Pawn of the Omphalos

by E.C. Tubb

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

Fiction, Science Fiction, For Mark Carodyne, life was a gamble. That's why he came to Krait. Krait was dominated my a pulsing Omphalos. It filled the sky above. Would Mark save the planet from destruction by obtaining the data.

Release date: December 12, 1980

Publisher: Fawcett

Print pages: 156

Sample

FROM a distance it was a bright shimmer hanging in space which seemed to change so that each who saw it found a different
shape: a ball, a cage, a cluster of pearls, a cone, a maze, the likeness of beasts. A thousand descriptions all adding to
the same. A mystery. The Unknown.


Closer and the enigma grew. Details which should have been plain remained invisible, the surface a blazing mass of convoluted
radiance which defied understanding. A baffling problem to the scientists, a fascinating spectacle to the tourists who came
to Krait.


“It is a contradiction in time and space,” said the guide. He was tall, lean, muffled in heavy garments. A native of the Ophidian
worlds with slotted eyes and a skin bearing vestigial scales, sensitive to the cold despite the beamed heat bathing the area.
“No one knows exactly what it is. Ships have tried to traverse it but none have returned.”


Mark Carodyne said, “Destroyed?”

The guide shrugged. “As I said, no one knows. Probes cease to signal once they enter it. Manned vessels sent to investigate
have not returned. No wreckage has even been discovered. Ships and crew have simply disappeared.”


A girl shivered and moved closer to where Carodyne stood on the observation platform. “And it is coming towards us?”

“No, madam.” The guide was patient. “The Omphalos does not move. That, among other things, is what makes it so unusual. It
is stationary in relation to the universe and does not participate in the galactic drift.”


A woman said, sharply, “Are we in danger? Could it swallow us as it did the ships you mentioned?”

“Krait is in no danger, madam,” said the guide firmly. “It is coming closer, true, but we shall pass it at a safe distance.
Now, if you will all turn your heads a little so as to look sidewise at the Omphalos without trying to focus your eyes, you
may see something very interesting.”


Dutifully the party obeyed, all but Carodyne, who had no time for visual tricks. Thoughtfully he stared directly at the patch
of glowing luminescence. It was too large to take in as a whole, and he studied it as he would Earth’s moon, letting his eyes
drift over the surface. There was a crater—or was it? There a string of glowing spheres like a row of pearls. A ray of startling
brilliance suddenly appeared converging on another to form—what? They vanished as he tried to fit a recognizable picture to
the pattern. Again he caught the hint of something familiar. A mountain range? A mesh of rivers? The circuitry of an electronic
device? It was gone before he could decide and he caught the impression of a bird, wide-winged, crested and with an open beak.
It dissolved in a shimmer as if clouds were parting to reveal fitful gleams edged with pluming smoke.


The colors were too bright, the patterns changing too rapidly for him to make sense of what he saw. The thing was a kaleidoscope
of eye-burning sharpness and hypnotic enticement, and he blinked, seeing dancing retinal images which added to the confusion.


Beside him the girl sucked in her breath. “Artelle,” she murmured. “But it can’t be!”

A matron cried out, “Sonhed! My baby!”

An elderly man shook his head and rubbed at his eyes. Tears wetted his cheeks. “No,” he whispered. “She’s gone. I don’t want
to be hurt again. The memory—”


Mark felt the girl grip his arm. “I saw it,” she said blankly. “Artelle, the house where I was born. But it was destroyed
ten years ago when I was a child. Yet it was there exactly as I remembered it.”


“No,” he said flatly. “It was a trick of the light. Have you never looked into a leaping flame and seen pictures among the
coals? A wood fire, perhaps, while out hunting? The big one at the lodge? The eye is baffled with continually changing perspectives and the mind tries to rationalize the signals
it receives in terms of familiar images. Look again, all you’ll see is a mass of shifting color.”


“But it was so real,” she insisted. “So very real.”

To her and to the others of the party, each seeing what they longed to find, a home, a lost child, a remembered romance, a
dream, perhaps, created from shifting light and imagination.


In the car which carried them back to the lodge she introduced herself. “I’m Shara Mordain of Elgesh,” she said. “And you’re
Mark Carodyne. I saw you when you arrived. Are you alone?”


“Yes.”

“I’m glad of that,” she said with naked candor. “I would rather not have to fight for you. Have you been to Elgesh?”

“No.”

“We have two women for every man and so we have to do the chasing. Do you mind?”

He smiled as he looked down at her where she sat close beside him on the seat. Her face, framed in the thick fur collar of
her robe, was strongly boned, the cheeks high, the nostrils flared a little, the lips full over a determined jaw. Beneath
the robe he could sense the long lines of her body, the softness and strength of a female animal. She would have money, be
wilful and could be a problem if he permitted it.


Quietly he said, “Tell me about Elgesh.”

“There isn’t much to tell. It’s just another world like most of the rest. We had a virus disease hit us awhile ago. A wild
mutant which attacked the prostate and affected the testicles. Within two years ninety percent of our men were sterile. That
wouldn’t have mattered too much but the birthrate went all to hell. Five girls for every boy. We’re leveling out now but things
will never be the same.”


“And you?”

She hesitated and then said, “I know what you’re thinking. A man-hungry girl on the hunt. Well, maybe you’re right, but I
don’t like to think so. Just call it a reactive syndrome caused by early conditioning and leave it at that.” She glanced through the window at the blur of light in the sky. “What did you think of it?”


“The Omphalos?” He shrugged. “I told you. It’s just a giant kaleidoscope.”

“Don’t let the guide hear you call it that. I don’t think he’d like it. They say his people used to worship it years ago.
They called it the ‘mirror of the mind’ or something like that. They even thought that mysterious gods lived there and controlled
their lives every inch of the way. I’ll even bet they sacrificed to it if the crops or weather was bad.”


“They wouldn’t be unusual if they had,” he said. “It’s the normal progression of peoples rising from the primitive levels
towards civilization. On Earth they used to offer sacrifices to the moon and the sun as well as to the soil and the sea. Insurance
against bad climates and poor crops. All races have done the same.”


“Earth, you come from there?”

“Yes.”

“The home planet,” she said. “One day I’m going to see it. Is it as beautiful as they claim?”

“I think so.”

“You’re biased. Are you an anthropologist?”

“What makes you think that?”

“You seem to know all about religions and primitive peoples. Are you?”

“No.”

“How do you know about them then?”

“I read a lot.”

“Men!” she said with repressed fury. “What’s the matter with you all? The ones I can’t stand never stop talking and the ones
I like never begin. All right, I’ll do it the hard way. Question and answer. If you’re not an anthropologist what are you?”


“A gambler,” he said, and rose to his feet as the car slid to a halt at the foot of the ramp leading to the lodge.

Inside it was warm with a glitter of polished copper, polished wood, a great fire burning in a stone surround, rugs scattered
over the wooden floor. The lights were subdued and set in lanterns of hammered iron, more strung on the rafters, still more
on the cornices. It was the idealized version of a winter shelter, a pleasant haven from the snow and ice and winter skies outside. A servant came bustling forward with a tray
heavy with goblets, the traditional greeting cup of Krait, a light wine spiced with pungent flavors heated over an open fire.


The party drank in silence, most still bemused by what they had seen. Shara opened her robe and fanned herself with a slender
hand. Beneath the thick material she wore a clinging form-fit of scarlet and gold.


“I’m too warm for comfort, Mark. I’ll have to get into something cooler. See you later?”

“Perhaps.”

She was direct. “Why the hesitation? Don’t you like me or is it that you don’t want to get involved?”

“Yes and no,” he said bluntly. “I like you and I don’t want to get involved. In any case I’ve work to do.”

“Gambling?”

“That’s right.”

“I thought you were joking,” she said slowly. “Giving me a flip answer. You don’t look like a gambler.”

“All life is a gamble, Shara. Everything you do is taking a chance of some kind. And when you take a chance you can’t afford
distractions.”


Nor complications, he thought as he watched her leave and walk to the wide staircase which led to the upper chambers. A rich
and spoiled young woman always spelled potential danger. She would demand her own way and be difficult when she didn’t get
it. He turned as a hand touched his arm. The man was short, round and looked like an inflated balloon, but Carodyne wasn’t
deceived. Presh was the product of a heavy planet and the apparent fat was highly developed muscle.


“Everything is prepared, sir,” he said quietly. “If you are ready to commence, my master is at your disposal.”

Tagh Altin, the Ekal of Kotan, was a small, wizened man with a narrow face, beaked nose and a fanatical love of chess. He
waited in a private annex off the main chamber, the board set ready before him. He smiled as Carodyne approached.


“It is good of you to accommodate an old man at his simple pleasure, Mark. A thousand?”

High stakes on a single game—more than high when it represented almost all his wealth, but Carodyne nodded, casually, as if
he had expected a higher wager.


“As you wish, my lord.”

“Then it is settled. Some refreshment perhaps before we begin? No? Then let us decide the first move.”

The board was of gold and silver, the pieces of emerald and ruby. Carodyne picked up a pawn of each, manipulated them behind
his back, held out his closed hands. Shrewd eyes studied his face as the Ekal reached a thin hand towards them. It drifted
towards the left, hesitated, moved to the right and then, like a striking bird of prey, moved back to the left, touching like
a withered leaf.


“It is your move first, my lord.” Carodyne replaced the pieces, his face impassive. He had forced the choice with a carefully
calculated flicker of the eyes. A small gain but the final victory could depend on such accumulations.


The game commenced. The Ekal moved his pieces with hesitation, lingering, pursing his lips and frequently tugging at the lobe
of his right ear. Carodyne moved with quick precision, acting as though he followed a preconceived plan. Both men lied with
every move they made. The Ekal had no need to act like a fumbling beginner, and Carodyne had no plan, playing as much by instinct
as inspiration. He could play the game and play it well, but he was not playing simple chess. He was playing against a man
who played chess. There was a difference.


“A fascinating game,” murmured Tagh Altin. “No one can tell how old it is. At my palace I have a thousand sets each different
yet all basically the same. Men carved from wood, from stone, metal and seeds. Boards made of as many materials, some of them
decorated with fantastic designs. One day you must see them.” He moved a piece, removed another. “You were careless, Mark.
Already you are weakened.”


Carodyne moved without comment.

“I hear that you have seen the Omphalos,” continued the Ekal. “You found it intriguing?”

“Interesting.” Carodyne moved a castle. “An oddity of nature.”

“As is life itself—or so certain philosophers would have us believe. So many worlds and so many races, but each holding disturbing
similarities. A matter of chance? Perhaps, but there are those who would have us believe it is more than that. A matter of
calculation, they say. Who can tell?”


The words were a screen to mask thoughts and provide distraction. Carodyne ignored them, concentrating on the board. The pattern
shown was almost classical and, if continued, would lead to his inevitable defeat. He must break it, shatter the attack and
launch one of his own. Not a neat, textbook series of moves which could be matched and countered, but a blasting away of threatening
pieces and the opening out of the game. Not typical chess, perhaps, but good survival tactics.


“You know, Mark,” said Tagh Altin as the game progressed, “I have often thought this a game with far wider implications than
we realize. Take the men we move. Isn’t it true that, in a way, we control their destiny? We save them, sacrifice them, use
them as we will. Suppose they had individual awareness? Can you accept the premise?”


Carodyne moved a bishop and took a knight.

“A dead man,” mused the Ekal. He had stopped tugging at his ear. “Or a man wrenched from his own time and place. Lifted from
the sight of his companions, torn from a familiar environment and thrown elsewhere. Often I dream of a master chess player
manipulating the worlds of men. Sometimes, in that dream, I am the player.” He reached forward and captured the offending
bishop.


Carodyne said, quietly, “As you saw in the Omphalos, my lord?”

He had scored. He could tell it at the sharp intake of breath, the momentary tension. Immediately he launched his attack.

“I think we all have these delusions of grandeur. A psychologist would call it wish fulfillment, or perhaps an attempt to
compensate on a subconscious level for imagined inadequacy.” He moved his other bishop. “Your move, my lord.”


He gave the man no time to think. As the thin hand hesitated he said, “Or again such dreams could be the result of a deep
sense of guilt. A desire to justify reprehensible deeds by the adoption of a cloak of omnipotence. God can do no wrong. Therefore, if we can convince ourselves that we are God, then
obviously we could have done no wrong.”


The Ekal moved, making a bad mistake. Carodyne swept up the exposed piece.

“A flagrant attempt at self-justification, my lord, as I am sure you will agree. A deed, once done, cannot be turned into
something other than it was at the time of its doing. In many ways the Omphalos could be likened to a mirror in which each
man can read his soul. You have moved, my lord?”


Fifteen minutes later Carodyne knew that he had won. The Ekal had been shaken, careless beyond recovery, and soon would be
forced to admit defeat. He stared at the board, his hand tugging at his ear as Carodyne relaxed for the first time since commencing
the game. Idly he looked around.


The annex was almost full.

Aside from Presh, standing close beside his master, a dozen men and women stood around looking on. He caught a glimpse of
Shara Mordain, a glitter of gemmed scarlet and silken flesh. Her hair was plaited and crested high over the face, a mane so
black that it held blue shimmers. Her figure was as he’d imagined, so. . .