Collected Short Fiction, page 94
“Don’t live on illusions!”
He liked this girl, her appearance, her independence, her quick mind. “But how did you know it wasn’t human?” he asked abruptly.
She laughed without mirth. “After so long, you can sense them—the little imperfection in the way they walk, their hidden reservoir of power, their single-mindedness. But then, what else could it be? I told you I was the only one left.”
“If you can sense them, you should be able to sense that I’m not one of them,” D’glas pointed out gently.
She frowned thoughtfully. “They’ve tried to trick me before, but it’s the first time I’ve been chased. Maybe I think you’re what you pretend to be. But I can’t take chances. What proof do I have?”
“What proof have I,” D’glas said slowly, “that you re human?
Slowly, thoughtfully, her arm lowered. Instantly, D’glas lunged into the rusted stanchion. It snapped, The landing sagged with an animal screech of bolts dragged from the wall.
At the first movement, the girl whirled, reaching for the doorknob, but the landing sagged a little more, throwing her against the railing. She leaped. The landing toppled beneath her, rending its way downward.
Her hands clawed at the door and missed. She fell backward toward the floor and twisted metal that had preceded her.
MIRACULOUSLY dodging the falling stairway, D’glas was waiting for her. His arms scooped her out of the air. He caught her right hand immediately, but the rock was gone.
For a moment, gasping, she let herself crumple against him. After the first impact, she wasn’t heavy. She was, he realized with some surprise, quite an interesting armful. It was not entirely because she was the first girl he had seen in three months. The first human, in fact, he corrected quickly—but it was the femininity that made it interesting.
“There,” he said gayly, smiling into her drawn face, “that’s better, isn’t it?”
Her color flooded back, and one fist fetched him a stinging clout along the jaw. He dropped her.
She landed in the wreckage of the stairs. She stiffened. “Owwww!” she cried out, and scrambled up quickly with a sound of ripping plastic, rubbing the injured area. Almost speechless with anger, she spluttered, “You—You—”
D’glas touched his jaw and waggled it experimentally to see if it was broken. He decided that it wasn’t. “You didn’t seem to appreciate my rescuing you,” he said innocently.
Her face worked for a moment. She sniffled. A sob broke from her throat. Two tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, tore free, and coursed muddy channels through the dust on her face. She began to cry.
D’glas was shocked. He had not seen tears since he had been a child. Now they left him helpless.
Understanding came. She was only a girl, a young one, and alone. She had put up a good fight against a man who had been hedonically trained and tested in competition. Defeated, hurt, humiliated, defenseless, it was little wonder that she sobbed.
Gently he took her in his arms; he pulled her dose. She came, unresisting, weeping. She cried against the shoulder. “There, there,” he said ineffectually, patting her clumsily on the back. “That’s all right I’m sorry.”
Slowly the sobs turned to sniffles and the sniffles to uneven breaths that caught in her throat. As she regained self-control, she drew back, wiping the tears away with the back of one hand. It left black smudges across her cheeks.
She was a little girl, he thought tenderly. An urchin. She had been playing with the big boys and got hurt. He caught her shoulder and tried to turn her around. “Are you hurt bad?” he asked solicitously.
She pulled herself away and put one hand behind her. “Never mind!” she said with great dignity. “It’s nothing.”
D’glas shrugged, his fatherly instincts submerged before her sudden return to maturity. He watched her closely.
“Well,” she said defiantly, “what now?”
He smiled, liking her. “Now, some answers.”
“What makes you think you’ll get them?”
“I’ll get them,” he said confidently. “But there must be a better place than this to talk. Lead me to it!” She hesitated. “Please?” he added.
She shrugged, as if recognizing the futility of resistance, and moved away among the stacks, one hand behind to hold together her tom skirt. D’glas stayed close to her, watchful for the smallest sign that she was going to break away.
“I’m D’glas M’Gregor,” he said. “And I still want to be friends.”
For a moment her back remained stiff. Then, over her shoulder, she said, “Susan.”
“Susan what?”
“Just Susan. When there’s only one person left—or two or three—there’s no need for more names than one.”
“Then you’ve been alone for a long time.”
“Since I was ten. That’s when my mother died. She died in childbirth, refusing the Council’s help. My father assisted, but nothing could have saved her. The son they wanted died too. A few weeks later I lost Father.”
“How?”
She gave him a quick glance over her shoulder, “He was unhappy. He couldn’t fight it. He never got over my mother’s death. So the Council took him.”
“He’s dead, then?”
“No. Just gone. Like the others. Since then I’ve been alone. Ten years alone.” Her shoulders straightened, as if to repress a shiver.
“That’s over now,” D’glas said kindly. “You don’t have to be alone any more.”
As they came to the broad staircase, she let him draw even with her, and the glance she gave him was almost friendly. Immediately, she looked away. He resisted an impulse to touch her. It wasn’t time. But it was pleasant, anticipating.
On the second floor, she led him to a door inset with translucent glass. Across it was printed: HEAD LIBRARIAN.
BEYOND it was a living room furnished and decorated with excellent taste; yet it did not sacrifice comfort. It was a room he liked instantly. Even his highly trained sensory discriminations could find no flaw in it.
Beyond, through a hall, was a bedroom, just as tastefully planned and arranged but more feminine. Between the rooms, off the hall, was a necessary.
“If you don’t mind,” Susan said with heavy irony, “I’d like to clean up and change my clothes.”
“Certainly,” D’glas said. But he kept her under observation as he moved into the bedroom and went quickly through the drawers that slid out of the wall at his touch. They held clothing only—fresh, never-worn synthetics. There were two closets. Behind one sliding door were dresses and suits. A floor rack, swinging out was stacked with shoes.
Behind the second door was an armory.
D’glas had never seen a real weapon before, but he called on his memory, reviewing an almost forgotten strip.
There were minims, tiny hand guns; machine pistols; high-velocity rifles with explosive bullets; a rocket launcher; racks of grenades—
D’glas slid the door shut and turned to Susan. “Sorry I can’t trust you yet,” he apologized, “but I can’t afford to let you run away because you’re frightened, or kill me because you don’t understand. My mission is too important. Pick out what clothing you want. Bring it with you.”
He watched her as she selected it, ignoring her displeasure. When she had her arms filled, he led the way to the necessary. It was more ample than most, but the equipment, except for a small dressing table in one corner, was standard. The cubicle was windowless. The only exit, except for the door, was the disposal chute, and that was too narrow even for Susan’s slimness.
As he left the room, Susan demanded petulantly, “What’s so important about your mission? If you really are from Venus, what do you want with the Council? What did you want to tell the Council?”
“We’re being observed by aliens,” D’glas said. “Their purpose—” he shrugged—“we can only guess at. Probably conquest.”
The necessary door slid shut. The last sentence he had to say softly to himself.
“But it looks as if they beat me here.”
D’glas waited patiently. It was half an hour before Susan emerged, scrubbed, her face glowing with subcutaneous health, her hair damp and curly from the shower’s steam. She was wearing a loose-fitting gray suit, her hand resting casually in one pocket of the jacket seemingly careless of the effect her appearance had on him.
But it was only seeming. No woman spends half an hour merely getting clean; no woman picks out clothing that compliments her appearance and coloring so much as this gray suit flattered Susan; no woman applies cosmetics so carefully that they are undetectable—unless she is concerned about some man’s opinion.
“Beautiful!” D’glas said. “But you know that.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t know it.” But her eyes were wide, and he had a distant understanding, suddenly, what it must be like to grow up alone. It was surprising she was so normal.
“Sit down,” he said, patting the love seat cushion beside him. She sat down gingerly. “Your father must have been a hedonist,” he said.
She nodded. “That’s right. The last of the real hedonists. You know what a hedonist is?”
D’glas smiled tolerantly. “On Venus we have what they tried to build here—a society founded on basic hedonic principles. A careful balance between objective reality and subjective attitude.”
Her eyes shone, “That must be heaven,” she whispered.
“I don’t see how it could be improved,” D’glas admitted, and paused, wondering. A few months ago, he hadn’t considered it so perfect. But then there had been nothing with which to compare it. Perhaps the Hansen-mech was right: in order to appreciate heaven, one must have hell. “And yet,” he added honestly, “there’s hard work; no end of that. The joy of bringing a dead planet to life is never done. But, of course, everything depends on the attitude.”
“Certainly. I know hedonics. My father taught me, before he left. After that I kept up the studies and the exercises which taught me that as long as I was happy, I was safe from the Council. My freedom depended on it.”
SHE WAS slowly relaxing. Her back had touched the backrest of the love seat.
“You lived here—the three of you—until your mother died. And then, because your father was grieved by your mother’s death, the Council took him,” She nodded.
“Why?” he asked. “I don’t understand.”
“It was against the law,” she said, frowning. “To be unhappy, that is. We were safe as long as we were happy, and we were happy, for ten years. The only three people left in the world, happy together. Strictly speaking, Father shouldn’t have let himself become emotionally involved with us and, in a way, that was his tragedy. The Inconstancy clause of the Hedonic Oath bound him not to love or wed or father; then he could always perform his duties to his dependents. But we were his only dependents, and he thought he was safe.”
“Since then you’ve lived here all alone,” D’glas said softly, his voice and face sympathetic. “Poor kid.”
She bit her lower lip because it had begun to tremble. “It wasn’t so bad,” she said bravely. “The worst was realizing that Father loved Mother more than he loved me. Oh, I realized later how silly that was. And then trying to be happy even though they both were gone. But I had to, because I knew how important it was.”
D’glas put his hand protectively over hers. She let it stay there. “Funny,” he mused. “Everything else is maintained. Only the landing field and this library have been allowed to deteriorate. Why?”
“There was no more use for the field. Why should anyone want to leave when he could have happiness here—couldn’t escape it, in fact? His wanting to leave was prima facie evidence of unhappiness and made him a criminal, subject to sentence.”
“Sentence?” D’glas echoed.
Her fingers tightened on his. “Sentenced to paradise. The library was in the same category. What was the point in preserving it? Knowledge was only a means, and it had done all it could; paradise was available. Knowledge, in itself, never made anyone happy. Progress could go no farther. There is nothing beyond perfection, and paradise is perfection, by definition. So we could live here—we three refugees from paradise—as long as we were happy.” Her voice trembled. “But we weren’t satisfied. Desire entered, and with it came discontent, change, death, sorrow—”
Her voice broke. She turned toward D’glas blindly, her face seeking. He welcomed her into his arms; his lips descended to her, gently at first and then more firmly. She melted against him.
She moved in his arms. Something small and hard pressed into his abdomen. “That’s enough,” she said coldly.
D’glas glanced down. In her right hand was a minim, its barrel trying to leave its imprint on his body. “Where did you get that?” he asked in amazement.
“I keep one clipped inside the disposal chute in case I’m ever surprised in the necessary,” she said without inflection. “Get up!” D’glas stood up. “Walk toward the door, slowly.” D’glas obeyed. “Open it. Take one step forward and turn around. Don’t make any sudden moves. I’ll shoot at your shadow. Now dose the door.”
D’glas frowned at the translucent glass panel and the words printed on it: HEAD LIBRARIAN. Was she mad? And then he realized that she was not; she was just careful. The glass panel doubled as a fluorescent screen. He was being X-rayed.
He relaxed, and his mind drifted to what she had said about her father—gone but not dead. When she flung open the door, he said, “Susan. The Council—”
“D’glas!” she cried, unheeding. “You are human! I was afraid to believe it, afraid that—” And then her lips found his, clumsy at first but infinitely educable and learning fast, and the time for questions was past . . .
D’glas raised himself on one elbow, “Susan,” he began, “you were going to tell me—” He stopped. She was asleep, her cheeks flushed, her hair like a dark, soft halo on the pillow beneath her head, beautiful beyond description.
He smiled ruefully. Every time he was about to learn something about this crazy world, there was an interruption.
V
And there is even a happiness
That makes the heart afraid.
THOMAS HOOD
D’GLAS AWOKE instantly, feeling alone and apprehensive. Beside him, the bed was empty. He touched the sheet. Cold.
“Susan!” he called.
Sooner than the silence, the echoes told him that Susan was gone. Except for him, the rooms were empty.
Against the drapes that covered the tall windows, the morning sun was beating. A pale imitation of its brilliance filtered through to him.
So truth, he thought dismally, filters through the barrier of our senses.
He sat up, hugging his knees, and faced the fact of his insufficiency. He was not master of himself and his happiness as he had thought. Unsuspecting, he had surrendered his hedonic state to an outsider, a girl with blue eyes to see him as he was, with soft lips to lure him, with dark hair to wind around his heart.
Against his will, he was in love with Susan.
It was not part of the plan. It could be disastrous.
From the available evidence, the aliens had already conquered Earth. Where the humans were, if they were still alive, was uncertain, although by now D’glas could make a shrewd guess.
The inescapable fact: he was one man—hedonically trained though he was—pitted against vast and undefined forces. It was an unfortunate time to lose effective control over his ductless glands and their dangerous secretions.
Even now, at the unsought memory of Susan—her courage, her independence, her beauty, her firm body, her need of him—he felt a soft outpouring of affection, his adrenals, his pituitaries, his hypothalamus working automatically.
The thought that he might have lost her, that somehow, by some tragic circumstance, she might never return to him, made him weak and sapped his powers of movement and decision. He frowned savagely and refused to think of Susan in any personal sense. With an effort born of desperation, he succeeded in thinking of her only as an auxiliary to his main purpose.
This was certain: his duty came first.
He slipped out of bed. A few minutes in the necessary cleansed him, refreshed him, depilated his day-old beard. Emerging, he considered with distaste the prospect of resuming the clothing he had worn yesterday, but there was no help for it. Susan’s clothing was not only the wrong shape; it was much too small.
He shrugged, reflecting: What cannot be cured must be endured. Dressed, he inspected the clothes closet. Only a pair of shorts and a tunic were missing.
A minim and several grenades were gone from the armory. The grenades were about twice the size of his thumb nail. They were armed by flipping over a lever against the tug of a spring. When the lever was released, it sprang back. There was probably a few seconds after that before explosion. D’glas slipped a handful into one jacket pocket.
He took a machine pistol and broke it down. Its method of operation was simple, and it was in good shape, the parts clean and glistening with a thin film of oil. He snapped it back together and put it in the other pocket.
The magazine held fifty bullets which could be fired singly or in bursts of five. He wouldn’t need any more ammunition. Open warfare-one man against a world—would be insane.
His eyes were alert as he left the bedroom, but they noticed nothing out of place until he reached the door. Fastened to the glass was a sheet of paper. On it was handwriting, the spelling archaic, the phrasing quaint, but the writing slender, well-formed, and attractive—like Susan herself:
You looked tired, so I did not wake you. I have gone out for food and clothing. It was improvident of me, I suppose, not to have these things on hand, but I did not expect to have a man around.
D’glas smiled involuntarily and then turned it into a frown. He read on:
