"How many entrances are there to the place?"-Lynx.
"Two. One doorway at each end of the hut."
"How many windows?"
"Two. On opposing walls-the ones without doors. I can't see anything through the other window-too dark on that side."
"Anything else?"
"On the wall a sword-long hilt, very long, two-handed-even longer maybe-three? four?-short blades, though, two of them-hilt is in the middle-and each blade is straight, double-edged, forearm-length . . . Beside it, a mask of-flowers? Too dark to tell. The blades shine; the mask is dull. Looks like flowers, though. Many little ones. . . . Four sides to the mask, shaped like a kite, big end down. Can't make out features. It projects fairly far out from the wall, though. Mala is restless. Probably doesn't like the pictures-or maybe doesn't see them and is bored. Her eyes are different. She nuzzles our shoulder now. We pour her a drink in her bowl. Take another one ourself. She doesn't drink hers. We stare at her. She drops her head and drinks.-Dirt floor under our sandals, hard-packed. Many tiny white-pebbles?-in it, powdery-like. The table is wood, natural . . . The generator sputters. The picture fades, comes back. We rub our chin. Need a shave . . . The hell with it! We're not standing any inspections! Drink-one, two-all gone! Another!"
Sandor had threaded a tape into his viewer, and he was spinning it and stopping it, spinning it and stopping it, spinning it and stopping it. He checked his worlds chronometer.
"Outside," he asked, "does the moon seem to be moving up, or down, or across the sky?"
"Across."
"Right to left, or left to right?"
"Right to left. It seems about a quarter past zenith."
"Any coloration to it?"
"Orange, with three black lines. One starts at about eleven o'clock, crosses a quarter of its surface, drops straight down, cuts back at seven. The other starts at two, drops to six. They don't meet. The third is a small upside-down letter 'c'-lower right quarter . . . Not big, the moon, but clear, very. No clouds."
"Any constellations you can make out?"-Lynx.
". . . Head isn't turned that way now, wasn't turned toward the window long enough. Now there is a noise, far off ... A high-pitched chattering, almost metallic. Animal. He pictures a six-legged tree creature, half the size of a man, reddish-brown hair, sparse ... It can go on two, four, or six legs on the ground. Doesn't go down on the ground much, though. Nests high. An egg-layer.
Many teeth. Eats flesh. Small eyes, and black-two. Great nose-holes. Pesty, but not dangerous to men-easily frightened."
"He is on Disten, the fifth world of Blake's System," said Sandor. "Night-side means he is on the continent Didenlan. The moon Babry, well past zenith now, means he is to the east. A Mellar-mosque indicates a Mella-Muslim settlement. The blade and the mask seem Hortanian. I am sure they were brought from further inland. The chalky deposits would set him in the vicinity of Landear, which is Mella-Muslim. It is on the Dista River, north bank. There is much jungle about. Even those people who wish seclusion seldom go further than eight miles from the center of town-population 153,000-and it is least settled to the northwest, because of the hills, the rocks, and-"
"Fine! That's where he is then!"-Lynx. "Now here is how we'll do it. He has, of course, been sentenced to death. I believe-yes, I know!-there is an ICI Field Office on the second world-whatever its name-of that System."
"Nirer"-Sandor.
"Yes. Hmm, let's see . . . Two agents will be empowered as executioners. They will land their ship to the northwest of Landear, enter the city, and find where the man with the strange four-legged pet settled, the one who arrived within the past six days. Then one agent will enter the hut and ascertain whether Corgo is within. He will retreat immediately if Corgo is present, signaling to the other who will be hidden behind those trees or whatever. The second man will then fire a round of fragmentation plaster through the unguarded window. One agent will then position himself at a safe distance beyond the northeast corner of the edifice, so as to cover a door and a window. The other will move to the southwest, to do the same. Each will carry a two-hundred channel laser sub-gun with vibrating head.-Good! I'll phase-wase it to Central now. We've got him!"
He hurried from the room.
Benedick, still holding the thing, his shirt-front soaking, continued;
" 'Fear not, my lady dark. He is but a puppy, and he howls at the moon. . . .'"
It was thirty-one hours and twenty minutes later when the Lynx received and decoded the two terse statements:
EXECUTIONERS THE WAY OF ALL FLESH.
THE WALLABY HAS JUMPED AGAIN.
He licked his lips. His comrades were waiting for the report, and they had succeeded-they had done their part, had performed efficiently and well. It was the Lynx who had missed his kill.
He made the sign of the Flame and entered the library.
Benedick knew-Jig could tell. The little paranorm's hands were on his walking stick, and that was enough-Just that.
The Lynx bowed his head.
"We begin again," he told them.
Benedick's powers-if anything, stronger than ever-survived continuum-impact seven more times. Then he described a new world: Big it was, and many-peopled-bright-dazzling, under a blue-white sun; yellow brick everywhere, neo-Denebian architecture, greenglass windows, a purple sea nearby. . .
No trick at all for Sandor:
"Phillip's World," he named it, then told them the city; "Delles."
"This time we burn him," said the Lynx, and he was gone from the room.
"Christian-Zoroastrians," sighed Benedick, after he had left. "I think this one has a Flame-complex."
Sandor spun the globe with his left hand and watched it turn.
"I'm not preconning," said Benedick, "but I'll give you odds, like three to one-on Corgo's escaping again.
"Why?"
"When he abandoned humanity he became something less, and more. He is not ready to die."
"What do you mean?"
"I hold his heart. He gave it up, in all ways. He is invincible now. But he will reclaim it one day. Then he will die."
"How do you know?"
"... A feeling. There are many types of doctors, among them pathologists. No less than others, they, but masters only of blackness. I know people, have known many. I do not pretend to know all about them. But weaknesses-yes, those I know."
Sandor turned his globe and did not say anything.
But they did burn the Wallaby, badly.
He lived, though.
He lived, cursing.
As he lay there in the gutter, the world burning, exploding, falling down around him, he cursed that world and every other, and everything in them.
Then there was another burst.
Blackness followed.
The double-bladed Hortanian sword, spinning in the hands of Corgo, had halved the first ICI executioner as he stood in the doorway. Mala had detected their approach across the breezes, through the open window.
The second had fallen before the fragmentation plaster could be launched. Corgo had a laser sub-gun himself, Guard issue, and he cut the man down, firing through the wall and two trees in the direction Mala indicated.
Then the Wallaby left Disten.
But he was troubled. How had they found him so quickly? He had had close brushes with them before-many of them, over the years. But he was cautious, and he could not see where he had failed this time, could not understand how Interstel had located him. Even his last employer did not know his whereabouts.
He shook his head and phased for Phillip's world.
To die is to sleep and not to dream, and Corgo did not want this. He took elaborate pains, in-phasing and out-phasing in random directions; he gave Mala a golden collar with a two-way radio in its clasp, wore its mate within his death-ring; he converted much currency, left the Wallaby in the care of a reputable smuggler in Unassociated Territory and crossed Phillip's World to Delles-by-the-Sea. He was fond of sailing, and he liked the purple waters of th
is planet. He rented a large villa near the Delles Dives-slums to the one side, Riviera to the other. This pleased him. He still had dreams; he was not dead yet.
Sleeping, perhaps, he had heard a sound. Then he was suddenly seated on the side of his bed, a handful of death in his hand.
"Mala?"
She was gone. The sound he'd heard had been the closing of a door.
He activated the radio.
"What is it?" he demanded.
"I have the feeling we are watched again," she replied, through his ring. ". . . Only a feeling, though."
Her voice was distant, tiny.
"Why did you not tell me? Come back-now."
"No. I match the night and can move without sound. I will investigate. There is something, if I have fear. . . . Arm yourself!"
He did that, and as he moved toward the front of the house they struck. He ran. As he passed through the front door they struck again, and again. There was an inferno at his back, and a steady rain of plaster, metal, wood and glass was falling. Then there was an inferno around him.
They were above him. This time they had been cautioned not to close with him, but to strike from a distance. This time they hovered high in a shielded globe and poured down hot rivers of destruction.
Something struck him in the head and the shoulder. He fell, turning. He was struck in the chest, the stomach. He covered his face and rolled, tried to rise, failed. He was lost in a forest of flames. He got into a crouch, ran, fell again, rose once more, ran, fell again, crawled, fell again.
As he lay there in the gutter, the world burning, exploding, falling down around him he cursed that world and every other, and everyone in them.
Then there was another burst.
Blackness followed.
They thought they had succeeded, and their joy was great.
"Nothing," Benedick had said, smiling through his tears.
So that day they celebrated, and the next. But Corgo's body had not been recovered. Almost half a block had been hurled down, though, and eleven other residents could not be located either, so it seemed safe to assume that the execution had succeeded. ICI, however, requested that the trio remain together on Dombeck for another ten days, while further investigations were carried out.
Benedick laughed.
"Nothing," he repeated. "Nothing."
But there is a funny thing about a man without a heart:
His body does not live by the same rules as those of others: No. The egg in his chest is smarter than a mere heart, and it is the center of a wonderful communications system. Dead itself, it is omniscient in terms of that which lives around it; it is not omnipotent, but it has resources which a living heart does not command.
As the burn and lacerations were flashed upon the screen of the body, it sat in instant criticism. It moved itself to an emergency level of function; it became a flag vibrating within a hurricane, the glands responded and poured forth their juices of power; muscles were activated as if by electricity.
Corgo was only half-aware of the inhuman speed with which he moved through the storm of heat and the hail of building materials. It tore at him, but this pain was canceled. His massive output jammed nonessential neural input. He made it as far as the street and collapsed in the shelter of the curb.
The egg took stock of the cost of the action, decided the price had been excessively high, and employed immediate measures to insure the investment.
Down, down did it send him. Into the depths of sub-coma. Standard-model humans cannot decide one day that they wish to hibernate, lie down, do it. The physicians can induce dauersch-laff-with combinations of drugs and elaborate machineries. But Corgo did not need these things. He had a built-in survival kit with a mind of its own; and it decided that he must go deeper than the mere coma-level that a heart would have permitted. So it did the things a heart cannot do, while maintaining its own functions.
It hurled him into the blackness of sleep without dreams, of total unawareness. For only at the border of death itself could his life be retained, be strengthened, grow again. To approach this near the realm of death, its semblance was necessary.
Therefore, Corgo lay dead in the gutter.
People, of course, flock to the scene of any disaster.
Those from the Riviera pause to dress in their best catastrophe clothing. Those from the slums do not, because their wardrobes are not as extensive.
One though, was dressed already and was passing nearby. "Zim" was what he was called, for obvious reasons. He had had another name once, but he had all but forgotten it.
He was staggering home from the zimlak parlor where he had cashed his Guard pension check for that month-cycle.
There was an explosion, but it was seconds before he realized it. Muttering, he stopped and turned very slowly in the direction of the noise. Then he saw the flames. He looked up, saw the hoverglobe. A memory appeared within his mind and he winced and continued to watch.
After a time he saw the man, moving at a fantastic pace across the landscape of Hell. The man fell in the street. There was more burning, and then the globe departed.
The impressions finally registered, and his disaster-reflex made him approach.
Indelible synapses, burnt into his brain long ago, summoned up page after page of The Complete Guard Field Manual of Immediate Medical Actions. He knelt beside the body, red with burn, blood and firelight.
". . . Captain," he said, as he stared into the angular face with the closed dark eyes. "Captain . .."
He covered his own face with his hands and they came away wet.
"Neighbors. Here. Us. Didn't-know . . ." He listened for a heartbeat, but there was nothing that he could detect. "Fallen ... On the deck my Captain lies . . . Fallen . . . cold . . . dead. Us. Neighbors, even . . ."
His sob was a Jagged thing, until he was seized with a spell of hiccups. Then he steadied his hands and raised an eyelid.
Corgo's head jerked two inches to his left, away from the brightness of the flames.
The man laughed in relief.
"You're alive. Cap! You're still alive!"
The thing that was Corgo did not reply.
Bending, straining, he raised the body.
"'Do not move the victim'-that's what it says in the Manual. But you're coming with me. Cap. I remember now. ... It was after I left. But I remember . . . All. Now I remember; I do ... Yes. They'll kill you another time-if you do live. . . . They will; I know. So I'll have to move the victim. Have to ... -Wish I wasn't so fogged . . . I'm sorry. Cap. You were always good, to the men, good to me. Ran a tight ship, but you were good . . . Old Wallaby, happy . . . Yes. We'll go now, killer. Fast as we can. Before the Morbs come.-Yes. I remember . . . you. Good man, Cap. Yes."
So, the Wallaby had made its last jump, according to the ICI investigation which followed. But Corgo still dwelled on the dreamless border, and the seeds and the egg held his life.
After the ten days had passed, the Lynx and Benedick still remained with Sandor. Sandor was not anxious for them to go. He had never been employed before; he liked the feeling of having co-workers about, persons who shared memories of things done. Benedick was loathe to leave Miss Barbara, one of the few persons he could talk to and have answer him, willingly. The Lynx liked the food and the climate, decided his wives and grandchildren could use a vacation.
So they stayed on.
Returning from death is a deadly slow business. Reality does the dance of the veils, and it is a long while before you know what lies beneath them all (if you ever really do).
When Corgo had formed a rough idea, he cried out:
"Mala!"
. . . The darkness.
Then he saw a face out of times gone by.
"Sergeant Emil . . . ?"
"Yes, sir. Right here, Captain."
"Where am I?"
"My hutch, sir. Yours got burnt out."
The Furies Page 3
