Then do the big insurance associations investigate, and they finally sigh and reimburse the lien-holders.
. . . And the freighters make it to market ahead of schedule, because there is less to dismantle and march-order and ship.
Time is saved, commitments are met in advance, a better price is generally obtained, and a head start on the next worlds worth is supplied in this manner.
All of which is nice.
Except for the insurance associations.
But what can happen to a transitory New York full of heavy equipment?
Well, some call it sabotage.
. . . Some call it mass-murder.
. . . Unsanctioned war.
. . . Corgo's lightning
But it is written that it is better to burn one city than to curse the darkness.
Corgo did not curse the darkness.
. . . Many times.
The day they came together on Dombeck, Benedick held forth his hand, smiled, said: "Mister Sandor . . ."
As his hand was shaken, his smile reversed itself. Then it went away from his face. He was shaking an artificial hand.
Sandor nodded, dropped his eyes.
Benedick turned to the big man with the eyepatch.
". . . And you are the Lynx?"
"That is correct, my brother. You must excuse me if I do not shake hands. It is against my religion. I believe that life does not require reassurance as to its oneness."
"Of course," said Benedick. "I once knew a man from Dombeck. He was a gnil smuggler, named Worten Wortan-"
"He is gone to join the Great Flame," said the Lynx.
"That is to say, he is dead now. ICI apprehended him two years ago. He passed to Flame while attempting to escape restraint."
"Really?" said Benedick. "He was at one time a gnil addict himself-"
"I know. I read his file in connection with another case."
"Dombeck is full of gnil smugglers"-Sandor.
"Oh. Well, then let us talk of this man Corgo."
"Yes"-the Lynx.
"Yes"-Sandor.
"The ICI man told me that many insurance associations have lodged protests with their Interstel representatives."
"That is true"-Lynx.
"Yes"-Sandor, biting his lip. "Do you gentlemen mind if I remove my legs?"
"Not at all"-the Lynx. "We are co-workers, and informality should govern our gatherings."
"Please do," said Benedick.
Sandor leaned forward in his chair and pressed the coupling controls. There followed two thumps from beneath his desk. He leaned back then and surveyed his shelves of globes.
"Do they cause you pain?" asked Benedick.
"Yes-"-Sandor.
"Were you in an accident?"
"Birth"-Sandor.
The Lynx raised a decanter of brownish liquid to the light. He stared through it.
"It is a local brandy"-Sandor. "Quite good. Some-what like the xmili of Bandia, only nonaddictive. Have some."
The Lynx did, keeping it in front of him all that evening.
"Corgo is a destroyer of property," said Benedick.
Sandor nodded.
". , . And a defrauder of insurance associations, a defacer of planetary bodies, a deserter from the Guard-"
"A murderer"-Sandor.
". . . And a zoophilist," finished Benedick.
"Aye"-the Lynx, smacking his lips.
"So great an offender against public tranquility is he that he must be found."
". . . And passed back through the Flame for purification and rebirth."
"Yes, we must locate him and kill him," said Benedick.
"The two pieces of equipment . . . Are they present?"-the Lynx.
"Yes, the phase-wave is in the next room."
". . . And?" asked Benedick.
"The other item is in the bottom drawer of this desk, right side."
"Then why do we not begin now?"
"Yes. Why not now?"-the Lynx.
"Very well"-Sandor. "One of you will have to open the drawer, though. It is in the brown-glass jar, to the back."
"I'll get it," said Benedick.
A great sob escaped him after a time, as he sat there with rows of worlds at his back, tears on his cheeks, and Corgo's heart clutched in his hands.
"It is cold and dim. . . "
"Where?"-the Lynx.
"It is a small place. A room? Cabin? Instrument panels ... A humming sound . . . Cold, and crazy angles everywhere . . . Vibration . . . Hurt!"
"What is he doing?"-Sandor.
". . . Sitting, half-lying-a couch, webbed, about him. Furry one at his side, sleeping. Twisted-angles-everything-wrong. Hurt!"
"The Wallaby, in transit-Lynx.
"Where is he going?"-Sandor.
"HURT!" shouted Benedick.
Sandor dropped the heart into his lap.
He began to shiver. He wiped at his eyes with the backs of his hands.
"I have a headache," he announced.
"Have a drink"-Lynx.
He gulped one, sipped the second.
"Where was I?"
The Lynx raised his shoulders and let them fall.
"The Wallaby was fast-phasing somewhere, and Corgo was in phase-sleep. It is a disturbing sensation to fast-phase while fully conscious. Distance and duration grow distorted. You found him at a bad time-while under sedation and subject to continuum-impact. Perhaps tomorrow will be better. . . ."
"I hope so."
"Yes, tomorrow"-Sandor.
"Tomorrow . . . Yes.
"There was one other thing/' he added, "a thing in his mind . . . There was a sun where there was no sun before."
"A burn-job?"-Lynx.
"Yes."
"A memory?"-Sandor.
"No. He is on his way to do it."
The Lynx stood.
"I will phase-wave ICI and advise them. They can check which worlds are presently being mined. Have you any ideas how soon?"
"No, I can not tell that."
"What did the globe look like? What continental configurations?"-Sandor.
"None. The thought was not that specific. His mind was drifting-mainly filled with hate."
"I'll call in now-and we'll try again. . . . ?"
"Tomorrow. I'm tired now."
"Go to bed then. Rest."
"Yes, I can do that. . . .'"
"Good night. Mister Benedict."
"Good night. . . ."
"Sleep in the heart of the Great Flame."
"I hope not. . . ."
Mala whimpered and moved nearer her Corgo, for she was dreaming an evil dream: They were back on the great snowfield of Brild, and she was trying to help him-to walk, to move forward. He kept slipping though, and lying there longer each time, and rising more slowly each time and moving ahead at an even slower pace, each time. He tried to kindle a fire, but the snow-devils spun and toppled like icicles falling from the seven moons, and the dancing green flames died as soon as they were born from between his hands.
Finally, on the top of a mountain of ice she saw them.
There were three . . .
They were clothed from head to toe in flame; their burning heads turned and turned and turned; and then one bent and sniffed at the ground, rose, and indicated their direction. Then they were racing down the hillside, trailing flames, melting a pathway as they came, springing over drifts and ridges of ice, their arms extended before them.
Silent they came, pausing only as the one sniffed the air, the ground. . . .
She could hear their breathing now, feel their heat.
In a matter of moments they would arrive....
Mala whimpered and moved nearer her Corgo.
For three days Benedick tried, clutching Corgo's heart like a Gypsy's crystal, watering it with his tears, squeezing almost to life again. His head ached for hours after, each time that he met the continuum-impact. He wept long, moist tears for hours beyond contact, which was unusual. He had always withdrawn from immediate pain before;
remembered distress was his forte, and a different matter altogether.
He hurt each time that he touched Corgo and his mind was sucked down through that subway in the sky; and he touched Corgo eleven times during those three days, and then his power went away, really.
Seated, like a lump of dark metal on the hull of the Wallaby, he stared across six hundred miles at the blazing hearth which he had stoked to steel-tempering heights; and he felt Like a piece of metal, resting there upon an anvil, waiting for the hammer to fall again, as it always did, waiting for it to strike him again and again, and to beat him to a new toughness, to smash away more and more of that within him which was base, of that which knew pity, remorse, and guilt, again and again and again, and to leave only that hard, hard form of hate, like an iron boot, which lived at the core of the lump, himself, and required constant hammering and heat.
Sweating as he watched, smiling, Corgo took pictures.
When one of the nineteen known paranorms in the one hundred forty-nine inhabited worlds in the galaxy suddenly loses his powers, and loses them at a crucial moment, it is like unto the old tales wherein a Princess is stricken one day with an unknown malady and the King, her father, summons all his wise men and calls for the best physicians in the realm.
Big Daddy ICI (Rex ex machina-like.} did, in similar manner, summon wise men and counselors from various Thinkomats and think-repair shops about the galaxy, including Interstel University, on Earth itself. But alas! While all had a diagnosis none had on hand any suggestions which were immediately acceptable to all parties concerned:
"Bombard his thalamus with Beta particles."
"Hypno-regression to the womb, and restoration at a pretraumatic point in his life."
"More continuum-impact."
"Six weeks on a pleasure satellite, and two aspirins every four hours."
"There is an old operation called a lobotomy. . . ."
"Lots of liquids and green leafy vegetables."
"Hire another paranorm."
For one reason or another, the principal balked at all of these courses of action, and the final one was impossible at the moment. In the end, the matter was settled neatly by Sander's nurse Miss Barbara, who happened onto the veranda one afternoon as Benedick sat there fanning himself and drinking xmili.
"Why Mister Benedict!" she announced, plopping her matronly self into the chair opposite him and spiking her redlonade with three fingers of xmili. "Fancy meeting you out here! I thought you were in the library with the boys, working on that top secret hush-hush critical project called Wallaby Stew, or something."
"As you can see, I am not," he said, staring at his knees.
"Well, it's nice just to pass the time of day sometimes, too. To sit. To relax. To rest from the hunting of Victor Corgo . . ."
"Please, you're not supposed to know about the project. It's top secret and critical-"
"And hush-hush too, I know. Dear Sandor talks in his sleep every night-so much. You see, I tuck him in each evening and sit there until he drifts away to dreamland, poor child."
"Mm, yes. Please don't talk about the project, though."
"Why? Isn't it going well?"
"No!"
"Why not?"
"Because of me, if you must know! I've got a block of some kind. The power doesn't come when I call it."
"Oh, how distressing! You mean you can't peep into other persons' minds any more?"
"Exactly."
"Dear me. Well, let's talk about something else then. Did I ever tell you about the days when I was the highest-paid courtesan on Sordido V?"
Benedick's head turned slowly in her direction.
"Nooo . . ." he said. "You mean the Sordido?"
"Oh yes. Bright Bad Barby, the Bouncing Baby, they used to call me. They still sing ballads, you know."
"Yes, I've heard them. Many verses. . . ."
"Have another drink, I once had a coin struck in my image, you know. It's a collectors' item now, of course. Full-length pose, flesh-colored. Here, I wear it on this chain around my neck-Lean closer, it's a short chain?"
"Very-interesting. Uh, how did all this come about?"
"Well-it all began with old Pruria Van Teste, the banker, of the export-import Testes. You see, he had this thing going for synthofemmes for a long while, but when he started getting up there in years he felt there was something he'd been missing. So, one fine day, he sent me ten dozen Hravian orchids and a diamond garter, along with an invitation to have dinner with him . ."
"You accepted, of course?"
"Naturally not. Not the first time, anyway. I could see that he was pretty damn eager."
"Well, what happened?"
"Wait till I fix another redlonade."
Later that afternoon, the Lynx wandered out into the veranda during the course of his meditations. He saw there Miss Barbara, with Benedick seated beside her, weeping.
"What troubles thy tranquility, my brother?" he inquired.
"Nothing! Nothing at all! It is wonderful and beautiful, everything! My power has come back-I can feel it!" He wiped his eyes on his sleeve.
"Bless thee, little lady!" said the Lynx, seizing Miss Barbara's hand. "Thy simple counsels have done more to heal my brother than have all these highly-paid medical practitioners brought here at great expense. Virtue lies in thy homely words, and thou art most beloved of the Flame."
"Thank you, I'm sure."
"Come brother, let us away to our task again!"
"Yes, let us!-Oh thank you, Bright Barby!"
"Don't mention it."
Benedick's eyes clouded immediately, as he took the tattered blood-pump into his hands. He leaned back, stroking it, and moist spots formed on either side of his nose, grew like well-fed amoebas, underwent mitosis, and dashed off to explore in the vicinity of his shelf-like upper lip.
He sighed once, deeply.
"Yes, I am there."
He blinked, licked his lips.
". . . It is night. Late. It is a primitive dwelling. Mud-like stucco, bits of straw in it ... All lights out, but for the one from the machine, and its spillage-"
"Machine?"-Lynx.
"What machine?"-Sandor.
". . . Projector. Pictures on wall . . . World-big, filling whole picture-field-patches of fire on the world, up near the top. Three places-"
"Bhave VII!"-Lynx. "Six days ago!"
"Shoreline to the right goes like this . . . And to the left, like this. . . ."
His right index finger traced patterns in the air.
"Bhave VII"-Sandor.
"Happy and not happy at the same time-hard to separate the two. Guilt, though, is there-but pleasure with it. Revenge. . . . Hate people, humans . . . We adjust the projector now, stop it at a flare-up-Bright! How good!-Oh good! That will teach them!-Teach them to grab away what belongs to others ... To murder a race!-The generator is humming. It is ancient, and it smells bad. . . . The dog is lying on our foot. The foot is asleep, but we do not want to disturb the dog, for it is Mala's favorite thing-her only toy, companion, living doll, four-footed. . . . She is scratching behind its ear with her forelimb, and it loves her. Light leaks down upon them. . . . Clear they are. The breeze is warm, very, which is why we are unshirted. It stirs the tasseled hanging. . . . No force-field or windowpane . . . Insects buzz by the projector-pterodactyl silhouettes on the burning world-"
"What kind of insects ?"-Lynx.
"Can you see what is beyond the window?"-Sandor.
". . . Outside are trees-short ones-just outlines, squat. Can't tell where trunks begin . . . Foliage too thick, too close. Too dark out-Off in the distance a tiny moon . . . Something like this on a hill . . ." His hands shaped a turnip impaled on an obelisk. "Not sure how far off, how large, what color, or what made of . . ."
"Is the name of the place in Corgo's mind?"-Lynx.
"If I could touch him, with my hand, I would know it, know everything. Only receive impressions this way, though-surface thoughts. He is not thinking of where he is now.
. . . The dog rolls onto its back and off of our foot-at last! She scratches its tummy, my love dark . . . It kicks with its hind leg as if scratching after a flea-wags its tail. Dilk is puppy's name. She gave if that name, loves it ... It is like one of hers. Which was murdered. Hate people-humans. She is people. Better than . . . Doesn't butcher that which breathes for selfish gain, for Interstel. Better than people, my pony-friends, better ... An insect lights on Dilk's nose. She brushes it away. Segmented, two sets of wings, about five millimeters in length, pink globe on front end, bulbous, and buzzes as it goes, the insect-you asked . . ."
The Furies Page 2
