THE DECEIVERS

by Alfred Bester

  “We have ignition!” he exulted and shot down the alley. By the time he reached the intersection where he’d last seen his lead she was gone, but there was another slot machine there, this time without coolie accompaniment, but this time with the rosemary symbol showing on the left first dial. A strange tingling swam up into Winter’s consciousness. He dropped a coin into the bandit and yanked. The dials spun free, but Rosemary for Remembrance again appeared on the left dial.

  “By God!” he muttered. “By God!” He hung a left, peering past the buffeting crowds as he thwacked through, and there she was far ahead. The tingling had told him true.

  He continued, no longer fretting when he lost sight of his i-Shou, but on the alert for one-armed bandits at strategic spots, and no longer dropping ¼S shoes. He knew he’d sensed the pattern; rosemary left, go left, rosemary center, straight ahead, rosemary right, turn right, and they would never change position no matter how often the machine was played, no matter what other symbols came up, and not more than one rosemary would ever show.

  “It’s the perfect gaff,” he thought. “Like the old English ‘Rogues and Vagabonds’ road signs. I’d love to meet the genius who rigged this setup.” He was signaled around another turn. “And what civilian could dig the scam? Not the casual Droppers. They’ll shrug it off as bad luck and move on. Not the Commission. They won’t question a big take. Not the fuzz. It wouldn’t occur to them that a flower was saying, Suivez-moi. It’s a miracle that I dug it.”

  As has been said, his seventh phane sense was an unconscious process.

  The next time he caught sight of his i-Shou up ahead, she was entering a tottering pavilion. Three painted rosemary symbols were peeling over the door. “You are here,” he thought, not feeling very brave, but he was committed.

  “So much for Phase One,” he told himself. He glanced at his chronometer. “Five hours to go. Now how do I prep for Phase Two? If this is some kind of gimpster sodality, it has to be strictly guarded, so there’s no barging in offering bribes. No. Then what? Christjeeze! I’m playing this loose! What? What?” He thought in top gear and at last nodded. “Yes. Handle it like the mammoths. Don’t try to fight their savvy. There have to be some brilliant minds among them to rig that bandit gaff. Make them fight mine, which is not so brilliant but an old hand at lying and misdirection…”

  He cast around, searching for improvisation. The pavilion was on a lively lopsided square crowded with shops, stalls, offices.

  Teahouse emitting music.

  Undertaker offering “Boards of Old Age” and “Clothes of Old Age,” the Jink euphemism for coffins and shrouds.

  A Shrof, or money changer, the door curtained with strings of copper cash, Jink change even smaller than Big Money.

  Apothecary.

  Cutler, displaying knives and swords.

  Fireworks.

  Butcher, with a whole pig suspended over a charcoal roaster, broadcasting a delicious aroma.

  “Paradise of Carnal Pleasure.” also broadcasting a delicious aroma.

  Shinto temple, decorated with wooden fish because fish, like the gods, never close their eyes.

  So Winter improvised a riot, not by hiring the carnal ladies to run naked through the square, as you might think. At the fireworks stall he bought a dozen Callisto rockets, not fussing about their colors. At the Shrof’s he exchanged a half Syce for more strings of copper cash than he needed, not arguing about the traditional commission. He tied the strings to the rocket sticks while a small crowd of curious coolies gathered to watch. He fired the rockets in a barrage at the pavilion where they burst with spectacular displays and chiming showers of small change. He hurled the last strings at the roof. “Hai!” the coolies shouted and charged for the copper cash. Winter had his riot.

  So did the pavilion. It was crawling up to the roof with grasping, searching, fighting scavengers, and spurting with jets of flame. A man came out, took one look and shouted an order to the interior. He was joined by a small task force of guards, and while they were trying to put the riot out, it was easy for Winter to slip inside unnoticed and unchecked.

  If the pavilion was dilapidated outside, it was worse inside. He passed through a short labyrinth of unmanned checkpoints and found himself in a bare barn furnished with a few stools and benches. The walls were moldy and crawling with vermin, the ceiling peeling, the floor yawning with cracks. “Jigjeeze,” he muttered. “I thought thieving paid. A mammoth wouldn’t live here. Have I goofed following that i-Shou broad?”

  Then his eyes accommodated and he noticed light shining up through the split floorboards. He searched, not too cautiously—the pandemonium outside would mask any noise he made—and located a flight of steps half-concealed behind a rotting tapestry crawling with lice. He winced but had to thrust the filthy cloth aside to get past. He descended softly on all fours, head foremost, until he was able to see the cellar. He was stunned.

  There was a long tea chest in the center of the naked cellar. A coolie wearing blue denims was stretched out on the chest, left arm at his side, right arm stretched out with sleeve rolled up and hand over a white basin that seemed to be steaming. Two white coffers alongside the basin also seemed to be steaming. The coolie was writhing and restrained by tour women and his i-Shou who were laughing and joking with him, and he was trying to joke back. It wasn’t funny because a Jink surgeon with modern tools was amputating his hand.

  The hand was an enormous laborer’s paw and was clawed around something. And the hand glowed the dull red of embers, of hot iron, of a giant red star, of a dying nova—and suddenly the unbelievable pattern burst upon Winter. “My God! My God! My God! Like the Blacks who slashed their bodies to smuggle diamonds out of the African mines inside the wounds. These Jinks give up a hand to smuggle Meta out. The guards only check for the chill of cryogenic containers. Who’d believe anyone could be fool enough to smuggle barehanded?

  “But they’re no fools. A starving coolie can live forever in honor and luxury at the price of a hand which he could lose anyway in some other kind of rough labor. But this is only on a one-shot basis; large-scale commercial Meta smuggling must be using… what? Oparo called them small-time goniffs. He was right, but does he know what the big-time is? Yes, he must. Can I get it out of him?”

  “Thank you so much, Rogue baby,” a familiar voice called. Winter twisted around on his knees. Tomas Young, Terra’s brilliant exobiologist who was also Triton’s puissant Ta-mo Yung-kung, the Manchu duke, stood beaming at the head of the stairs with a small squad of grim soldiers behind him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Trojan Horse

  In a duel, beware of the false attack. It is a deadly device, opening a path for the true lethal lunge.

  —Mousquetaire D’Artagnan

  Yes, Tomas Young got away from us through an unheard-of piece of chicanery. He was an incredible polymath, versed in all the arts and sciences and using them to create brilliant tricks and devices, always keeping a step ahead of us.

  For example, we knew that his prime ancillary action, outside of Intelligence, was the support, training and direction of the Solar Liberation Organization; and oh, the misdirection of titles! The SLO was dedicated to liberation. From what? Anything that angry failures blamed for their frustration; republicanism, capitalism, socialism, Marxism, you name it, tear it all down and stop the Solar from blocking our rightful climb to the top of the ladder.

  Actually, the SLO was a gullible weapon in the class warfare waged by the feudal-minded Jink aristocracy determined on returning the Solar to the good old days of barons and serfs through the destruction of political and legal stability with the blunt instrument of terror. It was impossible to connect Young with this because his SLO recruitment and training was carried on in the mad-dog Domes of Titan.

  We did succeed in penetrating the SLO just once and, with the hindsight which I detest, I realize that I should have anticipated the disaster. I sent one of our best and toughest agents—file name: “Terrier”—to the Bri
sbane Dome where he fought, savaged, and killed his way into attention and recruitment. Terrier could be ruthless when the mission required it.

  One of the estimates of terrorist capability is what they call “The Black Room.” The candidate is stripped bareass naked to prevent him from taking notes and sent into a pitch-dark room equipped with a flashlight. It’s a simulation of an ordinary furnished living room and he’s given five minutes to examine it and itemize everything in it.

  When he comes out, his conscious memory is tested; how many chairs, pictures, tables, lamps, windows, etc. This is what he was told to remember. Then his unconscious memory is checked; were the chairs covered, what fabrics, were there playing cards on the table, what suits were showing, what scenes were depicted in the pictures, describe the lampshades, curtains, all the details he was not told to remember.

  Terrier went in, spent his five minutes itemizing, came out and was instantly murdered. Damn Young! The Black Room was flooded with black light, and the absorption scars of the invisible TerraGardai I.D. tattoo on his skin showed unmistakably in the scanners. Damn me! I should have anticipated. I only learned the facts much later. Back then all I knew was that our best op had disappeared, spurlos verschwinden, and I was reduced to settling for surveillance of Young on Terra, and he came up with another conjuring trick.

  We were monitoring his moves and he took that for granted. We took his “take” for granted. He took our “take” of his “take” for granted, and so ad infinitum; that’s the business. Our basic was that if he made a move to leave Terra we’d stop him on some pretext or other. He didn’t know that for sure, but he’d have done the same thing on Triton, so he was prepared for the possibility in New York.

  I’d taken over a top-floor apartment across the road from the university Exobiology building and installed a Garda op, file name: “Granny Moses.” She kept watch on his goings and comings and notified H.Q. by shortwave so that we didn’t waste op time by having them hang around the building waiting for him to come out. Contrary to popular fiction, we handle more missions than one at a time. I conduct an orchestra in which everyone doubles and triples on instruments.

  The Manchu was no fool, and his sensitive antenna warned him about Granny. Of course he didn’t let on; he treated her the same way an amused neighbor would treat a nosy old woman who was always peeking out the window. He started by making faces at her, then smiling, then waving friendly-like. I’d instructed Granny to play it like a good-natured busybody, so she responded the same way. Eventually they were carrying on short conversations with gestures.

  Then, this morning, the unheard-of happened. Tomas appeared at the Exo building at his usual hour and Granny reported that he was in and would probably remain for a few hours, so his tail could take off, again as usual. But instead of remaining in the depths, playing exobio with his pet computer, the Manchu appeared in the window opposite Granny’s on the tenth floor, and gave her a tragic wave. Granny waved back sadly too.

  “It’s a rotten world,” he told her in sign language and she gestured back the same thing, wondering what the hell he was up to now. She found out. He opened the window, threw her a goodbye kiss, and jumped.

  She saw him fall, hollered to H.Q. via shortwave, and tore downstairs to the street just as three other ops drove up like three screaming emergency squads. Granny Moses stared at the street. They stared at the street. Then they stared at each other. There was no body. There was nothing. A crowd had gathered, of course, and by the time they’d fought through and into the Exobiology building, the Manchu was gone.

  Yes, he’d done the unheard-of, long-range hypnosis. All that waving and smiling and gestured conversation back and forth had set Granny up for one moment of long-distance illusion. He’d slipped up to the roof and away on a silent chopper during the chaotic confusion down on the street. He was a dangerously resourceful adversary and, quite frankly, he outclassed me.

  Now back to the Manchu duke and Rogue Winter in the Cathay Dome on Triton. What followed that initial confrontation on the cellar steps of the pavilion was appalling. Three armed guards, not in ceremonial dress but in ominous black, slipped past Tomas and Rogue and silently gunned down every Jink in the cellar with their handlasers. They dropped the severed hand with its clutch of Meta nodules into one of the inert helium coffers steaming alongside the long tea chest, turned and waited for further orders.

  Ta-mo Yung-kung nodded, motioned, seized Winter’s arm and took him up to the lopsided square where another butchery had taken place. The duke’s black squad had lasered the pavilion guards and coolies alike to make sure that no one escaped. They were calmly plundering the bodies while the pavilion roof still burned and spectators craned from the safety of windows. The Manchu duke smiled at the scene with satisfaction.

  “You and your pathetic Trojan Horse,” he bantered as he led Winter, with a firm grip on his elbow, through the crawling streets. The Manchu was reenforced by three of his armed squad. “Didn’t you guess that I have sources in the Turkish Domes? Better the Maori should have trained their future king in spydom, or better still, disguisery. That Turk jet painted into a totem pole, and you painted into an Indian chief… Pfui!”

  Winter was silent.

  “All the same I’m beholden to you, Rogue. You did lead me to the Tsei-fei Tang operation—That translates poetically as ‘The Bandit Marching and Chowder Society.’ Now I’ll be able to break the Meta smuggling and I give you points for that. Lao-chia! We’ll take a shortcut across the execution grounds. Did you catch our show this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I have any clout and—Don’t even dream of signaling the carnival for help, baby—If I have any clout, and I do, you and the rest of your performing seals will get the same treatment. I’d hate to see an old friend condemned to miao-chun t’ou.”

  “What?”

  “Literally, ‘An aiming at the head.’ You barbarians call it a ‘Man-Shoot.’” Young stopped alongside the iron box which Winter had been using as a huckster’s podium, and tapped it. “We lock you in here with only your head showing. The archers take turns shooting until you’re dead. Great entertainment.” Young continued the progress, still gripping Winter’s arm. “But I promise a last favor, lovey. If I can’t swing a hanging for you and it’s the box bit, I’ll have a marksman drill a beam through your head as soon as the first arrow draws blood. I wouldn’t want double-King R-og tortured for an hour. That would be lèse majesté.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Of course the rest of your gang may be broken on the wheel along with the i-Shou gang, but I won’t try to block that. The show must go on, how they say.”

  “Bread and circuses,” Winter muttered.

  “Skag and circuses on Triton,” Young laughed and conducted his captive to a heavily guarded jade portal set in a high circular wall of beaten gold. “You are about to be honored with a visit to the Altar of Heaven, old friend, where you can make your peace with the Supreme Being.” Young gave a crisp order and the portal was opened for them. “It’s my red sash,” he murmured. “Works wonders.” He tapped his royal shoe.

  Inside the golden wall were nine concentric terraces of white marble rising to a central tablet. “Imported from Carrara,” Young commented as he led Winter up. “Each circle represents one of the nine heavens. Each is a multiple of nine slabs. Top circle, nine. Next lower, eighteen. Then twenty-seven, and so on down to the lowest heaven, which is the square of nine and the favorite number of our ziggy philosophers.”

  At the top of the exquisitely terraced mound was a central tablet. “This is Shang-ti, heaven, the center of the universe. Care to visit in the body, Rogue? Your soul will become a permanent guest sometime tomorrow.”

  They stepped onto the center of the universe together, and Shang-ti plummeted precipitously. It was so unexpected that Winter staggered and Young had to hold him upright. “You and your transparent Trojan Horse,” he laughed. “Were you damned fool enough to imagine that any scam would lead y
ou to this?”

  “What is this?”

  “Official entrance to the Meta lode.”

  “The hell you say!”

  “The hell I don’t.”

  “You mean for everyone? Workers? Guards? All trooping in and out through the Altar of Heaven?”

  “No, no. V.I.P.s only. The chien-ch’ang-ti, the miners, are vetted in and out at the shaft heads which are concealed all over the Dome. No harm in telling you now, but you were within fifty feet of one when you staged that riot.”

  “I was? Where?”

  “Inside the Paradise of Carnal Pleasures.”

  The center of the universe plunged past mysterious doors and hatchways and came to rest in an enormous ready room that echoed like a terminal. It was wheelshaped with the elevator shaft as its axis. There were a dozen heavy arched portals around the rim, each guarded by a sentry. They glanced at Young and snapped to attention.

  “Ch’ing-pien,” he murmured. “At ease.” To Winter, “The red-sash bit again. They revere it because it says the wearer is of the royal blood. Come on.”

  “Where?”

  “You wanted to see our Meta mine, didn’t you? So come on, already. I wouldn’t want you to hang with unanswered questions on your mind, baby. That wouldn’t be kind.” And Ta-mo Yung-kung, Duke of Manchuria, thrust open a massive studded portal.

  An exclamation was wrenched from Winter.

  (The paradox of our time is that while we push out into the reaches of space we enclose our domestic lives into tighter moieties. Our spirit yearns for man-made vastness but—ah, but, not a gigantic exterior but a vast interior. What the soul requires is the conquest of our own living space—lebensraum—on a vast scale, which is why enormous interiors overpower us.)

  Despite the lethal pressures torturing him, Winter’s spirit was overpowered. He was in a crystal cathedral of clouded glacial ice. The light streaming through the open portal revealed a vaulted Gothic ceiling hung with icicle-shaped stalactites. It was supported by scores of ice pillars soaring up from a black lava floor. A motionless mist filled the frozen vastness. Then, as Tomas closed the portal behind them, there was pitch darkness which slowly brightened to a fiery dusk produced by faint embers glowing inside the pillars like tiny Christmas lights.