Collected Short Fiction, page 317
“Well?” I said. “What’s wrong with that?”
THE round pale eyes of Zerek Oom looked reproachfully at the Earthman.
“Kel tapped his communicator again,” he told me. “Boasted that we had got away. And that you, Barihorn, the man who made Malgarth a million years ago, were with him. And sang that song of the last Earthman again, until the Admiral was blue in the face!”
I looked at Kel Aran.
“The Admiral must have been furious, about the reward,” I said. “He’ll hunt us harder than ever.”
That old reckless grin lit the Earthman’s face.
“He was,” he whispered happily. “And he will.” Then his gray eyes became very sober. “I was sorry to do it, Barihorn. For it put us back in danger. And makes the quest for Verel and the Stone more difficult.”
His yellow head shook gravely.
“But I could not let men believe that we were dead—for we are their only champions against the robots. And I wanted more of them to know of your miraculous return, Barihorn. We must keep hope alive, at whatever cost. Or men will yield to slavery and death, and our cause will be lost.”
“I see,” I told him. “And now what?” His jaw set grimly.
“Still,” he said, “we must search for Verel and the Stone. Malgarth fears you and the Stone, Barihorn—else he would be less anxious for our death. And we know that all the rebellion of mankind will be crushed, as surely as steel is stronger than flesh—unless we have the aid of the Stone.”
“But how can we continue the search,” I demanded somewhat apprehensively, “—now?”
Kel Aran grinned.
“We have a plan,” he told me.
And the Barihorn, I discovered had been rechristened the Chimerian Bird. Rogo Nug was already painting on the new name along with certain gaudy advertising legends and enough spots of rust to make the hull appear as if it had been in service almost as long as my old Astronaut. Jeron Roc showed me a luridly lettered poster:
SEE! Naralek’s SEE!
Supreme! Colossal! Unrivaled!
INTERSTELLAR SHOWS
SEE
The Weird Mermaid of Procyon II
THE LIQUID MAN OF MOG!
The Man-Eating Flowers of Koron
And SETSI the SANDBAT
ONLY EXISTING SILICIC BEING!
Her Food is Flint!
SHE READS YOUR MIND!
and
1,000,000 Wonders! 1,000,000
Most of the exhibits, I suspected, were pretty bald frauds—but that was in an excellent tradition that another Earthman named Barnum had established well over a million years before. The cunning handiwork of Rogo Nug was evident in the pickled mermaid, which looked remarkably like certain creations that I had seen of fish-tails and seaweed and coconut husk. I doubted that the flower, a stunted, rubbery-looking bush, had actually caught many men. The “liquid man of Mog” looked weird enough—a trembling mass of luminescent purple jelly; but I had seen Jeron Roc busy in the galley, shaping it out of chemical precipitates, a few wires, and a pocket torch.
In their years of stellar roving, however, the four had collected a good many genuine oddities. Setsi, the “sandbat,” was one of these—and perhaps the most remarkable being I had ever seen. Her bodily chemistry was in fact based upon silicon instead of carbon; she really ate quartz.
In shape, she was something like a six-pointed starfish, some eight or nine inches across. Her flat body had a gorgeous crystalline glitter of a thousand yellows, purples, reds, and greens. In the center, where the six slender arms joined, was a single huge eye, dark and sorrowful.
“Once,” Kel Aran told me, “after a raid on a particularly rich agency of the Corporation, when Malgarth’s iron police and the Galactic Guard were both hot on the trail, I was hiding out in a cavern on a cold dead planet that was lost from whatever sun once had warmed it.
“A regularity struck me, in the passages of the cave. I found fallen stones that once had been squared. And suddenly I knew that I was in the corridors of a colossal building whose upper stories must have crumbled down before the Earth was born. Groping about in the darkness, I saw a feeble gleam, and found—Setsi!”
I watched him dig the silicic being out of his locker. She looked frail and brittle as something blown out of bright-colored glass. I touched it, wonderingly, and pricked my finger on one of the needle-tipped arms.
“But it isn’t—” I protested, “alive!”
“She is,” Kel Aran assured me. “She’s older than the Earth was. The silicic beings didn’t reproduce. Only three of them appeared, when life was born on their planet. But they were immortal—practically.
“The three of them lived together, for billions of years. They dominated the far more numerous carbon-life, and came to rule the planet. But then there was some kind of triangular quarrel. I don’t know the details—Setsi never mentions it, unless she is very drunk. But there was jealousy. One killed another. And Setsi killed the survivor, out of revenge. And she has been alone for a long, long time.”
“Drunk?” I stared at the lean Earthman and the thing like a glass toy in his hand. Kel Aran nodded.
“Yes, Setsi shares a weakness of Zerek Oom. Her metabolism is stimulated vastly, but rather erratically, by the assimilation of any carbon compound. Gasoline would do, or sugar, but her favorite is alcohol—Watch!”
HE laid the bright rigid form on a table in the galley, and poured a few drops of rum into the palm of his hand, from Zerek Oom’s hoarded bottle.
“Setsi, old girl!” he called. “Want your grog?”
A brighter lustre lit the great dark eye. I saw a quick vibration of a thin transparent membrane that stretched between the crystalline arms. And a whirring voice answered him, softly melodious as the cooing of a dove:
“Oh, she does, Kel! Setsi dies for grog!”
He stretched out his hand, and the brilliant thing came to surprising life. The fluttering membranes extended. The creature leaped into the air. A dancing shimmer of color, it flew to Kel Aran, alighted on his hand, and sucked greedily at the rum with a mouth on its under side.
The few drops of alcohol affected it remarkably. It flew from Kel’s hand to the bottle, and clung there. Gently, the Earthman pulled the flask away.
“Setsi,” he reproved, “you mustn’t rob poor Zerek.” And he told me, “She’s one being who could make good on the old boast about drinking the contents and then eating the bottle.”
The bright entity fluttered to me, and clung with hard light little claws to my arm. The Cyclopean eye looked solemnly up into my face.
“So you are Barihorn?” The whirring voice brought me the first disconcerting revelation of that uncanny intuition. “We are very old together, you and I and the robot—“but you fear that you are not Barihorn, but only Barry Horn!” There was a queer liquid sound, oddly mirthlike. “Don’t you worry, Barry. Setsi’ll never tell!”
Unsteadily, then, she flew back to Kel Aran.
“Poor Kel!” she whirred. “He fears that Verel’s dead. That Verel’s dead, and we’ll never find the Stone. That Verel’s dead, and he’s the last Earthman, all alone. That Verel’s dead, and he has only Setsi to console him.”
There was a melodious sob.
“And poor old Setsi! She’s the last sandbat. She has nothing but her age and her memories. Her age is a prison and her memories bitterest poison. Now she’s all alone, for she killed the one who loved her. Please give her just one more drop of rum, Kel, so she can forget. Just one more drop. Please, oh, please!”
Kel Aran clutched her shimmering body in his hand.
“Hold on,” he muttered, “you old reprobate. We’ve got a job to do, Setsi. You’ve got to help us find Verel Erin.”
“Oh, Setsi’ll help you find her,” throbbed the melodious reply. “Setsi’ll surely find her. But you must be free with the rum, Kel. Setsi can’t live without rum.”
“Took you a cosmic time to find that out.” Turning from his stove, big Zerek Oom rather anxiously snatched the bottle and locked it in a cabinet. “But neither can I.”
The plan went ahead. Kel Aran became Naralek, the limping old showman from Alula Australis IX. His leathern space togs were bright with the shells and the plumes of foreign planets. He walked with a shuffling swagger, and blustered in the jargon of space. He chewed the goona-roon until it stained his lips and his unkempt yellow beard, and spat the purple juice with a reckless dexterity.
The little Chimerian Bird—her yellowed papers skillfully forged by Jeron Roc from a set Rogo Nug had stolen from a freighter-carried us from planet to planet. We always landed near some great city, and pitched a ragged tent. The voice of Zerek Oom, oiled with a little rum, could always draw a crowd of curious countrymen to see the wonders of space.
Rogo Nug, the wizened little spacerat, went about among the throngs, or sometimes slipped away on mysterious errands into city or barracks or space port. Usually he returned with valuable information about the plans of the Corporation and the Empire to crush mankind’s rebellion. And often the pockets of his battered harness were stuffed with money and jewels.
CAREFULLY unwashed, draped in a bit of spotted fur and armed with a crude stone axe, I was billed as “the ferocious last caveman, the Atavar of Mars.” My part, as I sat glowering and jangling my chain, was to listen for any chance mention of Mars’ murdered sister, Earth.
Jeron Roc listened, as he sold the tickets. Kel did, as he limped about to display the mermaid of Procyon and the liquid man and the anthropophagous flower and the Atavar.
Then Kel, in a cracked, aged voice, would sing his ballads of space. He would crack jokes—some of them, to my weary knowledge, old a million years ago. And at last, with Sets! spinning about his head like a colored flame, he would break into a dance routine.
After the show, then, while we were loading the other exhibits and striking the tent, Setsi read the minds of all who would pay to enter Kel’s little booth. And no thought of Earth escaped her.
In this way we searched planet after planet for any survivors of the mother world. And we found trace, indeed, of a few, perhaps a score in all, who had escaped when that strange agency of Malgarth’s flung the Earth into the Sun. Eagerly, patiently, we followed down each clue. And always we found that the robot police and the Galactic Guard had been before us. The survivor, in every case, had been tracked down—and had died as a traitor.
But none of the dead was certainly Verel Erin. In that lay the thin and thinning thread of hope.
That was a weary, bitter time. Those planets where actual revolt had flamed out were closed by quarantine. Not even our unsuspected circus ship could pass the fleets of the Galactic Guard. But, even on the happier planets we were allowed to visit, the lot of man was cruelly hard. The robots, everywhere, had seized all possible advantage. Men were being ruthlessly pressed into unemployment, starvation—annihilation.
“Malgarth is cunning,” said Kel Aran. “He begins slowly. He makes a test, to see if the Stone is still a threat. He tries to destroy all who might know of it—all Earthmen. Then he drives men to revolt, one planet at a time, here and there—and crushes them. He dupes the Emperor, and sends the Galactic Guard to put down the rebels. He would set man against man—until only two are left!”
And I knew that his hope was ebbing. Despair bit weary lines into his lean face, until there was need of little make-up to turn him into old Naralek. An increasing bitterness shadowed his eyes.
“There’s an old proverb,” he said, “about the futility of searching for a needle in a planet of pins. But that is easier than finding one fugitive lost in a hostile universe.”
“Who is probably,” put in the grave Saturnian, “already dead.”
After a long circuit of the stars, we had returned, under the very eyes of Admiral Gugon Kul, to the system of the Sun. A bitter civil war was raging on the four great moons of Jupiter, the unemployed miners there having attacked the robots when relief was cut off. We were unable to penetrate the quarantine. And Mercury was now uninhabited by men, every human being having been slaughtered when the rebellion there was crushed. We landed upon each of the remaining planets, however. We crossed the trails of a dozen fugitives from Earth—and found that each trail had already ended in death.
Hope came, at last, when it had been abandoned.
The base of the Twelfth Sector Fleet in the solar system had been established on Oberon, outermost moon of Uranus. “Naralek” got permission to land and pitch his ragged little tent beside the vast space port that was covered with the mile-long gray masses of interstellar cruisers as far as the eye could follow its convexity.
KEL gave passes to some officer in return for permission to show. The genuine feats of Setsi in perceiving secret thoughts drew attention. Other officers came. And at last, escorted by a hundred trim guardsmen in yellow-and-crimson, Gugon Kul himself.
The gigantic swart space-commander stopped the show with a bellowed oath, and demanded an instant demonstration of the sandbat’s telepathic powers. That was forthcoming. Kel let the Admiral into his little booth, and the soft voice of Sets! began to comment on fantastic gambling at the court on Ledros, on misappropriated funds of the fleet, on bribes accepted from Malgarth for a promise to turn the entire fleet over to the Corporation.
The Admiral turned very purple, and stalked out of the booth. He returned hastily to his flagship; and his guardsmen came back to seize the Chimerian Bird and arrest us all, on suspicion of espionage.
They were one minute too late. Their disruptor-guns flamed in vain against the departing hull of our craft. For Setsi, the instant of Gugon Kel’s departure, had warbled out a warning, and then the clue we had sought so long.
“Banger, Kel! Oh, there’s danger, and a dancer. Tedron Du has a dancer. Kel, we’re all in danger!” That liquid, throbbing chuckle. “For Setsi told too many secrets of the Admiral. But the Emperor on Ledros has a new dancing girl. And she’s in danger, too. For her name is Verel Erin!”
VIII
ROBOT SIMULACRUM
ALARM rocked the space port behind us. Great cruisers lifted ponderously from their cradles. And a thousand little gray patrol boats, fleet as our own tiny ship, rocketed into pursuit.
“We’re lost!” I gasped.
And tall dark Jeron, standing gravely at the controls, shook his head.
“This time,” he said heavily, “we won’t get away. For already they are close upon us. Our rust-colored hull is easy to see. And they’re already racing to get between us and the cosmic cloud—Kel can’t pull that again!”
“Don’t need to.”
The Earthman still wore the grimed, gaudy togs of old Naralek. The brilliant patch of the sandbat was still plastered to his shoulder like some diamond-winged, colossal moth. But his lean body stood very straight, and his gray eyes flashed with a fighting glint.
The swarm of red stars—the flaring repulsors that drove our pursuers—grew and spread. A flight of them swept up beside us. Deadly blue needles began to probe for us. And Kel Aran turned gravely from the danger without, to the telescreen cabinet.
“—spies!” It was the boom of Gugon Kul. “Enemies of the Corporation and the Empire! They must be taken.”
Something clicked.
“Hold on. Admiral!” The voice of Kel Aran had the cracked nasal twang of the old showman of space. “Remember what Setsi told you, in the booth?”
The reply was an incoherent bellow.
“I do, by the Emperor!” It became at last comprehensible. “And it proves that your circus is a ring of spies!”
“Perhaps,” rapped Kel Aran. “But it proves that you are something worse. We know ten times more than Setsi told you. Do you remember the game on Ledros, when you played three ships of your command against a slave-girl, and lost them to Malgarth? Do you remember how you got the funds you paid for the five Moons of Haari? Do you remember—”
He was interrupted by a choking roar.
“If you don’t like to be reminded, Admiral,” the Earthman cut in again, “call off your ships. Otherwise, we’ll tell all your fleet why the stores are rotten! And why the pay was cut!”
The sandbat fluttered on his shoulder, like a mist of diamond light.
“Oh, Admiral, beware!” caroled the silicon being. “Setsi’ll tell! Oh, oh, Admiral, what a world Setsi’ll tell. For Setsi knows! Setsi knows about the secret cabin in your ship, and those you imprison there, and the deadly drug ixili!”
“Eh?” rapped Kel Aran, into the stark silence. “Shall we broadcast, Admiral?”
And the sandbat, clinging like a gem-sewn patch to his shoulder, made a mockingly melodious chuckle.
A long silence, while I could hear the Admiral’s gasping breath.
“All right,” said Kel Aran. And his fingers touched the controls of the screen.
“No, don’t broadcast!” It was a hoarse, whispered gasp. “I’ll call back the fleet. And we must make a rendezvous—for I will reward you.”
“Very well,” and Kel Aran grinned. “You’ll meet me?” gasped the Admiral. “Where? When?”
“On black Mystoon,” rang the reckless voice of Kel Aran. “On the night that Malgarth dies!”
There was a pause, a dread in the voice that answered.
“Mystoon? But Mystoon is forbidden to all save the robots; its very location is unknown, even, to men. How can we meet there? And don’t you know that Malgarth can never die?”
“I’ll find a way,” the Earthman promised him. “And I don’t know.” Something clicked, and he turned lightly away from the screen. His lean face was bright with anticipation. Softly, he was humming the chorus of his song of Verel Erin, that ended, “—till I find her or I die.”
“And now,” he told us joyously, “we’ve found her!”
THE red pursuing stars halted, indeed, and turned back, as Gugon Kul had promised. But Jeron, as he set our little ship on her new course toward the capital system of the Galactic Empire, shook a grave dark head.
“Malgarth will hear of this in time,” he prophesied. “And he’s quicker than our crafty Admiral. He’ll be quick enough to see that this limping showman is the Falcon of Earth, still seeking the Stone—and he’ll be quick enough to set a trap!”
