Tongues of the Moon

  Tongues of the Moon

  Philip Jose Farmer

  Philip Jose Farmer

  Tongues of the Moon

  FIREFLIES on the dark meadow of Earth... The men and women looking up through the dome in the center of the crater of Eratosthenes were too stunned to cry out, and some did not understand all at once the meaning of those pinpoints on the shadowy face of the new Earth, the lights blossoming outwards, then dying. So bright they could be seen through the cloudmasses covering a large part of Europe. So bright they could be located as London, Paris, Brussels, Copenhagen, Leningrad, Rome, Reykjavik, Athens, Cairo....

  Then, a flare near Moscow that spread out and out and out....

  Some in the dome recovered more quickly than others. Scone and Broward, two of the Soviet North American officers present at the reception in honor of the South Atlantic Axis officers, acted swiftly enough to defend themselves.

  Even as the Axes took off their caps and pulled small automatics and flat bombs from clips within the caps, the two Americans reached for the guns in their holsters.

  Too late to do them much good if the Argentineans and South Africans nearest them had aimed at them. The Axes had no shock on their faces; they must have known what to expect. And their weapons were firing before the fastest of the Soviets could reach for the butts of their guns.

  But the Axes must have had orders to kill the highest ranking Soviets first. At these the first fire was concentrated.

  Marshal Kosselevsky had half-turned to his guest, Marshal Ramirez-Armstrong. His mouth was open and working, but no words came from it. Then, his eyes opened even wider as he saw the stubby gun in the Argentinean's hand. His own hand rose in a defensive, wholly futile, gesture.

  Ramirez-Armstrong's gun twanged three times. Other Axes' bullets also struck the Russian. Kosselevsky clutched at his paunch, and he fell face forward. The .22 calibers did not have much energy to penetrate deeply into the flesh. But they exploded on impact; they did their work well enough.

  Scone and Broward took advantage of not being immediate targets. Guns in hand, they dived for the protection of a man-tall bank of instruments. Bullets struck the metal cases and exploded, for, in a few seconds, the Axes had accomplished their primary mission and were now out to complete their secondary.

  A South African stepped around the corner of the bank, firing as he came.

  Broward shot twice with his .45. The dark-brown face showered into red and lost its human shape. The body to which it was now loosely attached curved backwards and fell on the floor.

  "Broward!" called Scone above the twang and boom of the guns and the wharoop! of a bomb. "Can you see anything? I can't even stick my head around the corner without being shot at."

  Broward looked at Scone, who was crouched at the other end of the bank. Scone's back was to Broward, but Scone's head was twisted far enough for him to see Broward out of the corner of his eye.

  Even at that moment, when Broward's thoughts should have excluded everything but the fight, he could not help comparing Scone's profile to a face cut out of rock. The high bulbous forehead, thick bars of bone over the eyes, Dantesque nose, thin lips, and chin jutting out like a shelf of granite, more like a natural formation which happened to resemble a chin than anything which had taken shape in a human womb.

  Ugly, massive, but strong. Nothing of panic or fear in that face; it was as steady as his voice.

  Old Gibraltar-face, thought Broward for perhaps the hundredth time. But this time he did not feel dislike.

  "I can't see any more than you—Colonel," he said.

  Scone, still squatting, shifted around until he could bring one eye to bear fully on Broward. It was a pale blue, so pale it looked empty, unhuman.

  "Colonel?"

  "Now," said Broward. "A bomb got General Mansfield and Colonels Omato and Ingrass. That gives you a fast promotion, sir."

  "We'll both be promoted above this bank if an Axe lobs a bomb over," said Scone. "We have to get out of here."

  To where?"

  Scone frowned—granite wrinkling—and said, "It's obvious the Axes want to do more than murder a few Soviets. They must plan on getting control of the bonephones. I know I would if I were they. If they can capture the control center, every Soviet on the Moon—except for the Chinese—is at their mercy. So..."

  "We make a run for the BR?"

  "I'm not ordering you to come with me," said Scone. "That's almost suicide. But you will give me a covering fire."

  "I'll go with you, Colonel."

  Scone glanced at the caduceuses on Broward's lapels, and he said, "We'll need your professional help after we clean out the Axes. No."

  "You need my amateurish help now," said Broward. "As you see"—he jerked his thumb at the nearly headless Zulu—"I can handle a gun. And if we don't get to the bonephone controls first, life won't be worth living. Besides, I don't think the Axes intend taking any prisoners."

  "You're right," said Scone. But he seemed hesitant

  "You're wondering why I'm falling in so quickly with your plan to wreck the control center?" said Broward. "You think I'm a Russky agent?"

  "I didn't say I intended to wreck the transmitters," said Scone. "No. I know what you are. Or, I think I do. You're not a Russky. You're a..."

  Scone stopped. Like Broward, he felt the rock floor quiver, then start shaking. And a low rumbling reached them, coming up through their feet before their ears detected it.

  Scone, instead of throwing himself flat on the floor—an instinctive but useless maneuver—jumped up from his squatting position.

  "Now! Now! The others'll be too scared to move!"

  Broward rose, though he wanted to cling to the floor. Directly below them—or, perhaps, to the side but still underground— a white-hot "tongue" was blasting a narrow tunnel through the rock. Behind it, also hidden within the rock, in a shaft which the vessel must have taken a long time to sink without being detected, was a battlebird. Only a large ship could carry the huge generators required to drive a tongue that would damage a base. A tongue, or snake, as it was sometimes called. A flexible beam of "straightened-out" photons, the ultimate development of the laser.

  And when the tongue reached the end of the determined tunnel, then the photons would be "unsprung." And all the energy crammed into the compressed photons would dissipate.

  "Follow me!" said Scone, and he began running.

  Broward took a step, halted in amazement, called out, "The suits... other way!"

  Then, he resumed running after Scone. Evidently, the colonel was not concerned about the dome cracking wide open. His only thought was for the bonephone controls.

  Broward expected to be cut down under a storm of bullets. But the room was silent except for the groans of some wounded. And the ever-increasing rumble from deep under.

  The survivors of the fight were too intent on the menace probing beneath them to pay attention to the two runners— if they saw them.

  That is, until Scone bounded through the nearest exit from the dome in a great leap afforded by the Moon's weak gravity. He almost hit his head on the edge of the doorway.

  Broward slammed into the wall and fell back on the floor. Though half-stunned, he managed to roll past the corner, out of the line of fire, into the hallway. He rose, breathing hard, and checked to make sure he had not broken his numbed wrists and hands, which had cushioned much of his impact against the wall. And he was thankful that the tongues needed generators too massive to be compacted into hand weapons. If the Axes had been able to smuggle tonguers into the dome, they could have wiped out every Soviet on the base.

  The rumble became louder. The rock beneath his feet shook. The walls quivered like jelly. Then...

  Not the ripping upw
ards of the floor beneath his feet, the ravening blast opening the rock and lashing out at him with sear of fire and blow of air to burn him and crush him against the ceiling at the same time.

  From somewhere deep and off to one side was an explosion. The rock swelled. Then, subsided.

  Silence.

  Only his breathing.

  For about six seconds while he thought that the Russian ships stationed outside the base must have located the sunken Axis vessel and destroyed it just before it blew up the base.

  From the dome, a hell's concerto of small-gun fire.

  Broward ran again, leaping over the twisted and shattered bodies of Russians and Axes. Here the attacking officers had been met by Soviet guards, and the two groups had destroyed each other.

  Far down the corridor, Scone's tall body was hurtling alone, taking the giant steps only a long-time Lunie could safely handle. He rounded a corner, was gone down a branching corridor.

  Broward, following Scone, entered two more branches, and then stopped when he heard the boom of a .45. Two more booms. Silence. Broward cautiously stuck his head around the corner.

  He saw two Russian soldiers on the floor, their weapons close to their lifeless hands. Down the hall, Scone was running.

  Broward did not understand. He could only surmise that the Russians had been so surprised by Scone that they had fired, or tried to fire, before they recognized the North American uniform. And Scone had shot in self-defense.

  But the corridors were well lit with electroluminescent panels. All three should have seen at once that none wore the silver of Argentina or the scarlet and brown of the South Africans. So... ?

  He did not know. Scone could tell him, but Broward would have trouble catching up with him.

  Then, once more, he heard the echoes of a .45 bouncing around the distant corner of the hall.

  When Broward rounded the turn as cautiously as he had the previous one, he saw two more dead Russians. And he saw Scone rifling the pockets of the officer of the two.

  "Scone!" he shouted so the man would not shoot him, too, in a frenzy. "It's Broward!"

  Coming closer, he said, "What're you doing?"

  Scone rose from the officer with a thin plastic cylinder about a decimeter long in one hand. With the other hand, he pointed his .45 at Broward's solar plexus.

  "I'm going to blow up the controls and the transmitters," he said. "What did you think?"

  Choking, Broward said, "You're not working for the Axis?"

  He did not believe Scone was. But, in his astonishment, he could only think of that as a reason for Scone's behavior. Despite his accusation about Scone's intentions, he had not really believed the man meant to do more than insure that the controls did not fall into Axis hands.

  Scone said, "Those swine! No! I'm just making sure that the Axes will not be able to use the bonephones if they do seize this office. Besides, I have never liked the idea of being under Russian control. These hellish devices..."

  Broward pointed at the corpses. "Why?"

  "They had their orders," said Scone. "Which were to allow no one into the control room without proper authorization. I didn't want to argue and so put them on their guard. I had to do what was expedient."

  Scone glared at Broward, and he said, "Expediency is going to be the rule for this day. No matter who suffers."

  Broward said, "You don't have to kill me, too. I am an American. If I could think as coolly as you, I might have done the same thing myself."

  He paused, took a deep breath, and said, "Perhaps, you didn't do this on the spur of the moment Perhaps, you planned this long before. If such a situation as this gave you a chance."

  "We haven't time to stand here gabbing," said Scone.

  He backed away, his gun and gaze steady on Broward, With his other hand, he felt around until the free end of the thin tube fitted into the depression in the middle of the door. He pressed in on the key, and (the correct sequence of radio frequencies activating the unlocking circuit) the door opened.

  Scone motioned for Broward to precede him. Broward entered. Scone came in, and the door closed behind him.

  "I thought I should kill you when we were behind the bank," said Scone. "But you weren't—as far as I had been able to determine—a Russian agent. Far from it. And you were as you said, a fellow American. But..."

  Broward looked at the far wall with its array on array of indicator lights, switches, pushbuttons, and slots for admission of coded cards and tapes. He turned to Scone, and he said, "Time for us to quit being coy. I've known for a long time that you were the chief of a Nationalist underground."

  "What?"

  Then, the cracks closed up, the cliff-front was solid again.

  "Why didn't you report me. Or are you...?"

  "Not of your movement, no," said Broward. "I'm an Athenian. You've heard of us?"

  "I know of them," said Scone. "A lunatic fringe. Neither Russ, Chinese, nor Yank. I had suspected that you weren't a very solid Marxist. Why tell me this?"

  "I want to talk you out of destroying the controls and the transmitters," said Broward.

  "Why?"

  "Don't blow them up. Given time, the Russ could build another set And we'd be under their control again. Don't destroy them. Plant a bomb which can be set off by remote control. The moment they try to use the phones to paralyze us, blow up the transmitters. That might give us time to remove the phones from our skulls with surgery. Or insulate the phones against reception. Or, maybe, strike at the Russkies. If fighting back is what you have in mind. I don't know how far your Nationalism goes."

  "That might be better," said Scone, his voice flat, not betraying any enthusiasm for the plan. "Can I depend upon you and your people?"

  "I'll be frank. If you intend to try for complete independence of the Russians, you'll have our wholehearted cooperation. Until we are independent"

  "And after that—what then?"

  "We believe in violence only after all other means have failed. Of course, mental persuasion was useless with the Russians. With fellow Americans, well..."

  "How many people do you have at Clavius?"

  Broward hesitated, then said, "Four. All absolutely dependable. Under my orders. And you?"

  "More than you," said Scone. "You understand that I'm not sharing the command with you? We can't take time out to confer. We need a man who can give orders to be carried out instantly. And my word will be life or death? No argument?"

  "No time now for discussions of policy. I can see that. Yes.

  I place myself and my people under your orders. But what about the other Americans? Some are fanatical Marxists. Some are unknown, X."

  "We'll weed out the bad ones," said Scone. "I don't mean by bad the genuine Marxists. I'm one myself. I mean the non-Nationalists. If anyone wants to go to the Russians, we let them go. Or if anybody fights us, they die."

  "Couldn't we just continue to keep them prisoners?"

  "On the Moon? Where every mouth needs two pairs of hands to keep breathing and eating? Where even one parasite may mean eventual death for all others? No!" Broward said, "All right They die. I hope..."

  "Hopes are something to be tested," said Scone. "Let's get to work. There should be plenty of components here with which to rig up a control for the bomb. And I have the bomb taped to my belly."

  You won't have to untape your bomb," said Broward. "The transmitters are mined. So are the generators."

  "How did you do it? And why didn't you tell me you'd already done it?"

  "The Russians have succeeded in making us Americans distrust each other," said Broward. "Like everybody else, I don't reveal information until I absolutely have to. As to your first question, I'm not only a doctor, I'm also a physical anthropologist engaged in a Moonwide project I frequently attend conferences at this base, stay here several sleeps. And what you did so permanently with your gun, I did temporarily with a sleep-inducing aerosol. But, now that we understand each other, let's get out."

  "Not until I se
e the bombs you say you've planted. Broward smiled. Then, working swiftly with a screwdriver he took from a drawer, he removed several wall-panels. Scone looked into the recesses and examined the component boards, functional blocks, and wires which jammed the interior.

  "I don't see any explosives," Scone said. "Good," said Broward. "Neither will the Russians, unless they measure the closeness of the walls to the equipment The explosive is spread out over the walls in a thin layer which is colored to match the original green. Also, thin strips of chemical are glued to the walls. This chemical is temperature-sensitive. When the transmitters are operating and reach maximum radiation of heat, the strips melt. And the chemicals released interact with the explosive, detonate it."

  "Ingenious," said Scone somewhat sourly. "We don't..." and he stopped.

  "Have such stuff? No wonder. As far as I know, the detonator and explosive were made here on the Moon. In our lab at Clavius."

  "If you could get into this room without being detected and could also smuggle all that stuff from Clavius, then the Russ can be beaten," said Scone.

  Now, Broward was surprised. "You doubted they could?"

  "Never. But all the odds were on their side. And you know what a conditioning they give us from the day we enter kindergarten."

  "Yes. The picture of the all-knowing, all-powerful Russian backed by the force of destiny itself, the inevitable rolling forward and unfolding of History as expounded by the great prophet, the only prophet Marx. But it's not true. They're human." They replaced the panels and the screwdriver and left the room. Just as they entered the hall, and the door swung shut behind them, they heard the thumps of boots and shouts. Scone had just straightened up from putting the key back into the dead officer's pocket when six Russians trotted around the corner. Their officer was carrying a burp gun, the others, automatic rifles.

  The captain, whom both Americans had seen several times before, lowered her burper.

  "It's fortunate that I recognized you," she said. "We just killed three Axes who were dressed in Russian uniforms. They shot four of my men before we cut them down. I wasn't about to take a chance you might not be in disguise, too."