Collected Short Fiction, page 22
He looked up.
“Think of the market!” he said. “Billions of Sirians and other races, scattered all over the galaxy!”
“If they like it,” Pete said gloomily. “And if they can’t duplicate it.”
Gil grinned.
“They will and they can’t. Pack them for me, boys. And pack them gently.”
THE shop was as dirty and silent as before. But this time Gil was not impatient or nervous or conscience-stricken. He had approached the hardware store boldly, and now he stood boldly and called for the proprietor.
The pungent odor grew stronger, and the curtains parted. As the Sirian peered out, it might have been a repetition of the scene of the previous evening.
“Yes?” he said.
He stared cautiously around.
“Did you wish something else? I have a—”
“On the contrary,” Gil said. “I wish to sell something to you.”
“Indeed,” the Sirian said noncommittally.
The room was dark. The twilight had just ended and the lights had not yet been turned on. Gil carefully brought a globe out of the bag he carried and placed it on the counter. The Sirian approached and stared down at it curiously.
Gil placed his palm on the top of the globe and then lifted it. The globe grew black. It was a swirling blackness that became shot through with colors as strains of music began to sound in the store. The music was clear and unfiltered, a masterpiece of symphony. And each melody was matched in the globe by a pattern of light that sent oddly-colored shadows swooping around the room.
Gradually the music and the colors died away, leaving the globe again black and featureless.
“Is that all?” the Sirian asked, glancing up from the intentness with which he had watched the globe.
“Look,” Gil commanded, pointing a finger toward the globe.
The darkness was lifting and the music began again, softer this time. Within the globe forms were taking shape. There was a stage, and the darkness, lifting, was like a curtain. Upon the stage, in dazzling dress, there was an actor, a tiny mannikin strutting upon a tiny stage. The actor grew larger in the globe, until his expression was clear.
Then he began to speak in clear and rounded tones that filled the room.
Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life . . .
The play continued in dazzling spectacle and stirring speech backed by faint music that heightened every emotion and made every sense more acute. The Sirian was entranced, enraptured by the performance.
Finally Gil smiled and passed his hand above the globe.
The scene went blank and the globe once more was clear. The Sirian looked up and blinked.
“How much?” he asked.
“One thousand dollars,” Gil said calmly.
The Sirian fluttered his multiple eyelids, turned, and went into the back room. He returned with a hand full of money. Slowly, carefully, he counted it out.
Gil scooped it up and shoved it into his pocket.
“It is mine,” the Sirian said.
Gil nodded. As he turned to leave, he saw the Sirian getting out several of the glowing, plastic, Sirian tools.
When Gil reached the door he heard behind him a satisfying tinkle. He turned back.
The Sirian was staring in dismay at a hopelessly-mixed pool of fluid and molten crystal and metal. Gil approached and brought the second globe carefully from the bag.
“Oh,” said the Sirian in surprise. “Is it guaranteed?”
“That will be one thousand dollars,” Gil said pleasantly and smiled. “It’s guaranteed, all right—guaranteed breakable.”
Mask of Peace
A dream would be betrayed, but Carla knew that this was better than permitting the dream to fulfill itself into nightmare reality!
Peace seemed an impossible unreality in the turbulent ninth century of the post-imperial era; the galaxy was broken into a hundred warring segments under greedy, ambitious tyrants, until the revitalized League of Peace, under the magnetic leadership of Eldred Carla, promised to bring the three major rulers into an agreement to maintain present boundaries and prevent further warfare by force of arms . . .” Milton George, Galactic History, v. 6, p. 297.
l
There’s a difference between “peace” and
“peace at any price”; graves are “peace-
ful”, too!
l
WITH ONE last fiery sigh, the space ship settled to the surface of the small space port. The port was not particularly busy at that time of evening, but the ship was only a two-seater, dark and insignificant; nobody paid much attention to it, or to the pilot who made his way into the port waiting room. He was clad in a long dark cape and a dark hat which shadowed his face. The pilot paid his bill in advance and started toward the door into the street.
“Mr. Carla!”
The pilot’s step hesitated, and his lean dark face slowly turned to fix the doorman on the gaze of two intense black eyes.
“We hadn’t heard you were on Flora, sir. I mean, I didn’t know that you. . . .”
“No?” The pilot’s face was noncommittal.
“Peace go with you, Mr. Carla,” the doorman said fervently, making a small gesture with his fingers. “We all know what you’re trying to do; we’re all praying for you.”
Carla repeated the gesture, and a slow smile exposed two even rows of white teeth. “Peace go with you, friend. What is your name?”
A fleeting expression across the doorman’s face was hidden by the shadows. “Davis, sir. Robert Davis.”
“You haven’t been attending the meetings regularly, have you, Davis?”
“No, sir,” the doorman said hastily. “My wife has been ill. There has been no one to stay with her. Otherwise . . .”
“Peace, Davis; such things cannot be helped. But the League needs faithful members. See that you return to full participation as soon as possible. Meanwhile, remember that my visit here is secret; I rely upon your secrecy.”
“You can, Mr. Carla.”
“Peace go with you, Davis.” Carla turned and strode away down the dark, silent street.
Flora, Carla mused, the minor planet of an insignificant sun, few exports, little natural wealth, small tactical position lying near the outskirts of the galaxy.
“Flower planet,” he chuckled, eyeing the dingy shabbiness of the warehouse district, for Carla prided himself on his knowledge of etymology and tried to keep abreast of the latest cultural discoveries or deductions from the tumbled ruins of the mother planet.
No temptation to conquest here, he thought, but a place where history might be shape d—secretly. The thought was amusing. Little, independent Flora, the birthplace of history! The thought that he might assist at the birth was even more amusing. Poor Flora was pregnant and didn’t suspect anything. Or, on the other hand, maybe it was a false alarm; there had been several such lately.
A familiar prickling of the scalp warned him. A quick, twisting turn saved him from serious injury as a knife blade whispered through the cloth of his cape, part of his upper arm, and out through the cape again. That arm, wounded though it was, made a smooth, swift motion to his hip as a brawny, cloth-covered arm came around his throat. His arm continued its arc, and Carla heard a pained grunt as his own knife blade plunged into a soft belly.
THE ARM RELAXED AND Carla’s leg followed the twisting of his body to land in the groin of the knife wielder who had struck the first blow. The man doubled up and slowly knelt down on the pavement, groaning. Now Carla’s left hand was filled and as a third assailant closed in, a low cough came from the pellet gun in his hand. A scuffling sound came from farther down the street. Carla turned to see one of the crew running, bent over, both hands clutched to his belly. He chanced a shot, but the range was too great and the pellet made a small flare against the side of a building and fell smoking to the walk.
Carla turned to survey the field. The one who had taken the pellet was dying, his limbs jerking in agony. The first was slowly, painfully trying to crawl away. Carla caught him up by the collar, thrusting him against the smoky side of a warehouse. “Who sent you?”
The man shook his head weakly. Carla slapped him across the face, hard. “Who sent you?” he repeated savagely. “Who paid you? Who pointed me out?”
“Nobody,” the man got out. “Nobody. I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“You’re lying!”
“Naw,” the man said hysterically. “We’re just a gang; just the three of us. Thought you looked easy. Thought you might have money.”
“Know what this is?” Carla showed him the gun.
The man’s eyes widened. “Yeah. A pellet gun. Yuh got Jackie with it. Yuh ain’t gonna shoot me, Mister! I’m tellin’ yuh straight.”
“Who sent you?” Carla raised the gun slowly.
“Nobody, I’m tellin’ yuh,” the man screamed. “Whadda yuh want me to say? I’ll say anything yuh want. Gimme the knife if yuh want to, but don’t put a pellet in me! The Assassins! That’s what. The Assassins sent me.”
“You’re lying!”
“I told yuh, mister. I’ll say anything yuh want; who do yuh want me to say?”
Carla slowly shook his head. He didn’t have the time to waste. He reached inside his cape and drew out a small needle. As the man tried to scuttle away, Carla scratched his hand lightly. In a few feet the fellow collapsed. That should keep him quiet for long enough.
Hastily Carla stripped his arm. It was only a flesh wound, but the knife might have been poisoned. He uncorked a small vial and poured a few drops into the wound and a few more onto his tongue. He wrapped up the wound, brushing the tears from his eyes, and resumed his coat and cape. He turned slowly to find two beady eyes gazing at him from the gnarled, wrinkled face of an old crone.
“He he he,” she cackled. “You killed this man and that man,” she pointed. “But you missed the fat one; he ran away.”
“Who cares?” Carla’s voice was low and casual.
“Not me,” she giggled. “But the men who clean up the streets won’t like it; it’s such a bother for them, They’re always complaining about it.”
“I’m glad you were amused.”
“More fun than I’ve had in ages, sonny,” she said. “Very neat, too, I will say, who have seen my share.”
“I’m glad,” Carla said, as he walked away toward the distant lights of the business section.
“But, mister,” the old woman called after him, “you shouldn’t have let the fat one get away!”
THE LIGHTS OF THE business district were blinding after the darkness of the deserted factory and warehouse area; every building was a fountain of vari-colored lights, inviting, soliciting, compelling. Soothing melodies and rythmic dissonances wavered through the air in eartingling intensty. Perfume and stench assailed the nostrils. It was that cosmopolitan mingling of the highest and lowest elements of life which was the criterion of the era.
Carla brushed shoulders in the crowded streets with gorgeous dandies with their curled plumes and hair, their glittering clothes and adornments, their mincing steps. Then even more brilliant female counterparts were dressed over-abundantly in places—in others exposed beyond the call of even a lascivious fashion, laughing coyly, talking boldly, glancing wantonly. There tough, battle-hardened, scarred professional soldiers, armed, belligerent, pleasure-seeking, free-handed and suspicious, ready for any encounter, male or female, brushing the expostulating dandies from their paths, taking their not-unwilling feminine companions with a flourish. And beggars, ragged, snarling, whining bundles of superannuated humanity, limping, creeping, crawling. They all gave way for the silent, dark-robed Carla, leaving a swirling, uncertain, quieted whirlpool behind.
The huge, three-dimensional viewer loomed ahead atop a low, dark, flat-topped building. The crystal walls now enclosed a brilliant symphony of swirling light, casting weird colors on the faces and figures of the passing throng, transforming them into unreal shadows of an unwordly reality. The masses passed unmoved, but Carla paused and leaned back against a scarlet wall.
The symphony of color faded, to be replaced by large block letters:
WAR
Other letters formed below:
THE ARCTUREAN FLEETS HAVE BEEN BEATEN BACK IN THEIR ASSAULT ON THE OUTER FORTRESSES OF SIRIUS IN AN INCONCLUSIVE BATTLE WHICH SAW LITTLE DAMAGE DONE ON EITHER SIDE.
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE GALAXY UNEASY PEACE RULES IS A RESULT OF THE STALEMATE WHICH OCCURRED WHEN THE TWO LARGEST FLEETS ANNIHILATED EACH OTHER IN THE MOST INTERESTING SERIES OF MANEUVERS SINCE THE FINAL DEFEAT OF THE BARBARIAN HORDES, LEAVING THE TWO PRINCIPAL RULERS WITHOUT MEANS OF ATTACK. ANALYSTS EXPECT NEIGHBORING SYSTEMS TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THE SITUATION WITHIN THE NEXT SEVENTY-TWO HOURS.
The letters faded into two battle scenes in vivid three-dimensional reality, one showing the attack on the fortresses of Sirius, and the other the maneuvering and complete destruction of two fleets.
Again the letters formed:
PEACE
This was followed by:
ARE STILL FLYING WILDLY ABOUT A POSSIBLE MEETING BETWEEN SEVERAL OF THE PRINCIPAL RULERS IN THE GALAXY AND ELDRED CARLA, HEAD OF THE LEAGUE OF PEACE, TO ESTABLISH AN INVINCIBLE ALLIANCE FOR THE PREVENTION OF WAR. REPORTS VARY TO THE TIME AND PLACE OF THE MEETING AND EVEN THE NUMBER AND PERSONAGES OF THE HEADS OF STATE. ONE OF THEM CERTAINLY WILL BE THE RULER OF THE SIRIAN EMPIRE, GORDON III. NONE OF THESE RUMORS HAS BEEN VERIFIED, AND THEY MAY BE MERELY A SMOKE SCREEN FOR OTHER ACTIVITIES IN ANY CASE THE ATTITUDE OF THE GALAXY’S CITIZENS, OTHER THAN THE MEMBERS OF THE LEAGUE, CAN BEST BE EXPRESSED, PROBABLY, IN THE WORDS OF THAT ANCIENT MASTER OF SWORD AND PEN, VINCE. CARLA’S WARPEACE; WHAT DOES IT MATTER? IN WAR WE ARE KILLED BY OUR ENEMIES, IN PEACE BY OUR FRIENDS.”
The crystal cube was filled by the smiling head and face labeled beneath: Eldred Carla.
Carla hastily pulled his hat a little lower over his face and turned quickly away. A few blocks down the street his pace slowed. A small bar invited him, and he was soon seated at a table sipping a tall, cool drink.
Perhaps Grayson was right, he thought. But he shook his head slowly. It had all been gone over before, time and time again; this was the only way, the only right way. Everything—the analysts, the historigraphs, the seers—bore it out. Nothing could be allowed to interfere with the destined path of history. Carla’s lips tightened. And yet there were—psychological obstacles.
He shook his head. There were times for mercy and times for ruthlessness; times for indulgence of feelings of humanity and times for unswerving action. Carla knew which time this was, distasteful though the knowledge was at moments.
A CONVERSATION CLOSE behind him caught his attention and a fleeting smile crossed his lips. A tale of conquests, when conquests were easy: of women when morals were loose; of men and worlds when the strong could overcome the weak with little danger and the clever could trick the foolish and trusting without compunction, openly, and be admired for it.
Carla could identify the possessor of the voice without turning. It would be a big fellow, slightly gone to fat, vicious to the weak, cringing to the strong, a hero in the recounting, a coward in action. He would not last long with his big, loose mouth. But the conversation had turned to other things.
“Now peace—that’s a thought.” There was a sly voice. “A thought for weaklings; a thought for fools.”
That was the braggart.
“You are not subtle, my friend,” said the wily one. “You do not see what peace can be in the hands of those who know how to wield it. Peace is often a stronger weapon than war.”
“What do you mean?”
“War is a waste, and when the waste is carried on too long the people become restless. Resources are depleted; trade is halted. The little and the big have been fighting off and on for over a century. Perhaps it is time to consolidate, to protect for the moment, to give the people the illusion of prosperity.”
“The people are well off—what have they to complain of? It is we who do the fighting, the professional soldiers.”
“But it is the people who pay for your indifferent efforts—after all, what is it to you who wins? You are paid by the day, not the job. First you fight for one side, then the other. And you take good care not to risk your good hides overly.”
The man growled.
“Save that for the little ones.” The voice was steely.
The big mouthed one subsided.
“And then when, by good fortune, you break through to a planet—then the pillage and the looting, then the burning and killing, then the rape, eh?”
The braggart chuckled. It was an unpleasant sound.
“The people have no reason to love you or your kind—or their rulers, either, if they only knew it.
“Peace—I repeat—there’s a thought!”
Carla’s brow clouded. There was more than half a truth in what the sly one said.
The big one was speaking again, this time in a confidential whisper. “You think me stupid, perhaps. But there you are mistaken. I imagine I know more of this matter than you suppose.” He stopped to let the remark sink in.
“Indeed?” The other’s tone was skeptical.
“This peace you were speaking of,” the big one hurried on, “what if I should tell you that I am on the inside of that.”
“I should tell you that you are a fool.”
“Then look! Look!”
“What are you trying to tell me. That you are a member of the League? Ha! The card says so. I knew that, you fool.”
THE UPROAR WAS AT THE door, a door suddenly blocked by uniformed police, guns in their hands. “This place is surrounded,” said the leader of the group. “We have reason to believe that there is an enemy of the state in this room. You will file out quietly, one by one, showing your identification.”
