"How can I stop you from killing me?" he blurted.
"I may not tell thee that, mortal, for it would violate the letter of mine oath."
"So there is a way!"
"I refuse to answer, on the grounds that it might tend to compromise mine oath, or lead in some devious way to—"
"Oh shut up!" Why had he bothered to try? Even the Jann's archaic affectations were irritating; he was sure the machine was not consistent in this speech.
But there was a way! The Jann had tried to evade the issue, but had bungled it. If only he could figure out the loophole, or trick the machine into telling him. Perhaps it wanted to tell him, but was prevented by its metallic code of ethics.
He needed time to think. He had barely five minutes left, but if he managed to hide, he might have a couple of days before the end. Maybe growing hunger would sharpen his imagination.
The lifeboat had a supply of water. Dillingham drank until he bulged, looked for a container to carry some with him, and finally set off frustrated. No time! The brush was thick, out beyond the section the rockets had blasted clear. A number of flower filaments gave off heat, which was another break. The Jann would have a tough time picking him out by body-warmth.
He heard a peculiar swish in the direction of the lifeboat and couldn't resist looking back. Sure enough, the Jann was coming down, resplendent in the sunlight. It was vertical, descending feet-first, like a shining god. No jets were visible.
To think that this thing had been built by loving mechanical parents before true civilization ever evolved on Earth! And it was still far ahead of anything Earth science knew. Yet it was determined to kill the man who had saved it three times...
He broke from his reverie and moved on, carefully but quickly. He hoped the Jann was not equipped to sniff out his trail, like a bloodhound.
Evidently it wasn't, for he could hear it casting about in the wrong direction. He had been smart to divest himself of his last communications item. Then the Jann appeared in the sky again, swinging around a pinkish beam of light.
Dillingham ducked behind a humming iron tree until the way was clear. A beam that was visible in broad daylight was probably well worth avoiding.
A noise snapped his attention to the ground. There was an animal: a robot-beast. Its scales were burnished copper, its teeth stainless steel, its eyes white-hot filaments. He hardly had time to marvel that it should so strongly resemble an Earthly carnivore, before it sprang.
He dodged instinctively and caught hold of an aluminium sapling to pull himself away. The creature ground gears with a hungry roar and spun about as it touched ground, but its momentum prevented it from leaping again immediately. It had little wheels where foot-pads would have been on a living predator, and shock absorbers in the ankles.
What possible use would it have for his alien flesh! But he dived for a larger trunk and scrambled up its knobby bark as the beast came at him. Now he regretted imbibing all that water! He was weak and heavy, and he sloshed inside. But the thing chasing him was, after all, an animal, and probably attacked anything that invaded its hunting-ground—even though a single bite of Dillingham should foul its gears and rust its tongue.
The jaws snapped just beneath him and a jet of hot air scorched his posterior. The animal's air-cooling, probably—but it was reminiscent of eager breath. He climbed another two feet—then stiffened.
Wire tendrils were dropping on him from the tree's tinsel foliage. They coiled like corkscrews, and a slickness glistened on their points. Acid, surely...
Below, the animal opened its jaws. Dillingham could see right down its throat. The effect was that of a sausage-grinder.
He was trapped. The first tree-wire touched his head, and he smelled burning hair and felt a sharp pain as though a magnifying glass were focused on that spot. He jerked away—towards the grinning beast.
"Help!" he cried, not caring how inane it sounded or how useless it was.
And the Jann came.
In seconds it whistled through the brush and landed beside the tree. A lance of fire from its chest melted the face of the predator. Ear-splitting sonics from its head caused the tree's wires to retreat hastily. "None but I shall do thee die!" the Jann bellowed.
It reached for Dillingham. He closed his eyes, knowing the end had come. Metal pincers closed on his body, lifted. For a moment he dangled; then he felt the ground under his feet.
Dillingham stumbled as the robot let go. "I wish you'd get it over with," he said, now oddly calm.
"First must I grant thee one token boon, before I do thee die. Thou must needs make thy request within fifteen seconds, according to Jannish custom." It began ticking, one tick per second, as though it were a metronome. Or a bomb.
Fifteen seconds to come up with that loophole, when he hadn't been able to do it in the past day! Ten seconds, and the Jann was aiming its chest-nozzle at him. Five, and his mind was numb...
"A postponement!" he cried, half facetiously.
"Granted," the Jann said. "How long?"
Ah, foolishness. "Fifty years!"
He waited for the derisive bolt of heat, but it didn't come. "Granted, mortal."
Dillingham stared. "You mean—you'll wait?"
It almost seemed that the metal face was smiling. The mouth was open, at any rate, and the gleaming new tooth was visible. Apparently the Hazard spaceshop had stocked the item, restoring the caution-circuit. "Originally I contemplated a shorter period, but I perceived that this would be an injustice. Thou art not the fortune-hunter I expected, nor yet the fool I suspected. And we Jann are not unmindful of honest courtesies rendered."
Dillingham was abruptly reminded of Oyster, whose mode of operation had a certain similarity to this. He hoped he never encountered another such personality. "So you modified the spirit of the oath slightly," he suggested, "if not the letter."
"Our oaths are always subject to interpretation," the Jann agreed. "I could not tell thee, but I delayed for a time, that thou shouldst realize it for thyself. None but I shall do thee die: no animal, no entity, no microbe, no act of nature. But it shall be a kind demise, and it shall come in exactly fifty years, as thou requesteth. I shall always be near thee, to see that mine oath is honoured."
So the Jann had become a bodyguard, perhaps the most competent in all the galaxy, preserving him from all perils until he was ninety-two. Just a tiny shift in interpretation, and the oath had swung from negative to positive.
"That tooth—did it contain your compassion-circuit, too?" he asked, suddenly catching on.
"Even so, mortal."
"Well come on, Jann," Dillingham cried, remembering something. "We have a student strike to deal with, back at the University. Oyster will kill me if I don't manage to relieve the siege before all his files are gone!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Now here is the problem of your contract," Trach said. "Gleep transferred it to Ra, so—"
Judy was almost convinced that Trach was not the monster he appeared. He had not, after all, eaten her when he had the opportunity, and certainly he was the essence of politeness. He claimed to be a vegetarian reptile, and if he were not fattening her up for a later feast...
"Does that mean it wasn't a mistake? The trolls—my being on the—?"
"They don't make mistakes of that nature," he said reassuringly. "You are on their list."
"To die in the radium mines?" Maybe it would be preferable to be eaten by a dinosaur! "How could the muck-a-muck do such a terrible thing? I trusted him to help me!"
"Merely good business practice. Nothing personal. He wouldn't be muck-a-muck if he wasted Gleep's credit status. Fifty pounds of frumpstiggle—"
"He told me a hundred!" she said indignantly.
"That was to improve your self-image. It was his impression that you were overly dependent on Dr. Dillingham and lacked confidence in your own dental abilities."
"But I'm not a dentist! I can't do prosthodontic—"
"Pretty sharp judge of character, that muck-
a-muck. You do lack confidence."
"Oh, shut up!"
"At any rate, he did help you. He notified me, knowing that I would arrange something. That's my business, after all—arranging things for mutual profit and my own. Unfortunately—"
"You don't have fifty pounds of frumpstiggle?"
"As a matter of fact, I have considerably more, thanks to a generous settlement on Dr. Dillingham and a successful mission at Electrolus. But—"
"But—?"
"But the trolls of Ra are very fussy about allowing any entity to depart. Once they hold a contract—"
"They won't let go," she finished grimly.
"Not readily. Others in the galaxy have some very ugly suspicions about Ra. If too many prospective miners were to be released, those suspicions would be amply confirmed. Then it would be almost impossible for Ra to buy up contracts, at any price, and there could be galactic lawsuits for Ra's violation of contractee rights. There might even be an AUP quarantine for industrial malpractice, and that would finish Ra."
"AUP?"
"Association of University Presidents. Very potent."
"I see. So I have to take up pick and shovel?"
"Oh, no. They are very efficient here. You would work in your speciality, caring for the miners' teeth. Better dentures allow them to consume cruder staples, and that is more economical, you see."
"I see again. I don't approve the motive, though."
"Appreciation of Ra motives is an acquired taste. In certain respects, there is more need here for medical and dental assistants than for full MDs or DDSs, because only short-term measures are economical. The radiation, you know. And you would still be exposed to that."
She nodded. Had she really thought her prospects back on Earth bad?
"I have not relinquished the problem, Miss Galland. I merely wish you to comprehend its magnitude. Naturally we'll find a way to remove you from Ra."
"I comprehend the magnitude. What do I have to do, to escape?"
"You have to obtain a sponsor who is able to influence the troll hierarchy. I can arrange temporary reprieve, but my influence is limited. I'm only a diplomat. If I push my luck—"
"The mines for you too," she said. "Will you teach the prisoners diplomacy as they perish from radiation?"
"I doubt it would come to that, but there could be awkwardness. However, I'll see what I can do. I have had experience at a number of influential courts."
Judy smiled appreciatively, but she had little hope.
Trach had been unduly modest about his resources. Within six hours there was an urgent call from the Monarch of Lepidop: he wanted an experienced dental assistant and he wanted this particular one. Since his subjects were resistive to radium poisoning, a task force of his navy traditionally transported Ra's annual output of ten pounds pure to the galactic markets.
He had, in short, influence.
The troll hierarchy swallowed its gall and hastily made a gift of Judy's contract to the Monarch, compliments of the honourable reputation of Ra. To make it quite clear where she had come from, they decided to brand her first. Of course, if she were willing to swear never to reveal what she had seen planetside, even this small formality might be dispensed with...
Judy contemplated the sizzling branding iron, thought about the difficulty she would have sitting down thereafter, and saw her courage go up in steam. She agreed not to talk.
Then the troll released her hair and she fell to the floor.
Trach took her to Lepidop himself. This was a favour she appreciated less than she might have, for his ship was a frightening rattletrap. But she suspected that this was Trach's way of saving his own reptilian hide, for the trolls of Ra surely were aware of his part in Lepidop's demand, and would not delay unduly in attempting to resettle the score. Nice world, Ra.
Lepidop, in contrast, was truly beautiful. Iridescent films decorated its aesthetic continents, and rainbows were reflected from its shining oceans.
The ship jolted to rest on a platform mounted on a spire about two miles above the surface. July was afraid the weight of the ship would collapse the insubstantial edifice, but there was no sag or tremor. They emerged to meet the Lepidops.
"Butterflies!" Judy exclaimed. "What marvellous wings!"
"This is Lepidop," Trach reminded her gently. "Capital world of the declining Lepidopteran Empire. But you are right to compliment their wings: Leps are subject to flattery. Now the honour guard will insist on conveying you personally to the Monarch, and I don't see how you can refuse."
"An honour guard? I'm the one who's flattered! And I want to thank the Monarch effusively for saving me from Ra. Why should I refuse?"
"Well, their mode of transportation is not to every creature's taste. I would prefer to walk, myself. But since I am not permitted within the palace environs, I shall merely relay my compliments and depart for my next mission."
"You're going?" Her original distrust of him was as though it had never been. Trach was as nice a dinosaur as she had ever met. "I thought—"
"Some of the finer architectural structures are delicate, and I'm rather solid," he explained. An understatement; she judged he weighed several tons. "But the Monarch is basically a kindly fellow; don't let his gruffness fool you. And beware of palace intrigues. I'm sure he'll treat you well, provided—"
"But how do I find Dr. Dillingham?"
"I'll notify the University of Dentistry. They'll advise him in due course. You just stay put and wait for word. It may take a while."
She had other questions, suddenly pressing now that Trach was about to leave her. But the man-sized butterflies were upon them, a fluttering phalanx. "Provided what?" she whispered urgently.
"Miss Earthbiped?" a translator inquired. She didn't see the instrument, but hardly needed to. There was always a translator within earshot on civilized planets, except for places like Gleep where such machinery was inconvenient, and Enen, where they couldn't afford the expense. She automatically associated the translation with the speaker, as she had once associated sub-titles with foreign speech in Earth movies.
"This is Miss Galland of Earth," Trach said formally. She had to pick up the introduction through the translator, for he was speaking directly in Lepidopteran. He was a phenomenal linguist! "Summoned by the Monarch, for dental assistancy and hygiency." And privately to her: "Provided he lives."
"This way, honoured guest," the lead butterfly said, spreading his huge yellow wings as he turned. Judy followed him to an ornate and fragile little cage, the other butterflies falling in around her and matching her step. "Enter the royal carriage."
She hesitated, the Ra experience fresh in her memory. This thing had neither wheels nor runners, and white bars encircled it. It reminded her of a lobster trap. But Trach gave her a thumbs-up signal from across the platform, and she had to trust him again. She opened the latticed gate and climbed in.
The fit was tight, vertically, and there was no proper seat; evidently this had been designed for a reclining butterfly. A narrow section of the top was peaked: space for folded wings to project.
The yellow butterfly closed the gate with one of his six small legs. She arranged herself half-supine, propped against one elbow so she could wave to Trach. Then the others circled the cage, picked up threads hanging from its sides, and beat the white wings in unison while the yellow called the cadence.
"Hup! Two! Three! Four!" she heard, not certain whether there was a translator, or at least a little transcoder in the cage, or whether her own mind was doing it. "Hup!... Hup!..."
Suddenly they were aloft: butterflies, cage and Judy—clinging desperately to the bars. No wonder Trach had been nervous about the transportation. But it was too late to protest now.
They flew over the edge of the platform, and she closed her eyes to stop the vertigo. Two miles in the air—with only butterfly wings and slender threads to support her! Did the Monarch often travel this way? Was that what Trach had meant by his hasty warning: the Monarch would treat her well, pr
ovided he lived? Let one thread snag, one wing falter...
But the cadence was steady, and she was reassured that they were not about to drop her. She watched the aerial life of Lepidop: brown-winged butterflies, grey ones, green ones and blue, gliding their myriad ways. A number carried bags in two or three hands, as though they had been shopping, and others clustered and whirled in dazzling mid-air games.
Yet Trach had said the Lepidopteran Empire was declining.
The palace was a tremendous silken nest, with massed strands forming gleaming geometric patterns that glowed prismatically in the slanting sunlight. At every nexus a pastel-winged butterfly perched, gently fanning the air. "Air-conditioning!" she murmured.
The cage came to rest in a cushiony chamber, and the bearers let go the threads. Judy disembarked cautiously, and found the seemingly tenuous webbing quite strong. It gave a little under her feet, adding bounce to her step, and was in fact rather fun to walk on. Trach would have put a foot through, however.
The yellow butterfly led the way to the throne room. This was a splendid chamber whose lofty arches reached into a nebulous web-flung dome and whose furniture was all of stressed silk. Upon the mighty yet delicate throne reclined the ruler of the planet and empire.
The Monarch was old. His torso was stiff and scaley, his antennae drooped, and his wings were dead white cardboard. Had he been human, she would have assessed his age at an infirm eighty. She knew immediately that he had no teeth.
Why, then, had he wanted a dental assistant? Had his demand been made purely as a favour to Trach, or was there more to it?
"My dear, come here," the Monarch whispered, and the translator conveyed jointly benign and imperative tonality.
She stepped up to him, impressed by his bearing despite his antiquity. It was no longer a mystery why Trach had been concerned for the Monarch's life. It was as though the very act of speaking might terminate his span.
"You care for teeth?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," she replied, deciding not to quibble over descriptions. She was no dentist, but she did take care of teeth.
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