, tents, beasts, scrub, everything was consumed in a supernal bout of energy. Even Stormont; inside his protective suit was scorched. "What the hell was that?" he cursed. Ship's voice came to him as he struggled to see through blinded eyes. "That was the energy of the sim-man being released. Not in a directed burst, as intended, but in an aimless, general, release of its energy." "But how did it happen?" "To maintain their form, the energy of a sim-man is contained within a magnetic force bottle. I took a risk. I used all the power of my engines in a single attempt to disrupt the opening in its magnetic field that it had made to release its own attack on you. It worked. The energy was freed and the sim-man is destroyed." "But - if you used all your power how come you're still functional?" "When the energies were released I tapped a fraction of' the power momentarily available to recharge myself. I am fully operational." Stormont blinked back tears of pain and surveyed the desolation around him, through tortured eyes. All around the ground was charred black. Of the vast nomad army not a sign remained saved for charred heaps lying motionless on the ground. A thought struck Stormont like a cold douche. "Shader!" "I'm all right," the other agent said. "Just before the blast Ship put a force anchor on me and yanked me up inside the hull. I was quite safe in here." "Thank God. But what happened to the real Fosthee? He must have stayed in his wagon when he sent the sim-man out to fight. Was he killed with the rest?" "No," Ship stared. "Just before the blast he took off in a powered flight-suit, heading for the coast. He probably had some idea of setting off the explosion on his own. Quite hopless, of course." "We don't know that!" Shader shouted. "We must stop him!" "I sent a missile after him," Ship said calmly "Allowing for the relative velocities of suit and missile they should meet in about three seconds. Two, one, now." A brief glare of light high in the sky announced the arrival of the missile at its target. "That," Shader crowed, "is very much that." "Not really," Stormont murmured. "We failed in our real objective; which was to get into communication with Rorn. Any communication apparatus which existed was no doubt in the wagon, which was destroyed utterly in the blast. Still, Rorn will no longer be able to play this particular piano. I suppose that's something." "We had better return to Earth," Ship suggested. "Yes," Shader agreed. "I think, Stormont, that it would be a good idea to ask the authorities to carry out our part of the agreement that we made with the nomads. Even though this lot were destroyed, there are still plenty of them living in harsh conditions out in the desert areas. They deserve the return of one continent, at least." "That will be my recommendation," Stormont agreed. "I think that Earth will be glad to comply when they realise what a narrow escape they had." Ship lowered a force anchor and lifted Stormont back aboard. Then, in a brief burst of power the cyborg shot into Thraha's sky and headed for open space. Stormont gazed through a port at the departing planet. "One round to us," he murmured, "but one battle doesn't make a war. Where will Rorn strike next?" It was a good question. In the abyssal silence of his/her/its five-dimensional existence Rorn cogitated sullenly. Still the infection was not sterilised. At every turn it spread, feelers of disease creeping through his/her/its entire body. Yet there must be a way. There would be a way. Silently, remorselessly he/she/it plotted. The answer was there somewhere. If all serums failed, if all antibodies were useless, then - there was still surgery! |