No One Goes There Now, page 8
“But, isn’t it too early for that? The woman in the reception center told me that until the planet was integrated no convict shipments would arrive.”
“I know,” admitted Morrow. “That’s how it should be, but the Planners…Take my word for it; they’re here.” He took a card from his pouch and wrote floridly. “If the alloy’s decent, these specs will do.”
The dealer accepted it, lips moving slightly as he read. “Of course, ser. It appears you know weapons.” He eyed Holt’s ancient leather scabbard, the battered quillon and knuckle bow of his rapier. “Perhaps I could interest you in a rapier, also,” he suggested diffidently.
“Naw,” denied Morrow, drawing his sword and hefting it fondly. “I’ve hauled this iron half around the galaxy. Doubt if I’ll ever part with it.” He noted the dealer’s firm wrists, the way he stood, weight on the balls of his feet. “Daresay you’re a good blade yourself, my friend. Care to spar a little?”
The proprietor drew himself up to full stature and bowed gravely. “I was Wendelian champion of the épée for seven cycles; for three with the saber. But you see before you a warrior old and worn,” he said apologetically, slipping back into the jargon of the Arena.
Holt was delighted. “I’ll not argue with you, but you see before you a warrior much older and even more worn—”
“Ah, hah!” cried someone from the mall. “By the Convention! How delightful to see a man with honest steel in his hand once again!”
There were three of them, pushing into the shop as if they owned it. None wore Blacks, but their look was unmistakable: raffish, lean and carelessly contemptuous.
Holt sheathed his sword, growing very quiet in manner.
“Now, then; what have you in the way of weapons, good gentles?” asked the man gruffly. “My friends and I would wear steel when next we step forth into this hellish, barren place. Are you the proprietor, graybeard?” He pointed at Morrow rudely.
“My pardon; I overlooked your Blacks.”
Holt ignored the raucous laughter, drifting toward the rear of the shop where he interested himself in a display case. There was a dirk in his belt, as well as the throwing knife he kept strapped to his left leg under his kilt. Going against three was rather long odds, but might prove interesting.
He waited patiently while the three bucks intimidated the dealer, hefting weapons, slashing the air dramatically and joshing one another. When the noisiest of the lot, the first who had entered, finally lifted a rapier, Holt eased forward and bowed.
“Now that you’ve grabbed onto something unguarded, cousin, maybe we’d best have a talk.” Holt drew his rapier slowly.
‘What, Graybeard! You’ve gone mad,” mocked the swordsman. “One could lose face spitting a grandfather.” The others roared.
“You’ll die first.” Holt pointed with his sword. “Then you, and then you. En garde, my loudmouthed friend.” Morrow raised his blade as four Imperial Marines burst into the weapons shop, ruining everything.
“Sheath your swords,” growled a sergeant major, stem-faced over the emission bell of his energy rifle. “There’ll be no brawling in my district, or back you gp into quarantine.”
* * *
By the time the three buckoes had finished arguing the sergeant major into near apoplexy over his criminal breach of Convention in stopping their fun, Holt had calmed down. Knowing it useless to interfere, he ignored the squabble and waited until they filed out, hurling back contemptuous epithets.
“And who might you be, ser?” demanded the sergeant major, turning on Holt, conscious of his Blacks, yet angry enough not to care.
Morrow palmed his Congressional medallion and let the noncom look his fill. “Just minding my business, buying a sword from this gentleman, when these three jonnies trooped in looking for trouble.”
“My apologies, ser Morrow. You’re an explorer?”
“Uh-huh,” Holt acknowledged. “I was the first man to set foot on this pretty lump of mud. Nor are apologies necessary. You were keeping the peace.”
The sergeant major thawed, motioning his detail to relax. “Keeping the peace will get one helluva lot harder around here,” he said evenly. “They’ve just turned loose fifty thousand of those crumbs. I wonder if the Director of your pretty lump has good sense, allowing a thing like that. Why, it’s like mixing sheep and wolves! And we’ve no authority to go in and stop a squabble once it’s started, only to head it off if we can.”
Morrow nodded. “It’s bad,” he agreed, “but don’t blame the Director. Someone much, much higher thought this up.” He offered the marine a black cigarette and called, “Pack’s open,” to the others, chucking it to the nearest.
“But all our luck ain’t bad,” continued Holt. “I expect to hear that third-stage trash is being dumped on every new lump all around the periphery. We, at least, kept a large quota of explorers on board—a few tigers salted among the sheep.”
The sergeant major grinned a nasty grin. “Sure, that’ll help some; they’re tough and they won’t back down, uh, just like you, ser Morrow. But they’ll have a helluva time staying alive against these lice. The bucks I’ve seen are touchy, mean, and don’t have nothing at all to lose—don’t give a damn about nothing but honor and the Code and all o’that guff.”
“No argument,” conceded Holt. ‘What can we do about it?” The marine drew deeply on his cigarette before replying. ‘Wish I knew,” he said at last, snuffing out the butt savagely. ‘Well, nice talking to you, ser Morrow. You’ve got lots more sense than most civilians.”
Holt smiled. “I spent more’n a century in the Imperial Navy before I got too mean to take orders, son. Keep after ’em!” The sergeant major saluted gravely. “We’ll do that, ser Morrow.”
“By the way,” called Holt, “any of you know who’s communications chief on board Relentless?”
The marines paused. “Not me, ser,” denied the sergeant major. “I spent most of this cruise dreaming like a frozen mackerel. They woke me about sixty hours ago.”
“That would probably be Lieutenant Douras, ser,” suggested one of the others.
“No,” Holt said, “not the comm officer, the CPO.”
“I know him,” piped a young marine. “Career man named Sance.”
“That’s my guy,” chorded Morrow. “Litde gnome of a fellow with a fringe of reddish hair.”
“Aye, ser.”
“Jackpot! First hunch that’s paid off for me in cycles. Well, lean on ’em, marines.”
Returning to the Directoral Seat, Holt spied a greenbelt where five or six young bucks lounged about watching another pair spar half-heartedly with swords. Thinking they might be sequestrees, and still itching for the fight he’d missed, he watched until their general ineptness convinced him they were harmless colonial bumpkins, experimenting with swordplay.
He approached, lolling against a tree until they got over their nervousness at his Blacks, then began dropping acid comments and making pointed suggestions. At last they invited his instruction.
With a guard tipping his rapier, Holt gave them all the help he could, perspiration dripping from his nose, his sword arm aching in the old, beloved way.
When he got home to his apartment, he had a quick steak, then took down a flat sheet-metal box from the high shelf in his closet and removed and cleaned the wicked-looking Casches pistol he had carried around for almost two centuries.
It was an antique. No one intent on protracted mayhem would have wanted it. Besides being completely illegal, it was dangerous to use, endowing the holder with a few stray rads each time it was fired. Its single charge exhausted itself in one round, requiring twenty painstaking minutes to recharge after the emission bell cooled.
All this was perfectly acceptable to Holt. Whoever or whatever faced the inferno of that single round became charred far beyond likelihood of revival or reconstruction.
Morrow buckled a worn leather holster under his kilt, drew the Casches pistol several times, smiled and sat down at the vidicom, feeling immensely better about things in general.
He punched a code and waited until a wooden voice asked, “Your surname and ident number?”
“Morrow; seventy-nine thirty-two. Hook me up with the cruiser Relentless “
“Is the vessel in deep space, or orbiting Dan or Carthia, ser?”
“Orbiting Dan.”
There was a flashing melange of colored images before a wide-eyed young face congealed in the small tank. “Relentless.“ “Good evening, son. I’d like to speak to Garvey Sance.”
“The chief’s on duty in the crypto booth, ser,” informed the sailor. “If it’s important, I can switch you.”
“Naw, don’t bother the old codger,” snickered Holt. “Can you leave a message for me?”
“Of course, ser.”
“Tell him his old sidekick Holt Morrow called from ground-side. Tell him he can buzz me at the Directoral Seat in Sharax.”
“Aye, ser Morrow. Will do.”
“And tell him to hurry down so’s we can tie one on together and cut up a few touches.”
The sailor grinned. “Sounds like fun.”
“It might be, son,” chuckled Holt. “Thanks.”
He banged off the vidicom in the best of spirits.
* * *
When the conference of elders concluded, Polct the younger accosted Tanis who was in the act of departing.
Bothering you again is presumptuous, O Tanis, yet there are happenings which exceed my faulty powers of comprehension.
The elder wearily dismissed from his mind those space-time loci which were to have formed his destination. Understanding is the end product of labor, came his crisp thought. We have amalgamated our predictions and reported progress to Higher Ones. Were you not attentive to the proceedings?
I was witness, admitted Polct. My understanding falters upon contemplating these newly arrived beings, these fiercely murderous-weaponed ones who generate such whirlpools of emotion wherever they pass.
They are dregs of a youthful civilization. What of them?
Polct’s thoughts became muddled. But, Higher Ones intimated an approaching nodal point, O Tanis. A point where sampling might commence. What can be learned from sampling such unworthies?
Discipline your thinking, Polct, chided the elder. Misunderstanding is both predictable and forgivable. Loose thinking is neither.
Polct was meek. One senses; one obeys.
Sampling individual specimens is in itself meaningless, except in forming a casual base for integration, instructed Tanis. The best is in the worst of us; the worst in best. So it is with all species. Whether one begins at the top and works downward, or at the bottom progressing to more sophisticated levels, is irrelevant. Pinal integration is the same.
Comprehension dawns, thought Polct.
Remember, your single purpose here is to learn, young Polct. Form interpretations, integrate them, predict from them. Then weigh your predictions against those of elders. 1 recall agonies of indecision and uncertainty when in your station. Do not fret; learn from each experience. Learn!
Your wisdom comforts one, thanked Polct as Tanis departed
* * *
Morrow caught his breath when he first saw the crowd gathered on the terrace fronting the Lovelock Foundation tower.
He had been walking off the aftereffects of a night on the town with Garvey Sance, who had at last slipped quietly under the table in a spanking new joint with no atmosphere whatsoever they had discovered somewhere south of the Seat. Garvey considered himself an elbow-bender of the old school; outdrinking him had made Holt very proud. He had somehow managed to get them both home to his, Morrow’s, apartment, had unloaded Garvey on the divan, and fallen into bed.
Waking in early afternoon with a large head, he had decided fresh air more needful than medication, leaving Sance snoring on the divan.
But now, hurrying toward what looked like a ruckus in the making, he heard the unmistakable sounds of dueling and wished he’d taken antidote.
When he got closer, the crowd drew its collective breath in a moue of finality. Holt had heard that distinctive sound before; it was over.
Then a woman screamed, short and shrill. There was the flat crack of an exploding pellet, followed by an angry roar of disapproval from the crowd.
Holt stopped running. He cleared his Casches pistol warily. The side arm heavy in his hand, he approached the fringe of craning onlookers and froze at the long gale of mirthless, hysterical laughter which boiled up out of view.
The crowd gasped. A man broke through and ran past Holt shouting something unintelligible.
Morrow grabbed the arm of a fellow patrician. “What happened?”
The man looked dumfounded. “He’s gone!”
‘Who’s gone? What’n hell’s going on in there?” Morrow rudely elbowed his way forward into the press, yelling, “Gangway!”
A distinguished-looking man in Blacks lay on the terrace, his chest smashed open. He was obviously very dead.
“You,” Holt directed a bystander, “run into the tower and call Sharax medical. Hurry! Now, who saw what happened?” The crowd was dispersing slowly. No one seemed to have his wits about him. Holt was getting very angry.
“Ser Morrow.”
“Eh?” Holt turned. “Who are you?”
“Van Maar. Gailen Van Maar,” said a disturbed blond man whose face seemed familiar to Holt. “I’m the archaeologist who spoke with you on vidicom just after landing.”
“Sure, sure, Gailen. Did you see any of this?”
“Well…yes,” hesitated Van Maar, “although I’ve been wondering if I can believe my eyes.”
“Just a second.” Holt removed his cape and draped it over the corpse. He ushered Van Maar to a marble bench beside the fountain. “Okay, son; let’s have it. Take your time.”
“It’s hard to know where to start, ser Morrow.”
“Always begin at the beginning,” urged Holt. “Did you know either of them?”
“Uh, no,” said Van Maar absently. “I gathered the tall aristocrat—Ser Morrow, it’s impossible.”
“Let’s not worry about that right now, Gailen,” suggested Holt. “Here, have a cigarette. Get a grip on yourself and tell me what happened or by the Convention I just may choke it out of you.”
Van Maar hunched forward on the bench and closed his eyes. ‘Well, I arrived in the city about an hour ago for a week of rest and recreation. I had dropped off some stereographs and other data at the Lovelock tower and was leaving the building, walking behind the man lying there. I believe he was a scientist.
“As we came abreast of the fountain, this tall aristocrat stepped out and shouted something like, ‘Hold, ser Mason!’ I’m not certain of the name, but Mason, or whatever, became very agitated. Then the tall patrician stepped up to him, slapped him, and asked, ’Then you remember?’
“Mason did seem to know him. He asked someone to call an Assassin, but the tall man drew sword and began his Salute of Grievance. It was long, flowery and filled with phrases of revanche poetry. Mason seemed furious; he took a Congressional medallion from his pouch and threw it on the paving, proclaiming his immunity.
“But the patrician said, ‘My grievance goes beyond such immunity,’ and lunged. The duel was very one-sided, ser Morrow. Mason hadn’t a chance. I know little of swordplay, but even I could tell it was a mismatch; the tall man was an accomplished professional, Mason almost an amateur.”
Morrow ground his cigarette beneath his heel. “Go on, Gailen.”
Van Maar grimaced. “It was grim; the scientist was on the ground, either dead or dying. The tall patrician sheathed his sword and…I was edging through the crowd with romantic notions of apprehending him, I suppose. He whipped a pellet-gun from under his cape and fired into the body, yelling something like, ‘You’ll not be revived this time!’”
Holt glanced at the covered figure. “Yeah, he may be right about that.”
“Then he laughed, ser Morrow. There was something about that laugh. It was the sort of thing you might hear in a mental ward.”
“I heard it, Gailen. Go on.”
“Well, I…we reached for him…” Van Maar stopped, a perplexed squint narrowing his eyes. “He was gone, ser Morrow.”
Holt grunted. He said nothing for a moment, then sat down beside the archaeologist and lighted another cigarette.
“I sort of knew you were going to tell me that, Gailen. But I kind of wish you hadn’t.”
* * *
“He was standing…here?” asked Pierce Grey.
Van Maar moved backward, measuring the space between the marble bench and the corpse before meeting the Director’s troubled eyes. “Just about there, wouldn’t you say, ser Morrow?” “Uh-huh, close as I could tell from back where I was.” Holt knelt and inspected the tessellated stonework. After a moment he rested on his haunches, shaking his head. “No bums,” he muttered, “or scars or marks of any kind.”
“Here’s Roberts,” Gray pointed out.
A black aircar dropped into the cordoned section of concourse fronting the Lovelock tower. Roberts loped easily toward them. “What is it, Pierce?”
They all tried to speak at once. The Director hushed them, outlining the essentials in a subdued tone. He chose his words with extreme care.
Roberts did not protest, though his lips tightened at the end. He lifted a comer of the shroud covering the scientist’s remains, observing the violated torso inscrutably. “I did not know him,” he said softly.
Van Maar had difficulty containing himself. “How could it…? How can you account for it?”
“I cannot,” assured Roberts. “Can anyone?” He took the Director and Holt each by the arm, tugging them out of earshot. “And I prided myself on retaining a flexible mind,” he smarted, “yet when a manifest impossibility confronts me…A form of shock, I suppose. Did you see it, Holt?”
“Nope. I heard all the hooraw from over on the esplanade and came running.”
“What has been done?”
“Nothing,” said Grey. “I wanted your advice.”
