Way of the Pilgrim

by Matt

  "Governor said to tell you he'd like to see you," said the guard.

  Shane hesitated, thinking of the bulges in his pockets, and then decided that he could brazen out any curiosity about them by standing on his rights as an independent observer of the Project. He turned and went back, up the stairs and to the office of Tom Aldwell.

  He found all three of them there—Aldwell behind his desk, Rymer and the Lieutenant Governor, Jack Wilson, in easy chairs facing him. They made pleased noises at seeing him and Jack brought forward a similar chair, so that he found himself seated as part of their circle.

  "We've been saying how well things have been going," said Tom, beaming at him. "It'll be interesting to see how much Laa Ehon is actually required, how much we miss him during the few days he's gone. My guess is that it's going to be little."

  "Very little," said Jack.

  "Or not at all," put in Rymer.

  Shane looked around at their faces.

  "His job's only to see that you do your job," he said. "I wouldn't expect he'd be needed, as you put it. The guard on the front door said you wanted to talk to me, Tom."

  "Oh, that." Tom waved a hand. "Nothing too important. It's just that we understand you were talking to Laa Ehon about us just before he left, just now."

  "What gives you that idea?" Shane asked.

  "Well..." Tom touched a button inset in a panel of such buttons on the top of his desk. Instantly, the sound of two speakers conversing in Aalaag filled the office. One voice was that of an Aalaag, the other was that of a human speaking the alien language—-Shane's voice.

  Shane exploded out of his chair.

  "Are you insane?" he shouted at Tom. "Shut that off!"

  Tom smiled indulgently, but reached out and touched the button. The sound of the voices ceased abruptly. Shane sank back in his chair.

  "Haven't you learned anything about the Aalaag?" he said. He turned to Rymer. "Walt, you at least ought to know what it means to bug any room belonging to one of the masters!"

  "Calm yourself," said Rymer harshly. "We haven't bugged anything. This place used to belong to one of those African consulates and they had it wired from basement to attic. We didn't do a thing but find their system, chart it, and hook into it here and there."

  "Do you think that makes any difference?" Shane blazed at him. "It's the intent to overhear that'll hang you on the hooks if the Aalaag find out."

  "No reason why they should find out," said Tom. "In any case, this use of it was more or less an experiment. If you feel that strongly about it, we won't do it anymore. It's merely interesting that we should have happened to overhear you talking to Laa Ehon about the three of us."

  "Happen" was undoubtedly not the word, thought Shane grimly; but there was no point in pursuing that now. And to think that he had spoken with such assurance to Peter about the local police or Interior Guard not daring to bug the phone conversation of a servant of the Aalaag like himself; and here they had actually gone and secretly recorded their own master in conversation. It just showed that it paid to remember that there were always idiots who would dare anything.

  "Interesting?" he said. "Why?"

  "Well, one always likes to know what's being said about one," said Tom, spreading his hands on the desktop reasonably, "and as you know, we weren't able to understand what was being said—just recognize the sound of our own names when they came up in conveisation. We hoped you could tell us what you and our alien master had to say about us."

  "No," said Shane. "I could, but I won't. That'd make me almost as guilty as the rest of you for listening. Forget there ever was a conversation of that kind—and destroy that recording."

  "You may not be willing to admit what you said," spoke up Jack, "and perhaps the three of us here can't understand it, but there're linguists not owned by the aliens who may not be able to speak the lingo, but given time to work with that tape could do a pretty good job of puzzling out what was said."

  "No, no," said Tom hastily, "Shane, here, knows the aliens much better than we do. We'll destroy the tape; and forget all about the conversation. You see to that, Jack. I can count on you to take care of the tape, can't I?"

  "If you say so, Tom," said Jack.

  "In any case," Tom went on, "we all know Shane well enough to know that he wouldn't say anything to our discredit —unless of course there was something to our discredit to say—"

  He broke into a smile which included them all.

  "And I, for one, don't believe there is," he wound up. He held up a hand. "No, Shane, and I'm not asking for a hint from you as to how you talked about us. I have full trust in your good sense and honesty."

  "Thanks," said Shane.

  "No need for thanks. Now—on another subject. It seems we're about to get one of your coworkers as permanent translator attached to this project and on loan from Lyt Ahn. A man named Hjalmar Jansen. He's due in tomorrow. I thought you could perhaps give us some idea of what he's like and what he'd prefer in working with us—just any information you feel free to give, information in confidence, of course."

  Shane had become too schooled at hiding his feelings in the past couple of years to raise his eyebrows at the name of Hjalmar Jansen. It was not that out of the whole Courier-Translator Corps there were not more unlikely choices; it was simply the irony involved in the choice of Hjalmar. He was a big young man—big enough to have qualified for the Interior Guard, if it had not been that his linguistic skills were so much more valuable; and powerful in proportion to his size—but so mild and soft of manner that some people got an impression of him as being almost boneless. The irony lay in the fact that under that extraordinarily soft exterior he was probably the most stubborn human being that Shane had ever met. Once Hjalmar had made up his mind about something there was no point in discussing it with him, because he simply did not hear you. It would be interesting to see how he and Tom would rub along together.

  "Hjalmar's about my age," said Shane. "Swedish, originally, and a very good linguist—good with Aalaag, also. He's pleasant, easy to get along with"—mentally, Shane crossed his fingers behind his back—"and you'll find him something more of a drinker than I am."

  "How very nice!" said Tom. "I don't mean that he should prefer the fleshpots more than you do, Shane. It's just that it's pleasant to hear a good report of someone we're going to be working with so closely. Well—look, we won't keep you. I apologize for asking you about what you said about us to Laa Ehon; and, don't worry, we'll destroy the tape of the conversation you heard."

  "Right, then." Shane got to his feet. "It's time I was on my way back to my hotel room. I'll see you all tomorrow."

  "Certainly, certainly," said Tom, and the other two murmured agreement.

  Shane went out. So they'd destroy the tape, would they, he thought to himself. Like hell they would! They would continue to hang on to it in hopes of finding it useful until something scared them bad enough to make them destroy it.

  He left the building and a few blocks away from it caught a taxi, giving it the address not of his hotel, but of the restaurant at which he had arranged to meet Peter at this time.

  12

  As he rode to the restaurant Shane found himself unexpectedly depressed and churned by a mix of other feelings. He had never imagined that his adventure into association with the Resistance people and Maria would affect him so.

  The growing darkness of the streets through which he passed depressed him further. He had needed to talk to Peter, and Peter, surprisingly, had claimed to need to talk to him. He had impressed on Peter the necessity of a place to eat where no one else in the Resistance would go, so that there was no danger of Peter's being recognized by someone who would later also remember what Shane looked like. Clearly, Peter had acted accordingly. The route on which the cab took Shane was into a part of London he did not recognize. The streets were full of old, tall row houses with their stone front steps leading almost directly up from the curbside, so narrow was the sidewalk before them.

&
nbsp; The fact that a light snow had fallen earlier should have hidden some of the ugliness; but by this time, everywhere the snow had been underfoot it had either been obliterated or churned to a black mush, making the neighborhood especially dirty and dreary.

  Shane found himself noting the obvious poverty of the foot travelers they passed. The scenes framed by the car windows could have been out of the last century, the way those on foot were bundled and muffled in anything at all that would keep them warm. In fact, the general picture was of a sad, poverty-stricken populace.

  The sight of these people stirred Shane's feelings in areas he had avoided for a long time. Over more than the past two years he had lived either with the Aalaag or in hotels or other establishments that were at least clean and tried to be inviting; and he had gradually all but forgotten the effect of the Aalaag's original edict that all but a very few humans should live at a single uniform level—as they, the Aalaag, did, regardless of rank.

  That edict had resulted in some improvement for those in the worst slums and deprived areas of the countrysides or overcrowded cities. But for those in the rest of the world the sudden drop in the conditions of their existence had left them scrambling to survive. Shane had recognized this fact academically before this. He felt it now in his guts. The very taxi he was in was a gypsy cab—the private car of a driver who had a gasoline allotment but could not afford to burn gas for his own use, so was putting it to use to earn supplementary income after his regular work hours were over.

  The truth was that the Aalaag had not just evened out income. They had evened it out on the basis of what was left over after they had taken their own tax on the world's production. Not only foodstuffs and minerals, but many other things for which most humans could see no use, were regularly taken either for the consumption of the occupying Aalaag or for shipment off to other worlds where the aliens ruled. To be processed there by native beings longer in servitude to the Aalaag, and apparently more trained and trusted in turning raw material into whatever the Aalaag needed, from space warships on down. Shane had no idea what proportion of the world's production was drained away in this manner, but he had guessed it could be as high as a third.

  In theory, the Aalaag believed in disturbing the society and customs of the beasts they conquered and ruled as little as possible. But the practice of their occupation made a mockery of that theory.

  Shane caught himself, wondering why he should start to question the order of things under the Aalaag now, of all times? The answer came all too swiftly and easily to him— Maria.

  She had come to him of her own choice, and the strongest effect of having her around had been to peel from him the comfortable layer of insulation he had let build up over the years, leaving him naked to an awareness of what the Aalaag had really done to his planet.

  And now, his awareness of what they had done was making decisions he had expected to be straightforward surprisingly complex.

  His original idea had seemed such a simple and easy one. The Resistance people, he had known, longed for a chance to revolt. All he had to do, he had told himself, was to give them an excuse, fully aware as he did so that such a revolt would be hopeless, but that he could use the putting down of it to his own advantage, to gain security for himself and Maria...and possibly one or two others worth saving, like Peter.

  The thought of including Peter and possibly others in those he might be able to save was one of those complexities that now seemed to crop up all too freely. The idea stopped his thoughts dead for the moment. But before he could examine it further, the cab was drawing up to the curb.

  It halted. Shane got out and paid the driver. The place he had been brought to was a basement of one of the tall old row houses, the sign of which was a painted board illuminated by a single incandescent light bulb, given a rosy cast by some scraps of translucent red plastic that had been glued together around it to form a globe. He went down the stairs to its entrance and opened the door there to enter a small, shabby room with what looked like very old tablecloths of various colors over card tables. Each table was supplied with a tall, homemade candle, of which the only ones lit were those at occupied tables. To his right he almost stumbled over a chalkboard on which had been listed the two choices for dinner— curried lamb and chicken pie. Wine by the glass was noted as being available.

  The lamb would be mutton, he knew, and the curry designed to cover up any off-taste in the meat or in the rest of the dinner. The chicken pie would have very little chicken meat in it and a great deal of flour and water thickening. The "wine" would simply be that—whatever they had on hand at the moment. White or red was not specified.

  Looking across the room, he saw Peter already at a table in one corner, isolated by surrounding empty tables from the other diners in the room. Peter beckoned him over.

  There was no place to leave his coat and hat. Shane took them off as he approached the table. They would have to be draped over the back of his chair—unless the very evident chilliness of the room forced him to put them back on again, as some of the other diners had already done to stay reasonably warm.

  He reached Peter's table. There was a large glass of red wine in front of the other man that looked as if it had hardly been touched. There was a second glass of wine in front of the chair opposite. Shane sat down there and laid his coat and hat on the floor between his chair and the wall. He picked up the wine in front of him and tasted it. It was raw and almost undrinkable.

  "Been here long?" Shane asked.

  "Since the place opened for dinner," said Peter. The tone of his voice was light, but had an edge to it. "Don't worry. I've watched everyone who's come in. There's been no one I know, and that makes it pretty certain there's no one here who knows me."

  "Good," said Shane. He picked up the menu on the plate before him and glanced at it. "I'll have the curried lamb. You do all the ordering."

  "When the waitress gets here," said Peter evenly.

  "What's the latest count of people who've shown up from across the Channel?" Shane asked.

  "Eight," said Peter. "Anna ten Drinke came in from Amsterdam and Georges Marrotta from Milan—you remember him, the man who spoke to you in Basque? Albert Desoules of Paris was already here, and Wilhelm Herner, so we've got the big four."

  "I'm surprised at—who did you say they were—ten Drinke and Marrotta?" Shane said. "Amsterdam's so close and Marrotta knows who I am and knows about Maria's being here. I'd have thought they two would have been among the first to show up. Does it mean anything, do you suppose, that they took this long to come?"

  "I wouldn't know their reasons," said Peter. "Some of the less well known names might have come just for the trip to London—this call of yours makes a good excuse. Marrotta and ten Drinke don't need excuses. No more do Desoules and Herner, so they probably decided to take as short a time off from ordinary business as they could get by with."

  "I see," said Shane.

  "Meanwhile," said Peter, "they're growing impatient—understandably so—to meet you, now they're here. I've told them about the new Governor Unit project and your connection with it, and given them the idea that it wasn't easy for you to get away from it safely, and that that's what's been holding you back from meeting them. But they're getting restless, just the same."

  "They can see me tomorrow afternoon—" Shane interrupted himself as a heavy, middle-aged waitress passed by their table too close.

  "...In fact," he went on, "it's most important they see me tomorrow. But they won't be able to talk to me, just see me, until evening."

  Peter gazed steadily across the table at him in the dim light.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that in the day I'm going to put on a show for them in a public place; and I want you to see they're there to take it all in. But they mustn't make any attempt to speak to me there, or get close to me."

  "I see," said Peter, "and you're going to need our help to put on this show, too, of course?"

  Shane looked back acros
s the table at him and saw a perfectly expressionless face except for a particular stoniness of gaze.

  "That's right," he said gently. "Something wrong with that?"

  "There could be," answered Peter. "This isn't Denmark or Milan. This is my ground; and what you do on it hits me directly. You told me you wanted to meet for dinner to talk to me about something. Now you have. And now it's my turn to talk to you, as I said I'd need to."

  Shane studied the other man for a moment. There was something here he had not seen in Peter before; or if he had seen it, he had not paid proper attention to it.

  "Your turn?" he said. "All right. Go ahead."

  "I'll do that," said Peter. "I know what involves every one of the people you saw at that meeting I brought you to when you first got here—I know why each one of them's in the Resistance. There wasn't one of them there who hadn't lost someone close—relative or friend—to the aliens; either directly killed by them or their human troops, or dead because of some change the aliens made. So answer me this. You've got a lot of personal freedom, money and just about everything anyone could want, the situation being what it is. As far as I can find out you've no relatives or friends outside the other collaborators who work with the aliens. So, tell me. What exactly was it that made you mark the sign of the Pilgrim, that first time, on the wall in Denmark?"