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Title: Infiltration
Author: Algis Budrys
Release date: November 4, 2023 [eBook #72026]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: Royal Publications, Inc, 1958
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK INFILTRATION ***
INFILTRATION
By ALGIS BUDRYS
_If werewolves exist, they don't necessarily
conform to all the superstitions people have.
They may even know fear...._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity October 1958.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I
Sunset. _They're coming for me, tonight_, he knew as he woke.
Sunset. Not really--if he were to get dressed now, and go out on the
street, the red globe would still be hanging over the cliffs of New
Jersey. But the shadow of the building next door had fallen over his
apartment windows, and he sleepily pushed a cigarette between his numb
lips and swung his feet over the side of the bed, fumbling with a
match as he walked over to the small radio on the windowsill and turned
it on. There was a double-header between the Giants and Cincinnati--the
first game was probably in its last inning.
Sunset--odd, how the conditioning worked. Was it conditioning? Or
were the old wives' tales not so absurd, after all? But he _could_ go
out in the sunlight--had done it many times. His tan proved it. He
touched silver and cold iron countless times each day, crossed running
water--and he'd gone to church every Sunday, until he was twelve. No,
there _was_ a core of truth under the fantastically complex shell of
nonsense, but the old limitations were not part of it. He shrugged.
Neither were most of the powers.
Still, he liked to sleep in the daytime. His schedule seemed to gain an
hour at night, lose one in the morning, until, almost unnoticeably, it
had slipped around the clock.
He went into the bathroom while the worn tubes in the radio warmed up
slowly, and washed his face, brushed his teeth, shaved. He combed his
hair, then paused thoughtfully. Wouldn't do any harm. _No full moon
in here, either_, he thought, looking up at the circular fluorescent
tube in the ceiling, but he noticed no impediment as he coalesced,
dropped to all fours, and ran his pelt against the curry-combs he had
screwed to the bathroom door. He did a thorough job, enjoying it, and,
after he had realigned, walked out of the bathroom in time to hear the
Giants making their final, fruitless out of the first game. Five-Zero,
Cincinnati, and he grimaced in disgust. Four shut-outs in the last
five games.
He laughed at himself, then, for actually being annoyed. Still and all,
it wasn't the first time a man became emotionally involved in a mirage.
Was it a mirage? True, there weren't really any such things as the San
Francisco Giants--but a man could certainly be expected to forget that,
occasionally, if he were part of the same illusion at least half the
time. And certainly, such stuff as dreams are made of is solid enough
when you are yourself a dream.
He went out in the kitchen and started coffee, then came back and sat
down next to the radio, hardly listening to the recap of the game.
* * * * *
Odd, how it had all started. Being suddenly marooned on this planet,
forced to survive, somehow, through the long years while waiting for
rescue. How many years had it been, now? Some five hundred thousand,
in the subjective reference for this particular universe. He knew the
formula for conversion into objective time--it all worked out to the
equivalent of about six months--but that wasn't what mattered, as long
as they'd all had to survive in _this_ universe.
Sleep--suspended animation, if you wanted to call it that--had been
the only answer. And they couldn't do _that_, directly. They'd had to
resort to chrysalids.
He smiled to himself, got up, and turned down the fire under the pot
until the coffee was percolating softly.
The original plan had snowballed, somewhat.
Resolving chrysalids was one thing--making them eternal was another,
and unnecessary. It was far simpler to arrange the chrysalids so they'd
be able to reproduce themselves. And, of course, in order to survive,
and take care of itself, a chrysalis had to have some independent
intelligence.
And, so it worked. The chrysalis housed a sleeper, operating unawares
and completely independent of him--or her--until the chrysalis wore
out. Then the sleeper was passed on to a new chrysalis, with neither of
the chrysalids involved--nor, for that matter, the sleeper--conscious
of the transfer. So it would continue, through the weary, subjective
years; generation upon generation of chrysalids, until, finally, the
paramathematical path drifted back to touch this universe, and the
sleepers could wake, and continue their journey.
And if the human race chose to speculate on its origins in the
meantime, well, that was part of the snowball.
He got up again, and turned off the flame under the coffeepot. _Now,
if I were a sorcerer--as defined by Cotton Mather's ilk, of course--_,
he thought, _I should be able to (a) turn the fire off without getting
up, or, (b) generate the flame without the use of Con Edison's gas, or,
(c), if I had any self-respect at all, conjure hot coffee out of thin
air._ His lips twisted with nausea as he thought that nine out of ten
people would expect him to be drinking blood, as a matter of course.
He sighed with some bitterness, but more of resignation. Well, that was
just another part of the snowball.
Because the chrysalids had done a magnificent job in all three of
its subdivisions. They had kept the sleepers safe--and reproduced,
and used their intelligence to survive. They had survived in spite
of pestilence, famine, and flood--by learning enough to wipe out the
first two, and control the third. It would seem that progress was not
a special quality to be specially desired. Most of the chrysalids were
consumed by a fierce longing for the Good Old Days, as a matter of
fact. It was merely the inescapable accretion to sheer survival.
And so came civilization. With civilization: recreation. In short, the
San Francisco Giants, and--He reached over, suddenly irritated at the
raspy-voiced and slightly frantic recapitulation of the lost ballgame,
and changed the station. And Beethoven.
He relaxed, smiling slightly at himself once again, and let the music
sing to him. Chrysalids, eh? Well, they certainly weren't his kind
of life, free to swing from star to star, riding the great flux of
Creation from universe to universe. But whence Beethoven? Whence
Rembrandt, Da Vinci, and Will Shakespeare, hunched over a mug of ale
and dashing off genius on demand, with half an eye on the serving wench?
He shook his head. What would happen to this people, when the sleepers
woke?
The snowball. Ah, yes, the snowball. That was a good part of it--and he
and his kind were another.
_If we had known_, he thought. _If we had known how it would be...?_
But, they hadn't known. It had been just a petty argument, at first.
Nobody knew, now, who had started it. But there were two well-defined
sides, now, and he was an Insurgent, for some reason. The winning
side gives the names that stick. _They_ were Watchers--an honorable
name, a name to conjure up trust, and duty, and loyalty. And he was
an Insurgent. Well, let it stand. Accept the heritage of dishonor and
hatred. Somewhere, sometime, a gage was flung, and he was heir to the
challenge.
The chrysalids solved the problem of survival, of course. But the
problem of rescue had remained. For rescue, in the sense of help from
an outside agency, would be disastrous. When the path shifted back,
they had to learn of it themselves, and go on of their own accord--or
go into slavery. For there is one currency that outlives document and
token. Personal obligation. And, if they were so unlucky as to have an
actual rescuer, the obligation would be high--prohibitively so.
The solution had seemed simple, at first. In each generation of
chrysalids, there would be one aware individual--one Watcher, to keep
guard, and to waken the rest should the path drift back in the lifetime
of his chrysalis. Then, when that particular chrysalis wore out, the
Watcher would be free to return to sleep, while another took his place.
His mouth twisted to one side as he took a sip of coffee.
A simple, workable plan--until someone had asked, "Well and good.
Excellent. And what if this high-minded Watcher realizes that we,
asleep, are all in his power? What if he makes some agreement with a
rescuer, or, worse still, decides to _become_ our rescuer when the path
drifts back? What's to prevent him, eh? No," that long-forgotten, wary
individual had said, "I think we'd best set some watchers to watch the
Watcher."
_Quis custodiet?_
What had it been like? He had no way of knowing, for he had no memory
of his exact identity. That would come only with Awakening. He had only
a knowledge of his heritage. For all he knew, it had been he who raised
the fatal doubt--or, had been the first delegated Watcher. He shrugged.
It made no difference. He was an Insurgent now.
But he could imagine the voiceless babel among their millions--the
argument, the cold suspicion, the pettiness. Perhaps he was passing
scornful judgment on himself, he realized. What of it? He'd earned it.
So, finally, two groups. One content to be trustful. And the other
a fitful, restless clan, awakening sporadically, trusting to chance
alone, which, by its laws, would insure that many of them were awake
when the path drifted back. The Insurgents.
So, as well, two basic kinds of chrysalids. The human kind, and the
others. Wolves, bears, tigers. Bats, seals--every kind of living thing,
except the human. The Insurgent kind.
And so the struggle began. It was a natural outgrowth of the
fundamental conflict. Which side had tried to over-power the first
chrysalis? _Who first enslaved another man?_ he thought, and
half-snarled.
That, too, was unimportant now. For the seed had been planted. The
thought was there. _Those who are awake can place those who sleep under
obligation._ Control the chrysalids, and you control the sleepers
within. But chrysalids endure for one generation, and then the sleepers
pass on.
What then? Simplicity. Group your chrysalids. Segregate them. Set up
pens for them, mark them off, and do it so the walls and fences endure
through long years.
_This is my country. All men are brothers, but stay on your side of the
line, brother._
_Sorry, brother--you've got a funny shape to your nose. You just go
live in that nice, walled-off part of my city, huh, brother?_
_Be a good fellow, brother. Just move to the back of the bus, or I'll
lynch you, brother._
And the chrysali die, the sleepers transfer--into another chrysalis in
the same pen. _SPQR. Vive, Napoleon! Sieg Heil!_
* * * * *
Some of the time it was the Watchers. Some of the time it was the
Insurgents. And some of the time, of course, the chrysalids evolved
their own leaders, and imitated. For, once the thing had begun, it
could not be stopped. The organization was always more powerful than
the scattered handsful. So, the only protection against organization
was organization.
But it was not organization in itself that was the worst of it. It
was the fact that the only way to control the other side's penned
chrysalids was to break down a wall in the pen, or to build a larger
pen including many of the smaller ones.
And, again, it was too late, now, to decide who had been at fault.
_Who first invented War?_
The way to survive war is to wage more decisive war. The chrysalids
had to survive. They learned. They ... progressed? ... by so doing.
They progressed from bows to ballistas to bombs. From arbalests to
aircraft to A-bombs. Phosphorus. Chlorine. HE. Fragmentation. Napalm.
Dust, and bacteriological warfare. Thermopylae, Crecy, the Battle of
Britain, Korea, Indo-China, Indonesia.
And try to believe as you sit here, Insurgent, that none of this is
real, that it is all a phase, acted out by dolls of your own creation
in a sham battle that is really only a bad dream in the unfamiliar bed
of a lodging for the night!
_Chrysalids they might be, Insurgent_, he lashed himself, _but it
was the greed and suspicion of all your kind--Insurgent and Watcher
alike--that set this juggernaut to rolling!_
He took another sip of coffee, and almost gagged as he realized it had
grown cold. He got up and walked into the kitchen with the cup in his
hand. He threw the rest of the coffee in the sink, washed out the cup,
and turned on the burner under the coffeepot.
One more thing--one more development, born of suspicion.
For the original one-Watcher plan had been abandoned, of course. And
here, again, there was no telling whose blame it was. _Quis custodiet
ipsos custodes?_ Who will watch the Watchers? There had been many
Watchers to a generation--how many, no one knew. They balanced each
other off, and they checked the random number of Insurgents who
awoke in each generation. So, more Insurgents awoke to check the
Watchers--and, more.
In spite of what the Transylvanians believed, a wolf is no match for a
man, except under special conditions. A tiger can pull a man down--but
cannot fire back at the hunters. A seal is prey to the Eskimo.
So, "werewolves." Child of fear, of Watcher propaganda, and of
one-tenth fact. The animals were Insurgent chrysalids, right enough.
But, for an awake Insurgent to compete with a Watcher, the Insurgent,
too, had to be a man--or something like it.
The coffee had warmed up. He poured himself a fresh cup, and added
cream and sugar absently. The refrigerator was empty. He reached in and
turned it off. No more need for that, after tonight.
So, that was the power the Insurgents had. The only power, and the
Watchers had it, as well. They could resolve their chrysalids into any
form they chose--realign. A wolf could become a man--_without_ hair on
his palm, and _with_ garlic on his breath, if he so chose. A man--a
Watcher, of course--could become a wolf.
Thus, the final development. Espionage and counter-espionage.
Infiltration. Spying, if you chose.
The Insurgent smiled bitterly, and drained the cup. And propaganda, of
course. Subtle--most of it indirect, a good deal of it developed by
the chrysalids themselves, but propaganda, nevertheless. Kill the evil
ones--kill the eaters of dead flesh, the drinkers of blood. They are
the servants of the Evil One.
He almost retched.
But, you could hardly blame them. It was a war, and, in a war, you play
all your cards, even if some of them were forced into your hand.
_Yes, and I've played genuine werewolf on occasion, when I had to._
He started to wash the coffeepot and the cup--then, threw both into the
garbage can. He walked back to the radio and dialed it away from Eroica
and back to baseball. The Giants were losing, Three-Zero, in the third
inning.
The house phone buzzed. He went to it slowly, picked it calmly off the
hook.
"Yes, Artie?"
"Mister Disbrough, there's a couple of guys coming up to see you. I'm
not supposed to tell you about it, but.... Well, I figured ..." the
doorman said.
"All right. Thanks, Artie," he answered quietly. He almost hung up,
then thought of something. "Artie?"
"Yes, Mister Disbrough?"
"There'll be a couple of fifths of Dewar's in my cupboard. I won't be
back for a while. You and Pete are welcome to them. And thanks again."
He hung up and began to dress, realigning his chrysalis to give him the
appearance of clothing. The doorbell rang, and he went to open it for
the two men from the FBI.
II
What difference did it make, what particular pen he represented?
Rather, since the sober-faced men knew very well which pen it was, why
should it be so necessary to them for him to confirm what they already
knew without a shadow of a doubt?
"Now, then, Mister Disbrough," one of the FBI men said, leaning his
hands on the edge of the table at which the Insurgent was sitting, "we
know who sent you."
_Good. Why bother me, then?_
"We know where you got your passport, we know who met you at the dock,
we know your contacts. We have photographs of everyone you've met
and talked to, we have tapes of every telephone call you've made or
received. We also know that you are the top man in your organization
here."
_And?_ They were chrysalids, every one of them. Perhaps there was no
Watcher behind them--perhaps. But he'd been picked up a little too
quickly. The net had folded itself around him too soon. No--there had
to be a Watcher. He wished they'd stop this talking and bring him out.
"Now, I'd simply like to point out to you that this is an airtight
case. No lawyer in the world will be able to break it down. You'll
retain counsel, of course. But, I'd simply like to point out to you
that there'll be no point to any denial you may make to us. We _know_
what you've been doing. I'd suggest you save your defense for the
trial."
He looked up at him and smiled ruefully. "If you've got a list of
charges," he said, "I'll be glad to confess to all of them--provided,
of course, that it _is_ a complete list."
_I'm sure it doesn't list me as a werewolf_, he thought. _I wonder
what the sentence would be--death by firing squad equipped with silver
bullets?_
But, then, he wasn't going to confess to that, anyway.
"Um!" The FBI man looked suspicious. Obviously, he'd expected nothing
of the kind.
"No strings," the Insurgent reassured him. "The job's over, and it's
time to punch the clock."
Which was just about the way it was. But he wanted that Watcher. If he
was in the office at all, he'd almost have to come out to witness the
confession. After all, the Insurgent was supposed to be a pretty big
fish.
The FBI man went into a cubicle office set off to one side. When he
came out, carrying a sheaf of paper, the Watcher was with him.
The Insurgent felt the hackles standing up on the back of his neck,
and something rumbled inaudibly at the base of his throat. He knew.
He could tell. He could smell Watcher every step of the way, from the
day he had docked until now, when the scent--half there, half the pure
intuition of instinct--rose up before him in an over-powering wave.
Then he saw the look of distaste crawl across the Watcher's face, and
he barked a laugh that drew curious looks from the men in the office.
_Hello, brother._
He saw the bulge of the hip holster on the Watcher's belt, and laughed
again. _So, we play the game_, he thought. _We add up scores, and, in
the end, the side with the most points wins. Forget that there should
be no sides, that every point, no matter for whom scored, is a mark of
shame and disgrace._
He wondered, briefly, whether the Watcher was of his kind by choice,
or whether it was simply something that had happened, as it was with
him. Probably. Two separate heritages had met, represented by identical
individuals who happened to have awakened in dissimilar chrysalids.
_Will we remember?_ he wondered. _When we awaken, will we remember
this? How we battled, blinded, in the shadows of our own casting?_ Or
was there more mercy in Creation than they, themselves, had shown to
the chrysalids? He had three brothers among the sleepers. When they
woke, would they embrace, not remembering that each had killed the
other countless times? Or forgetting that they had stood together, on
some battlefield? Would all the old comrades, all the bitter enemies,
be wiped from memory? He hoped so. With every segment of his being, he
hoped so, for there was no peace, through eternity, if it was otherwise.
He stood up, lightly, tensing the muscles in his calves. The FBI men,
suddenly alert, began to move for him, but he'd maneuvered things so
that none of them were close enough to him.
The Watcher went pale.
"Shall I coalesce, brother?" the Insurgent asked, the words rumbling
out of his throat, a grin of derision baring his teeth.
"_No!_" The Watcher was completely frightened. Words could be explained
away, particularly if they sounded like nonsense to the other men in
the room. But a werewolf, fanging the throat of a Watcher who would
have to fight back with _his_ spectacular weapons.... Nothing in the
world could keep the rumors from spreading. The chrysalids might even
learn, finally and irrevocably, the origin of their species.
"Your obligation, brother," the Insurgent half-laughed, and kept
stalking toward the Watcher. _Perhaps he is my brother._
_And if he is...?_
No difference. The shadows are thick and very dark. One of the other
men shot him in the side, but he sprang for the Watcher, carefully
human, to hold the Watcher to his debt, and the Watcher shot him three
times in the chest, once in the throat, and once in the stomach.
The shape of a cross? Did he believe it himself? Was it true? A plus
sign, cancelling a negative force? Who knew? Shadow, shadow, all is
darkness.
He fell to his knees, coughing, in victory. Score one more for the
Insurgents, and a Watcher, at that!
"Thank you, brother," the Insurgent murmured, and fell into the long
sleep with a grateful sigh.
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