The 35th Golden Age of Science Fiction: Keith Laumer

by Keith Laumer

  “Tough luck,” I said. “We’ve got a long straight stretch ahead, and I’m fresh out of ideas.…”

  The other car gained. I held the speed bar against the dash but we were up against a faster car; it was a hundred yards behind us, then fifty, then pulling out to go alongside. I slowed imperceptibly, let him get his front wheels past us, then cut sharply. There was a clash of wheel fairings, and I fought the tiller as we rebounded from the heavier car. He crept forward, almost alongside again; shoulder to shoulder we raced at ninety-five down the steep grade.…

  I hit the brakes and cut hard to the left, slapped his right rear wheel, slid back. He braked too; that was a mistake. The heavy car lost traction, sliding. In slow motion, off-balanced in a skid, it rose on its nose, ploughing up a cloud of dust. The hamper whirled away, the cloak fluttered and was gone, then the pirate car seemed to float for an instant in air, before it dropped, wheels up, out of sight over the sheer cliff. We raced alone down the slope and out onto the wooded plain toward the towers of Bar-Ponderone.

  A shout went up; Owner Gope leaned forward to pound my back. “By the nine eyes of the Hill Devil!” he bellowed, “masterfully executed! The prince of Pipers is a prince of Drivers too! This night you’ll sit by my side at the ring-board at Bar-Ponderone in the rank of a hundred-lash Chief Driver, I swear it!”

  “Compared with making a left turn off the Outer Drive at 5:15 on a Friday, that was nothing,” I said. I held onto the tiller and tried breathing again. I’d been a fool to try to flip a heavier car—but it had worked. And now I’d gotten another promotion. I was doing okay.

  “And let no man raise a charge of Assassination,” Gope went on. “I’ll not see so clever a Driver-Piper immured. I charge you all: say nothing of this! We’ll consider that the rascals merely outdid themselves in their villainy.”

  That was the first I’d thought of that angle. To take a human life was still the one unthinkable crime in this world of immortals—because you took not just one, but all a man’s lives. The punishment was walling up for life…but just one life. In my case one would be enough; I didn’t have any spares. I had taken a bigger chance with Gope than I had with the pirates.

  Life here was a series of gambles, but it looked like the chance-takers got ahead fast. My best bet was to stay on the make and calculate the odds when it was over.

  * * * *

  I spent the first day at Bar-Ponderone rubbernecking the tall buildings and keeping an eye open for Foster, on the off chance that I might pass him on the street. It was about as likely as running into an old high school chum from Perth Amboy among the body servants of the Shah of Afghanistan, but I kept looking.

  By sunset I was no wiser than before. Dressed in the latest in Vallonian cape and ruffles, I was sitting with my buddy Cagu, Chief Bodyguard to Owner Gope, at a small table on the first terrace at the Palace of Merrymaking, Bar-Ponderone’s biggest community feasting hall. It looked like a Hollywood producer’s idea of a twenty-first century night club, complete with nine dance floors on five levels, indoor pools, fountains, two thousand tables, musicians, girls, noise, colored lights, and food fit for an Owner. It was open to all fifty-lash goodmen of the Estate and to guests of equivalent rank. After the back-country life at Rath-Gallion it looked like the big time to me.

  Cagu was a morose-looking old cuss, but good-hearted. His face was cut and scarred from a thousand encounters with other bodyguards and his nose had been broken so often that it was invisible in profile.

  “Where do you manage to get in all the fights, Cagu?” I asked him. “I’ve known you for three months, and I haven’t seen a blow struck in anger yet.”

  “Here.” He grinned, showing me some broken front teeth. “Swell places, these big Estates, good Drgon; lotsa action.”

  “What do you do, get in street fights?”

  “Nah. The boys show up down here, tank up, cruise around, you know.”

  “They start fights here in the dining room?”

  “Sure. Good crowd here; lotsa laughs.”

  I picked up my drink, raised it to Cagu—and got it in my lap as somebody jostled my arm. I looked up. A battle-scarred thug stood over me.

  “Who’sa punk, Cagu?” he said in a hoarse whisper. He probed at a back tooth with a silver pick, rolled his eyes from me to my partner.

  Cagu stood up, and threw a punch to the other plug-ugly’s paunch. He oof!ed, clinched, eyed me resentfully over Cagu’s shoulder. Cagu pushed him away, held him at arm’s length.

  “Howsa boy, Mull?” he said. “Lay offa my sidekick; greatest little piper ina business, and a top driver too.”

  Mull rubbed his stomach, sat down beside me. “Ya losin’ your punch, Cagu.” He looked at me. “Sorry about that. I thought you was one of the guys.” He signaled a passing waiter-slave. “Bring my friend a new suit. Make it snappy.”

  “Don’t the customers kind of resent it when you birds stage a heavyweight bout in the aisle?” I asked. “A drink in the lap is routine. It could happen in any joint in Manhattan. But a seven-course meal would be overdoing it.”

  “Nah; we move down inta the Spot.” He waved a thumb in the general direction of somewhere else. He looked me over. “Where ya been, Piper? Your first time ina Palace?”

  “Drgon’s been travelling,” said Cagu. “He’s okay. Lemme tell ya the time these pirates pull one, see.…”

  Cagu and Mull swapped lies while I worked on my drinking. Although I hadn’t learned anything on my day’s looking around at Bar-Ponderone, it was still a better spot for snooping than Rath-Gallion. There were two major cities on the Estate and scores of villages. Somewhere among the population I might have better luck finding someone to talk history with…or someone who knew Foster.

  “Hey!” growled Mull. “Look who’s comin’.”

  I followed his gaze. Three thick-set thugs swaggered up to the table. One of them, a long-armed gorilla at least seven feet tall, reached out, took Cagu and Mull by the backs of their necks, and cracked their skulls together. I jumped up, ducked a hoof-like fist…and saw a beautiful burst of fireworks followed by soothing darkness.

  * * * *

  I fumbled in the dark with the lengths of cloth entangling my legs, sat up, cracked my head—

  I groaned, freed a leg from the chair rungs, groped my way out from under the table. A Waiter-slave helped me up, dusted me off. The seven-foot lout lolling in a chair glanced my way, nodded.

  “You shouldn’t hang out with lugs like that Mull,” he said. “Cagu told me you was just a piper, but the way you come outa that chair—” He shrugged, turned back to whatever he was watching.

  I checked a few elbow and knee joints, worked my jaw, tried my neck: all okay.

  “You the one that slugged me?” I asked.

  “Huh? Yeah.”

  I stepped over to his chair, picked a spot, and cleared my throat. “Hey, you,” I said. He turned, and I put everything I had behind a straight right to the point of the jaw. He went over, feet in the air, flipped a rail, and crashed down between two tables below. I leaned over the rail. A party of indignant Tally-clerks stared up at me.

  “Sorry, folks,” I said. “He slipped.”

  A shout went up from the floor some distance away. I looked. In a cleared circle two levels below a pair of heavy-shouldered men were slugging it out. One of them was Cagu. I watched, saw his opponent fall. Another man stepped in to take his place. I turned and made my way down to the ring-side.

  Cagu exchanged haymakers with two more opponents before he folded and was hauled from the ring. I propped him up in a chair, fitted a drink into his fist, and watched the boys pound each other. It was easy to see why the scarred face was the sign of their craft; there was no defensive fighting whatever. They stood toe-to-toe and hit as hard as they could, until one collapsed. It wasn’t fancy, but the fans loved it. Cagu came to after a while and filled me in on th
e fighters’ backgrounds.

  “So they’re all top boys,” he said. “But it ain’t like in the old days when I was in my prime. I could’ve took any three of these bums. The only one maybe I woulda had a little trouble with is Torbu.”

  “Which one is he?”

  “He ain’t down there yet; he’ll show to take on the last boys on their feet.”

  More gladiators pushed their way to the Spot, pulled off gaily-patterned cloaks and weskits, and waded in. Others folded, were dragged clear, revived to down another and shot cheer on the fray.

  After an hour the waiting line had dwindled away to nothing. The two battlers on the Spot slugged, clinched, breathed hard, swung and missed; the crowd booed.

  “Where’s Torbu?” Cagu wondered.

  “Maybe he didn’t come tonight,” I said.

  “Sure, you met him; he knocked you under the table.”

  “Oh, him?”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “The last I saw he was asleep on the floor,” I said.

  “Hozzat?”

  “I didn’t much like him slugging me. I clobbered him one.”

  “Hey!” yelped Cagu. His face lit up. He got to his feet.

  “Hold it,” I said. “What’s—?”

  Cagu pushed his way through to the Spot, took aim, and floored the closest fighter, turned and laid out the other. He raised both hands above his head.

  “Rath-Gallion gotta Champion,” he bellowed. “Rath-Gallion takes on all comers.” He turned, waved to me. “Our boy, Drgon, he—”

  There was a bellow behind me, even louder than Cagu’s. I turned, saw Torbu, his hair mussed, his face purple, pushing through the crowd.

  “Jussa crummy minute,” he yelled. “I’m the Champion around here—” He aimed a haymaker at Cagu; Cagu ducked.

  “Our boy, Drgon, laid you out cold, right?” he shouted. “So now he’s the champion.”

  “I wasn’t set,” bawled Torbu. “A lucky punch.” He turned to the fans. “I’m tying my shoelace, see? And this guy—”

  “Come on down, Drgon,” Cagu called, waving to me again. “We’ll show—” Torbu turned and slammed a roundhouse right to the side of Cagu’s jaw; the old fighter hit the floor hard, skidded, lay still. I got to my feet. They pulled him to the nearest table, hoisted him into a chair. I made my way down to the little clearing in the crowd. A man bending over Cagu straightened, face white. I pushed him aside, grabbed the bodyguard’s wrist. There was no pulse. Cagu was dead.

  Torbu stood in the center of the Spot, mouth open. “What…?” he started. I pushed between two fans, went for him. He saw me, crouched, swung.

  I ducked, uppercut him. He staggered back. I pressed him, threw lefts and rights to the body, ducked under his wild swings, then rocked his head left and right. He stood, knees together, eyes glazed, hands down. I measured him, right-crossed his jaw; he dropped like a log.

  Panting, I looked across at Cagu. His scarred face, white as wax, was strangely altered now; it looked peaceful. Somebody helped Torbu to his feet, walked him to the ringside. It had been a big evening. Now all I had to do was take the body home.…

  I went over to where Cagu was laid out on the floor. Shocked people stood staring. Torbu was beside the body. A tear ran down his nose, dripped on Cagu’s face. Torbu wiped it away with a big scarred hand.

  “I’m sorry, old friend,” he said. “I didn’t mean it.”

  I picked Cagu up and got him over my shoulder, and all the way to the far exit it was so quiet in the Palace of Merrymaking that I could hear my own heavy breathing and the tinkle of fountains and the squeak of my fancy yellow plastic shoes.

  * * * *

  In the bodyguards’ quarters I laid Cagu out on a bunk, then faced the dozen scowling bruisers who stared down at the still body.

  “Cagu was a good man,” I said. “Now he’s dead. He died like an animal…for nothing. That ended all his lives, didn’t it, boys? How do you like it?”

  Mull glowered at me. “You talk like we was to blame,” he said. “Cagu was my compeer too.”

  “Whose pal was he a thousand years ago?” I snapped. “What was he—once? What were you? Vallon wasn’t always like this. There was a time when every man was his own Owner—”

  “Look, you ain’t of the Brotherhood—” one thug started.

  “So that’s what you call it? But it’s just another name for an old racket. A big shot sets himself up as dictator—”

  “We got our Code,” Mull said. “Our job is to stick up for the Owner…and that don’t mean standing around listening to some japester callin’ names.”

  “I’m not calling names,” I snapped. “I’m talking rebellion. You boys have all the muscle and most of the guts in this organization. Why do you sit on your tails and let the boss live off the fat while you murder each other for the amusement of the patrons? I say let’s pay him a call—right now. You had a birthright…once. But it’s up to you to collect it…before some more of you go the way Cagu did.”

  There was an angry mutter. Torbu came in, face swollen. I backed up to a table, ready for trouble.

  “Hold it, you birds,” Torbu said. “What’s goin’ on?”

  “This guy! He’s talkin’ revolt and treason,” somebody said.

  “He wants we should pull some rough stuff—on Owner Qohey hisself.”

  Torbu came up to me. “You’re a stranger around Bar-Ponderone. Cagu said you was okay. You worked me over pretty good…and I got no hard feelin’s; that’s the breaks. But don’t try to start no trouble here. We got our Code and our Brotherhood. We look out for each other; that’s good enough for us. Owner Qohey ain’t no worse than any other Owner…and by the Code, we’ll stand by him!”

  “Listen to me,” I said. “I know the history of Vallon: I know what you were once and what you could be again. All you have to do is take over the power. I can lead you to the ship I came here in. There are briefing rods aboard, enough to show you—”

  “That’s enough,” Torbu broke in. He made a cabalistic sign in the air. “We ain’t gettin’ mixed up in no tabu ghost-boats or takin’ on no magicians and demons—”

  “Hogwash! That tabu routine is just a gag to keep you away from the cities so you won’t discover what you’re missing—”

  “I don’t wanna hafta take you to the Greymen, Drgon,” Torbu growled. “Leave it lay.”

  “These cities,” I ploughed on. “They’re standing there, empty, as perfect as the day they were built. And you live in these flea-bitten quarters, jammed inside the town walls, so the Greymen and renegades won’t get you.”

  “You wanna run things here?” Mull put in. “Go see Qohey.”

  “Let’s all go see Qohey!” I said.

  “That’s something you’ll have to do alone,” said Torbu. “You better move on, Drgon. I ain’t turnin’ you in; I know how you felt about Cagu gettin’ killed and all—but don’t push it too far.”

  I knew I was licked. They were as stubborn as a team of mules—and just about as smart.

  Torbu motioned; I followed him outside.

  “You wanna turn things upside-down, don’t you? I know how it is; you ain’t the first guy to get ideas. We can’t help you. Sure, things ain’t like they used to be here—and prob’ly they never were. But we got a legend: someday the Rthr will come back…and then the Good Time will come back too.”

  “What’s the Rthr?” I said.

  “Kinda like a big-shot Owner. There ain’t no Rthr now. But a long time ago, back when our first lives started, there was a Rthr that was Owner of all Vallon, and everybody lived high, and had all their lives.…” Torbu stopped, eyed me warily.

  “Don’t say nothing to nobody,” he went on, “about what I been tellin’ you. That’s a secret of the Brotherhood. But it’s kind of like a hope we got—that’s what we’re waitin’ f
or, through all our lives. We got to do the best we can, and keep true to the Code and the Brotherhood…and someday the Rthr will come back…maybe.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Dream on, big boy. And while you’re treasuring your rosy dreams you’ll get your brains kicked out, like Cagu.” I turned away.

  “Listen, Drgon. It’s no good buckin’ the system: it’s too big for one guy…or even a bunch of guys…but—”

  I looked up. “Yeah?”

  “…if you gotta stick your neck out—see Owner Gope.” Abruptly Torbu turned and pushed back through the door.

  See Owner Gope, huh? Okay, what did I have to lose? I headed back along the corridor toward Owners’ country.

  * * * *

  I stood in the middle of the deep-pile carpet in Gope’s suite, trying to keep my temper hot enough to supply the gall I needed to bust in on an Owner in the middle of the night. He sat in his ceremonial chair and stared at me impassively.

  “With your help or without it,” I said, “I’m going to find the answers.”

  “Yes, good Drgon,” he said, not bellowing for once. “I understand. But there are matters you know not of—”

  “Just get me back into the spaceport, noble Gope. I have enough briefing rods aboard to prove my point—and a few other little items to boot.”

  “It’s forbidden. Do you not understand—”

  “I understand too much,” I snapped.

  He straightened, eyed me with a touch of the old ferocity. “Mind your tone, Drgon! I’m Owner—”

  I broke in. “Do you remember Cagu? Maybe you remember him as a newman, young, handsome, like a god out of some old legend. You’ve seen him live his life. Was it a good life? Did the promise of youth ever get paid off?”

  Gope closed his eyes. “Stop,” he said. “This is bad, bad.…”

  “‘And the deaths they died I have watched beside, and the lives they led were mine,’” I quoted. “Are you proud of them? And what about yourself? Don’t you ever wonder what you might have been…back in the Good Time?”