To Die In Italbar

by Roger Zelazny

  ... Everything that had fallen before those eyes was there, and Malacar had seen to it that they had looked upon many things.

  You do not toss away a tool such as this because of a doctor's bill.

  Malacar gazed into that dark place, the mind, moved through it. Shind maintained the bond and Malacar regarded the medium which held him. Skies, maps, millions of pages, faces, scenes, diagrams. It might be that there was no understanding in the idiot creature's mind, but it was a place where everything his yellow eyes had fallen upon had found a home. Malacar moved carefully.

  No, that furry head was a storage house; and not to be surrendered readily.

  Then, all about him, rang the feelings. Suddenly, he was near the spot of pain and death-fear--only partly understood, and more awful thereby--the seething nightmare place where half-formed images crawled, writhed, burned, bled, froze, were stretched and torn. Something within his own being echoed it and moved toward congruency. It was the basic terror of a thing confronting nothingness, attempting to people it in some fashion with all the worst gropings of the imagination, succeeding in this latter and, failing to comprehend, repeating it.

  _Shind! Pull me out!_

  ... And he stood there again, beside the sink. He dumped a retort, rinsed it.

  _The experience was of value?_

  He decided so.

  _I will increase the dosage on a very slow basis. Do not permit him to exert himself unduly_.

  _You like his memory?_

  _You are damned right I do, and I will act to preserve it_.

  _Good. The estimate I gave you concerning his life expectancy might be several months off_.

  _I will be judicious in acting upon it. --Tell me more of Morwin_.

  _He is troubled_.

  _Aren't we all?_

  _He will be landing soon and coming by. It seems that his mind is invaded by fears given there by people of the place that you hate_.

  _Likely. He lives among them_.

  He only glanced at the vision of his world.

  He had activated the Screens which showed him much of the Earth, to while away a few minutes. He shut them down because the changed map bored him. Living beside a volcano, simply because the site had once meant something, had accustomed him to the worst that the screens could show. It still meant something to him, but there was little he could do to change the landscape. Now he followed the trail of the ship and watched Morwin emerge.

  Fixing a tracer on the man, he primed several weapons systems.

  This is ridiculous, he decided. There must be somebody a man can trust.

  He observed Morwin's progress all the way to his gate, however; and followed him with a hover-globe that could pour fiery death in an instant.

  The space-armored figure halted and looked upward. Fracture lines crossed the globe. Malacar struck the recall button on his massive Weapons Console.

  A white light blinked, and he turned a dial, bringing in words and static:

  "I'm just here to say 'Hi,' sir. If you want me to go away, I will."

  He touched Broadcast.

  "No. Come on in. It's just the old precaution business."

  But he tracked Morwin every step of the way, feeding the movement patterns into his battle computer. He X-rayed him, weighed him, determined his heartbeat rate, blood pressure and electroencephalographic indices. He fed this data to another computer which analyzed it and routed it back to the battle computer.

  _Negative_, was the reading, as he had expected it to be.

  _Shind? What do you read?_

  _I would say that he is just stopping by to say "Hi," sir_.

  _Okay_.

  He opened the front gate of his fortress and the artist entered.

  Morwin moved into the massive front hail. He seated himself upon a drifting divan.

  Stripping, Malacar stepped into a screen of hazes that bathed him and shaved him as he passed. Moving to a closet, he dressed quickly, concealing only the ordinary weapons on his person.

  He tubed then to ground level and entered the main hall of his fortress.

  "Hello," he said. "How are you?"

  Morwin smiled.

  "Hello. WThat were you shooting at when I came down, sir?"

  "Ghosts."

  "Oh. Hit any?"

  "Never. --It's a pity that all Earth's vineyards are dead, but I still have a good supply of their squeezings. Would you care for some?"

  "That would be fine."

  Malacar crossed to a wine chest, poured two glasses, passed one to Morwin, who had followed him.

  "A toast to your health. Then dinner."

  "Thank you."

  They touched glasses.

  * * *

  He stood. He stretched. Better. Much better.

  He tested his legs, his arms. There were still painful spots, cramped muscles. These he massaged. He brushed at his clothing. He moved his head from side to side.

  Then he crossed the shed and peered out through its grimy window.

  The lengthening shadows. The end of day once again.

  He laughed.

  For an instant, a sad blue countenance seemed to swim before his sleep-spotted eyes.

  "Sorry," he said; and then he moved to sit upon a box while he waited for the night.

  He felt the power singing in his sores, and in a new, unhealed lesion which had occurred on the back of his right hand.

  It was good.

  * * *

  Deiling of Digla meditated, as was his custom, while awaiting the ringing of the tidal bell. His eyes half-lidded, he nodded, there on his balcony, not really seeing the ocean he faced.

  The event had been one for which his training in the priesthood had not really prepared him. He had never heard of a similar occurrence, but then it was an ancient and complicated religion wherein he held his ministry.

  It was inconceivable that the matter had not been called to the attention of the Names. Traditionally, the lighting was a galaxy-wide phenomenon.

  But the Names were strangely indifferent to the doings of their own shrines. Generally, the Name-bearers only communicated with one another on matters of worldscaping, in which nearly all of them engaged.

  Would it be impertinent for him to submit an inquiry to one of the Thirty-one Who Lived?

  Probably.

  But if they were truly unaware, they should be advised. Should they not?

  He pondered. For a long while, he pondered.

  Then, with the ringing of the tidal bell, he rose and sought the communications unit.

  * * *

  It was unfair, he decided. It was what he had wanted, and it was appropriate, so far as he was now concerned. But the intention had been lacking at the time of the act, and this took away a taste which would have been far sweeter upon his lips.

  He moved through the streets of Italbar. There were no lights. There was no movement beneath those blazing stars.

  He tore down a quarantine sign, stared at it, ripped it across. He let the pieces fall to the ground and walked on.

  He had wanted to come in the night, touching door handles with his wounds, running his hands along banisters, breaking into stores and spitting on food.

  Where were they now? Dead, evacuated, dying. The town bore no resemblance to what he had seen that first evening, from the hilltop, when his intentions had been far different.

  He regretted that he had been their agent of destruction by accident rather than by design.

  But there would be other Italbars--worlds, and worlds filled with Italbars.

  When he passed the corner where the boy had shaken his hand, he paused to cut himself a staff.

  When he passed the place where the man had offered him a lift, he spat.

  Having led a solitary life for so many years, he felt that he could see man's basic nature far, far better than those who had dwelled in cities all their lives. Seeing, he could judge.

  Clutching his staff, he passed out of the town and into the hills, the wind tumbling his h
air and beard, the stars of Italbar in his eyes.

  Smiling he went.

  * * *

  Malacar stretched his arsenal arms and legs and stifled a yawn.

  "More coffee, Mr. Morwin?"

  "Thank you, Commander."

  "... So, the CL is thinking of further hostilities and they want to use me as an excuse? Very good."

  "That's not exactly the way it was put to me, sir."

  "It amounts to the same thing."

  Too bad I cannot trust you, Malacar decided, even though you consider yourself trustworthy. You were a good Exec, and I always liked you. You artistic types are too unstable, though. You go where they buy your art. With that mindtrick of yours aimed at a fusion reactor we could do some good work together again. Too bad. Why don't you smoke that pipe I gave you?

  _He is thinking of it now_, said Shind.

  _What else is he thinking?_

  _Whatever the information I feared, it is not foremost in his mind. Or if it is, I do not recognize it as such_.

  "Mr. Morwin, there is a favor I would like to ask of you."

  "What is it, sir?"

  "It concerns those dream-globe things that you make ..."

  "Yes?"

  "I'd like you to make me one."

  "I'd be only too happy. But I don't have my equipment with me. If I had known you were interested, I could have brought the gear along. But--"

  "I understand, in principle, what it is that you do. I believe that my laboratory facilities would be sufficient for us to work something out."

  "There are the drugs, the telepathic linkage, the globe--"

  "--And I'm a doctor of medicine with a telepathic friend who can both receive and transmit thought-images. As for the globe, we should be able to manufacture one."

  "Well, I'll be glad to try."

  "Good. Why do we not begin this evening? Now, say?"

  "I have no objections. Had I known of your interest earlier, I would have offered to do it long ago."

  "I only thought of it recently, and the present seems a particularly appropriate time.

  So very, he reflected. And late.

  * * *

  He moved through the great rain forest of Cleech. He passed beside the River Bart. By boat, he traveled hundreds of miles along that watercourse, stopping at villages and small towns.

  By now, his appearance was indeed that of a holy outcast--somehow stronger and taller, with voice and eyes that could catch and draw the attention of crowds, his garments in tatters, hair and beard grown long and unkempt, body covered with countless sores, blotches, excrescences. He preached as he passed, and men listened.

  He cursed them. He told them of the violence that lay in their souls and of the capacity for evil which informed their beings. He spoke of their guilt, which cried out for judgment, announced that this judgment had been rendered. He stated that there is no such act as repentance, told them that the only thing remaining for them was to spend these final hours in the ordering of their affairs. None laughed as he said these words, though later many did. A few, however, moved to obey him.

  Thus tolling the Day of Annihilation, he moved from town to city, from city to metropolis; and his promise was always kept.

  The few who survived considered themselves, for some obscure reason, as the Chosen. Of What, they had no idea.

  * * *

  "I am ready," said Malacar, "to begin."

  "All right," Morwin agreed. "Let's."

  What the hell does he want with it? he asked himself. He was never especially introspective or aesthetically inclined in the old days. Now he wants a highly personalized work of art created for him. Could he have changed? No, I shouldn't think so. His taste in decorating this place was as abominable as ever, and nothing has changed since last I was here. He talks the same as he always did. His intentions, plans, desires seem unaltered. No. This has nothing to do with his sensibilities. What then?

  He watched Malacar inject a colorless fluid into his arm.

  "What is the drug you took?" he asked.

  "A mild sedative, somewhat hallucinogenic. It will be a few minutes before it takes effect."

  "But you haven't told me yet what thing I am to look for--to attempt to induce, if necessary--for the work."

  "I'm making it easier for you," Malacar told him, as they reclined upon their couches before the globe they had erected. "I will tell you--via Shind--when it is ready. Then all you will have to do is hit your controls and capture it, exactly the way that it is."

  "That would seem to imply a moderately strong element of consciousness on your part. This invariably interferes with the strength and clarity of the vision. That is why I prefer to use my own drugs, sir."

  "Don't worry. This will be strong and clear."

  "How long do you feel it will be before it occurs just as you would have it?"

  "Perhaps five minutes. It will come in a flash, but it will remain long enough for you to activate your controls and impose it."

  "I will try, sir."

  "You will succeed, Mr. Morwin. That is an order. It will be the most difficult one you have ever attempted, I am certain. But I want it--there, before me--when I awaken."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Why don't you relax for a while? Make whatever mental preparations you do?"

  "Yes, sir."

  _Shind?_

  _Yes, Commander. I am watching. He is still puzzled. He is wondering now why you want it and what it will be. Failing to arrive at any conclusions, he attempts to dismiss these questions for the moment. Soon he will know, he tells himself. He tries to relax, to follow your order, now. He is very tense. His palms perspire and he wipes them on his trousers. He regulates his breathing and his heartbeat. His mind becomes a more peaceful place. His surface thoughts diminish. Now! Now... He does a thing with his mind that I cannot follow, understand. I know that he is readying himself for the exercise of his special talent. Now he does indeed relax. He knows that he is ready. There is no tension in him. He allows himself the joy of reverie. Thoughts arise unbidden, vanish in like fashion. Wisps, rag-tails, highly personal, nothing strong_ ...

  _Continue to follow him_.

  _I do. Wait. Something, something_ ...

  _What is it?_

  _I do not know. The globe--something about the globe_ ...

  _This globe? The one we made?_

  _No, the globe seems only to have served as the stimulus, now that he is relaxing and there are free associations ... This globe ... No. it is another. Different_ ...

  _What is it like?_

  _Big, and with a backdrop of stars. Inside_ ...

  _What?_

  _A man. A dead man, but he moves. There is also much equipment. Medical equipment. The globe is a ship--his ship. _B Coli__ ...

  _Pels. The dead doctor. Pathologist. I've read some of his papers. What of him?_

  _Nothing to Morwin, for the thing is gone now from his mind, and the wispy thoughts have come again. But there was something there for me. --My dream-thing. The thing of which I warned you, the thing that I said he would bear--this is it, somehow. Or connected with it_.

  _I will find out_.

  _Not from Morwin, for he does not know. it is simply the fact that there is knowledge you will gain in connection with Pels, and that he has brought into your presence a thought of the dead doctor, which menaces you. I-- Commander, forgive me! I am the agent! Had I not told you of my dream of weeks ago, discerned its key just now and told you of this, also, there would be no danger. The way to trouble is through Pels, not Morwin. Better I had remained completely silent. --Simply avoid anything connected with the dead doctor_.

  _Strange. A very strange twisting. But we have uncovered the information we desired. We can deal with it later. Let us get on with the "dream_."

  _Wait. Let there be no later. Dismiss Pels from your thinking and never recall him_.

  _Not now, Shind. Now you must help me seek through your brother's memories_.

  _Very well. I will assist
you. But_--

  _Now, Shind_.

  Then he was there again, moving along aisles of that library, the brother-thing's mind. In it, everything the creature had experienced, from vague pre-birth feelings through present awareness, lay before him. He sought the sad, sore spot he had come upon earlier. Locating it, he drew nearer. Shaken, at the pain-death-fear nightmare-place, he forced himself to bore deep within it. It was a dream Tuv had had earlier, but the preservative quality of the memory made it hang there, like all the others, in the gallery of his agony. It was a corkscrew-twisted blot, with two streamers like writhing legs, the whole penetrated by spark-lines, as from the tail of a green comet; there was a faint lightening near its bottom, featuring a vague, facelike area--suggesting no creature Malacar had ever known--the horrid face-place, lying at that instant between life and death, red tears emerging in all directions therefrom, falling into the blot and beyond, into a faintly silver landscape of crystal or of thin-flamed silver fire. Into the center of this thing, from out his own memory on such matters, Malacar cast the main stat-map of the CL, each sun so faint--like cells in a dying body! The whole took but an instant, and Malacar said, _Now, Shind!_ and heard Morwin scream. But he also heard the jets come alive.

  He realized then that he was screaming too; and he continued to, until Shind pulled him out. Then blackness, like lightning, struck him.

  * * *

  The world called Cleech fell away at his back. Within a matter of hours, he would be outside that small system and able to enter subspace. He turned from the console and fetched a long, slim cigar from a supply he had taken from the dead man's counter, there in the dead men's space port.

  It had been much faster this time, had gone through a larger area almost immediately. What had it been? He had not even recognized the condition. Could it be that he had somehow become a breeding place for new diseases?

  He lit the cigar and smiled.

  His tongue was black and the sclerae of his eyes had grown yellowish. Very little healthy tissue was now visible upon him. He had become a discolored mass of sores and swellings.

  He chuckled and puffed smoke until his eyes fell upon his reflection in the dampened screen to his left.

  Then he stopped chuckling and the smile went away. He put the cigar aside and leaned forward, studying his face. It was the first time he had seen it since-- How long ago? Where? Italbar, of course. Where it had all started.