"I did not—want you to—awaken," she said. "Please go back to sleep."
"You are from the Center, aren't you?"
She looked away.
"It does not matter," he said.
"Sleep. Please. Do not lose the—"M—requirements of Item Seven," he finished. "You always honor a contract, don't you?"
"That is not all that it was—to me."
"You meant what you said, that night?"
"I came to."
"Of course you would say that now. Item Seven—"
"You bastard!" she said, and she slapped him.
He began to chuckle, but it stopped when he saw the hypodermic on the table at her side. Two spent ampules lay with it.
"You didn't give me two shots," he said, and she looked away. "Come on." He began to rise. "We've got to get you to the Center. Get the stuff neutralized. Get it out of you."
She shook her head.
"Too late—already. Hold me. If you want to do something for me, do that."
He wrapped all of his arms about her and they lay that way while the tides and the winds cut, blew and ebbed, grinding their edges to an ever more perfect fineness.
I think—
Let me tell you of the creature called the Bork. It was bom in the heart of a dying star. It was a piece of a man and pieces of many other things. If the things went wrong, the man-piece shut them down and repaired them. If he went wrong, they shut him down and repaired him. It was so skillfully fashioned that it might have lasted forever. But if part of it should die the other pieces need not cease to function, for it could still contrive to carry on the motions the total creature had once performed. It is a thing in a place by the sea that walks beside the water, poking with its forked, metallic stick at the other things the waves have tossed. The human piece, or a piece of the human piece, is dead.
Choose any of the above.
THE GAME OF BLOOD AND DUST
This story was solicited by Playboy as part of a project wherein they intended to obtain a dozen short science fiction pieces from a dozen different science fiction writers and then run one a month for a year with lavish illustrations by the French artist Philippe DruilleL I attempted here to do something which would give him lots of scope for his art. Playboy changed its mind, though, dropped the project and paid me my kill-fee. I've occasionally wondered what the illustrations would have been like.
They drifted toward the Earth, took up stations at its Trojan points.
They regarded the world, its two and a half billion people, their cities, their devices.
After a time, the inhabitant of the forward point spoke:
"I am satisfied."
There was a long pause, then, "It will do," said the other, fetching up some strontium-90.
Their awarenesses met above the metal.
"Go ahead," said the one who had brought it.
The other insulated it from Time, provided antipodal pathways, addressed the inhabitant of the trailing point:
"Select."
"That one."
The other released the stasis. Simultaneously, they became aware that the first radioactive decay particle emitted fled by way of the opposing path.
"I acknowledge the loss. Choose."
"I am Dust," said the inhabitant of the forward point. "Three moves apiece."
"And I am Blood," answered the other. "Three moves. Acknowledged."
"I choose to go first."
"I follow you- Acknowledged."
They removed themselves from the temporal sequence; and regarded the history of the world.
Then Dust dropped into the Paleolithic and raised and uncovered metal deposits across the south of Europe.
"Move one completed."
Blood considered for a timeless time then moved to the second century B.C. and induced extensive lesions inthe carotids of Marcus Porcius Cato where he stood in the Roman Senate, moments away from another "Carthago delenda est."
"Move one completed."
Dust entered the fourth century A.D. and injected an air bubble into the bloodstream of the sleeping Julius Ambrosius, the Lion of Mithra.
"Move two completed."
Blood moved to eighth-century Damascus and did the same to Abou Iskafar, in the room where he carved curling alphabets from small, hard blocks of wood,
"Move two completed."
Dust contemplated the play.
"Subtle move, that."
**Thank you."
"But not good enough, I feel. Observe."
Dust moved to seventeenth-century England and, on the morning before the search, removed from his laboratory all traces of the forbidden chemical experiments which had cost Isaac Newton his life.
"Move three completed."
"Good move. But I think I've got you."
Blood dropped to early nineteenth-century England and disposed of Charles Babbage.
"Move three completed."
Both rested, studying the positions.
"Ready?" said Blood.
"Yes."
They reentered the sequence of temporality at the point they had departed.
It took but an instant. It moved like the cracking of a whip below them. ...
They departed the sequence once more, to study the separate effects of their moves now that the general result was known. They observed; The south of Europe flourished. Rome was founded and grew in power several centuries sooner than had previously been the case. Greece was conquered before the flame of Athens burned with its greatest intensity. With the death of Cato the Elder the final Punic War was postponed. Carthage also continued to grow, extending her empire far to the east and the south. The death of Julius Ambrosius aborted the Mithraist revival and Christianity became the state religion in Rome. TheCarthaginians spread their power throughout the middle east Mithraism was acknowledged as their state religion. The clash did not occur until the fifth century. Carthage itself was destroyed, the westward limits of its empire pushed back to Alexandria. Fifty years later, the Pope called for a crusade. These occurred with some regularity for the next century and a quarter, further fragmenting the Carthaginian empire while sapping the enormous bureaucracy which had grown up in Italy. The fighting fell off, ceased, the lines were drawn, an economic, depression swept the Mediterranean area. Outlying districts grumbled over taxes and conscription, revolted. The general anarchy which followed the war of secession settled down into a dark age reminiscent of that in the initial undisturbed sequence. Off in Asia Minor, the printing press was not developed.
"Stalemate till then, anyway," said Blood.
"Yes, but look what Newton did."
"How could you have known?"
"That is the difference between a good player and an inspired player. I saw his potential even when he was fooling around with alchemy. Look what he did for their science, single-handed—everything! Your next move was too late and too weak."
"Yes. I thought I might still kill their computers by destroying the founder of International Difference Machines, Ltd."
Dust chuckled.
"That was indeed ironic. Instead of an IDM 120, the Beagle took along a young naturalist named Darwin."
Blood glanced along to the end of the sequence where the radioactive dust was scattered across a lifeless globe.
"But it was not the science that did it, or the religion."
"Of course not," said Dust. "It is all a matter of emphasis."
"You were lucky. I want a rematch."
"All right. I will even give you your choice: Blood or Dust?"
"I'll stick with Blood."
"Very well. Winner elects to go first Excuse me."
Dust moved to second century Rome and healed the carotid lesions which bad produced Cato's cerebral hemorrhage."Move one completed."
Blood entered eastern Germany in the sixteenth century and induced identical lesions in the Vatican assassin who had slain Martin Luther.
"Move one completed."
"You are skipping pretty far alon
g."
"It is all a matter of emphasis."
"Truer and truer. Very well. You saved Luther. I will save Babbage. Excuse me."
An instantless instant later Dust had returned.
"Move two completed."
Blood studied the playing area with extreme concentration. Then, "AU right."
Blood entered Chewy's Theater on the evening in 1865 when the disgruntled actor had taken a shot at the President of the United States. Delicately altering the course of the bullet in midair, he made it reach its target
"Move two completed."
"I believe that you are bluffing," said Dust "You could not have worked out all the ramifications."
"Wait and see."
Dust regarded the area with intense scrutiny.
"All right, then. You killed a president. I am going to save one—or at least prolong his life somewhat. I want Woodrow Wilson to see that combine of nations founded. Its failure will mean more than if it had never been—and it will faiL —Excuse me."
Dust entered the twentieth century and did some repair work within the long-jawed man.
"Move three completed."
"Then I, too, shall save one."
Blood entered the century at a farther point and assured the failure of Leon Nozdrev, the man who had assassinated Nikita Khrushchev.
"Move three completed."
"Ready, then?"
"Ready."
They reentered the sequence. The long whip cracked. Radio noises hummed about them. Satellites orbitted the world. Highways webbed the continents. Dusty cities held their points of power throughout. Ships clove the seas. Jets slid through the atmosphere. Grass grew. Birds migrated. Fishes nibbled.
Blood chuckled."You have to admit it was very close," said Dust.
"As you were saying, there is a difference between a good player and an inspired player."
"You were lucky, too."
Blood chuckled again.
They regarded the world, its two and a half billions of people, their cities, their devices ...
After a time, the inhabitant of the forward point spoke:
"Best two out of three?"
"All right. I am Blood. I go first.**
"... And 1 am Dust. I follow you.**
NO AWARD
Betty White of The Saturday Evening Post suddenly solicited a 3500-word story from me one day, so I did this one quickly and she bought it just as quickly. Then I asked her why she had wanted it. She told me that she had recently had her television set turned on and was occupied with something which did not permit her to change channels readily. A show called "Star Trek" came on and she watched it through and enjoyed it She had not known much about science fiction, she said, and she resolved to stop by her paperback book store the following day, buy a science fiction book at random and read it. It happened to be one of mine. She read it and liked it and decided to ask me for a story. I have since theorized that if she entered the shop and approached the far end of the science fiction rack my position in the alphabet might have had something to do with her choice. Whatever . ..
I entered the hall, made my way forward. I had come early, so as to get as close as possible. I do not usually push to be near the front of a crowd. Even on those other occasions when I had heard him, and other presidents before him, I had not tried for the best view. This time, however, it seemed somehow important.
Luck! A seat that looked Just right. I eased myself down.
My foot seemed asleep. In fact, the entire leg. ... No matter. I could rest it now. Plenty of time ...Time? No. Darkness. Yes. Sleep ...
I glanced at my watch. Still some time. Some other people were smoking. Seemed like a good idea. As I reached for my cigarettes I remembered that I had quit, then discovered that I still carried them. No matter. Take one. Light it- (Trouble. Use the other hand.) I felt somewhat tense. Not certain why. Inhale. Better. Good.
Who is that? Oh.
A short man in a gray suit entered from the right and tested the microphone. Momentary hush. Renewed crowd noise. The man looked satisfied and departed.
I sighed smoke and relaxed.
Resting. Yes. Asleep, asleep ... Yes ... You ...
After a time, people entered from the sides and took 'seats on the stage. Yes, there was the governor. He would speak first, would say a few words of introduction.
That man far to my left, on the stage ... I had seen him in a number of pictures, always near the president, never identified. Short, getting paunchy, sandy hah- thinning; dark, drifting eyes behind thick glasses ... I was certain that he was a member, possibly even the chief, of the elite group of telepathic bodyguards who always accompany the chief executive in public. The telepathic phenomenon had been pinned down only a few years ago, and since then the skill had been fully developed in but a handful of people. Those who possessed it, though, were ideal for this sort of work. It took all the danger out of public appearances when a number of such persons spotted about an audience were able to monitor the general temper of a crowd, to detect any aberrant, homicidal thoughts and to relay this information to the Secret Service. It eliminated even the possibility of an attempt on the president's life, let alone a successful assassination. Why, at this moment, one of them could even be scanning my own thoughts. ...
Nothing worth their time here, though. No reason to feel uneasy.
I crushed out the cigarette. I looked at the TV camera people. I looked over the audience. I looked back to the people onstage. The governor had Just risen and was moving forward. I glanced at my watch. Right on time.
Time? No. Later the award. He will tell me when. When ...
The applause died down, but there was still noise, ris-ing and falling. Rolling. At first I could not place it: then I realized that it came from outside the hall. Thunder. It must be raining out there. I did not recall that the .weather had been bad on the way in. I did not remember a dark sky, threatening, or—
I did not remember what it had been like outside at all—dark, bright, warm, cool, windy, still. ... I remembered nothing of the weather or anything else.
All right What did it matter? I had come to listen and to see. Let it rain. It was not in the least important. - I heard the governor's words, six minutes' worth, and I applauded at their conclusion while flashbulbs froze faces and a nearby cheer hurt my ears and caused my head to throb. Time pedaled slowly past as the president stood and moved forward, smiling. I looked at my watch and eased back from the edge of my seat. Fine. Fine.
/( seems to me that there is a gallery, with a row of faces atop crude cardboard silhouettes of people. Bright lights play upon them. I stand at the other end of the gallery, my left arm at my side. I hold a pistol in my hand. He tells me. He tells me then. The words. When I hear them 1 know everything. Everything I am to do to have the prize. 1 check the weapon -without looking at it, for I do not remove my eyes from the prospect before me. There is one target in particular, the special one I must hit to score. Without Jerking it, but rather with a rapid yet steady motion, I raise the pistol, sight for just the proper interval and squeeze the trigger with a force that is precisely sufficient. The cardboard figures are all moving slightly, with random jerkings, as I perform this action. But it does not matter. There is a single report. My target topples. I have won the award.
Blackness.
It seems to me that there is a gallery, with a row of faces atop crude cardboard silhouettes of people. Bright lights play upon them. I stand at the other end of the gallery, my left arm at my side. I hold a pistol in my hand. He tells me. He tells me then. The words ...
The cry of the man behind me. ... A ringing in my ears that gradually subsided as the president raised his hand, waving it, turning slowly ... But the throbbing in my head did not cease. It felt as if I had just realized the aftermath of a blow somewhere on the crown of my head. I raised my fingers and touched my scalp. Therewas a sore place, but I felt no break in the skin. However, I could not clearly distinguish the separate forms of my explor
ing fingers. It was as if, about the soreness, there existed a general numbness. How couid this be?
The cries, the applause softened. He was beginning to speak.
I shook myself mentally. What had happened was happening? I did not remember the weather, and my head hurt. Was there anything more?
I tried to think back to my entry into the hall, to find a reason why I did not recall the gathering storm.
I realized then that I did not remember having been outside at all, that I did not recall whether I had gotten ^to this place by taxi, bus, on foot or by private vehicle, that I did not know where I had come from, that not only did I not recollect what I had had for breakfast this morning, but I did not know where, when or if I had eaten. I did not even remember dressing myself this day.
I reached up to touch my scalp again. As before, something seemed to be warning my hand away from the site, but I ignored it, thinking suddenly of blows on the head and amnesia.
Could that be it? An accident? A bad bash to the skull, then my wandering about all day until some cue served to remind me of the speech I wanted to attend, then set me on the way here, the attainment of my goal gradually drawing me away from the concussion's trauma?
Still, my scalp felt so strange. ... I poked around the edges of the numb area. It was not exactly numb... .
Then part of it came away. There was one sharp little pain at which I jerked back my exploring fingers. It subsided quickly, though, and I returned them. No blood. Good. But there had occurred a parting, as if a portion of my hair—no, my scalp itself—had come loose. I was seized with a momentary terror, but when I touched beneath the loosened area I felt a warm smoothness of normal sensitivity, nothing like torn tissue.
I pushed further and more of it came loose. It was only at the very center that I felt a ragged spot of pain, beneath what seemed like a gauze dressing. It was then that I realized I was wearing a hairpiece, and beneath it a bandage.
There was a tiny ripple of applause as the president said something I had not heard. I looked at my watch.
Was that it, then? An accident? One for which I hadbeen treated in some emergency room—injured area shaved, scalp lacerations sutured, patient judged ambulatory and released, full concussion syndrome not realized?
The Last Defender Of Camelot Page 28
