“Those mountains,” Cussick said, pointing up. “That’s a backdrop based on the Venusian scene?”
“Right.” Rafferty started briskly off. “We can go up there, if you want. They step around their mountains all the time.”
As the two men strode from rock to rock, Rafferty went on with his explanation.
“This Refuge is a school, as well as an environment. It’s designed to shape them, to equate them to a non-terrestrial milieu. When they go to Venus, they’ll be prepared—at least, as well as we can arrange. Probably some of them will die; they may very well be damaged by the change. After all, we can’t be infallible; we’ve done the best we can to imitate conditions there, but it’s not letter-perfect.”
“Wait,” Cussick interrupted. “They themselves—they’re not modeled after Venusian humanoid life-forms?”
“No,” Rafferty agreed. “They’re new creations, not imitations. The original human embryos were altered on the phenotype principle: we subjected them to non-terrestrial conditions—specifically, to a scale of stresses similar to those operating on Venus. The stresses were intricate; we had plenty of failures. As soon as the altered babies were born they were popped into V-type incubators: media again reproducing the Venusian pattern. In other words, we warped each embryo, and we continued to apply the stresses after the babies were born. As you realize, if human colonists land on Venus they won’t survive. Fedgov has tried that; it’s a matter of record. But if there were a few specific physical changes, it might be possible to keep a colony alive. If we could arrange graded steps, in-between stages, locks through which they could pass… acclimatization is what we wanted. Adaptation, actually. In time, we knew, the progeny would mutate in response to external pressures. Gradually, subsequent generations would be remolded along survival lines. Many would die but some would struggle along. Eventually we’d have a quasi-human species, not physically like ourselves, but, nonetheless, human beings. Altered men, fit to live on Venus.”
“I see,” Cussick said. “This is Fedgov’s solution.”
“Absolutely. We’ll never find the exact conditions we have here on Earth—no two planets are identical. Good God, we’re lucky to find Venus, a planet with our density, with gravity, moisture, warmth. Naturally, it’s a literal hell for you and me. But it doesn’t take much to turn heaven into hell—a rise in temperature of ten degrees, an increase of one percent humidity.” Kicking at a blue-black lichen creeping up the side of a flat rock, Rafferty continued: “We could have waited a thousand years, done it the long way. Fed human settlers in, one load after another, sent off countless ships, started a colony. People would have died like flies. They would have been miserable. Nature can afford it, but we can’t. Our people would have loathed it.”
“Yes,” Cussick agreed, “that’s already been shown.”
“Eventually, the results would have been the same. But would we have been willing to take the losses? I think we would have backed down. We don’t have thousands of years and millions of lives to give; we would have given up, pulled our colonies home. Because, in the final analysis, we don’t want to adapt to other planets: we want them to conform to us. Even if we found one second Earth it wouldn’t be enough. Here, in this project, we have the seed of a much greater future. If this works, if the Venus mutants survive, we can go on and perfect our techniques. Develop mutant colonies for various other planets, for more radical environments. Eventually, we can populate the universe—survive anywhere. If we succeed, we’ll have conquered totally. The human species will be indestructible. This Refuge, this closed enclave, and my work—all this looks artificial. But what I’ve done is try to speed up natural evolution. I’ve tried to systemize it, cut out the randomness, the waste, the aimlessness of it. Instead of sending Earthmen to Venus we’re going to send Venusians. When they get there, they won’t find an alien, hostile world; they’ll find their real world, the genuine world they’ve already known—as a model. They’ll find the ultimate realization of this cramped replica.”
“Do they know this?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Rafferty said, “it was essential they think nobody was responsible for their situation. If they had known we deliberately altered them, made them unfit to live on Earth, they would never have forgiven us. Over two decades in this Refuge—victims of a scientific experiment. They’ve always been told they’re natural mutants, war-time mutants, like the others. They were picked without their permission. They were involuntary subjects, and many of them died. You think they would ever have forgiven us, knowing we had done this to them?”
“But they’ll find out eventually.”
“They’ll find out when they reach Venus. Then, for all practical purposes, it doesn’t matter. Because we won’t be there; they’ll be on their own. Resentment will be absurd at that point. They’ll be glad of their alteration—good God, it’ll mean survival! On Venus you and I would be the freaks, incapable of survival. On Venus we would need Refuges.”
After a thoughtful moment, Cussick asked “When can I see these Venusians?”
“I’ll arrange it. Within a few days, certainly. All this turmoil has upset our routine, and they feel it, too. They’re as tense as we are.”
Twenty-four hours later, while he was involved in transferring his papers to San Francisco, Cussick saw the Venusian mutants for the first time.
At the bottom floor of the building Doctor Rafferty met him. It was two o’clock in the morning and the street was cold and foggy. “I called you because this is an excellent opportunity,” Rafferty said, guiding him toward the ascent ramp. “Our small friends get somewhat excited, once in awhile. They’ve decided they can lick any man in the house.”
After the Van had returned the half-conscious mutants to their Refuge, Cussick and Rafferty stood together on the fog-drenched sidewalk. The futility of the mutants’ struggle hung in the darkness; both men felt the oppressive nearness of defeat.
“Maybe you’re right about Jones,” Rafferty said finally. “Maybe he’s only human.” He got out his car keys and started toward his parked car. “But it’s like fighting the ocean. We’re going under, sinking every day. A civilization drowning in the deluge. The new flood.”
“The divine force,” Cussick said ironically.
“We can’t destroy Jones. We can only hope there’s something beyond him, something on the other side.” Rafferty opened his car door and got in. “You can dismantle the street-blocks if you want. But keep them handy.”
“I will,” Cussick said. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Rafferty said. The motor started, and the car drove off. Cussick was left alone. Chill tendrils of fog billowed around him: he shivered, realizing how it must have seemed to the four mutants. Frail little creatures with their hopes, their confused dreams, not knowing who or what they were… and outside their glass womb, waiting for them, the night and the gray marching shapes: the Jones Organization.
Cussick walked slowly along the dark sidewalk until he came to the first police barricade. “Okay,” he told the helmeted sergeant. “You can unscramble it now.”
The sergeant paid no attention to him; the squad of police were standing around their relay phones, listening fixedly to a closed-circuit audiocast.
Irritably, Cussick started to grab the officer by the shoulder. About that time he comprehended what he was hearing; he forgot the sergeant, Rafferty, the barricades, the Venusian mutants. Crouching down, he forced his way close to the speaker; rigidly, he listened.
“… the first stages of the attack brought into Security hands at least fifty percent of the criminal ringleaders. Throughout major metropolitan areas, weapons-teams are rounding up remaining policy-level personnel. The action is proceeding in orderly fashion… there is very little overt resistance. Reverend Floyd Jones himself has been reported wounded in a skirmish between his supporters and police units. A report from New York describes major street fighting between fanatical mobs and police tanks. All weapons-police in that area are ordered to report to their dispatch points; previous instructions are automatically cancelled. To repeat the original notification: the Supreme Council of the Federal World Government has declared the organization designated as Patriots United to be illegal, and all members of said organization are hereby classed as criminal elements. The enabling legislation instructs secret-service police to arrest on sight and turn over to Public Courts all members of the organization Patriots United, and all persons affiliated with subgroups such as the Youth Loyalty League, the Women’s…”
Cussick turned away, his body half-frozen with the night cold. He stamped his feet, blew on his hands, flapped his arms around him. So Pearson had gone into action. The Council had ratified his program: Jones and his organization were being rounded up, sentenced, and dispersed to various labor camps. Under Clause Two, probably, the statute giving Security the authority to arrest members of charismatic cults that threatened the free dissemination of the principles of Relativism. A deliberately vague clause, put on the books as catch-all legislation: to cover any and all situations not otherwise controlled.