Science Is Magic Spelled Backwards and Other Stories

by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  Kolitt said, ::This one!::

  ::What about it?::

  ::I like it. I think. At any rate, I’d like the chance to judge it in more familiar surroundings. If we are to bargain for any of these, let it be this one.::

  Yost stood back to scrutinize the piece. As all the others, the colors were combined by no rules he knew. But, yes, it did seem to have something of the sandalwood and eucalyptus air that Kolitt favored. ::O.K. It’s all the same to me.:: He went in search of Rogahm and found him seated on the floor staring out at the eternal desert.

  “I’ve found something.” As Rogahm unfolded his crippled frame and struggled to his feet, Yost looked around. “Where’s Groumain?”

  “Prospecting.”

  Yost shrugged. The Gallery certainly had other artists in the colony. He led the way to Kolitt’s choice and began the bargaining. He set his offer high enough to spark greed, but low enough not to seem too eager and let himself be jacked up twenty per cent. Then he held firm, refusing to be put off. He’d learned a thing or two from watching Groumain.

  Finally, Rogahm grabbed one of the ropes hanging from the overhead pulleys and yanked. The Eucalyptus Tapestry rolled up as it fell to the floor. “So take it and get out of here. And don’t come back!”

  Rogahm stalked off into the obscuring layers of Tapestries, leaving Yost to gather up his prize.

  The Tapestry proved surprisingly light to his offworld muscles, and it took him only about fifteen minutes to lash the roll securely and carry it out to the maisu. Groumain still hadn’t appeared, so he tied it to one of the beasts and then stood gazing out at the weird landscape, breathing deeply of the faint breeze. ::Well, partner, you’ve got your Tapestry. But what else have we got?::

  ::I’m not sure. Let’s take a walk around the building.::

  ::What for?::

  ::Come on! I’m in no mood to argue.::

  ::All right.:: Yost suppressed a little thrill of alarm at his symbiont’s shortness. Yost knew no Ballatine would ever force a partner to do his bidding. But, by the same token, Yost was morally obligated not to deny a partner freedom of movement since the Ballatine had no other alternative. But, considering Kolitt’s condition, Yost wasn’t sure just how far he could trust him if it came to a real clash of wills.

  He mooched all around the pink building and then leaned on the side wall again, gloomily examining the northern desert. ::Well?::

  ::The building is about twenty per cent larger outside than inside.::

  ::It is?::

  ::The studio had all the necessary living accommodations. And there were no obvious doors on the back wall. Yet, there is an additional room.::

  ::Probably storage.::

  ::Probably. But storage of what, do you think?::

  ::All I can think about is the sense of doom radiating from that devil’s rock garden out there. You know it’s stronger here than anywhere farther south?::

  ::Truthfully, I hadn’t noticed. It doesn’t affect me. Let’s go ask Rogahm about his back room.::

  ::Do we have to? He’s already thrown us out.::

  ::Friend-of-two-parts. This will undoubtedly be my last mission...and my last report. I don’t want that report to be any less perfect than my previous ones, and an uninvestigated observation leads to an imperfect report. Let’s go.::

  ::All right. But the sooner we get out of this gloomy atmosphere, the happier I’ll be.::

  He pushed his shoulder away from the wall, dusted the chalky pink dust off his coverall, and picked his way around to the door. There was nobody in sight, so he went in, checked the work area, and then poked among the hangings. He nosed along the back wall of the studio and, near the center, behind several thicknesses of Tapestry and a clutter of dusty art supplies, he found an ordinary-looking door.

  ::You see, Kolitt, just a storage room...:: He pushed open the door and called, “Rogahm?” before he noticed the strange quality of the light.

  It was a steady, white light...a fluorescent. And the room was no Harnuit storage chamber. It was a gleaming, Confluence style, lock-and-key installation. One end was an efficiency apartment. Down the center was a neat, Rotsuctronics work-bench and along the walls were rows of storage cabinets and lockers. Near the workbench, the door of a floor safe stood up on its hinges. Bent over some apparatus on the workbench were Rogahm and...an offworlder!

  For twelve heartbeats, Yost stood there staring at the pair while they stared at him. The offworlder appeared to be some mixed breed from the Sirius Cluster. He had blue skin and a bald head, but his eyes were golden, pupil-less orbs set behind two nictitating membranes. His arms looked strong, but his tunic revealed a contoured back as if vestigial wings had grown there. No telling what other odd combinations were hidden under his gray jumpsuit.

  Yost found one corner of his mind bemusedly returning to his life-long professional problem. How could it be that so many different planets throughout the galaxy could develop such similar chemistry that such misogynous interbreeding could occur? The man existed...but it didn’t take a scholar to guess that he was the many times illegitimate offspring of a long line of careless prostitutes. Anyone with such a build was automatically tagged a criminal in modern society...and very often became criminal because of it.

  The mere sight of the Mixie sent chills of horror through Yost. He felt Kolitt’s impatience as the Ballatine attempted to take control and retreat. But it was too late.

  The offworlder’s hand came up, leveling a gun at Yost. The gun, like the man, was a bastard, but he had no doubt of its effectiveness.

  One of the Mixie’s huge, blue fists jerked an order toward Yost’s left, the end of the room he hadn’t examined. The cage he saw there left no doubt of the Mixie’s status. It was a plain, unfurnished cube about seven feet on a side and closed in front by a transparent energy barricade generated by a unit housed in a bulge on one of the side walls. Sanitary facilities consisted of a hole in the back corner. This type of animal-display cage had been outlawed five years ago. Now, only outlaws had them.

  ::Kolitt. What do we do?::

  ::Follow orders, Friend-of-two-parts. This type of hybrid tends to be very strong and proud of it. They love to use their strength against the society that hates them...and you appear to represent that society.::

  Yost took a deep breath and glided carefully into the cage. His buttocks had barely cleared the sill when the field snapped on with an ear-tingling sizzle. He turned to watch his captors. Rogahm was still bent over the Rotsuctronics bench, expertly adjusting some apparatus. He looked up to say to the Mixie, “What are you going to do with him?”

  “I told you to get rid of him. Now you’ll have to take care of him until the boss decides if he can be of any use. Let’s finish this up so I can get out of here quick.”

  While Yost watched, they bent to their work as if nothing had happened. ::Kolitt, what do you suppose they’re up to?::

  ::Quiet. I want to listen.::

  The Mixie straightened up, dexterously twirling a long filament onto a spool with thick, blunt fingers. Then Yost saw they’d been duplicating a record fiber.

  The Mixie spoke the native language flawlessly. “Now,” he said to Rogahm, “if you hadn’t let that fat leech talk you out of the Tapestry in the first place, we wouldn’t have to go to all this trouble!”

  “It wasn’t my fault. How was I to know he’d like it? And how was I to know they’d go and steal it right out of a Gallery? If I hadn’t let him take it, he’d have known something was phony about this studio.”

  “Well, somebody sure as hell does. From now on, no more cute tricks with the Tapestries. You take good care of that snoopy character till the boss says what to do with him.” He snapped a cover on the filament reel and picked up the duplicate from the bench. “I’ve go to get moving. Check the...”

  Just then there was a clatter as the front door opened and Groumain’s voice called, “Rogahm! Have you seen my offworlder?”

  Rogahm limped out into the studio callin
g, “No! Probably wandered off into the desert to get lost. Had three of those up here last twenty-day. Attracts ‘em.”

  Groumain said, “Yeah. Didn’t strike me as the type, though.”

  “Never can tell with these weirdies.”

  “Won’t take long for this guy to starve. Eats three times the rations of an ordinary man and never puts on a bit of padding. Maybe he was sick or something? That doesn’t make sense...why would he spend so much time bargaining over a Tapestry and then just wander off?”

  “Sick in the head?”

  “Could be. Well, I’m not going to lug that worthless thing back with me. Help me bring it in. Maybe you can make something useful out of it. How much did he give you? Our cut...”

  The door clattered again. The Mixie stood rock-steady near the bench with his weapon leveled at Yost, as if it could penetrate the energy barrier. It probably could. He didn’t feel like experimenting so he stood silently as the outer door clattered again and Groumain called, “See you in twelve twenty-days.”

  Rogahm came back, letting the door swing to behind him.

  The Mixie said, “Well done for a change.” He approached the cage, inspecting Yost skeptically. Maintaining the Harnuit dialect, he asked, “Who are you?”

  “Raymond Yost.”

  “Why’d you come here?”

  “To get a Tapestry.”

  “Why?”

  “I heard they were interesting. And they are.”

  “You’re a human.” It was an accusation and condemnation.

  Yost didn’t answer. The Mixie made a threatening gesture. “Well!”

  “You might say so.” He didn’t dare admit to being a pure-blooded, Terran-born human.

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Myself.”

  “And who else?”

  “Just me.”

  The Mixie chewed his overly prominent lips as he glared at every stitch of Yost’s trail-worn blue coverall. “You’re no art collector.”

  “Desert travel does that to one.”

  “How come you eat so much?”

  “The metabolism I was born with demands fuel...just like yours.” Yost switched to Confluential Standard for that, but the Mixie didn’t even blink one pair of eyelids.

  Instead he asked, “You got a Ballatine?”

  Levelly, Yost replied, “No.” But he owed his steadiness to Kolitt.

  The Mixie was silent for several minutes, then he said, “We’ll see about that.” He turned back to the bench, took one of the two spools, and tossed it into a floor safe. His back muscles bulged impressively as he heaved the plug into place and set the lock. Yost noted bemusedly that it was the same ordinary-type safe he had in his office. If it was good enough for a criminal, it was certainly good enough for CC.

  Yost leaned his back against the wall and slid down to sit on the floor. ::What do you think he meant? There’s no way he can detect you, is there?::

  Yost was shaking so badly, he didn’t see the Mixie drawing Rogahm into the studio saying, “Check out front. I’ve got to get moving. See you in a twenty-day.”

  After they’d left, the Ballatine answered his partner, ::No, there’s no way he can detect me. But...well, Friend-of-two-parts, all the races of the galaxy have those who are for society-as-it-is and those who are against it.::

  ::You mean there are outlaw Ballatine?::

  ::I wouldn’t put it that way...but that is the effect. The fine points of the Ethic hardly seem pertinent.::

  ::Kolitt, you’re Senior Agent on this mission. How do we get out of this?:: Yost was paralyzed by the thought of an outlaw Ballatine entering his body to do battle with Kolitt. He’d always dismissed such tales as the nightmares of the ignorant. All Ballatine were so damned Ethical. But now, an Ethic of the outlaw?

  His partner interrupted his chill thoughts. ::Now that we have what we came for, we are free to return and make our report.::

  ::Have you cracked up?::

  Yost felt Kolitt’s laughter before he realized his unfortunate choice of idiom. Fairly bubbling with mirth, the symbiont said, ::Not yet, Friend-of-two-parts, not yet. The successful completion of a mission always has a euphoric effect on me.:: He sobered. ::There is much danger ahead, but we are headed home.::

  ::You keep saying that, but I don’t see it.::

  ::It’s in the Tapestry, Ray. The filament he used to make the Tapestry! It’s a recorder fiber. Confluential Intelligence was chasing some information that was on a recorder fiber...the kind of information that can be sold. So we’ve completed our assignment.::

  ::But what good’s it going to do us, or anybody?::

  ::It will take time and luck to get out of here...and more, it will take good timing. But I think we can do it. You still have your dousing rod and water kit.::

  ::You have a plan?::

  ::A few ideas. It all depends on how well he feeds us, and on what.::

  ::I don’t follow you...but you think we’ll have enough time?::

  ::We’ll have enough time if we have enough food.::

  They heard the muffled clatter of the front door and presumed the Mixie had just left. ::Call Rogahm and get him to feed us.::

  “Rogahm! Rogahm!”

  Presently, the artist limped in. “What!”

  “Did he leave orders to starve me to death?”

  Rogahm looked disgusted and turned back to the studio. “I’ve got work to do I’ll feed you when I get around to it.”

  “A corpse doesn’t eat very well...or answer questions.”

  The native turned back to his prisoner skeptically and then shuffled to one of the cabinets to wrestle out a case of Service field rations. Cracking it open, he extracted four of the packets and a tube of water. He set them on the sill of the cage and disappeared around the side to push the button. The field extended over the rations and they were sucked into the cage.

  Yost said glumly, “Thank you.” As the old man shuffled out of the room, Yost picked up his meal. ::T.Y.U.’s,:: he read the labels. ::Will this do you?::

  ::Yes, Friend-of-two-parts, I believe it will, in sufficient quantity. But only if you eat it.::

  Yost bit off the corner of the flexipack, chewed it, and then sucked on the pasty substance that was supposed to be a complete nutrient to his species. It tasted just marvelous, though he knew without the induced appetite it would be hard to choke down. He’d polished off all four of the packets before Kolitt was satisfied.

  ::Friend-of-two-parts, I’m going to sleep.::

  Yost didn’t argue. The Ballatine needed his sleep for sorting the memories that he would pass on. So Yost settled down to being bored and lonely...and scared.

  The days passed slowly. There were no outside windows, so Yost lost contact with the ebb and flow of the wan sunlight. He didn’t regret the loss particularly. He was accustomed to living under lights. And the blue-white fluoros didn’t cast billows of doom clouds through his thoughts. But Kolitt became increasingly withdrawn, leaving Yost with nothing to do but feed the fires of his imagination with twigs from the tree of speculation.

  If the Mixie came back before he escaped, he might bring another Ballatine. The uncertainty of what that would mean was more chilling than the thought of dying.

  But, then again, he might foil their plans by dying in his cage. The quantity of food was not proving adequate to Kolitt’s appetite. And, when Rogahm failed to supply the rations, Yost could feel Kolitt’s creeping starvation as a drain on every tissue of his body. In spite of the Ballatine’s selfless efforts to limit his consumption and ease Yost’s discomfort, the hunger became a kind of feverish nightmare heightened by the fetid closeness of the cage’s air.

  It was during one such bout that Yost sat propped against one featureless wall of his prison, drowning in physical misery. He kept telling himself it was only a matter of lasting out a temporary sentence in hell until Rogahm would feed them.

  But then he discovered he’d been panting until his throat was raw and his limbs were twitch
ing spasmodically. This would never do! He projected urgency into his silent call, ::Kolitt! Kolitt!::

  But there was only the silence of abandonment. Almost sobbing, he tried again, ::Kolitt! Please!::

  ::Yes, Friend-of-two-parts.:: The symbiont’s tone was quiet and assured.

  ::Kolitt, can’t you do something? You can control my nerves. Why don’t you damp my sensitivity to this hunger?::

  There was a long silence and then a projection of infinite sadness. ::I’m doing all I can, Friend-of-two-parts. Remember that I, too, suffer in desperation. I share with you only the most minor portion of that. I dare not do more to alleviate your misery for fear I might injure you permanently. The only thing more that I could do would be to leave you.::

  That sobered Yost. ::It’s not that bad yet Kolitt...is it?::

  ::I had not judged it to be that serious, Ray. But if you find my presence intolerable despite my best efforts, I have no other recourse.::

  ::It’s not intolerable.:: To himself he thought, damn Ballatine Ethic...to them death was always preferable to risking damage to a host...and you couldn’t argue with them. ::I guess I just forgot that it’s even worse for you. I’m sorry I mentioned it.::

  ::You need not be sorry. Partnership implies a claim on attention...even if only to...how do you put it? Oh, yes, to gripe. I understand that this is an activity essential to human mental health.::

  ::You needn’t be so damn snide about it! Ballatine are pretty queer people too, you know.::

  ::Now it’s my turn to be sorry, Friend-of-two-parts. I didn’t intend to be derogatory, only to make conversation. I thought it might help break some of the positive feedback of the misery cycle.::

  ::What? Oh, you mean, take my mind off my problems?::

  ::I believe I said that.::

  ::Well, then maybe you’d care to speculate about what the immediate future holds for us?::

  ::I hope that Rogahm will come to feed us very soon.::