Universe 4 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Terry Carr

  Alice proceeded to the Hall of History. Entering, she gazed in awe around the splendid lobby, which enforced upon the visitor an almost stupefying awareness of the human adventure. Under a six-inch floor of clear crystal spread a luminous map of the terrestrial surface, projected by some curious shifting means which minimized distortion. The dark-blue dome of the ceiling scintillated with constellations. Around the walls, somewhat above eye-level, ran a percept-continuum where marched a slow procession of men, women and children: straggling peasants; barbarians in costumes of feathers and leather; clansmen marching to a music of clarions and drums; heroes striding alone; prelates and sacerdotes; hetairae, flower-maidens and dancing girls; blank-faced folk in drab garments, from any of a dozen ages; Etruscans, Celts, Scythians, Zumbelites, Dagonites, Mennonites; posturing priests of Babylon, warriors of the Caucasus. At one side of the hall they appeared from a blur of fog; as they marched they turned an occasional glance out toward those who had come to visit the Hall of History; to the far side of the great room they faded into the blur and were gone.

  Alice went to the information desk, where she bought a catalog. Listed first were the basic routes through the conduits, then more complicated routes to encompass the aspects of special studies. Alice settled upon the basic survey course: Human History: from the origin of man to the present. She paid the three-dollar fee for noncredit transit, received a chart indicating her route through the conduits. A young man in a dark shirt immediately behind her, so she chanced to notice, elected the same course: evidently a subject popular with the students.

  Her route proved to be simple enough: a direct transit of Conduit 1, with whatever detours, turn-offs, loops rnto other conduits, which happened to arouse her interest.

  The young man in the dark shirt went on ahead. When she entered the conduit she discovered him studying the display of human precursors. He glanced at Alice and politely moved aside so that she might inspect the diorama as well. “Rough-looking thugs!” he commented in a jocular voice. “All hairy and dirty.”

  “Yes, quite so.” Alice moved along the diorama.

  The young man kept pace with her. “Excuse me, but aren’t you a starlander? From Engsten, or more likely Rampold?”

  “Why, yes! I’m from Rampold. How did you know?”

  “Just a lucky guess. How do you like Hant?”

  “It’s interesting, certainly.” Alice, rather primly erect, moved on along the display.

  “Ugh,” said Bo. “What’s that they’re eating?”

  “Presumably some sort of natural food,” said Alice.

  “I guess you’re right,” said Bo. “They weren’t too fussy in those days. Are you a student here?”

  “No,”

  “Oh, I see. Just sightseeing.”

  “Not exactly that either. I’m curious as to the local version of history.”

  “I thought history was history,” said Bo.

  Alice turned him a quick side-glance. “It’s hard for the historian to maintain objectivity, especially for the urban historian.”

  “I didn’t know there was all that much to it,” said Bo. “I thought they just showed a lot of percepts and charts. Don’t they do it the same way on Rampold?”

  “We have nothing quite so elaborate.”

  “It all amounts to the same thing,” said Bo generously. “What’s done is dead and gone, but here they call it history and study it.”

  Alice gave a polite shrug and moved on. Bo understood that he had struck the wrong tone, which annoyed him. Oh, why must he pussyfoot? Why must he appease? He said, “Of course I don’t know all that much about the subject. That’s why I’m here; I want to learn!”

  The statement was uttered in a mincing over-delicate voice which Alice found amusing, and hence worth some small exploration. “All very well, if you learn anything useful. In your case, I doubt if . . .” Alice let her voice trail off; why discourage the poor fellow? She asked, “I take it you’re not a student either?”

  “Well, no. Not exactly.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I—well, I work in the spaceyards.”

  “That’s useful work,” Alice said brightly. “And it’s work you can be proud of. I hope you profit from your studies.” She gave him a gracious nod and passed on down the conduit, to a percept detailing the daily activities of a Mesolithic family.

  Bo looked after her with a frown. He had pictured the encounter going somewhat differently, with Alice standing wide-eyed and coy, enthralled by the magnetism of his personality. He had worried only that she might recognize him, for she had seen him on two previous occasions. His fears were groundless. Evidently she had paid no attention to him. Well, she’d make up for that. And her attitude now was far too casual; she treated him as if he were a small boy. He’d fix that, as well.

  Bo followed her slowly along the conduit. He considered the percept, then sidled a step closer. In a bluff voice he said, “Sometimes we don’t realize how lucky we are, and that’s a fact.”

  “ ‘Lucky’?” Alice spoke in an abstracted voice. “Who? The people of Hant? Or the Cro-Magnons?”

  “Us, of course.”

  “Oh.”

  “You don’t think so?” Bo spoke indulgently.

  “Not altogether.”

  “Look at them! Living in caves. Dancing around a campfire. Eating a piece of dead bear. That doesn’t look so good.”

  “Yes, their lives lacked delicacy.” Alice continued along the conduit, moving briskly, and frowning just a trifle. She glanced into percepts depicting aspects of the proto-civilizations; she halted at a percept presenting in a time-compression sequence the development of Hialkh, the first city known to archaeologists. The annunciator commented, “At this particular instant in the human epic, civilization has begun. Behind: the long gray dawn ages. Ahead: the glories which culminate in Hant! But beware! look yonder across the Pontus! The cruel barbarians of the steppes, those expert wielders of sword and axe who time and time again have ravaged the cities!”

  Bo’s now familiar voice spoke, “The only ravagers nowadays are the tourists.”

  Alice made no comment, and continued along the conduit. She looked into the faces of Xerxes, Subotai, Napoleon, Shgulvarsko, Jensen, El Jarm. She saw battles, sieges, slaughters and routs. Cities developed from villages, grew great, collapsed into ruins, disappeared into flames. Bo enunciated his impressions and opinions, to which Alice made perfunctory acknowledgments. He was something of a nuisance, but she was too kind to snub him directly and hurt his feelings. Altogether she found him somewhat repulsive, a curious mixture of innocence and cynicism; of ponderous affability and sudden sinister silences. She wondered if he might not be a trifle deranged; odd for a person of his attributes to be studying the history of man! The percepts and displays, for all their splendor, began to bore her; there was simply too much to be encompassed at a casual inspection, and long ago she had learned what she wanted to know. She said to Bo, “I think I’ll be leaving. I hope you profit by your studies; in fact I know you will if you apply yourself diligently. Goodbye.”

  “Wait,” said Bo. “I’ve seen enough for today.” He fell into step beside her. “What are you going to do now?”

  Alice looked at him sidewise. “I’m going to find some lunch. I’m hungry. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m hungry too. We’re not all that different, you and I.”

  “Just because we’re both hungry? That’s not logical. Crows, vultures, rats, sharks, dogs: they all get hungry. I don’t identify myself with any of these.”

  Bo frowned, examining the implications of the remark. They left the Hall of History and came out into the daylight. Bo asked gruffly, “You mean that you think I’m like a bird or a rat or a dog?”

  “No, of course not!” Alice laughed at the quaint conceit. “I mean that we’re people of different societies. I’m a starlander; you’re an urbanite. Yours is a very old way of life, which is perhaps a bit-well, let’s say, passive, or introverted.”
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  Bo grunted. “If you say so. I never thought about it that way. Anyway just yonder is a branch of the Synthetique. Do you care to eat there? It’s on me.”

  “No, I think not,” said Alice. “I’ve seen those colored pastes and nutritious shreds of bark and they don’t look very good. I think I’ll go up home for lunch. So once again: goodbye. Have a good lunch.”

  “Wait!” cried Bo. “I’ve got a better idea! I know another place, an old tavern where spacemen and all kinds of people go. It’s very old and famous: Hongo’s Blue Lamp. It would be a shame if you didn’t see it.” He modulated his voice into that husky cajoling tone which had always dissolved female will power like warm water on sugar. “Come along, I’ll buy you a nice lunch and we’ll get to know each other better.”

  Alice smiled politely and shook her head. “I think I’ll be getting on. Thank you anyway.”

  Bo stood back, mouth compressed. He turned glumly away, raising a hand to his face. The gesture closed a circuit in Alice’s memory-bank. Why, this was the man who had victimized Waldo! How very odd! What a strange coincidence that she should meet him at the Academy! Coincidence? The chances seemed remote. She asked, “What is your name?”

  Bo spoke in a grumbling resentful voice. “Bo, short for Bodred. The last name is Histledine.”

  “Bodred Histledine. And you work at the spaceyards?”

  Bo nodded. “What’s your name?”

  Alice seemed not to hear. “Perhaps I’ll have lunch at this tavern after all—if you care to show me the way.”

  “It’s not exactly a big expedition, with me running ahead like a guide,” growled Bo. “I’ll take you there as my guest.”

  “No, I wouldn’t care for that,” said Alice. “But I’ll visit this tavern: yes. I think I’d like to talk with you.”

  6

  Waldo pushed the photograph across the desk to Inspector Vole, who examined it with care. “The man isn’t identifiable, as you can see for yourself,” said Vole. “The woman—I don’t recognize her, but I’ll put her through identification procedure and maybe something will show up.” He departed the room. Waldo sat drumming his fingers. From time to tune a faint waft of jeek body-tar odor reached his nostrils, causing him to wince and twist his head.

  Inspector Vole returned with the photograph and a print-out bearing the likenesses of a dozen women. He pushed the sheet across the desk. “This is what the machine gave me. Do you recognize any of them?”

  Waldo nodded. “This is the one.” He touched a face on the sheet.

  “I thought so too,” said Vole. “Do you intend to place criminal charges?”

  “Maybe. But not just yet. Who is she?”

  “Her name is Hernanda Degasto Confurias. Her address is 214-19-64, Bagram. If you plan to confront this woman and her friend, I advise you to go in company with a police officer.”

  “Thank you; I’ll keep your advice in mind,” said Waldo. He left the office.

  Vole reflected a moment, then punched a set of buttons. He watched the display screen, which flashed a gratifying run of green lights: the name Hernanda Confurias was not unknown to the criminal files. Instead of a data read-out, the screen flickered to show the face of Vole’s colleague Detective Delmar.

  “What have you got on Hernanda Confurias?” asked Delmar.

  “Nothing of import,” said Vole. “Last night on the Parade—” Vole described the occurrence. “A senseless matter, or so it seems offhand.”

  “Put through the photograph,” said Delmar. Vole facsimilated across a copy of the photograph.

  “I wouldn’t swear to it,” said Delmar, “but that looks to me like Big Bo Histledine.”

  Waldo found the apartment numbered 214-19-64, then went to a nearby park where he approached a pair of adolescent girls. “I need your help,” said Waldo. “A certain lady friend is angry with me, and I don’t think she’ll answer the door if she sees my face in the robber’s portrait, so I want one, or both, of you to press the door button for me.” Waldo produced a five-dollar note. “I’ll pay you, of course, for your trouble.”

  The girls looked at each other and giggled. “Why not? Where does she live?”

  “Just yonder,” said Waldo. “Come along.” He gave the girls instructions and led them to the door, while he waited beyond the range of the sensor eye, which produced the “robber portrait” on the screen within.

  The girls pressed the button, and waited while the person within scrutinized their images.

  “Who do you want?”

  “Hernanda Degasto Confurias. We’re from the charm school.”

  “Charm school?” The door opened; Hernanda looked forth. “Which charm school?”

  Waldo stepped forward. “You girls come some other time. Hernanda, I want to speak with you.”

  She tried to close the door, but Waldo pushed through the opening. Hernanda ran across the room to the alarm button. “Get out of here! Or I’ll press for the police!”

  “I am the police,” said Waldo.

  “No, you’re not! I know who you are.”

  “Who am I?”

  “Never mind. Leave here at once!”

  Waldo tossed the photograph to the table. “Look at that.”

  Hernanda gingerly examined the picture. “Well—what of it?”

  “Who’s the man?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “You say you know who I am.”

  Hernanda gave her head a half-fearful, half-defiant jerk of assent. “He shouldn’t have done it—but I’m not saying anything.”

  “You’ll either tell me or the police.”

  “No! He’d cut my ears; he’d sell me to the gunkers.”

  “He won’t get the chance. You can either tell me now in secret, or the police will take you in as his accomplice.”

  “In secret?”

  “Yes. He won’t know where I got his name.”

  “You swear this?”

  “I do.”

  Hernanda came a timid step forward. She picked up the photograph, glanced at it, threw it contemptuously back down on the table. “Bodred Histledine. He lives in Fulchock: 663-20-99. He works in the spaceyards.”

  “Bodred Histledine.” Waldo noted the name and address. “Why did he do what he did?”

  Hernanda gave her head a meditative strike. “He’s a strange man. Sometimes he’s like a little boy, sad and sweet; then sometimes he’s a beast of the jungle. Have you noticed his eyes? They’re like the eyes of a tiger.”

  “That may be. But why did he victimize me?”

  Hernanda’s own eyes flashed. “Because of the girl you were with! He’s a crazy man!”

  Waldo gave a grunt of bitter amusement. He inspected Hernanda thoughtfully; in her turn she looked at him. A patrician for certain: one of those Cloudhaven types.

  “He’s always up at the Blue Lamp Tavern,” said Hernanda. “That’s his headquarters. He’s on probation, you know. Just yesterday the detectives warned him.” Hernanda, relaxing, had become limpid and charming; she came forward to the table.

  Waldo looked her over without expression. “What did they warn him for?”

  “Consorting with gunkers.”

  “I see. Anything else you care to tell me?”

  “No.” Hernanda now was almost arch. She came around the table. “You won’t tell him that you saw me?”

  “No, definitely not.” Waldo once again caught a breath of that hateful odor. Rolling his eyes up and around, he turned and left the apartment.

  7

  Entering the Blue Lamp Tavern, Alice halted and peered through the gloom. For possibly the first time in her brash young life she felt the living presence of time. Upon that long black mahogany bar men of ten centuries had rested their elbows. The old wood exhaled vapors of the beer and spirits they had quaffed; their ghosts were almost palpable and their conversations hung in the gloom under the age-blackened ceiling. Alice surveyed the room, then crossed to a table under one of the tall windows which overlooked t
he many-textured expanse of Hant. Bo came at a rather foolish trot behind her, to pluck at her arm and urge her toward his usual booth. Alice paid him no heed, and seated herself placidly at the table she had chosen. Bo, drooping an eyelid and mouth, settled into the seat across from her. For a long moment he stared at her. Her features were fine and clean, but hardly extraordinary; how did she produce so much disturbance? Because she was insufferably confident, he told himself; because she enforced her own evaluation of herself upon those who admired her ... He’d do more than admire her; she’d remember him to the last day of her life. Because he was Bo Histledine! Bo the Histle! Big Boo the Whangeroo! who accepted nothing but the best. So now: to work, to attract her interest, to dominate her with his own pride. He said, “You haven’t told me your name.”