Escape to Infinity
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Synopsis
Mike Sterne was a man with problems. His environment included an unknown quantity in the form of an eccentric alien scientist and a determined corps of totalitarian militia with orders to liquidate him. A rigidly imposed authoritarian social structure can only be undermined by a superior ideology. Sterne encountered that ideology on the other side of an electronic gateway through the X dimensions, a gateway to the infinite universe of the microcosm and the macrocosm. His enemies also discovered a route through the continuum... but they didn't reach the same world that Sterne had found.
Release date: November 28, 2013
Publisher: Gateway
Print pages: 320
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Escape to Infinity
Karl Zeigfreid
TRAVEL out from earth for a few parsecs, and you will find yourself in the vicinity of a rather charming star named Alpha Centauri. Whirling around this stellar parent there are several interesting planets. Travelling outwards from Alpha the second of these globular children is Gloxa. On Gloxa there is a pretty complex civilisation. The culture is a technological one, that is not to say it is a particularly happy one, but certainly its society has all the trappings of civilisation and then some to spare. On the main continent of Gloxa are many cities. One of these rejoices in the rather unromantic name of Urg. In the city of Urg there is situated what is probably the largest robot factory, the largest production plant for mechanical men—or at least, for man-like machines, anywhere in the Alpha Centauri system. Some would even go so far as to say it was the biggest robot factory in this sector of the galaxy. That may be a bit of an exaggeration, but allowing for a bit of wishful thinking and a soupcon of local pride it is still fairly safe to say, and quite reasonable to assume, that the robot factory in Urg on Gloxa of Alpha Centauri is one of the biggest and best that you will encounter. Even if it is not the very top of the tree it has good reason to claim to be primus inter pares—first among equals.
The man in charge of final inspection and assembly check was a leathery individual who rejoiced in the name of Mike Sterne. He had a pleasantly ugly face, and his hair was going back so fast that you’d think his nose was radioactive. He had brows that could only be described as craggy, and a pair of gimlet eyes that looked everywhere, bored into anything that got in their way, and missed absolutely nothing. The rest of Mike Sterne could fairly be described as in direct ratio to the face, certainly in direct proportion to the face. The big square jaw, for instance, had its counterpart in the big square body. It is true that occasionally the owners of big square jaws are not as ruthless, as tough, and as determined as their jaws would lead you to believe …
But Mike Sterne was not one of the exceptions to the general dictate of the ancient science of physiognomy. He had a big square jaw, a fine, strong jaw, the foundation of a strong face, and with it he himself was both mentally and physically strong. He might be variously described as “chunky,” “square,” thick-set,” or merely “solid.” Any of these descriptions would have fitted him pretty accurately and would have aptly pictured the kind of man that Mike Sterne was Even his age was indeterminate. He had not changed a lot since he had notched up his first quarter century. He could have been any age between twenty-five and fifty-five, but if the years had done anything for him at all, they had increased the maturity of his muscles, they had not detracted from his power or agility. Mike Sterne was the kind of man whom any popular novelist would be inclined to sum up as a good friend, or a dangerous enemy. Whatever you might think about Mike Sterne, he was the kind of man who counted. He was a significant kind of man. He could not be ignored. He could not be included under an “etc.” He was not an incidental, there was nothing inconsequential about him. He was all purpose; he was a big, tough character, and every inch of him counted. Mind and body Mike Sterne was very definitely a man to be reckoned with. He looked down the assembly line; it was like being in one of those olden day 19th or 20th century draper’s shops, for he had often seen them on sociological microfilms. Victoria and the later Georges would have seen sights like these in shop windows. Expressionless faces, row upon row of expressionless faces … Sterne looked at the robots angrily as they glided towards to him on the assembly line. Slowly, methodically, robot after robot passed in front of those electronic testing devices. Here a swift X-ray checked for internal faults. At another point on the line a sonar beam raced around them on a similar function, though in a slightly different sphere of examination. A little further on various other testing devices were plugged in, the robots’ reactions, responses, and circuit wires were checked and counter checked. Only when Sterne had seen each other individual robot past each individual screen, only when he was absolutely convinced and thoroughly satisfied that every mechanical, man-like object was as perfect as robotics could make it, did he affix the final seal bearing his inspector’s number, the seal that meant that the robot could be released for commercial purposes.
Mike Sterne checked the last of the batch, on that particular section of line, heaved a sigh of relief, glanced swiftly at his wrist-chron, folded his note book and headed for the canteen. He took the elevator down and walked quickly to the alcoholic end of the counter.
“Sibo,” he ordered. “Make it a treble.” The girl behind the bar had snow white hair and pink eyes. Her skin was as white as paper, almost transparent. Mike Sterne had seen albinos often enough but somehow he never got used to her. The girl had been stared at so much by Terrans she didn’t even bother any more. In her own way she was quite good looking. Most of the Gloxans were albinos. It was a peculiar genetic development due to exposure to some rather odd wavelengths radiating from Alpha Centauri. The Terrestrial humanoids who had been coming out there for the last thousand years were practically immune to it, though every now and again, even in a purely terrestrial family an albino child would crop up. As the generations passed the statisticians seemed to be of the opinion that prolonged exposure, over several generations, would weaken even Terrestrial resistance.
The archaeologists had proved that the original Alpha Centaurian stock, the original Gloxans, had possessed pigment in the same way that humanity had on earth, but the Gloxans were a much older race. They could give terrestrial humanity a million years. Odd thing was, thought Sterne, it didn’t seem to have done them much good. They had reached a point of culture and stuck. They had acquired for themselves a technology which was able to supply 99.5 per cent of their physical and material wants and there they had been content to remain. Such advances as had been made since had been purely circular advances in such fields as fashion, music and entertainment in general. There had been complete and utter political stagnation. That, like the albinos tended to be infectious, thought Sterne.
He emptied his glass and called for another. He could feel the sibo coursing around his veins; there was a glorious kick to it, which was just what he needed at that moment. He felt like getting gloriously drunk, he had just seen another batch off, why the hell shouldn’t he get drunk? He looked at the uniformed characters at the door. They were everywhere. What the hell was a guy supposed to do when he had finished work? Sit at home reading quietly, or watching a 3-D on the vidio! These damn Centaurians, these blasted Gloxans never realised that a real, raw-blooded earthman had to drink. Earthman, he thought, that was a contradiction in terms! His family had emigrated five generations back, but he still didn’t think of himself as a Gloxan. He liked reading those old microfilm yarns about tough, lean sun-browned earthmen. He liked to read about Australian bush rangers, and American cowboys. He liked to read about Highland chiefs in Scotland, and seafaring men in Cornwall and Devon, pitting their wits against the guns of the Spanish Main. He liked to read about Cossacks galloping over their Steppes. He liked tales about Eskimos, he had even enjoyed a peculiar ballad relating to one “Eskimo Nell” which had been handed down in a military oral tradition, for no one had ever dared to commit such profanity to print!
He had read many an adventure of far-off Earth of long ago, but he identified himself mentally with those rugged heroes of that dark rearward and abyss which men call history The thin, pale, white-haired policeman moved towards Mike Sterne disapprovingly as the big robot-Inspector’s hand closed round his third glass of sibo.
“Don’t you think you’re rather overdoing things friend?” The policeman’s voice was soft and sibilant.
“You do your job, sonny boy, and I’ll do mine,” said Sterne.
The pink eyes looked at him disapprovingly.
“I’m afraid you will become part of my job if you insist on this kind of behaviour,” said the policeman.
“I’ll behave how I dam’ well like,” said Sterne, “is that clear?”
The policeman shook his head.
“Do that again,” jibed Sterne, “I like to hear it rattle!”
For a second the albino didn’t quite understand what Sterne was saying, then the full import of the big terrestrian’s words sank into his head.
“I’m afraid I must ask you to accompany me to headquarters,” he said in that same sibilant, but deadly polite voice.
“You go to hell!” snarled Sterne. He was just drunk enough not to give a damn about anything or anybody. The albino girl behind the bar backed out of the way. The policeman made some kind of motion towards a concealed hand weapon near his belt. Mike Sterne grinned. These Gloxans looked frail and compared to a terrestrial they were frail, he picked the policeman up with effortless ease, and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. The handweapon came out and clattered helplessly to the floor. Mike Sterne kicked it to the other end of the canteen. Contemptuously he flung the policeman after it. The albino landed in a splayed heap with a grunt and a kind of cursing sob. He gathered himself together and reached for the fallen hand weapon. A double gauge power blaster had appeared in Sterne’s hand as though by magic.
“Don’t touch it sonny boy, or I’ll blast it from here to Calisto.”
The policeman had recovered some of his equanimity.
“That’s a long way, Mr. Sterne,” he said.
“Now listen,” said Sterne, “I don’t want any trouble with you, I don’t want any trouble at all. I’m a Number One inspector in this factory, and when I’ve finished my job I’m entitled to a little refreshment and relaxation, and I’ve got my own way of relaxing. The fellows who run this factory happen to know the kind of man I am! Also they know that they can’t replace me—at least they can’t replace me easily. Because this factory makes big money it’s got political pull. We’ve got big pull. I’m not saying our pull is so big that I could shoot you dead and get away with it, because it ain’t … But I am saying this, if you run me in just because I want to have a drink, and just because you think I’m going to start dancing on the bar when I’ve had another sibo, then you’ve got a big mistake comin’. If you like wearin’ your fancy uniform, and you want to keep it and you want any chance of promotion, then you get the hell out o’ here! D’you hear me? Now you pick up that gun, and keep your back to me till you’re out o’ sight!”
“You’re making a big mistake,” returned the policeman. “You terrestrials are all alike. You think that our government will put up with anything from you for political reasons. You think that you can bargain from a position of power and strength. This may be the case to some extent——”
“I don’t want any political speeches. Get out!” said Sterne.
The policeman picked up his gun, turned his back on Sterne and went out.
“You haven’t heard the last of this,” he said gently as he left.
“Go to hell,” said Sterne, . . .
The man in charge of final inspection and assembly check was a leathery individual who rejoiced in the name of Mike Sterne. He had a pleasantly ugly face, and his hair was going back so fast that you’d think his nose was radioactive. He had brows that could only be described as craggy, and a pair of gimlet eyes that looked everywhere, bored into anything that got in their way, and missed absolutely nothing. The rest of Mike Sterne could fairly be described as in direct ratio to the face, certainly in direct proportion to the face. The big square jaw, for instance, had its counterpart in the big square body. It is true that occasionally the owners of big square jaws are not as ruthless, as tough, and as determined as their jaws would lead you to believe …
But Mike Sterne was not one of the exceptions to the general dictate of the ancient science of physiognomy. He had a big square jaw, a fine, strong jaw, the foundation of a strong face, and with it he himself was both mentally and physically strong. He might be variously described as “chunky,” “square,” thick-set,” or merely “solid.” Any of these descriptions would have fitted him pretty accurately and would have aptly pictured the kind of man that Mike Sterne was Even his age was indeterminate. He had not changed a lot since he had notched up his first quarter century. He could have been any age between twenty-five and fifty-five, but if the years had done anything for him at all, they had increased the maturity of his muscles, they had not detracted from his power or agility. Mike Sterne was the kind of man whom any popular novelist would be inclined to sum up as a good friend, or a dangerous enemy. Whatever you might think about Mike Sterne, he was the kind of man who counted. He was a significant kind of man. He could not be ignored. He could not be included under an “etc.” He was not an incidental, there was nothing inconsequential about him. He was all purpose; he was a big, tough character, and every inch of him counted. Mind and body Mike Sterne was very definitely a man to be reckoned with. He looked down the assembly line; it was like being in one of those olden day 19th or 20th century draper’s shops, for he had often seen them on sociological microfilms. Victoria and the later Georges would have seen sights like these in shop windows. Expressionless faces, row upon row of expressionless faces … Sterne looked at the robots angrily as they glided towards to him on the assembly line. Slowly, methodically, robot after robot passed in front of those electronic testing devices. Here a swift X-ray checked for internal faults. At another point on the line a sonar beam raced around them on a similar function, though in a slightly different sphere of examination. A little further on various other testing devices were plugged in, the robots’ reactions, responses, and circuit wires were checked and counter checked. Only when Sterne had seen each other individual robot past each individual screen, only when he was absolutely convinced and thoroughly satisfied that every mechanical, man-like object was as perfect as robotics could make it, did he affix the final seal bearing his inspector’s number, the seal that meant that the robot could be released for commercial purposes.
Mike Sterne checked the last of the batch, on that particular section of line, heaved a sigh of relief, glanced swiftly at his wrist-chron, folded his note book and headed for the canteen. He took the elevator down and walked quickly to the alcoholic end of the counter.
“Sibo,” he ordered. “Make it a treble.” The girl behind the bar had snow white hair and pink eyes. Her skin was as white as paper, almost transparent. Mike Sterne had seen albinos often enough but somehow he never got used to her. The girl had been stared at so much by Terrans she didn’t even bother any more. In her own way she was quite good looking. Most of the Gloxans were albinos. It was a peculiar genetic development due to exposure to some rather odd wavelengths radiating from Alpha Centauri. The Terrestrial humanoids who had been coming out there for the last thousand years were practically immune to it, though every now and again, even in a purely terrestrial family an albino child would crop up. As the generations passed the statisticians seemed to be of the opinion that prolonged exposure, over several generations, would weaken even Terrestrial resistance.
The archaeologists had proved that the original Alpha Centaurian stock, the original Gloxans, had possessed pigment in the same way that humanity had on earth, but the Gloxans were a much older race. They could give terrestrial humanity a million years. Odd thing was, thought Sterne, it didn’t seem to have done them much good. They had reached a point of culture and stuck. They had acquired for themselves a technology which was able to supply 99.5 per cent of their physical and material wants and there they had been content to remain. Such advances as had been made since had been purely circular advances in such fields as fashion, music and entertainment in general. There had been complete and utter political stagnation. That, like the albinos tended to be infectious, thought Sterne.
He emptied his glass and called for another. He could feel the sibo coursing around his veins; there was a glorious kick to it, which was just what he needed at that moment. He felt like getting gloriously drunk, he had just seen another batch off, why the hell shouldn’t he get drunk? He looked at the uniformed characters at the door. They were everywhere. What the hell was a guy supposed to do when he had finished work? Sit at home reading quietly, or watching a 3-D on the vidio! These damn Centaurians, these blasted Gloxans never realised that a real, raw-blooded earthman had to drink. Earthman, he thought, that was a contradiction in terms! His family had emigrated five generations back, but he still didn’t think of himself as a Gloxan. He liked reading those old microfilm yarns about tough, lean sun-browned earthmen. He liked to read about Australian bush rangers, and American cowboys. He liked to read about Highland chiefs in Scotland, and seafaring men in Cornwall and Devon, pitting their wits against the guns of the Spanish Main. He liked to read about Cossacks galloping over their Steppes. He liked tales about Eskimos, he had even enjoyed a peculiar ballad relating to one “Eskimo Nell” which had been handed down in a military oral tradition, for no one had ever dared to commit such profanity to print!
He had read many an adventure of far-off Earth of long ago, but he identified himself mentally with those rugged heroes of that dark rearward and abyss which men call history The thin, pale, white-haired policeman moved towards Mike Sterne disapprovingly as the big robot-Inspector’s hand closed round his third glass of sibo.
“Don’t you think you’re rather overdoing things friend?” The policeman’s voice was soft and sibilant.
“You do your job, sonny boy, and I’ll do mine,” said Sterne.
The pink eyes looked at him disapprovingly.
“I’m afraid you will become part of my job if you insist on this kind of behaviour,” said the policeman.
“I’ll behave how I dam’ well like,” said Sterne, “is that clear?”
The policeman shook his head.
“Do that again,” jibed Sterne, “I like to hear it rattle!”
For a second the albino didn’t quite understand what Sterne was saying, then the full import of the big terrestrian’s words sank into his head.
“I’m afraid I must ask you to accompany me to headquarters,” he said in that same sibilant, but deadly polite voice.
“You go to hell!” snarled Sterne. He was just drunk enough not to give a damn about anything or anybody. The albino girl behind the bar backed out of the way. The policeman made some kind of motion towards a concealed hand weapon near his belt. Mike Sterne grinned. These Gloxans looked frail and compared to a terrestrial they were frail, he picked the policeman up with effortless ease, and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. The handweapon came out and clattered helplessly to the floor. Mike Sterne kicked it to the other end of the canteen. Contemptuously he flung the policeman after it. The albino landed in a splayed heap with a grunt and a kind of cursing sob. He gathered himself together and reached for the fallen hand weapon. A double gauge power blaster had appeared in Sterne’s hand as though by magic.
“Don’t touch it sonny boy, or I’ll blast it from here to Calisto.”
The policeman had recovered some of his equanimity.
“That’s a long way, Mr. Sterne,” he said.
“Now listen,” said Sterne, “I don’t want any trouble with you, I don’t want any trouble at all. I’m a Number One inspector in this factory, and when I’ve finished my job I’m entitled to a little refreshment and relaxation, and I’ve got my own way of relaxing. The fellows who run this factory happen to know the kind of man I am! Also they know that they can’t replace me—at least they can’t replace me easily. Because this factory makes big money it’s got political pull. We’ve got big pull. I’m not saying our pull is so big that I could shoot you dead and get away with it, because it ain’t … But I am saying this, if you run me in just because I want to have a drink, and just because you think I’m going to start dancing on the bar when I’ve had another sibo, then you’ve got a big mistake comin’. If you like wearin’ your fancy uniform, and you want to keep it and you want any chance of promotion, then you get the hell out o’ here! D’you hear me? Now you pick up that gun, and keep your back to me till you’re out o’ sight!”
“You’re making a big mistake,” returned the policeman. “You terrestrials are all alike. You think that our government will put up with anything from you for political reasons. You think that you can bargain from a position of power and strength. This may be the case to some extent——”
“I don’t want any political speeches. Get out!” said Sterne.
The policeman picked up his gun, turned his back on Sterne and went out.
“You haven’t heard the last of this,” he said gently as he left.
“Go to hell,” said Sterne, . . .
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