by Mike Resnick
“I’m sure they wanted me to take the blame for this,” Tarzan said. He glanced at the closed window in Mireau’s office. Tarzan could leave by the roof.
“I wouldn’t consider it,” Beaton said. “The French invented the art of the fingerprint, and theoretically yours are on file.”
The “theoretically” caught Tarzan. That was an odd word to use.
“If we walk down together, they might think nothing of it,” Beaton said.
Tarzan wasn’t sure he could trust this man, but he did want to know why he was being followed. And he also wanted to know why he was being used.
“Good idea,” Tarzan said. “But we will do it my way.”
They went down the stairs. Tarzan let go of Beaton’s arm on the second landing.
“Go the rest of the way without me,” Tarzan said.
“But I thought—”
“I know,” Tarzan said, unwilling to explain that if someone had set him up, he would be arrested whether he came down with Beaton or not. Tarzan was extremely recognizable, as this day had already proven. “I will meet you at the hotel.”
Beaton nodded, inadvertently confirming his identity as the man in the straw hat near the hotel. “I would like my gun,” he said.
Tarzan smiled. “I’m sure you would.”
Beaton was shaking as he made his way down the stairs. Something awful had happened here, and Greystoke believed it was because of him, that they wanted to blame him.
Beaton was shocked that the dead man was Aiden Mireau. Beaton had known Mireau’s name for years. Mireau was one of those men one contacted if one got in trouble near French Algeria. Mireau could get any European out of Africa on a moment’s notice. He knew everyone and everything, and used his knowledge to help the Allied cause.
Beaton had never met Mireau, but he had always believed that he could contact Mireau as a last resort. Now that option was gone.
The run up the stairs, the encounter with Greystoke, and the sight of Mireau had left Beaton feeling spent. He wasn’t used to the heat or the exertion, and it had been years since he had seen a dead body.
Plus, Greystoke seemed both civilized and uncivilized at the same time. His English and his French were flawless, but there was something in his eyes that suggested a wildness. Besides, he had easily disarmed Beaton and could have shot him, or tossed him down the stairs had he wished. The man was freakishly strong.
Not many men made Beaton wary, but Greystoke did.
Beaton was so shaken it wasn’t until he reached the main floor of the Grand Post Office that he realized he had given himself away. Greystoke clearly knew Beaton had been following him, because Greystoke had not specified which hotel, yet Beaton had nodded.
Now the choice was his: How did he play this next part? Or did he “play” it at all?
Tarzan went down the hall on the next floor. There were cupolas on the roof, and there was no obvious way to get to them from the upper floor, which meant that the route was either hidden or the access was one floor down. He doubted, with such an obvious design feature, that the access would be hidden.
When he reached the end of the hall, he saw that he was right. A narrow door with a sign above it reading “staircase” and “private” in French stood directly beneath the part of the roof where the cupola stood.
He tried the door; it was locked. So he slammed his shoulder against it, easily breaking the flimsy lock. The resounding bang should have brought people out of their offices, but no one so much as looked.
There was a lot of ignoring going on in this building. He did not know if that was normal or if it was because of Mireau’s death.
At the moment, Tarzan didn’t care. He closed the door and walked silently up the stairs, noting another entrance one flight up. That entrance hadn’t been obvious from the top floor. Beaton’s statement about hidden rooms, then, was absolutely correct.
Had someone stood in one of those rooms, heard Tarzan turn down Mireau, and then killed Mireau? It seemed likely.
Tarzan went up one more flight into the cupola itself. It was two stories high, and the second story had narrow windows, almost like gun turrets. The French thought of everything.
Including a door onto the roof. Tarzan opened it and stepped into the blazing sunlight.
He blinked once, waiting for his eyes to adjust, when he sensed a movement to his left. He feinted right as a man tried to knock him aside. Tarzan shoved him, using the man’s own momentum, and the man stumbled sideways, tripped, and fell, screaming as he tumbled off the roof.
Tarzan turned and found himself face to face with another man, holding a gun.
This man wore European garb. He was nearly as tall as Tarzan. Tarzan had not ever seen him before.
“It seems, Mr. Tarzan,” he said in French, “you have become quite the maniac, going on a killing spree that has resulted in the death of several agents. I’m sure the authorities will be up here shortly because you tossed my man off the roof. I will be a hero for killing you.”
“You killed Mireau,” Tarzan said. He did not look at the gun. Guns did not frighten him.
“He got too close,” the man said. “You gave me an alibi. Thank you.”
“Tell me the names of the men you work with, and I’ll spare you,” Tarzan said.
“I believe you told our friend Mireau that you are not an assassin,” the European said.
“I defend myself,” Tarzan said.
“Not against a gun,” the man said and fired.
Tarzan leapt to the left a half second before the shot. Talkers always telegraphed their next move. Before the man could shoot again, Tarzan tackled him, and knocked the gun aside. It skittered across the roof.
Tarzan dragged the man to the edge, then held his torso over it. The man kicked ineffectually.
“Tell me who you work with,” Tarzan said.
The man looked down. His compatriot remained on the dirt street below, his legs at an odd angle, his back clearly broken. From this height, Tarzan couldn’t tell if he survived the fall or not. It didn’t matter, though. He would clearly never be the same.
The man looked at Tarzan, eyes wild.
“Tell me,” Tarzan said.
“No one,” the man said.
The man’s hand gripped the side of the building. Tarzan leaned on his fingers until he heard a snap.
The man screamed.
“Now,” Tarzan said. “The names.”
The man gave him a rapid list of French names. Tarzan nodded once. “And what of the Germans? Do you know one named Obergatz?”
“No,” the man said. Tarzan leaned on his wrist. “No! No!”
The man’s eyes told the truth. He did not know, which meant he had no idea what happened to Jane.
“Who do you work with among the Germans?” Tarzan asked.
“Whoever pays the most,” the man said.
“And who would that be?”
“It’s never the same,” the man said. Then he listed several more names.
Tarzan memorized all of them.
“Please! Please! Do not kill me!” the man said.
“You didn’t give Mireau the opportunity to beg for his life,” Tarzan said.
The man’s mouth opened in fear. Tarzan gripped him strongly, then swung him forward as if throwing him off the roof.
The coward fainted.
Tarzan brought him onto the roof proper, then ripped pieces of the man’s shirt, and tied him in place. He removed the remaining bullets from the gun, pocketed them, and placed the gun just out of the man’s reach.
The authorities would find him soon, and they would decide what to do with him. If they did not arrest him, Tarzan would make sure the man paid for Mireau’s death.
First, he had some business to finish. He went to the far end of the roof. Three buildings stood nearby, but were not attached. He missed trees, vines, branches, easy ways to travel from one high place to another. But heights did not bother him, and neither did taking a running jump—which
he did.
He landed on the next roof down, then jumped onto one more, before using an interior staircase. When he reached the bottom, he walked but not to the Kasbah where his hotel was.
Instead, he went to the telegraph office.
The little man sat at his desk. He had a light jacket draped over the back of his chair, apparently in deference to the French government that he worked for. He reached for the jacket when Tarzan entered, then saw who was there, and grinned his toothless grin.
“Can you send three messages for me?” Tarzan asked. “I need them to remain confidential.”
“I am trustworthy, monsieur,” the little man said.
“I know that,” Tarzan said. “You have already proven it.”
But still, he worried that someone else might not be.
He sent the cables back to the office that had initially contacted him. He signed all three missives, Jean C. Tarzan.
In the first message, he said he regretted to tell them of Mireau’s death. Then he said that he would provide the information they sought and nothing more.
In the second message, he simply listed the French names that the man on the roof had given him.
And in the third message, he wrote, These Germans have paid for the services we discussed.
He figured the Allies could take care of everything—or not.
The fates of nations were not his concern. He had to continue his search for Jane, and then he would retire to his jungle.
He paid the little man five times the cost of the cables.
The little man scowled at him. “I do not take tips, monsieur.”
“I am not giving you a tip,” Tarzan said. “I am paying you for your service in the war effort.”
The little man smiled. The smile, even without the teeth, was infectious. “My pleasure, monsieur,” he said. “My pleasure.”
Tarzan did not have to return to the hotel. He had left clothes there, but clothes were easily replaced. He now knew that Algiers did not have the information he so desperately wanted.
He didn’t have to see Beaton, but he was curious why the Englishman had been following him. So he walked back. Along the way, he heard discussion of the deaths at the Grand Post Office, and relief that the man who had caused them had already been caught.
Algiers did not like even a hint of the war at its doorstep.
The hotel he had chosen was shabby and nondescript. It had a café that wasn’t very good.
Beaton sat at a table near the hotel’s main door, nursing a glass of tea. He looked relieved when he saw Tarzan.
“Milord,” he said as he stood.
So this man did not confuse Tarzan with his old identity, Jean C. Tarzan.
“Everything’s taken care of at the Grand Post Office,” Tarzan said.
“And they do not blame you for Mireau?” Beaton asked.
“They have their killer,” Tarzan said.
“Will you tell me what that was about?” Beaton asked.
“Government business,” Tarzan said. “Now, tell me why you’re following me.”
He hovered, ready to leave at a moment’s notice. But Beaton waved at the only waiter and ordered another glass of tea.
“Sit,” he said. “This will take a little while.”
Beaton had sat in the heat of the day, waiting for Greystoke to arrive. After two hours, he believed that Greystoke had left, and then Beaton had to decide if he would try to find the man again.
Then Greystoke showed up, looking a bit dusty, but no worse for wear.
By then, Beaton had made his decision.
“The British government would like your fortune to fund the war effort,” Beaton said.
Greystoke frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means that they had an expert who would claim there was no way that the baby handprint in your father’s diary could have been your father’s son. They decided that they would declare the fingerprint void. And then they would confiscate your lands and holdings. I was to notify you of all this and figure out what your holdings were here in Africa.”
Greystoke’s face reddened. “They thought I would submit to this?”
“There are rumors in London that you are a savage, milord.”
Greystoke’s eyes narrowed. “Do you believe the fingerprints valid?”
“I did not at first,” Beaton said. “I did think, however, that someone in your family would have protested long before now. Still, I needed the work. I decided to decide when I saw you.”
“You called me ‘milord,’” Greystoke said.
“I did indeed,” Beaton said. “You have conducted yourself extremely well, even in extremis. I think the British aristocracy should be proud to have you in its ranks.”
“They can still pursue this,” Greystoke said.
“They can,” Beaton said. “But they won’t. First, I can guarantee that it will take me many months more to find you. And when I do, you will tell me that you would take this matter to the courts. And by the way, if it does come to that, go to the French for your fingerprint analysis. As I said earlier, they invented the science. They know it best.”
Greystoke studied Beaton. “Is there a reason you’re doing me this favor?”
Beaton smiled. “I realized when I heard that gunshot in the Grand Post Office that you could have been killed. And honestly, my reaction surprised me, milord. I was saddened. I believe we need you. You are no savage, sir.”
Greystoke smiled in return. The smile was warm, but it sent a shudder through Beaton all the same.
“Apparently, you met me on a good day,” Greystoke said.
Then he drank his tea in one gulp and walked away.
Beaton did not follow him. Beaton did not watch which direction Greystoke took.
The war would continue, and Greystoke would continue to fight Germans as he searched for his wife. Greystoke had not enlisted, he was not fighting in trenches in France.
He was much more effective here, in Africa, destroying Germans in his hunt for information.
And if anyone pressed Beaton later on why he had made this decision, he would say simply he knew no one else who could face the enemy single-handedly and triumph.
He would say honestly that he had never met another man quite like John Clayton, Lord Greystoke, the man whom they called Tarzan.
Among the hideous creatures in Pellucidar, ERB’s world at the earth’s core, are the Sagoths, which the Emperor (David Innes) describes as “barely sapient gorillas.” Leave it to bestseller Mercedes Lackey to come up with a tale of Pellucidar that is narrated by, of all things, a Sagoth—and a Sagoth that possesses all the hopes and emotions of any of its human counterparts. So join her as she relates the story of Mirina, known as The One Who Fell.
—Mike
The Fallen
A Tale of Pellucidar
Mercedes Lackey
I am Mok, son of . . . well, I do not know who my father was. My mother was named Lur, but there are many Lurs among the Sagoth that I grew up among, and I doubt that I could single her out were she to stand before me now.
Oh yes, I am a Sagoth. Surprised? Shocked that such as I, of a race that, as a whole, can barely reckon up the fingers and toes, a race that the Emperor calls “barely sapient gorillas,” should be writing this? I can tell you, not nearly as shocked as the Emperor was when I was brought before him. His friend, Abner Perry, thinks that I am the result of some meddling by the Mahar, and I am not inclined to argue with him. The Mahar were wont to meddle in the breeding of the lesser creatures, trying to make humans fatter and more docile, for instance, so why not meddle to make my kind fit for more than understanding a few orders at best? Abner Perry calls me the Pythagoras of my kind. I think he is greatly mistaken, but then again, compared to my fellows, perhaps I am.
This makes me lonely. I do not find the females of the human kind to be attractive, and it would be a strange human female who would yearn for me, yet the females of my own breed, while drawing me to them
with their broad jaws and hairy bosoms, repulse me at the same time with their stupidity. So Loneliness is an old and familiar companion, and perhaps that is why I was fit to play the part that I did—
But I am ahead of myself, and this is not my story. It is the story of Mirina, the One Who Fell. So let me begin the tale at its true beginning.
It was a perfectly ordinary day in the land of Thuria, the Land of Awful Shadow—the only place in all of this world that has anything like darkness, because of the great orb that the Emperor, David Innes, calls a “moon” that hangs between Thuria and the source of our light. My friend Kolk, the son of Goork, who is King of the Thurians, and I were out upon the water with Kolk’s son Dek. This might seem strange, since the waters of this world teem with terrible beasts, but Abner Perry had invented a boat he called a “whaler” and a weapon he called a “harpoon gun,” and we were afire to test it. One day I will tell the story of how I came to be friends with Kolk and saved his son’s life, but that is not today.
Suffice it to say that we were on the water with Perry’s gun, and things were not going well for the great beasts of the waters. We had just dispatched our third, when a flash of light in the sky above us caught our eyes.
It came again, and we could see it was something white . . . winged, like a Mahar or thipdar, but not so big, and the wings were oddly made. It was not flying, it was falling—or rather, falling, then flailing with its wings as if trying to save itself, then falling again. The effect was somehow one of piteousness, helplessness—so much so that I think we were all moved by compassion at the same time. I do not know how that came to be, but I do know that the three of us, as one and without any consultation, turned our vessel toward the place where we thought the thing would fall and made all haste to be there when it landed.
We had not quite reached the spot when the creature—which we could see now looked like a human with wings!—gave a last convulsive attempt to save itself and plunged into the water.
