“And during the Atheist Wars,” Javik said. “He deserves his own command, General . . . somewhere in the galaxy.”
“All right,” Munoz agreed. ‘Take care of it, Allen.” Munoz furrowed his brow, faced Javik. “Keep your cappy friend out of the way during the flight. Give him innocuous little tasks—”
“He’s in command, General,” Javik said, smiling.
“You know what I mean. Common sense must prevail.”
“Right, General. Boy, this is the damnedest mission I’ve ever seen!”
“We’re depending on you, Lieutenant Javik. We can’t use remote-control pilotry on a deep space mission of this importance. If we had an equipment malfunction, with a meteor storm in the way . . . why, remote repairs by signal from Earth would be impossible.”
“I know,” Javik said. “One more thing—I’ll need papers to get Malloy free on Saint Elba.”
“You’ll have them,” Munoz said, glancing at his adjutant.
“I want them signed by you, General,” Javik said. “Not by an aide.” Javik smiled viciously in Peebles’s direction and saw his comment hit home as Peebles’s eyes flashed angrily.
Slipping into his unspoken conversation mode, Munoz mentoed to Peebles: We must cooperate, don’t you see? I have to send Malloy, and this Javik knows him best. . . . THE MISSION MUST GO SMOOTHLY! Munoz sighed deeply. “Very well,” he said. “Prepare the papers for my signature, Allen.”
Peebles rolled to a corner desk and began to prepare the forms.
“And give me something to get into Therapy Detention right now,” Javik said, throwing the words at Peebles as if they were a command. “I’m going over to see Sid. It’s less than a block away.”
Peebles’s gaze met that of Munoz.
Munoz nodded. “Don’t say anything to Malloy now about his captain’s commission. Be discreet, Javik. We don’t want word of this getting out.” Munoz pressed a set of Lieutenant’s bars into Javik’s palm.
“Yes sir.”
Presently, the forms were prepared and signed. As Javik took them, Munoz said: “Report to Conditioning by thirteen hundred hours, Lieutenant Javik. Room C five-thirty-four.”
Javik saluted and rolled toward the door.
Looking at Peebles, General Munoz mentoed: Is the Madame ready?
Almost. Peebles smiled his characteristically cruel smile. Hudson told them to sharpen her knives.
Good. She will have two heads to sever!
* * *
“We must imagine now,” Sayer Superior Lin-Ti said, “for we have no record of what happened in the Realm of Magic, except so far as they spoke to humans.”
Lin-Ti closed his eyes. “Picture a realm far across the galaxy, with no land or water mass, populated by bodiless beings. They were at a party, and from all around came the sounds of laughter and merriment. For this was a comet party—a real event at which all the citizens of the realm watched while the fleshcarriers learned their lesson.
“ ‘Ha!’ one said. That fool Malloy is captain of their ship, He’ll find a way to botch the mission. Mark my words!”
“ ‘Right,’ another said. ‘He’ll take some ‘heroic’ action to blow their pitiful little plan. Ah, but we have chosen him well—a nobody with delusions of grandeur!’
“Other beings spoke of similar matters,” Lin-Ti said, “and all agreed they had selected a delightful way to have fun. These beings were not malicious: they just wanted to have a good time. . . . ”
* * *
Lastsayer Steven paced the hallway nervously outside Onesayer’s suite. Almost eleven, he thought. Could Onesayer have forgotten my first audience with the Master?
He mentoed Onesayer’s doorbuzzer, watched the button go in and then return as the chime sounded. There was no answer.
Lastsayer turned dejectedly to leave, considered going to the audience alone. Dare I? he wondered. He rolled partway down the hall toward the elevator bank.
“Lastsayer!” a boisterous voice called out. “Do come back!”
“Lastsayer turned, saw Onesayer Edward peeking around the corner of the doorjamb with a silly leer on his face. He wore no hood, exposing the shaved head of the Sayerhood.
Lastsayer began rolling back. “Onesayer!” he said. “It is three minutes before the hour!”
“So it is. So it is.” Onesayer motioned with one hand. “Come in for a moment. I must tidy up before we go.”
Thinking that Onesayer’s voice sounded odd, Lastsayer arrived at the doorway with an excited protest: “But we will be late!”
“Don’t worry about it. The Master can’t tell time.”
“What?”
Onesayer smiled as he said, “I was just kidding. I’ll explain our lateness to him. He won’t blame you.” Onesayer short-stepped to one side, motioned for the other man to enter.
Stunned, Lastsayer looked up at the taller Onesayer. “You used apostrophic words!” Lastsayer said.
“What? Oh yes. You’re . . . uh . . . you are quite correct. Thank you for pointing that out to me.”
Lastsayer touched his onyx ring to Onesayer’s as he rolled into the suite. “Peace be upon you,” Lastsayer said.
Onesayer returned the blessing, fumbled in his pocket for something.
“You Took tired,” Lastsayer said, noting faint lines around Onesayer’s large olive eyes. “And you do not sound the same.”
Onesayer laughed as he rolled through the foyer into the dining area. “I was doing my Uncle Rosy impressions before you arrived. Guess I lost track of my own voice.”
“Is that permitted?” Lastsayer looked around the dining room module, noted Greek urns on a blue slate floor. A long marble dining table in the center of the room was bathed in sunlight from an overhead solar relay panel. Somewhere, in another room, a bird chirped.
“I found no specific rule prohibiting it in the Sayers’ Manual,” Onesayer said, using the full resonant tone of Uncle Rosy.
Frowning uneasily, Lastsayer said, “I feel out of place asking this, but are you well?”
“Of course I am well! A couple of Happy Pills, no more!”
“Forgive me for asking, Onesayer.”
“All is forgiven! Now relax and listen to my impression. Fivesayer says it is very good.”
“I do not believe we have time. The audience with . . .”
But Onesayer was not listening. He clasped both hands in front of his waist in a very dignified fashion and said in the tone of Uncle Rosy, “You have much to learn, Onesayer Edward. You understand it will be a while before I step down and allow you to become Master . . . all the details remaining to resolve. . . . ” He paused and looked fully into the smooth face of the younger sayerman. Lastsayer stared back with a worried expression. “Pretty good, eh?” Onesayer asked, in his own voice.
“I have only heard tapes. I was hoping to meet the Master in person this morning.”
Onesayer smiled. “A bit of sarcasm! I like the way you think, youngsayer! I like the way you think!”
“Thank you, Onesayer. Now can we—”
“Is something else bothering you, Lastsayer? Other than being a few minutes late?”
“Since you ask, I’m disturbed . . . better to say concerned . . . at the way you mimic the Master.”
Onesayer’s tone became decidedly hostile. “Oh you are, are you?” He moto-shoed toward a side doorway, paused to glare back at Lastsayer.
“It occurs to me that Uncle Rosy should be informed of this, Onesayer. A strict interpretation of the Sayerman’s Code of Ethics. . . . ”
“Hang the code!”
“This might be a test, Onesayer. A test of my loyalty. How am I to know?”
“Inform him, then!” Onesayer yelled. He rolled through the doorway to another room, calling back, “Inform away!”
Lastsayer followed and caught up with the elder sayerman in the living room module, a bright room with deep blue shag carpeting and throw pillow furniture. “Wait, Onesayer. I have not yet had my first audience with the Master! I
will not say anything because I do not feel qualified to make judgments yet.”
“You have much to learn, Lastsayer,” Onesayer said in the voice of Uncle Rosy. He smiled wryly.
Lastsayer felt frightened, furrowed his brow. “You do appear tired, Onesayer,” he said. “There are lines around your eyes. Possibly we could postpone the aud—”
“Lines you say?” Appearing startled, Onesayer rubbed a middle finger beneath his right eye and snapped: “I have no lines!”
“I would suggest rest, Onesayer. Things will appear better to you afterward.”
“You SUGGEST rest, do you?” Onesayer’s voice was high-pitched, near cracking. “A Lastsayer does not SUGGEST anything to a Onesayer!”
Lastsayer’s jaw dropped. He rolled back half a meter. “Excuse me,” he said. “I am very sorry.”
“Wait here,” Onesayer ordered angrily. He gathered his robe in a very dignified fashion and swept out of the room.
I said too much, Lastsayer thought dejectedly. Uneasily, he looked around the room, noting a brown-and-gold sayer’s edition of Quotations from Uncle Rosy on a sidetable. He picked up the book and manually turned a sheet of rice paper to Uncle Rosy’s picture.
Lastsayer nearly dropped the book in astonishment. The picture had been defaced! Someone had penned in lambchop sideburns and a short goatee on the Master’s face! The sacrilege of such a thing! He closed the volume, returning it to its place on the table.
Best not to say anything about this, he thought, moving away from the table. Such occurrences may be commonplace here.
In the bathroom module, Onesayer peered into the grooming machine mirror. A terrified face looked back. Lines, he thought, rubbing the skin around his eyes. Shallow, barely discernible lines were to the sides and below each eye. They had not been there the day before. He was sure of it.
He recalled smashing the Uncle Rosy idol the evening before. This was how it happened with Sixsayer Robert before he died, Onesayer thought. It started with a few lines. . . .
Onesayer slammed his fist down on the sink, felt pain shoot through his hand. So soon, he thought. How could it happen so soon?
As he turned away from the mirror, a thought raced through his mind. Uncle Rosy knew of his disloyalty and was trying to kill him! But I’ll get him first! Onesayer thought.
Sleep voices, at the edge of Sidney’s consciousness:
“Malloy doesn’t know about the killer meckie yet.”
“Ah, but he will learn of it soon enough . . . when the Montreal Slasher gives him a neck full of steel!”
“Ingenious, the way these fleshcarriers destroy one another. . . . Imagine that . . . an entity which is programmed to kill!
It has no other function!”
“Their ingenuity . . . as you call it . . . is moronic in comparison with our garbage comet!”
Sidney dreamed he and Javik were in the command cockpit of a space warship. Suddenly they turned and saw two long knives approaching through the hatchway. Swish . . . swish . . . swish-swish-swish! A faceless being controlled the weapons, and Sidney was terrified of the entity he could not see.
The dream-Javik drew his service revolver and fired. But the knives kept coming. Closer and closer. Swishing and darting through the air.
Fwoosh! A blade severed Javik’s head. It fell to the floor with a dull, distant thud. With a twisted and unusable arm, Sidney could do little to defend himself. It would be over in seconds. Sidney sensed relief ahead . . . a nothingness beckoning to him across the cosmos. . . .
“Wake up, Malloy! The morning’s almost gone!”
Sidney felt a strong arm shaking his shoulder. He opened one eye and turned his face up to see a ruddy-faced male attendant looking down at him. The white-smocked attendant was young and muscular, with tiny rat-like dark eyes.
“A lady’s here to see you,” the attendant said.
“What is this place?” Sidney asked. He used his good hand to brush tousled curls of black hair off his forehead.
“You’re in the Hotel Ritz-Broadway,” the attendant sneered. “And I’m your private manservant! WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? THIS IS THERAPY DETENTION, PAL! YOU’RE SCHEDULED TO LEAVE FOR THE ORBITER TOMORROW!” The attendant shook his head scornfully.
Sidney rolled over on the cot to turn his face away. He curled his legs into a fetal position. Every muscle ached, especially those in direct contact with the unsympathetic cot. The grand mal seizure of the previous evening had left him with the fatigue of a thousand sleepless nights. The left side of his face felt numb, and his left arm and left-hand fingers were contorted horribly. He saw bones almost popping out, stretching their skin to the limit. Taut muscles appeared ready to snap. He tried to straighten the fingers, could not.
“You guys that get special treatment really bum me,” the attendant said. “All the other applicants have been to Sunday services this morning, but not you!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sidney mumbled.
“Somebody called in with a Presidential code . . . said you were to await a visitor. What are you, Malloy? A bigwig of some sort? Well it won’t keep you off the orbiter, pal. Nothing will!”
Leave me alone, Sidney thought. Just leave me alone.
“Come on, fella,” the attendant said, again shaking Sidney’s shoulder.
“Go away. I don’t want to see anybody.” Sidney’s deformed arm twitched as he spoke, then jerked violently. He grabbed it with his good hand, took a deep, determined breath.
“The lady’s a looker,” the attendant said, short-stepping around the cot to the side Sidney faced.
Sidney did not reply. He turned away from the attendant. Carla, he thought. I can’t let her see me like this. Sidney recalled what Javik had done for him the night before, wondered if he was all right.
“Hey, maybe the lady CAN figure a way to keep you off the therapy orbiter,” the attendant said. “You’d better smarten up and talk to her. Once they get you out there in space, you can forget about coming back.”
I’d rather face that than Carla, Sidney thought. He turned away once more and closed his eyes.
“All right,” the attendant said, weary of the argument. “Suit yourself.”
Sidney heard the whir of departing moto-shoes. He opened his eyes and looked across rows of empty cots, then turned his head the other way to see additional rows. He was in the middle of a large sleeping room, and the surrounding sameness reminded him of his desk in Central Forms. Noticing a plastitag around his right wrist, he read it: “Malloy, S./Client No. 165632029”
Maybe Carla can get me out of here, he thought. But he made no effort to get up or to cry out. A door slammed. Echoing quiet dominated the room.
After the meeting with General Munoz, Javik changed to casual Space Patrol togs. A high overhead sun cast distorted, short shadows of Javik’s body as he rolled up the long ramp to Bu-Med’s Detention Center Building shortly before noon.
Carla was leaving the building as Javik entered. She smiled attentively, and to Javik she seemed particularly receptive to him.
Attractive woman, Javik thought. And vaguely familiar. . . .
Now there’s the sort of man I should pursue, Carla thought as she rolled down the ramp. Instead of wasting my time with Sidney. This one’s really in the Space Patrol.
After presenting his pass at five checkstations inside the building, Javik found himself facing the rat-eyed attendant in charge of Sidney’s sleeping room. The attendant was seated at a small desk at the end of an eighteenth floor hallway.
“Another one to see Malloy?” the attendant said as he examined the pass. “Forget it, mister. He won’t see anybody.”
“I’ll go in and see for myself,” Javik said, retrieving the pass.
“Not permitted. You can only see him in a glassplexed visiting area.”
“Do you see the signature on this pass?” Javik said forcefully, holding the pass only centimeters from the attendant’s face. “General Arturo Munoz!”
“Uh, yes. I noticed that.”
“And you know who he is, I presume?”
“Of course, but . . .”
“Show me the way,” Javik said. “Unless you want to explain to the General why you wouldn’t let me through.”
“No, of course not.” The attendant was flustered. He thought for a moment, then rose and said, “This way, please.”
Designating a room several moto-paces away, the attendant opened the door to it. He started to enter with Javik, but Javik told him to wait outside.
The attendant followed the instruction, although it obviously made him uncomfortable to do so.
Javik mentoed the door shut behind him.
The sleeping room was large, and at first scan appeared empty. Smelling woodsy sweetness, Javik looked up to see the fine mist of air freshener as it dropped from ceiling nozzles. Presently he made out a solitary form huddled fetally on a cot near the room’s center.
“Sid,” Javik called out as he rolled along an aisle between cots. “Hey, Sid. That you, buddy?”
The form stirred. It rolled over to face Javik, exposing a twisted, unrecognizable face.
“Oh, I’m sorry “ Javik caught himself as he recognized half the face. “Hey, Sid,” Javik said as he reached the cot. “How ya doin’?”
“Tom! You shouldn’t be . . .” Sidney felt self-conscious under Javik’s stare and turned away. “Leave me, Tom. Please.”
“Good news, Sid. You’re assigned to a space cruiser with me! I’m a First Louie now!” Javik sat on an adjacent cot, stared at Sidney’s back.
“Don’t humor me,” Sidney whined. “I’m no kid.”
“Honest, Sid. General Munoz signed an authorization. After you’re treated on Elba, he says I can pick you up. You’ll be on Elba tomorrow. We blast off from there Tuesday.”
“Really?” Sidney said, not turning around.
“I can’t give you any mission details now, and you’re not to mention it to anyone. But take my word. It’s legit. Look at this pass here. See that signature?”
Sidney took the slip of paper with his good hand and read. “Hey!” he said. “This is signed by General Munoz! Isn’t he the Bu-Mil Min—”
Sidney's Comet Page 13
