A Plague of Demons

light, a structure incomplete, needing him to complete it. He moved toward it, sensing how the ragged surfaces of his own being reached out to meet and merge with its opposite Light blossomed like a sudden dawn. All barriers fell. Her mind lay open to him.

Now come, William, her voice spoke in his brain. I'll lead you… He followed along a dark path that plunged down, down, through terrible emptiness…

And emerged into-somewhere. He was aware of the compound ego-matrix that was himself, Bailey/Aliea; saw all the foreshortened perspective of his narrow life, her pinched, love-starved existence. And saw the presence that had reached out, touched him/her. And abruptly, he/she was that other presence.

28

He lay in darkness, suffering. Not the mere physical pain of the wasted, ancient body; that was nothing. But the ceaseless, relentless pain of the knowledge of failure, the bitterness of vain regret for the irretrievable blunder of long ago.

Then, out of despair, a concept born of anguish; the long struggle, probing back down along the closed corridor along which he had come, searching, searching; and at last the first hint of success, the renewed striving, the moment of contact with the feeble, flickering life-mote that glowed so faint and far away:

WILLIAM BAILEY! LISTEN TO ME! YOU MUST NOT DIE! THERE IS THAT WHICH MUST BE DONE, AND ONLY YOU CAN DO IT! LISTEN: THIS IS WHAT YOU MUST DO…'

29

The girl still stood, aiming the weapon at his heart. Tears ran down her face, but the gun did not waver.

'It was the voice,' Bailey said. 'You and I were… linked. We… touched him, were him. He's the one who made me live, sent me here. Who was he? What was he?'

'He's a man, William. A dying man, a hundred years in the future. In some way that perhaps not even he understands, he projected his mind back along his own life line-to us.'

'A mind-reaching back through time?' Bailey asked.

'I think he meant only to reach one man, to explain the terrible thing that had happened, to enlist your help to do what he believed had to be done to right the wrong. But his brain was too powerful, too complex. An ordinary mind couldn't encompass it. I was near-on the Intermix, ready to jump. A part of his message spilled over-into my mind. I saw what had happened, what would happen-saw who and where you were, knew that I had to help you-but I didn't know-didn't understand what it was you were to do.'

'A message,' Bailey said, remembering the flood of impressions. 'A transmission from a point in space beyond Pluto. A ship-heading for Earth. Aliens-from a distant star. They asked for peace and friendship. And we gave them-death.'

Drans spoke up, his voice strained. 'When did we attack?'

'Sarday, Sember twenty,' Bailey said. 'Black Sarday.'

'Tomorrow's date,' Drans said in a voice like cracked metal.

'And Micael Drans was the man who gave the order!' Bailey blurted. 'Don't you see, Aliea? That's why he sent me here, why Drans has to die!'

'For three days and three nights I've wrestled with it,' Drans said dully. 'Pro and con, trust or mistrust, kill-or welcome. There are so many factors to consider, so terrible a risk…'

'And you decided: it had to be death, because how could man, who had betrayed his own species, trust another race?' Bailey accused.

'Is it possible?' Drans stared from Aliea to Bailey. 'Can you know the future? In some miraculous way, were you sent here to save me from this terrible decision? Can we trust them? Are they what they say?'

'They come as friends,' Aliea said softly.

Drans stood. 'I believe you,' he said. 'Because the alternative is too bitter to contemplate.' He stepped forward, gently thrust the girl aside. 'Do your duty,' he said flatly to Bailey.

'William-no!' Aliea said swiftly. 'You know now, don't you? You see?'

Bailey looked at the defenseless man before him. He lowered the gun, nodded.

'The voice-the dying man, a hundred years from now. It was-is-will be you: Micael Drans. You sent me back to kill yourself before you gave the death order.'

'Only a very good man would have done that, William,' Aliea said. 'Micael Drans is one of the few good men alive in these vicious times. He has to live-to meet the ship, welcome the aliens to our world!'

'Will you do it?' Bailey asked.

'Why-yes. Yes, of course!' Life came back into Drans' face. He turned to his desk, spoke rapidly into an intercom.

Bailey opened his fingers, let the gun fall to the floor. He felt suddenly empty, exhausted. It was all meaningless now, a vista of blown dust, crumbling ashes.

'William-what is it?' Aliea's face wavered before him. 'It's all right now. It's over. You did it. We did it.'

'A puppet,' Bailey said. 'That's all I was. I served my purpose. There's nothing left. I'm back where I was.'

'Oh no!' Aliea cried. 'William, you're wrong, so wrong!'

'For the first time in my life, I had pride, self-respect. I thought it was me who invaded Preke territory and stayed alive, absorbed an education, sweated out the Maxpo treatment. I believed it was me, William Bailey, who faced down the Crusters on their own turf, bluffed them all, took what I wanted, made my way here. But it wasn't. It was him, guiding me every step of the way. And now it's over, and there's nothing left.'

Aliea smiled, shaking her head. 'No, William. Think, remember! He gave you a mission, true. And one other thing he did: he took away fear. The rest you did yourself.'

Bailey frowned at her. 'I was like a man in a dream, all those weeks. That complex plan, the twisting and turning, the bluffs and the chances I took-'

'Don't you see? He couldn't have planned it all. He had no way of knowing what would happen, how you should meet what came. It was you, William. Once fear is gone, all things are possible.'

'Aliea's right,' Micael Drans said. He came around the desk to stand beside them. 'There's no way for me to thank you. But in eighteen hours, the Evala ship will take up its orbit beyond Luna-peacefully. There will be much to be done. I'll need help. Will you stay, accept positions on my personal staff?'

'Of course,' Aliea said.

'If you really think-if I can be of any use…' Bailey said.

He felt Aliea's hand touch his-felt the touch of her mind, delicate as a blown feather. Together, we'll do it, William.

'Yes,' he said. 'I'll stay.'

We must tell him, Aliea's thought spoke in his mind. Bailey closed his eyes; together they reached out across the void, found him, waiting there in darkness.

Together, they waited for the sound of a new thunder in the skies of Earth.

Afterword

by Eric Flint

It's a bit odd, I suppose, to include 'Of Death What Dreams' in a volume consisting of stories dealing with alien contacts with human-which is the 'theme' of A Plague of Demons Other Stories. But, since that is technically the point of the story, I decided it was appropriate enough. And, by putting it at the very end, it allowed me in this afterword to segue nicely into the next, upcoming volume in Baen Books' reissue of the writings of Keith Laumer. (The fancy term 'segue' being used here, of course, as a slick alternative to 'shamelessly promote.')

Yes, technically 'Of Death What Dreams' is a story about alien contact. Beneath that superficial crust, however, it's really a type of story-and one of the best-in which Keith Laumer truly excelled: what are usually called 'dystopias.' The impending arrival of the aliens, after all, only appears in 'Of Death What Dreams' in the last of 29 sections. The heart of the story is the hero's adventures through the callous and stratified world dominated by the Crusters.

I am not, as a rule, particularly fond of dystopias. Some of that is simply my own temperament. But, mainly, it's because most authors who write dystopias tend to lose themselves in the setting. The story itself, as a rule, is just a device upon which to hang a distorted universe; it's not so much a story as a contrivance. All of which is another slick and fancy way to avoid saying what I really think, which is this:

Most dystopias, goddamit, are just plain boring.

***

Keith Laumer is one of the few exceptions. He could spin off dystopias with the best of them-but, with Laumer, the setting rarely if ever takes over the story itself. At the heart of his dystopian tales is the usual full-speed-ahead narrative of which Laumer was the master. What results are stories which, however creepy or disturbing the setting may be, are enjoyable to read-instead of being the literary equivalent of root canal work.

I invite you to test my hypothesis for yourselves. The fifth volume of this reissue of the writings of Keith Laumer will be coming out soon, under the title of Future Imperfect. The book will begin with one of Laumer's classic adventure stories, a novel called Catastrophe Planet (also published under the title The Breaking Earth), in which the hero races across a world fractured by tectonics gone mad in order to save the day. Included also will be a half dozen of Laumer's best shorter works: the long novella 'The Day Before Forever' as well as 'Cocoon,' 'Worldmaster,'