Collected Short Fiction, page 692
“Eyejack!” He fired a short burst upward, at the island’s crystal wall. “Cut the light!” he screamed through the slam and howl of his ricocheting bullets. “Take me through. I won’t hurt anybody—unless you stop the float.”
Crouching, he swept the shrieking passengers with the muzzle of the gun. The searchlights went out. The float lurched ahead. The eye swelled, till it was half the world. Men and women ahead toppled into the hueless nothingness around the iris. He would be next. “Keep it rolling!” he screamed at the island. “Take me through—”
The rifle tore itself out of his hands to vanish into that flickering blankness, drawn by some savage force he could not see. Desperately, he plunged to follow it. Something smashed him back, as if he had struck an invisible wall.
Something hurled him off the float, crushed him to the floor. The searchlights blazed again. He was groping for his dagger, but heavy boots came thudding down around him. A gas gun thumped. He caught one bitter whiff, and the blinding lights dimmed again.
He lay sprawled on a wet metal floor, too numb at first to move. He was bruised, naked, drenched. His chest felt raw where the gas had burned him. When he moved his throbbing head, he struck a steel cell wall. Dagger and money and clothing were gone, even his translator. He sat hunched and shivering on the edge of the bare metal bunk, waiting miserably for anything to happen.
“Wake up, lad.” A big paunchy black in the blue kilt of the Sky clan rattled the bars and hailed him in his own dialect. “So you’re the rascal who stabbed the Stalker and tried to eyejack your way off the world?”
The boy nodded dully.
“Idiot!” The scolding tone was oddly mixed with kindness. “You never had a chance. I guess you got closer than most, but the operators can work those ring-fields like their own hands. I hear they grabbed your gun with a magnetic vector and tossed you back to the eye-guard gang.”
“They got me.”
“I see you’ve had a working over—but don’t blame me. I just came on. I’ll get you a towel and something to wear. Wait right here.”
Chuckling heartily, he vanished and came back with the towel and a tattered black kilt.
“I saw you in the arena.” He held the kilt while the boy dried himself. “Lost ten gongs on you—but don’t mind that. I like the cool way you played that tly. I think you earned the title fair enough. I guess old Stalker stung us both.”
“I killed him, anyhow.” The boy grinned with a brief satisfaction. “But they’ve got—got me.” Something like a sob caught his voice. “What will they do with me now?”
“Nothing good.” The guard clucked with sympathy. “The eyejack by itself would probably get you a free trip to the world they call Abaddon Nine. But the Stalker’s fans won’t let you get off alive. A mob of them is marching on the municipal tower. They want you hunted.”
“That’s their old tribal law.”
The boy nodded bleakly. “Stalker was a hunter himself.”
When the guard was gone, the boy sat trying not to think about the grinning heads he had seen in the Stalker’s trophy cases and arranged with tly’s eggs on his mantel. He reviewed his eyejack attempt, trying to pick out his blunder, but he could see no blunder. He simply hadn’t known how the ring-fields could be used to disarm a man and toss him to the cops.
“Come along, boy!” That cheery shout broke into his dismal abstraction. “Good news! Maybe a chance to save your head. An agent of the Benefactors wants to talk to you.”
“The Benefactors?” He sprang upright and sat heavily back, resolving not to hope too much. “What’s a Benefactor?”
“You’ll find out.” The guard returned his translator, squinted sharply at him, nodded in bland approval. “I think you’ll do. Just speak fair to the agent. If you please him, he can take you through the eye to a better place than Abaddon Nine. Now come along.”
Two levels up, the guard let him into a bright, quiet room where two others waited.
“No Name!” Sapphire ran to greet him with a hot wet kiss. She led him to meet her companion, a pale outsider with a puffy face and glassy eyes. “My friend Wheeler.”
The other-worlder gave him a sullen stare.
“Don’t mind Wheeler.” The girl made a face. “Of course he blames you for his own arrest. But we’re all three in this together—and we can all get out together, if we can only play the Benefactor’s game.”
“I think I’ve played too many games.” The boy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stepped back from the hostile other-worlder. “What are Benefactors?”
“Friends of humanity, they say.” Wheeler spoke in a raspy whisper. “No friends of mine.”
“Play along.” The girl glanced at the farther door and dropped her urgent voice. “Both of you. Promise to befriend the human race, if that’s what the agent wants. Let him get us off Nggongga—before these black hunters take our heads. We can walk out later—”
Wheeler hissed softly to stop her. The farther door slid open. Two uniformed blacks stalked through, gas guns ready. A pale, worried portal official appeared behind them, the blue eye-symbol staring from his silver tunic. He scowled at the prisoners, called the policeman sharply out.
A tall man walked in alone. Wheeler flinched away from him, with a startled grunt. Sapphire gasped. The boy blinked and stared, trying to resolve his confused emotions of dread and wonder and even delight.
Standing very straight in a queer, close-cut uniform of some blood-red stuff, with a black weapon-shape at his belt, the stranger looked severely stern, till he smiled at the three. With the snowy hair flowing to his shoulders and the lines around his penetrating eyes, he looked old, until the boy saw the firmness of his deep-tanned flesh and his youthful ease of motion. His quiet voice carried invincible authority, somehow mixed with appealing warmth.
“Call me Thornwall.” He paused to greet each of the three with a searching look and an oddly casual nod. The boy shrank a little from the blue directness of his eyes. The girl darted impulsively toward him, but Wheeler snatched her back.
“Sit, please.” He waved them toward the chairs. “Before you speak, you should know that I’m here as an agent of the Fellowship of Benefactors. We’ve arranged this meeting to discuss the possibility that you might join us.”
“We’re ready, sir!” the girl cried. “You’ll find us willing—”
“Not yet!” Wheeler rasped. “Let’s hear the conditions.”
“We’ve time enough.” He leaned against the desk, smiling easily. “First of all, you should understand your difficult legal situation.” Sterner than the smile, his blue stare probed them, one by one. “Here in Nggonggamba, you are subject to a triple jurisdiction. The portal complex has laws of its own, in force on many planets, recognized here by both the city and the adjacent clandoms. The city has its own legal authority, created by the treaty of entry. Under the same agreement, the aboriginal clans retain certain paramount rights, to which city and eye must yield.”
The boy waited blankly for meaning to emerge. The words were a frightening jangle, yet he wanted to trust the voice that spoke them. Wheeler sat staring glassily when he looked at the others, and Sapphire was wetting her full red lips!
“Each of you is charged with grave offenses against all three jurisdictions.” Thornwall’s young face was warm and brown and casual, yet his old eyes froze the boy. “Yours include the killing of a treaty clansman, not yet avenged, armed robbery and transportation of stolen property within the municipal limits, and numerous violations of the portal code, even space piracy.”
The boy gulped. “Guilty, sir.”
“We’re not concerned with guilt.” A lean red arm waved his words aside. “Only with the truth.”
The boy sat uneasily back, and Thornwall turned to the girl.
“My name-symbol is Sapphire.” Very pale, she stood up as if somehow lifted by his pointing finger. “I was with Stalker when he was killed. I was caught at the portal with part of his stolen money.”
“I believe you’re also involved with him.”
The finger moved on to the puffy man, who sat in stubborn silence.
“You face a long list of charges, Wheeler. You are accused of misusing the portal on many occasions, to ship illicit drugs, to dispose of stolen property, to avoid arrest. Here on Nggongga, the clans and the city officials suspect you of controlling a dope ring, adulterating perfumes and counterfeiting containers, even of fixing the tly-binding contest that led to this boy’s arrest.”
“No comment,” Wheeler rasped. “My lawyers will speak for me.”
“You have no lawyer here.” Thornwall shrugged. “If you wish to petition for fellowship, you’ll have to speak for yourself.”
“No comment—”
“Don’t be a lunatic!” the girl flared at him. “The Wind clan will get us all, if the Benefactors don’t decide to save us. The clans don’t like other-worlder lawyers, and you know how their law works. They’ll turn us loose in some salt sink, naked in the sun and five hundred miles from water. They’ll hunt us down with trained tlys and man-guns—and mount our heads for trophies!” She glanced at Thornwall and sank back into her chair. “Sorry, sir.”
“I’m afraid that’s an accurate statement of your situation.” The tall man nodded with an unconcerned emphasis. “Under the treaty agreement, the portal municipal authorities will be compelled to release you to the jurisdiction of the clan.”
“But you can save us?” The girl’s green eyes searched him desperately. “You will save us?”
“That same treaty does grant the Benefactors a superior jurisdiction,” Thornwall said. “But only over our own people. We are not yet ready to offer membership to any one of you. Perhaps some of you are not yet ready to accept. I want to explain what we are. Any invitation to join our fellowship will depend on your own responses.”
4.
Old Champ was guiding a new tourist group into the perfumers’ quarter when the rollway stopped, the street blocked ahead by a mass of chanting blacks in dun-colored hats and kilts. Most of his flock clustered uneasily around his lifted crutch, but a bold few ran ahead to multiplex the scene. One pale gangling youth picked up the chant in his translator:
“Kill! . . . Kill the killers! . . . Kill! . . .”
That brought the strays scurrying back, and he led the apprehensive group to a quiet concourse on the level below.
“Respected guests, you’re in no danger.” He waved the yellow crutch to collect the stragglers. “What you glimpsed is a unique survival of our native culture. One of our folkways not yet destroyed by the invasion of civilization.”
He helped a flushed, perspiring woman turn on her cooler-cloak.
“No, sir, that’s no mob.” His mellow voice rose again. “Those are Wind clan people, demanding ritual justice. A clan Ngugong has been murdered. The people are simply asserting their right to punish the killers—a right guaranteed by both the city and the portal.”
He hopped to hear some muttered protest.
“Madam, that’s our law. Accused criminals are released out toward the center of our traditional hunting lands. Their accusers are permitted to pursue them to the death . . .
“Never, sir!” He banged the pavement for emphasis. “Our sacred hunts never endanger the innocent. We Nggonggans don’t bring false charges, sir. If an innocent person should ever be accused, the holy hunters promise that our ancient deity would save him. Nggong-Nggongga would guide him to a temple of refuge only nine days away across the hallowed lands.”
He held his hat behind his ear to catch a voice.
“Yes, madam? . . . Most certainly. Any of you can arrange to witness our ritual of justice. In fact, our Golden Desert Safari allows full participation. Competent bush guides escort our desert tours, with weapons and all equipment provided by Universal Travel. . . .
“Legal? Of course it’s legal. The holy hunts are sanctioned under the treaty of entry. The safari fee covers your special initiation into the Wind clan, and several of our field guides are visiting anthropology students who can help preserve and mount your trophies. . . .
“Yes, madam. By all means. We guarantee a kill. . . .You’ll be living in the open, quartered in a flying camper, but there’s no actual danger. Our people are competent, and the accused are given no arms. You can trust us, madam. Universal Travel has never lost a hunter!”
Sunk in a sullen apathy, Wheeler had been fingering his puffy jaw. Suddenly he cleared his throat and sat up straighten. From the faint sour reek of his breath, the boy knew that he had been triggering a stimulant implant under his skin.
“We’re listening.” His lax gray flesh had flushed, and his hoarse voice rose stronger. “We’re interested in anything that will get us off Nggongga.”
“That depends on you.” Blue as the iris of the portal itself, Thornwall’s eyes roved slowly over them, dwelling warmly on the boy, resting sadly on the girl, keenly probing Wheeler. “I must tell you about our fellowship.
“To begin with our reason for being, I suppose you are all aware that the human race has not yet reached any very lofty cultural level. A philosopher might say that technology has outrun ethics. We invent the transflection portals—then let them import crime and pain into such worlds as Nggongga.”
Wheeler stirred angrily, and the girl hissed at him.
“I get your point.” Thornwall tossed his long hair back. “We humans aren’t ready for utopia. We aren’t all alike. We’re still more animal than mechanical. We need excitement and uncertainty, perhaps even violence. Even what we have is no doubt better than any static ideal state.”
His eyes ranged over them again.
“From my survey of your separate cases, I know that you are all individualists, all in conflict with society. You need not conceal your hostilities from us—nor even past behavior classified as criminal. In fact, social independence can help qualify you for our fellowship.”
Wheeler sniffed and stiffened.
“I don’t mean that we’re outlaws.” The blue eyes stabbed at him. “If admitted, you’ll be retrained—at one of our schools on some other planet. You will be required to obey our code. You’ll find that strict. We aren’t criminals.”
He had seen the boy’s protesting gesture.
“I know you dislike government. But we are not a government. We don’t try to be. There has always been too much government. What is sometimes called the empire of man has now become too vast and too various to be governed at all, by any central authority.”
“If you have no power—” Wheeler squinted at him shrewdly. “How can you save us from the clansmen?”
“We do have authority,” Thornwall said. “But only what is granted to us freely, in fair exchange. We are committed not to use it to coerce anybody. I am here on Nggongga because we happen to agree with the portal people. We regard the portals as a way to continued human progress, and local portal officials often need our aid. We work together. If the clans should order us to go, the eye would be closed.”
“That’s what I understood.” Wheeler raised his raspy voice as if he had scored a point. “So what do you do with this curious authority?”
“We defend individuals.” Thornwall’s brown smile warmed the boy. “From other individuals. From unjust societies. We support a code of individual rights. A right to learn. A right to choose. A right to act.”
“So you spread anarchy?”
“An ideal anarchy, perhaps.” He gave Wheeler a quizzical nod. “An individual who learns his own rights also learns the rights of others. When he is allowed a liberated choice, he commonly chooses humane paths of action.”
“Noble noises,” Wheeler snorted. “But I don’t see the payoff. Where do you collect?”
Thornwall tossed his white hair back with a puzzled gesture.
“We don’t collect taxes, if that’s what you mean. We don’t sell protection. What we offer is a way of life. You may fail to understand, but most of our fellows do feel adequately rewarded, simply with the way we serve mankind. We sometimes call ourselves the humanistic volunteers.”
The boy sat tense with a troubled alertness, watching Thornwall the way he had once watched a tly’s egg hatch. Even in his translator, the words rang strange. The swirl of ideas was hard to grasp. Yet, for all his confusion, the youth and strength and warm good will of Thornwall drew him, like sweet water in the great salt waste.
“We’re a volunteer legion of progress.” The red-clad frame leaned toward the boy, and the soft voice spoke to him alone. “We believe in man’s great future. Armed with science—the weapon of reason—we champion the human cause. Sometimes we fight a hostile cosmos. Sometimes man’s own backward nature. Often a fossil society, no longer alive—”
“Magnificent!” Sapphire was on her feet, flushed and eager. “I pledge—pledge my life to that ideal. I volunteer. I think we all do.” She swung urgently back to Wheeler and the boy. “Don’t we?”
“I want to keep my head,” Wheeler muttered stolidly. “I’ll go along.”
The boy saw the girl’s quick green wink, but still he hesitated. He felt her flash of puzzled anger, found Thornwall surveying him sharply. He was suddenly trembling, the way he had trembled in the hot arena while he waited for his tly.
“Young man—” Thornwall spoke very gently. “How do you feel?”
“Sir—” The word came strangely, and he had to get his breath. “I’ve never belonged to anything. I see that you mean well, but I’m afraid your fellowship is not for me. I don’t like to take orders. Not from anybody. I think I’ll take my chance with the hunters in the desert. I know how to deal with them.”
“Simpleton!” the girl hissed at him. “You’ll be killed.” She caught Wheeler’s arm and whirled back to Thornwall. “We two will go. We’ll agree to anything you require—”
Her breathless voice faded when she saw him still looking at the boy.
“I see that you don’t quite understand the Benefactors,” he was saying. “We don’t require you to take orders—or to give them. We hold that nobody belongs to any society he didn’t join or doesn’t accept. You may leave us when or if you please. We don’t compel anybody.”
