The Man Who Staked the Stars
Page 15
destroying his future? It seemed to him that there were twohalves to his brain, each wanting different things. For a moment theone that had controlled the day was gone, and he was sane again, buthow long would that moment last? What sign had there been when it tookcontrol? Would he know it when it came again?
He remembered that in the tube train that morning he and Pierce hadhad a half joking argument about the best short-and-merry life. One ofthe happy ones on the list had been the INC agent, because they spentso much of their lives working into smuggling gangs that they had allthe pleasures and profits of being a crook and an honest man too. Wasthat where he had slipped his cog?
Looking back on the things he had done that day he saw that much of ithad fitted an abstract pattern of justice, as if he had been thinkingof himself as an INC man. Or as if--
He thought of the things he had seen in his childhood that they hadcalled zombies, and jeered at and tormented without fear of anyretaliation or vengeance from their gray-faced victims. Imprisonedmen--they looked normal--but they had been mentally imprisoned.Law-zombies, memorizing and following laws and being honest with asimple and terrifying literalness.
He had not known that he had any capacity for terror.
Bryce Carter. He had his name, his identity and his memory, and theywere his own. Sometimes he had had nothing else, only the pride andstrength of knowing his identity, that it was his and stronger thanothers, just as his hands were stronger, a thing they couldn't takefrom him.
_Could they?_ There was a nightmare he had had more than once, that heremembered suddenly for the first time, with all its atmosphere ofchildish strangeness. The cop psychos were after him. He was trappedin a big room with lights and they had his head open and were chasinghim around inside his head somehow, trying to catch him, and kill him,the him that lived in his mind.
Would he know if it was gone?
The black sharp-edged shadows of the crater walls were drawing acrossthe landing plain outside, bringing to a close the two weeks ofdaylight, and the reflected sunlight was dimming in the room. He couldhear the rumble of a heavy ship of a cargo fleet lowering in to alanding.
His assistant was sitting quietly on the edge of the desk as he hadbeen for some time, motionlessly watching the thin plume of smoke thatrose from a cigarette in his hand. He was as still as if he werelistening for some subtle sound far away. Rocket jets flashed anorange glow through the venetian blinds and fell in stripes of orangelight across the dark young face. The brief rumble of a rockettake-off came, transmitted through the ground and the building. Smokecurling up from the cigarette was the only motion.
"Roy, is Pierce your real name?"
The light flashed and faded in bars of orange across the young face hehad thought was like his own, the boy he had thought had come from PopYak. The quick deep rumble of sound came and faded in the walls aroundthem. A fleeting smile touched the face, and the dark eyes rested onhis for a moment as Roy Pierce gave the information casually as if itwere any other information, answering the question that had beenmeant. "It is my mother's name. We always take our mother's names. Iam a Manoba--a Manoba of Jaracho."
IX
Looking into Bryce's face he slid to his feet slowly, ground out thestub of his cigarette and stood before the desk.
Bryce took out his gun and held it where Pierce could see it. "AreManobas ever shot?" It was a heavy little gun, his maggy, its barrelsleek and rounded, the heavy metal warm from being worn close to theskin.
"Sometimes. It's a natural enough reaction."
It was a spaceworthy gun with adjustable velocity for driving throughpadded suits and pressure suits. The velocity was set high, but itwould be inartistic to blow a large hole through a psychotherapist.Bryce turned the dial down slowly, watching him.
"Do the professional ethics of privacy and non-publicity cover thiskind of situation?"
Pierce was smiling slightly with a touch of bitter humor. "It'sundiplomatic to tell you that, but yes, the contingency is covered.There is nothing to connect myself with you as a case in any records,nor anything to identify me as a member of the Manoba group contractedby your company. The ethic of privacy is allowed to have no exceptionsfor the family's record."
A cool curiosity held him. "Tell me--when you saw that I was beginningto think, why didn't you just needle me down for a short nap andleave?"
The smile remained. "I am supposed to control the shock ofrealization, and make sure that it is assimilated without damage tothe subject." His dark expressionless eyes met Bryce's, and Bryce feltthe impact of them, and realized for the first time that there was thesame slight bitter off-hand smile on his own lips, and inwardly thequiet ironical mood with the still clarity of a deep pool. His ownmood? He hefted the gun in his hand, feeling its weight and balance."You could have done that over the televiewer," he pointed outdispassionately. "What is the average mortality, do you know?"
"Not high. It is only inexperience that is dangerous. If one can getthrough one's first three or four cases, it's safe enough."
Looking back over the past days it was quite clear that Pierce hadcontrol over his emotions. Any emotion Pierce chose him to feel hewould feel. It remained to be seen how much that could influence whathe was going to do. The dark-skinned young man stood before the deskcasually and answered questions with a slight restrained smile thatset the wry irony of both their minds.
A man does what he wants. That is freedom, but what he wanted could becontrolled apparently. A man _is_ what he wants. But what he wantedcould be changed. How easy had it been to change him. Bryce triedhimself with a thought of the power and glory of rule, the reign andmastery of space--a goal that had warmed his thoughts for many years.
He didn't want it.
There was a numbness where there should have been emotion, and all hecould feel for his loss was the resignation and the faint bitter humorpermitted him by Pierce's smile. Watching that smile he shifted theheavy little gun in his hand, turning it over casually, feeling itsfamiliar weight and the texture of its surfaces.
He spoke gently. "If you don't mind my asking, have you passed throughyour first three cases yet?"
"You are my first," said Roy Pierce, whom he had trusted. "I'm afraidI was clumsy."
"Oh--you did all right." Bryce shot him then, placing the bulletcarefully in the pit of his stomach where it would hurt. That was fordoing well. For justice. No man has the right to meddle in anotherman's mind.
Pierce had been starting to speak. He swayed back a half step with aflicker of change crossing his face then stood steady and smilingagain. That brief grimace touched Bryce's nerves with a sensation thatwas like the jangle of something heavy dropped inside a piano, a soundhe had heard once. But the numbness did not lift from his feelings. Hewas still smiling. The third bullet would be between the eyes.
The words were low and rapid but clear.
Bryce did not listen. "This is for doing a good job," he said,overriding the other voice with his own, and pulled the trigger again,placing the slug slightly lower this time, in the belly, where if itentangled in one of the spinal plexus it could hurt past belief.Pierce swayed slightly. His face went to the clay-blue color thatcomes to dark-skinned races when they pale. Bleeding inside somewhere,and already dead unless he were given help, Bryce figured.
For a moment Bryce saw something like effort in the dark unreadableeyes. Then suddenly Pierce smiled, his young face disarmingly innocentand merry. "Oh, come on, Bryce, it's not that serious. Be a goodsport. You don't want to--"
Suddenly Bryce saw the situation as the sheerest humor, a sort oflunatic farce for the laughter of some cosmic joker. He swung thegunsights up towards the smiling face. Amusement bubbled in his bloodand he heard himself laugh--heard it with a grim secondary amusement.
"The joke's on you," he said, and pulled the trigger, then laughedagain. The joke was on him.
He had missed. He had missed at a distance of three feet. Yet his handwas rock-steady. Pierce's control had him. His laughter stopped as thehumor in
Pierce's attitude faded down again to the small wry smilethat had been there from the beginning.
Bryce had not lost. He had only to wait a little and he had won.Unless Pierce could use his control to force him to call help. He sethimself to resist and not to listen. There was not long to go. Theexpressionless dark eyes that held his were beginning to widenslightly in an effort of sight that meant that a private darkness wasclosing in on the psychotherapist. The rumble of distant rocketsseemed louder, covering his fading voice. "It's your choice, Bryce. Igive it to you. You won't want this later--Bryce--but don't--hunger toundo. It is payment enough for all--times like this--that youchange--and do not--want--them any--again--" Pierce pulled in astrangling breath, swaying more visibly. "Gun," he whispered, reachingout in Bryce's direction, his eyes going