FUGUE

By Stephen Marlowe

A NOVELET OF THE FUTURE

Most people actually know a good deal more than they may be aware of at any given moment. And perhaps one of the functions of dreams is to remind us of what we know, but will not let ourselves know on a conscious level....

"This revolt is hopeless, Ker-jon, because it only strikes at the symptoms of unrest, without touching the roots. You may succeed—you may unseat those now in authority. But whoever moves in will only perpetuate the tyranny against which you revolted—renew the same oppression, under different slogans."

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Science Fiction Quarterly November 1951.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

The Space Ark left its home planet, Urth, two thousand years ago Canopus IV time, arriving here in the Canopus System some five hundred years later. That is all we know for certain; the rest is mere conjecture.

Two salient features of the Space Ark's unique social institutions stand out above the myth and fairytale of our ancestors, however. The first is the fabled story of the Mutant-makers, and when one studies the conditions surrounding this phenomenon, the fabled story becomes cold scientific fact. On a giant balanced-terrarium of a ship which was largely automatic, seemingly isolated forever in the vastnesses of interstellar space, our ancestors lacked even a modicum of external challenge. They thus had to create their own artificial stimuli or face an inevitable retreat down the ladder of decadence to barbarism. It appears that for a time they went too far: they created mutants. These in turn gave rise to a rigid caste-system on the Ark, a system which afforded an extreme in internal challenges and responses.

The second salient feature of the Space Ark's social institutions was its favoring of the biolo-mental sciences over the chemi-physical sciences. This, again, proves to be an inevitable by-product of the Space Ark's static environment. No physical world existed: physics became a useless dogma, a meaningless jumble of terms which bore no semantic relation to the world-at-large. On the other hand, the Space Ark was a universe of introversion. The biolo-mental sciences leaped ahead of what had developed into a something-less-than-static-civilization. This, as we have seen, gave rise to the Mutant-makers. But on a constructive level, it fostered the growth of a new science of psychology, vastly superior to the old Urth science, and, some suspect, considerably more refined than our own mental sciences. A particular manifestation of this lost science was the ability to project tri-dimensional images of dreams, to record them while the conscious mind slumbered, to play them back later and to interpret them unerringly....

—Andoos-Rob't, A Short History of the Abortive Social Institutions of the Urth-Canopus Space Ark, Introduction.

Ker-jon awoke suddenly, sitting bolt-upright in bed. It was cool—night-period temperatures always were—but fine droplets of perspiration dotted Ker-jon's forehead and dark sweat-stains discolored the armpits of his sleeping robe.

Over and over, one thought twisted through his mind; he was not a mutant; he was one-hundred percent normal homo sapiens and a bio-technician on the hydroponics staff at that. Yet—why did he always dream the same dream of a big hairless Ker-jon, his bald, shining dome topped with the three ridges of flesh which had manifested themselves in a series of mutations during the generation of his birth? Why did that dream always follow the same path....

He chuckled in spite of himself. The psych-technicians might yield the answer this time. He removed the electrodes from his temples, snapped the recorder off, rewound the dream-tape. Yes, he'd let the psycho-techs play with it in the morning, despite Cluny-ann's warning.

When the morning gong sounded, Ker-jon crept softly from his room. His way would lead past the quarters of the female bio-technicians, and he hoped to avoid a meeting with Cluny-ann. But the slim, fair-haired maid knew of his appointment with the psych-tech, and she had other ideas. Ker-jon barely got past the portal to the female quarters when its door slid into the wall with a faintly audible hiss. Arms akimbo, Cluny-ann stood there facing him, the crown of her head hardly reaching his chin.

"Good morning, Ker-jon," she greeted him coolly.

"Please, I'm busy."

"I only wanted to see you for a moment, Ker-jon; just a moment, that's all. Will you take breakfast with me?"

"No. I said I have an appointment."

"You're always rushing around like the enzymes we feed into the 'ponic-vats. I'm sure your appointment will keep. I'm also sure it is unwise, this appointment."

Ker-jon prayed silently that she wouldn't part her lips invitingly for a kiss, because then indeed he might decide to forego his appointment with the psych-tech. Apparently, that did not enter Cluny-ann's mind. She merely walked out into the corridor, hands still on hips, blocking his path.

"Tomorrow we try to smash the Mutant-makers," she told him. "But today you must carry your dream with you and have it interpreted. Won't it keep? If something lurks in that dream which holds the key to our plans—poof! No more plans. Stay, Ker-jon."

Gently but firmly, he pushed her out of the way, smiled for a moment when she struggled futilely against the muscles of his good right arm. He said, as he went on down the corridor, "We can take lunch together. I'll feel more like eating after this nightmare is explained, anyway."

The psych-tech, Ab'nath-Jawg, wore an immaculate white smock over his scrawny frame, a pair of spectacles over his big, watery eyes. Ker-jon saw no reason for the white smock; perhaps tradition said all psych-techs were to wear white smocks, and that was that.

"Ker-jon," Ab'nath mumbled, looking at his records, "bio-tech first class, non-mutant, no mutations in the family line. Right?"

Ker-jon nodded.

"Your request for a visit says you've been having a dream which has recurred frequently. An unpleasant dream?"

"Ummmm, no; not in itself. But I think—"

"That somehow its implications are unpleasant for you—is that it? Yes? I see. May I have the tape, please?"

Wordless, Ker-jon handed him the little spool, waited while the psych-tech snapped it into place in a small projecting machine. After that, Ab'nath flicked a switch, and the lights in the little room dimmed.

In the center of the room stood a large transparent cube, as long in each of its three dimensions as a tall man. Within it now, lights pulsed, flashed, coalesced. Then they settled back, playing only at the corners, waiting.

Ker-jon held his breath. A tri-dimensional, full color replica of his dream filled the cube.

There was Ker-jon, but a hairless, three-ridged-mutant Ker-jon, and there in the crook of his left arm a slim blonde girl who could have been Cluny-ann, except that she too bore the marks of a mutant—different strain this time, with delicate silver scales covering parts of her fair body. Under a large bell-jar in the foreground, a compact black machine hummed shrilly, a light above its squat main body flashing on and off, on and off.

The queerest part of the dream was its background. Great concentric circles of color closed in on the bell-jar, broad bands of green, blue, red, orange, yellow. When first he'd had the dream, Ker-jon thought the circles emanated from the bell-jar, but clearly, this was not so. Rather, the bands of color surrounded it, almost as if they somehow attempted to crush it.

The dream Ker-jon did not think they could. He balled his right fist and struck down once, savagely, at the glass. It broke, but the machine hummed on and on. Ker-jon shrank back in horror, with a feeling of helplessness.

And that was all. Back to the cube came its flashing lights.

Ab'nath-Jawg scratched his balding head. "A very odd dream," he admitted. "Do you know the girl?"

"She is Cluny-ann, my betrothed."

"A mutant?" demanded the psych-tech.

"No. But then, neither am I."

"Yet you both look like mutants in the dream. Interesting."

Ker-jon frowned. "I didn't come here to show you something interesting; I came to have the dream explained. Last night was the sixth time. The same pattern, no change."

"Relax, my friend. These things take time. Strange, we don't understand the radio with which we communicate between sections of our Ark, but histories will tell you that both radio and dream-machine function on the same principle. I don't understand radio; I can only guess, but the dream-machine I know. The recorder is stimulated by electro-magnetic waves from the cerebrus when you dream. The projector takes these vibrations and reproduces the dream itself. A to B, back to A again. Simple."

Ker-jon shook his head wearily. "I didn't come for that, either. I know the theory—"

"Patience! Will you have patience? I will submit the record to a staff meeting of psych-techs this afternoon, and we'll have an interpretation ready for you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow! Tomorrow might be too late."

"That's ridiculous, Ker-jon. Even if the dream manifests itself again tonight, so what? Tomorrow is soon enough."

Ker-jon shook his head sadly, took his leave. He couldn't tell the psych-tech that tomorrow might be too late because by then his fellow-conspirators would be floundering in rebellion. It all depended on him, of course: he had access to the master controls in the 'ponics room. Few people did, and certainly no mutants. Ker-jon, then; but Ker-jon had a dream which bothered him, which awakened him, sweating and afraid, in the middle of the night....

Night-period. Dull blue lights casting eerie shadows in a little-used back room of the library. And six men who wove their plans for a coup-d'Ark when morning came.

Ker-jon sat on the floor with Cluny-ann, squatting near the dusty stacks which held the un-used physical science books. Not a volume here had been disturbed for perhaps a score of years—perhaps more. Why study the physical sciences when there was no real physical world with which to correlate your findings? Why study them when your universe was bounded with walls of glistening beryl-steel?

Cluny-ann sat near Ker-jon, but she kept her back to him, angrily. She'd hardly spoken a word since he returned from the psych-tech's office, and lunch had been a sorry social failure.

Now Flam-harol got up, paced back and forth for a time, the dome of his three-ridged head gleaming under the blue lights. He licked his lips, fingered for a moment the central flesh-ridge atop his skull. Then he spoke in his deep, booming voice. "I can't help it if I'm nervous; we mutants have waited long and long for this—"

A chorus of "ayes" seconded that, and Flam-harol went on. "We can afford no mistakes. We do or we die—tomorrow. One slip—just one—could be fatal. But in the end, if all goes well, we'll smash the Mutant-making machinery, we'll smash the rule of the Mutant-maker. I don't have to tell you what that means. Whither we came from, that doesn't matter. A world called Urth, but I cannot picture Urth—a huge world a hundred times or more larger than the Ark, a world where you live on the outside, not on the inside.

"I cannot picture it, and so I won't try. But this I can picture. A hundred years ago, they started making mutants, to satisfy a warped craving for superiority. Half the people on the Ark now are mutants. Ridge-head, scaled, toe-less—what's the difference? Mutants all, living in the worst quarters, relegated to inferior positions, scorned, ridiculed....

"Tomorrow, we end it; by evening, no more. Equality on the Ark, yes, but that's not of primary importance. We will destroy the machinery which can make mutants. No fresh variants will arise, and that is more important. Now, your plans."

Another ridge-head stood up. "At ten hours, twelve minutes, my men take the astro-room."

A chunky mutant with scales covering his chest: "We converge, along with Flam-harol's squad, on the armory. Also at ten hours, twelve minutes."

Second scaled mutant: "The Mutant-maker's quarters. We take the reins of government at ten hours, thirty five minutes."

Lithely, Cluny-ann got to her feet. "The Chamber of Change, at ten hours, forty minutes. I lead my women there, and it is hoped that with so much confusion elsewhere, we'll be able to destroy the machinery. But—"

"But what?" Flam-harol said. "We appreciate the aid of you non-mutants. Yet if you have any doubts—"

"It's not that," Cluny-ann told him. "I don't think our revolution will be enough; that's all."

"What more is there?"

"I don't know! If I knew, that would be different. I suspect that the whole thing may start over again before we know it."

Flam-harol shook his head. "I don't understand."

"Well, something like this. We're seeking to destroy effects, not causes. Whatever the causes are, we should root them out first."

"The Mutant-maker and his government are the cause."

"No. I mean deeper than that. I mean—oh, I don't know! But something hovers in the background; I can feel it. A cause, a deepseated cause apart from any mutant-non-mutant bickering...."

Ker-jon stood up, smiling. "Don't mind her," he said. "Cluny-ann isn't happy unless she can worry, I think. Now, my job is this: at ten hours I lock myself in control in the 'ponics room, and if necessary, we can hold that as a sword over any ornery heads. I'll be ready to cut off the air-supply to any section of the Ark that needs such treatment, Flam-harol."

The big ridge-head nodded. "That appears to be it, then. Till tomorrow, when I hope to meet you all again at noon...."

2

Ker-jon felt very refreshed when he awoke. The dream had failed to appear; consequently, he slept well. He wondered idly if the psych-tech, Ab'nath, had decided anything yet. Actually, Ker-jon now regarded his visit to the psych-tech's office as a little on the impulsive side. He knew how the technicians worked, should thus have expected at least a twenty-four hour delay. Still, just depositing the spool with the psych-tech had relieved him considerably, and surely no harm could come of it.

He showered, shaved, glanced at the wall-chronometer. Nine. One to go—

So—in just three hours—it all would be over. By then they'd have gained control of the ship, or their martyred corpses would start on their eternal flight through space. If a third alternative presented itself, Ker-jon failed to consider it.

He heaped his plate with succulent synthetics in the crowded dining room, then decided he didn't feel much like eating. Once he caught a glimpse of Cluny-ann, but she sat far across the room, in earnest conversation with three tall strong women who probably were her squad leaders.

Nine forty-five....

Ker-jon crossed to the cashier's window, gave the woman mutant a six-credit slip, pocketed his change, left the dining room. He knew of no other way to kill time. He'd waited at the cashier's window, picking at his teeth, striking up meaningless conversation with the woman. Not accustomed to talk with a non-mutant, she'd been awkward. Now he still had fifteen minutes, and the way he felt, it would seem like hours.

He strode rapidly down the corridor, past the door to the astro-room. Nothing there, not yet. Too early.

He reached the ramp which led to 'ponics. Two men lolled there, insolently. Green-uniformed men—police. Why?

Ker-jon's palms were clammy when he reached them, but he tried to walk between them indifferently. They came together, barring his way. They didn't say a word.

"I'm on duty in 'ponics in ten minutes," Ker-jon told them.

"That's interesting," one said.

"Are you looking for anyone in particular?"

"Yes."

"Well, will you let me through?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether you're the guy we're looking for or not."

"Nine minutes," Ker-jon said; "it's important that I'm on time."

"Have you got a name, friend?"

"Bio-tech first class Ker-jon, hydroponics division."

"Ker-jon, eh? Come with us."

One policeman eased a needle-gun from his belt, the other wrapped a big hand around Ker-jon's elbow. "Come on."

"What did I do?"

"Don't ask me. This is just a job, but I'm sure they'll let you know." The man was snickering.

Ker-jon pulled his arm free. "Well, you tell me where to report; I'll go later."

"You promise?" said the man with the gun, smiling vapidly.

"Yes."

"That's good! He promises. Come on now!"

Ker-jon grunted, relaxed. The man's gun-hand wavered, only for a moment, but it was enough. Ker-jon swung his right fist up and felt his knuckles bruise against the man's jaw. Without waiting to see the effects, he darted for the 'ponics door and inserted his key.

Something crashed against his legs, behind the knees, and he stumbled against the door, striking his head sharply. When he came away he found himself reeling dizzily on hands and knees. The man who had tackled him scrambled off the floor first, waited while Ker-jon clambered half-way up. A heavy boot exploded against his face, then seemed to explode all over again inside his skull. He fell flat on his stomach, hands clawing at the floor feebly.

He got up groggily, felt the caked blood stiffening the skin of his face. His wrist-chronometer's dial marked off eleven hours and thirty minutes!

A withered old albino man peered at him anxiously, his face as white as the fungi which sometimes grow, if you are not careful, in the 'ponics room. His pink eyes blinked often against the strong day-period light. Ker-jon couldn't guess his age—eighty, perhaps.

"I see you're awake."

"Who the hell are you?"

"A counter-revolutionary, young man."

"What?"

"Don't be surprised; don't think your little revolution was such a closely-guarded secret that no one knew about it. For one, the Mutant-maker knew. The revolution was an abortive failure, I am sorry to say."

Ker-jon looked at him dully. "What happened?"

"Nothing much. The Mutant-maker had his forces deployed all along the line. Flam-harol didn't have a chance. Twenty-four mutants were killed, and eighteen women. Another two-score injured."

"Cluny-ann?"

"Who? Oh yes, the leader of the women. She's all right, I think. But she said something about tearing you apart limb from limb if she found you. It seems you weren't where you should have been, and for that as much as anything else the revolution backfired. It seems you disappeared." The old man chuckled softly.

"The police took me. So many dead...."

"Police—no! Police uniforms, but counter-revolutionaries, I assure you. Thanks to psych-tech Ab'nath, we got to you in time. Probably, the revolution would have failed either way, but more pointless carnage would have resulted."

"Damn you!" Ker-jon said bitterly. "You stand there yapping about what might or might not have happened. Forty days of planning went into that revolution, and all the dreams and hopes of so many mutants—"

The albino blinked. "Ah yes, forty days. Do you know how old I am, Ker-jon? I'm eighty-seven. I was one of the earlier mutants, and I've stood this thing a long time. I didn't want any scatterbrained scheme to knock the legs out from under a plan which is calculated to do more than you dream. How old are you, Ker-jon?"

"Twenty-four."

"Just a baby, and—"

"Go to hell," said Ker-jon, rising. "I'm going to find Cluny-ann. Maybe we can salvage something. Maybe—"

"Sit down, will you?" The two uniformed men came in, swaggering. One motioned Ker-jon back into a chair with his needle-gun, and Ker-jon sat down. The other said: "I'm sorry we had to hit you. But you fought, and you didn't give us any choice."

Wearily, Ker-jon turned to the old man. "Just where do you fit in? Are you working for the Mutant-maker?"

"I said we are counter-revolutionaries. We stood opposed to your plans, because you favored the wrong fight, at the wrong time, with the wrong people. Simple?" He chuckled again, a very irritating sound. "No, I suppose not. Perhaps psych-tech Ab'nath can help explain. Will someone call him?"

The little balding man with the watery eyes entered the room. "I'm here," he said. "Ah, I see you have Ker-jon," he smiled, handed a sheet of paper to the prisoner. "Here, you might be interested in this."

Ker-jon scanned it rapidly. Yesterday, yes, he'd have been interested. But not today—too much had happened since then.

Subjects: Bio-technician first class Ker-jon, hydroponics division.

Dream: (An objective description of the recurrent dream.)

Conclusions: a) Both Ker-jon and his betrothed, Cluny-ann, appear as mutants in the dream-sequence. Four votes for an unstable, neurotic personality; eleven for obvious feelings of sympathy with the mutants; one abstention. Alternative two is thus a logical certainty.

b) The bell-jar machinery is a meaningless bit of gadgetry which defies analysis. Sixteen votes for symbolic representation of the Mutant-making machinery, esoteric and unknown to all technicians save the bio-techs, mutant-making division. Conclusion a logical certainty.

c) Ker-jon destroys the bell-jar with brute force. Five votes for an un-neurotic personality's desired destruction of a major social institution. Eleven for uneasiness and a rigid anxiety concerning the revolution, for subconscious doubts on Ker-jon's part that a frontal assault against the Mutant-maker will solve the Ark's problem. Alternative two a logical certainty.

d) The warped prismatic effect in the background is crucial. The red-orange-yellow-green-blue-indigo-violet of the spectrum is replaced by green-blue-red-orange-yellow, with indigo and violet out of the sequence entirely. Three votes for mistaken knowledge concerning the "rainbow" of the ancients, and for no other significance; three votes for a representation of star-colors (note that indigo and violet, not visible in any stellar object seen through the astro-port, are entirely lacking)—three votes for a representation of star-colors for the subject's desire to associate himself with the stars, hence with the void of space, hence with death; four abstentions; five for an immersed subconscious conviction that our knowledge of the "Rainbow" and hence of the physical sciences is lacking, and that this lack of knowledge may be crucial to the entire problem. No alternative a logical certainty, and while the conclusion is indeterminate, the final alternative is preferred....

Comments: Faced with violent action which his subconscious mind refused to accept as a satisfactory answer, Ker-jon also was confronted by a recurrent dream fostered by that subconscious rejection. Ker-jon's subconscious recognized the pending revolution as (1) a displacement in the order of events, a striving to conquer effects rather than causes and to leave the whole solution indeterminate, and (2) an inadequate course of action directed in a frontal assault against the most obvious effect of the hinted-at ailments which afflict the Ark.

Solution: Not determined, because conclusion (d) remains inconclusive. (Once he understands his own problems, Ker-jon should be a great help to the counter-revolutionaries—Ab'nath.)

"You see," Ab'nath said, taking the slip of paper back from Ker-jon, "your subconscious mind couldn't accept the pending revolution. It felt something was lacking. In that sense, then, your dream was a flight from reality, a fugue. But it had a constructive aspect as well. It—"

"I know," Ker-jon scoffed. "Sure. You take one small, insignificant part of the dream, and because it ties in with your own theories, you blow it up out of all proportion."

The psych-tech shrugged. "Just how did you know the real order of the spectrum, anyway?"

"I didn't know that I knew it! When I was a child I read a book on the physical sciences, just to be contrary, I guess."

"Evidently, the knowledge remained in your subconscious, and—"

"So what? You have a vague notion about a deficiency, that's all. So you destroy a budding revolt which could have restored equality to the Ark...."

All this time, the old albino man had been listening silently. Now he said: "The revolution was doomed to failure, Ker-jon; don't you see that? Even if it achieved its aim, what would have happened then? We live in a static environment, with no external challenges to keep our culture going. If you won, the mutants would have taken over; tyranny would have exchanged hands, that's all. I'm a mutant myself, but I say this: if you had succeeded, the mutants would have treated non-mutants, in time, in the same manner the non-mutants treat them. Merely a reversal of roles. Would you have wanted that?"

"No, but—"

"Wait; let me finish. We have a tremendous external challenge, only we fail to see it. What is the Ark, Ker-jon? An artificial world, a manufactured environment. A vessel taking us from someplace to someplace else. Do you know where we came from?"

"Urth—"

"Yes, but what is Urth? We don't know. It's in the old books, but no one reads them. And where are we going? Even I don't know that, and I have tried to find out. The books are not indexed, and it might take one man years to find out. Working together, a group of men could shorten that time to months.

"Further, what is the void of space outside? Mere blackness, or—I don't know. And the stars, the little pin-points of light we see, what about them? Are they worlds? Was Urth a star; do we now travel towards another one? Again, I don't know. But we can find out. There is our challenge, Ker-jon. There is the stimulus which can unite the Ark and put a permanent stop to internal squabbles. Are you blind to that?"

"I'm not blind to anything, old man! All I know is this: the revolutionaries are confined. Maybe they await death—thanks to you. I also know that more men and women each day are exposed forcibly in the Chamber of Change—which means that a new generation of mutants will be born. Any challenge on a purely abstract level sounds awful silly, ridiculously unimportant, pedantically trivial.... Umm-mm, never mind. You just don't understand."

"Wait," said the albino. "A compromise, Ker-jon. If you can rescue your fellows, what then?"

"You want an honest answer? I think I'd still hate you and what you stand for, a tired old man with old, meaningless ideas—"

"Can you rescue your friends alone?"

"I don't know; I can try."

"And wind up wherever they are, awaiting death with them?"

"I said I can try."

"Well, if you had help—let us say, if my two 'policemen' cooperated, you might pull the whole thing off by trickery, don't you think, with no bloodshed at all?"

"It's possible," Ker-jon admitted.

"A bargain. We'll help you, but then you must help us. Flam-harol is the revolutionary leader, but you carry almost as much weight with the revolutionaries as he does. Very well, if you rescue your people, if the Ark falls into your hands, will you then cooperate with us?"

"Why the hell didn't you offer that before the revolution? All this wouldn't have happened."

The albino smiled. "You'd have laughed at us, even as you're probably laughing to yourself now. But in this case we have something concrete to offer. Is it a bargain?"

"Sure," Ker-jon said wearily. "We need you now. It's a bargain."

3

The rescue proved so incredibly simple that Ker-jon almost couldn't believe his senses. With his two uniformed companions he made his way down the length of the Ark and deep within its bowels, almost to where the unknown engines which propelled them through space thundered and roared and pounded within their casings. Here in a deserted storeroom the prisoners were kept. And Ker-jon's uniformed companions walked right in, just like that, unquestioned by the guards who stood watch in the corridor.

The fight was brief. Unleashed, the prisoners swarmed all over their guards, killing them quite expertly, and quite ruthlessly. No time for an alarm, and the engines drowned all sounds of combat. Towards the end, Ker-jon had to turn away. What the mutants did to their captors wasn't pretty. But in a sense he couldn't blame them—what was the old expression about the shoe being on the other foot?

Flam-harol stormed out into the corridor, his face a bloody mask. But he smiled grimly. "This I like! No plans, no preparations—and they don't expect us! We'll have the Ark in half an hour...."

Behind him Cluny-ann stumbled out, one of her eyes blackened, her jaw swollen. She stopped short and stared foolishly when she saw Ker-jon. "Then—then you didn't desert us? Some even thought you'd betrayed us!"

"And I once was betrothed to a beautiful girl," Ker-jon said, laughing. "You should see yourself now—"

She pecked at his lips with a brief kiss, came back for more, snuggling in close, but Flam-harol's voice roared at them. "The longer we stay here, the less chance we'll have. Are you two coming?"

In a wave, the prisoners surged forward, pounding up the corridor. No order, no discipline—but Ker-jon knew they didn't need it. What they had was enough: superiority in numbers, surprise....

It seemed hardly a moment later, and they swarmed all over the door to the Mutant-maker's quarters. Oddly, it crossed Ker-jon's mind that they didn't even know the man's name. He ruled in anonymity, with his title, with the fear that a night-raid could bring, dragging a man and his wife to the Chamber of Change, assuring the next generation that they too would have their mutants, in ever increasing numbers, for sport, for ridicule.

Ker-jon never learned how the door was forced, but suddenly it stood ajar.

Through it streamed the mutants.

Ker-jon found himself in a wild melee. Needle-guns zipped; men fell. But always others surged forward, and the defenders' ranks thinned.

Ker-jon saw one of Flam-harol's lieutenants fall, mortally wounded. Three mutants took his place, and one of them had retrieved a needle-gun from a fallen guard. Other weapons appeared among the mutants, guns, knives, make-shift clubs. Nothing could stop them.

For himself, Ker-jon fought only half-heartedly. The swarm carried him forward against the defenders, but he struck out only when pressed. Strangely, he felt an odd detachment. He wasn't really a part of this carnage; no, he'd been swept into it, helplessly, and now he watched. It all seemed anti-climactic, pointless. Why? He asked himself that over and over again, turning once more to the battle when he found the answer. Did the meeting with the old albino mutant somehow hold the clue? Did it? Now there was a ridiculous notion!

The wave after wave of mutants pushed forward, and Ker-jon hovered close to Cluny-ann, protecting, shielding, diverting any foe who might single her out. She was a spit-fire, he knew, for all her small size—he'd seen her cut loose in the female gymnastic tournaments. But he could sense that she hung back, even as he did—unwilling to enter the fray. Had she once said something about this not being the final answer? He wondered how she'd have fared in a discussion with the old albino....

And then it was over. They pushed through a final portal, came upon a large apartment with strange, impossibly antique furniture. In a far corner cowered a little man, a little old man—smaller and more ancient than the albino. He cringed away from them, his limbs trembled. He babbled, "I surrender, I surrender, I—"

Flam-harol laughed once, then cut him down with a needle-gun. The end of the Mutant-maker, the man who controlled the destiny of all those within the Ark. Simple, no theatrics. Smile and cut him down with a needle-gun. Could that one gesture usher in a new era? Ker-jon did not know, but more and more the words of the albino returned, swirling through his brain. Just a reversal of roles....

Flam-harol sat down on the plushly upholstered chair. "Will some of you take your clubs to the Chamber of Change and smash it? I'm a little tired—"

A week later. Flam-harol had taken the dead Mutant-maker's quarters for his own. Now he sat there with his lieutenants—two mutants, ridge-head variety, and Ker-jon—issuing directives.

"I've given it a lot of thought," he told them. "Sweeping changes must be made if we're to right a nasty situation."

They all agreed.

"First, the jobs of the highest skill will go to ridge-heads. Turnabout, eh, my friends? Henceforth, ridge-heads are bio-technicians."

Two of his lieutenants smiled, nodded their satisfaction. Ker-jon said: "I don't know if that's wise. For one thing, you haven't had training along those lines; you're liable to botch—"

"That's fantastic. If the non-mutants could do it, we can, too. Shall we vote?"

They did. Three to one.

"You see," Flam-harol explained, "we deserve those jobs."

"Well, what about the current bio-techs?"

"Oh, them. Why, they'll be menials, of course. Not discriminated against, not really; it's just that they've held their lofty positions too long."

"It wasn't their fault—" Ker-jon began.

Flam-harol waved a hand deprecatingly. "If you're worried about yourself and that girl—what's her name?—forget it. You'll be an exception. I figured on making you go-betweens, assuring peaceful relations between mutants and non-mutants."

"No, that wasn't it at all. I still don't like—"

"We have voted, have we not?"

"Y-yes."

"Very well. Next, scaled mutants shall be astro-techs."

"You can't do that!" Ker-jon cried. "A man doesn't necessarily fit a job because he happens to be one type of mutant or another. I'd suggest a series of tests, instead; let each man fill the job for which he is qualified."

"Unfair," Flam-harol said. "The non-mutants have had training; they'd win all the top positions. Shall we vote?"

Three to one.

"Albinos will be police and administrative workers. Finally—"

"Just a minute. Don't you realize that albinos have weak constitutions? You're relegating them to a position which they won't be able to fill."

Flam-harol smiled blandly. "If the police are weak, then the real power will remain in the hands of the bio-technicians. That will make for an era of peace and good-will, and it will assure one thing: we'll never have a military government."

"I hope you're right about that peace and good-will," one of the ridge-heads said. "All week long, there's been rioting in the 'low-decks area. Non-mutants on one side, mutants on the other."

"That will end," Flam-harol assured him. "I have confidence. Now, the job will be to get things going as quickly as possible. I want those directives carried out at once. The sooner we begin, the sooner we mutants will have a chance to live the way we should...."

This is what I fought for, Ker-jon thought. So one tyrant could take the place of another. Maybe Flam-harol doesn't know it; probably he'd be the last one to admit it. Nevertheless....

Aloud, Ker-jon said: "I resign."

"You what?"

"I resign. I quit. Run the Ark any way you like, Flam-harol. I want no part of it."

4

Ker-jon said, "Hello."

The albino blinked rapidly. "Ker-jon, is it not?"

"It looks like you have another recruit. That is, if you're still in business."

The albino chuckled. "We're in business, young man. As a matter of fact, we got an additional recruit the day before yesterday. You know her, I think."

Cluny-ann came in from the next room, looking very trim and pretty in her jumper. "It's about time you woke up," she said, but then Ker-jon took her hand and held it, and soon she forgot all about being contrary. She said, "Wi'son-gil says we're going to have a rough time of it."

"That's true," Wi'son-gil agreed, adjusting a pair of dark glasses over his pink eyes, then sighing with satisfaction. "It would have been simpler had the revolution failed. Enough people hated the rule of the Mutant-maker before the revolution; probably, instilling the intellectual challenge of the physical sciences would have been enough. Now, unfortunately, it won't."

Ker-jon frowned. "I'm not sure I understand. What do you mean?"

"Flam-harol is developing a militant organization and a more rigid caste-system than we've ever had before; you know that. What we've got to do—what we've been trying to do all along—was to unite the mutants and the non-mutants with a real external challenge. A rebirth of the physical sciences and a subsequent conquest of them would have done it. But not now; now we'll need something more concrete.

"A serious threat, perhaps. What if the Ark stopped functioning, Ker-jon?"

"Stopped functioning?"

"Of course. We have day-lights. We have night-lights. We have hydroponic gardens supplying both air and food, which, except for a few minor adjustments that the bio-technicians can make, function perfectly in themselves. We have instruments of astrogation, and the same thing applies. We don't even know where we're going!

"Damage all that. Damage everything which carries us along so smoothly, and what will happen? We'd either all join together to conquer the new challenge, or we'd perish."

"You'd take a chance like that?" Ker-jon demanded.

Cluny-ann nodded vigorously. "We have to. It's either that or we'll sink lower and lower, until there's nothing left of civilization."

"Okay," Ker-jon spread his hands out wide. "You're both way ahead of me. How will we do it?"

The albino smiled. "We've found the old records which explain how the Ark runs. With them to guide us, we'll try our hand at sabotage."

"Hold on. Just hold on! Why do you have to do that? If you have the records, why don't you simply take control of the machinery and force Flam-harol and his crew to step down."

The albino shook his head. "That's precisely what we won't do. All the Ark has ever had to face was human challenge, one man usurping control from another. That extends down to all levels, Ker-jon. We have to make a complete break with that tradition, or we'll find ourselves right back where we started from, just as Flam-harol did. Psych-tech Ab'nath will stand behind me on that, and he knows what he's talking about."

"You're telling me," Ker-jon said, remembering the dream.

"Then it's agreed. You and the girl will study the records, learn the location and function of each piece of machinery on the Ark. There are just a half dozen of us: Ab'nath, the two 'policemen', Cluny-ann, you, myself. When you're ready we'll do some fancy tinkering with the key mechanisms. And this is important, Ker-jon: we must be so thorough that, alone and without either additional education or aid from others, we won't be able to repair the damage. A danger, yes—but that's the only way it will work."

Ten days, twenty. Thirty. With Cluny-ann, Ker-jon pored over the old books. Terms swam through his head madly—vectors, constants, laws of thermodynamics, others. He could not hope to understand the vast amount of theory behind them, not now, not yet. But it did not matter. He sought a working knowledge, an engineer's knowledge, the knowledge of a physical-technician, when there had not been a physical-technician on the Ark for generations. More particularly, a physical-technician bent upon temporary destruction....

Wi'son-gil kept him informed of Flam-harol's new regime. Discontent everywhere. A riot in the 'ponics room—quelled. Another in astro—also quelled. But discontent hovered everywhere, with no adequate channel through which to manifest itself. It faded, became bickering; Flam-harol was more powerful every day. Probably, he considered himself benevolent—

Green-uniformed albinos shuffled about the corridors. Their too-white skin looked sickly under the night-lights, but they seemed cocky. Ker-jon ducked around a corner, pulling Cluny-ann with him. "Careful—that one almost spotted us!"

They crept forward, stalking silently on bare feet. Ker-jon had his key to the 'ponics room, and his heart was pounding furiously when they reached the door. What if Flam-harol had had the lock changed? He chuckled softly. He'd been reading too much about the physical sciences; no one knew how to change a lock! Oh, they could oil it if it clogged with rust, but that was all. Either the old lock remained, or no lock at all.

He inserted his key, twisted, heard the tumblers fall. The door swung in silently.

Past the rows of squat, ugly 'ponics tanks they walked, the dank vegetation smell heavy on the air. Moisture dotted the water pipes with gleaming droplets, some unknown liquid bubbled in a vat nearby.

They paused at a great shining mound of machinery. "It's called a generator," Ker-jon said. "But don't ask me what it does. I only know it's crucial. Umm-mm, listen to that."

The machine throbbed. He'd worked in the 'ponics room as a bio-tech, and he'd always taken the huge machine and its humming noise for granted. It was there, and that meant it had a purpose. It functioned; all you had to do was put oil into the little hole whenever the sound rose to a shriek. But now the purpose meant something. This generator kept the tanks going, producing air, food, water....

Ker-jon wielded his screw-driver clumsily. Only menials—formerly mutants and now non-mutants—played with such tools. If the Ark passed through a particularly brilliant area of space, if the blackness outside the ports in the astro-room churned into a seething mass of light, the menials used these screw drivers and fastened thin metal shields over the ports.

Insert it there, yes! And twist. See, the little plug comes loose. And now another.

Suddenly, the entire casing fell away, and Ker-jon peered into a maze of intricate wiring. Remove that one, that one, and that one. Careful, don't touch that or you'll receive a shock—whatever a shock was—

Without warning, the machine stopped its humming. Nearby, the liquid which bubbled away merrily in its vat gurgled once or twice, then subsided. The silence closed in from all sides.

Three days later, Ker-jon received a summons from Flam-harol. The ridge-head look worried, and he did not try to hide it. "You were a bio-tech first class, hydroponics division. I—I have a job for you."

"Yes? What's that?"

"Something happened. I don't know what, but a machine which used to hum doesn't do it any longer, and the vegetation in 'ponics looks a little sick. The level in the water-storage units is lowering—"

Ker-jon wondered how long the air would last. He almost sensed a difference, a thickness, a necessity to breathe more deeply, perhaps more rapidly. His imagination, probably, because according to the books, air would continue to be manufactured as long as the plants lasted. "What do you want me to do?" Ker-jon said.

"Fix it, that's what."

"I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't? Don't cross me, Ker-jon; I'll have you detained—"

"That isn't what I mean. I know the humming machine you're talking about. I don't know how it works; no one does. Of course, we can find out. If we study the old records—"

"Bah! Say, do you know any good astro-techs? The machinery in the astro-room doesn't work. I don't know the function of that room, Ker-jon, but I've heard it's important."

"We've all heard that, but no one knows why. We could find out, though."

"How?"

"By studying the old books." Ker-jon wondered if it had been Ab'nath or the old albino who had tampered with the astro-mechanisms.

Flam-harol got up wearily. "Forget it; forget I called you. I can see you'll be no help at all. I've heard talk about studying the old records. All over the Ark. But man, think! You can't sit down in a hole someplace and read a book to solve anything. That just isn't the way things get done."

"You'll learn," Ker-jon said, getting up to leave.

That same afternoon, Wi'son-gil made a mistake. He called a mass meeting, declaring that he knew a way to stop what had caused growing panic on the Ark. If Flam-harol hadn't become frightened, the panic never would have arisen—Ker-jon knew that. But when you stroll through the now-silent 'ponics room and see brown-edged, stiffening vegetation where once the place had been warm and richly green, you worry. Especially when you've been led to believe, along with everyone else, that everything within the Ark depended on the 'ponics room.

The crowd gathered, noisily at first, but the old albino quieted them. Ker-jon realized with some surprise that the man could be an impressive figure. Small and thin, he yet maintained an air of confidence. His fine white hair framed a gaunt, thin-featured face, and from a distance the pink eyes almost seemed alive with fires.

But mostly it was the voice—calm, soothing, sure of itself, a father talking to his children, telling them of the wonders of a lost science, of the role it once had played in the construction of the Ark, of a time when their ancestors had lived elsewhere, not on the Ark at all, of a time in the indeterminable future when they would leave the confines of a tight little world for one where a man could spend his whole lifetime walking and never quite reach the other side. Telling them, too, of the role that lost science must now play again, to repair the Ark. Telling them that they must strive together to master this tool of their past in order to build their future, to learn what they were, and where and why and how, to use this knowledge for the tasks that lay ahead.

He had them spellbound, weaving fanciful legends of the past and a place called Urth, explaining their greatness to them and their destiny to conquer a far place in the name of mankind which was all of them and infinitely more. And telling them, above all, that ridge-head must be brother to scaled mutant, and both to albino, and all to non-mutants. They half-wanted that, anyway; they'd had enough of fighting all their lifetimes, and what had been lacking was a common cause for all of them.

Almost, it worked. But Flam-harol appeared in the meeting room, stalking in with his armed guards—not albinos, not now when he expected troubles. But with ridge-heads, big, powerful, naked to their waists and ready for trouble, the huge muscles bulging....

"Stop that man!" he cried.

Murmurs in the crowd, but no one moved.

Wi'son-gil kept right on speaking.

Ker-jon realized the ridge-head's intention too late. He stood just below the dais, eyes intent upon the old albino. But something made him turn, and he bellowed a warning.

Flam-harol had raised his needle-gun.

Things happened fast after that. Cluny-ann must have seen the danger too, for she pushed her way through the crowd, elbowing people out of her way, reached the ridge-head. They began to grapple, great-thewed mutant and slim, fair-haired girl.

It didn't last long. Ker-jon leaped upon the dais, throwing himself at the albino, pulling him down. It was then that Flam-harol fired.

Ker-jon felt the needle brush past his cheek, saw a growing stain of red on the albino's jumper. The old man sagged to the floor, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. When Ker-jon kneeled beside him and felt for the heartbeat, the old man was dead.

Confused, the crowd milled about. People jostled one another, some shouted angrily. Meaningless action without a leader—

Ker-jon tore his way through the mob. Cluny-ann lay in a sobbing heap on the floor and the ridge-head pointed his weapon at her, shouting for his men to disperse the mob. None of them moved. Undecided, they stood there uncomfortably, shuffling their feet. Clearly, they hadn't responded favorably to cold-blooded murder.

Flam-harol whirled, swinging his needle-gun around to face Ker-jon, but he didn't make it. They locked together, stumbled, fell to the floor and rolled about. The needle-gun clattered away harmlessly. Two or three ridge-heads tried to intervene, but growling ominously now, the crowd kept them away.

He had a fight on his hands, Ker-jon knew. And sometimes an immensely complex situation could boil down to something as elemental as that. If he lost, the old order would remain; if he won....

The thoughts hindered him, and he longed to drive them from his mind. Just a fight, that was all. Like any of a dozen brawls he had had because of his quick temper. But Flam-harol was superbly-muscled, like all ridge-heads—and strong, strong! He forced Ker-jon over, his back to the floor, and he felt strong hands closing about his throat and a rising-falling motion which pounded his head against the hard metal.

Out of a spreading haze, Flam-harol's face leered at him—

Ker-jon groped upward, blindly, got his fingers at the corner of the mutant's mouth, pushed in and tugged. Flam-harol screamed, rolled off him.

They stood up, glaring at each other. Ker-jon's breath came in ragged gasps. He wanted to rest, rest....

His hands felt weary, so weary that he hardly could lift them, and that was no good, for hard fists pummelled his head, his shoulders, his chest. He struck back, under the bigger man's guard, pounding trip-hammer blows against his belly.

Grunting, Flam-harol gave ground, lowered his hands to protect his mid-section. Ker-jon darted around him, swiftly, never standing still long enough to be struck, flicking out with his left hand and keeping the mutant off balance by cuffing his jaw. The hands raised again, formed a shield for Flam-harol's face. Hit the stomach, then, pound it, pound it....

Abruptly, it was over. Flam-harol puffed feebly, tried to catch his breath and failed. He spun about slowly, like a battered top, looking for his foe through bloody eyes. Once and once only, Ker-jon crossed his right fist and felt the knuckles crunch against the mutant's jaw. Flam-harol stood very still for a moment, one eye wide-open, the other swollen shut. Then he plunged to the floor, and he didn't try to rise.

After that, the crowd closed in. Flam-harol was a symbol for everything that had been wrong. A symbol for the fight of man against man, when together men should tackle loftier things. They climbed all over him....

"Know what happened today?" Cluny-ann demanded.

"Of course—"

"No, silly. I mean besides us getting married."

"What?"

"A ridge-head and a non-mutant, working together, patched up the astro-room. Oh, it isn't perfect yet, not by any means, but it works."

"And yesterday a couple of scaled mutants and an albino put that generator back together again. They had the books, sure, but I never could have done it. I guess that's where their aptitude lies."

"And listen to this! An old albino, a cousin of Wi'son-gil, I think, discovered all the old books on astronomy. He says Urth was a big globe, really big, which moved around a star. We're going to another globe a lot like it, or our children are—and when we get there—"

"The best part of it all," Ker-jon said, "is that everyone's finding the job for which he's fit. Ab'nath tells me he thinks he wants to become an astronomer."

Smiling, Ker-jon took the girl's hand and led her to the library. It was a hell of a place to spend a honeymoon, but there was so much to learn....