I stood my ground, confronting the captain across his steering wheel. His minions were stunned into silence by my mutinous behavior, but behind me I could see the gun crew ripping off the tops of crates of loaded magazines and twisting their elevation screw nearly off its threads to get the muzzle down.
At the click of my revolver hammer locking in the sear, the captain’s fur drooped resignedly and he shouted out the orders I had given him. Our bow fell once again and we headed toward the waggon train. The rotary machine gun began to chatter and spew empty brass cases long before we were properly in range, but the puffs of dust near the savages’ position had two immediate effects: they ceased firing at the colonists—we could hear hearty cheering from the waggons even at this great height—and the savages began firing upon usl
Nearer and nearer we drew, our trim adjusted at a steep bow-angle, until the savages must retreat or be churned to sausage beneath the hammering of our gun. I forgot the captain now and slid a window back to add my minimal firepower to that of the machine gun. To his credit, the captain maintained course, and I was joined in my efforts by others who had taken long, very accurate rifles from the ship’s locker.
Lower and lower we sank until the updrafts from the fires started by the savage arrows made it necessary to cast off hydrogen and we dropped with a heartsstopping rush. The savages, to give them their due, refused to be routed, but continued firing as we passed over the waggons and approached them. Yet they were being inexorably nominated—we afterward counted upward of a hundred bodies, riddled with large-caliber bullets from the rotary gun, lying heaped among the carcasses of their faithful and equally valorous watun. They no longer had time now to get their fearsome arrows lit—which was a blessing and a comfort— and, consequently, those that penetrated our thin hull only lost us gas and added further to the headlong speed with which we fell upon them.
Finally, our enemy nearly vanquished and our supply of hydrogen exhausted, we came to a gentle crash several hundred lam-heights from the colonists’ position. Our gun
crew gave up steady firing for lack of targets, though occasionally an arrow sang past our carapaces, to be answered with a futile hail of bullets. We leapt from the gondola as the fuselage above it began slowly collapsing for lack of internal pressure to support it, and hastily formed a column for a quick-march toward the waggons, those in the center of the formation struggling under the weight of the machine gun, which the gun crew had unbolted and insisted on taking with them.
We were halfway to our goal when a small group of hos-tiles, no doubt cut off from the main body as we’d passed overhead, rose from the prairie cactus in front of us and began discharging their wicked arrows at us point-blank. They grasped their bows with their outside hands and drew them with the middle, assuring tremendous striking force, and we soon learned another deadly secret of primitive technology: a tiny ball of wax impaled upon each arrow point gives even a glancing missile enough momentary adherence—and possibly lubrication—to assure its evil purpose. A lam’s carapace that might, in certain circumstances, deflect a bullet would invariably be pierced clean through. And should the arrow strike an eye, most likely the lam standing behind the victim would be killed as well.
When the colonists observed our plight, they set up a crossfire that, regrettably, did us more harm than good: the savages charged us, realizing that the waggoners would cease fire for fear of shooting their allies. Thus it was hand-to-hand until the last person standing—be he Fodduan or savage—claimed ironic victory. I fought as best I could. Whoever ordained that there should be but three chambers in a military revolver must surely have done all his combat from behind a desk. I used my pistol as a club until an arrow struck me in my upraised limb. I switched, standing upon the damaged leg and employing another set of hands for fighting, but the long arrow, sticking out four hand-widths on either side of the penetrated joint, hindered me sorely, and at last I fell beneath a native war hammer.
When I regained my sensibilities, our tormenters were departed, driven off with the blessed rotary gun and a sortie from the waggons. In the camp I was the hero of the day.
And I was also under close arrest.
None of this had any meaning for me. Just hours ago I’d been a young, untested ensign, eager for adventure. Now I was personally the killer of at least a dozen of my fellow beings—I had watched them spill their blood upon the sand and die—and, indirectly, of perhaps hundreds more. There is no way of being certain; the savages recover their dead when they can, and those lying upon the field were merely those few we had denied them. If I may claim any virtue at all in the matter, it was that I mourned their slaughter fully as deeply as the slaughter of my comrades.
“I believe I see what you are getting at,” I answered after a rather long silence. Outside the windows of our cab,
I could see we were approaching the neighborhood of the Imperial Museum. “It is little consolation, whenever someone is injured or killed on your account, that you have acted aright.”
“Quite so,” my friend replied, puffing at his silver pipe. “Or thus I found it then. They gave me a medal for saving the waggon train: some admiral’s daughter and her family had been among the settlers. I mention this not from immodesty, but because these questionable honors failed to dispel my feelings of culpability. I was thereupon cashiered—gloved right out of the Navy—for threatening a superior with deadly force, endangering vessel and crew (the ship was recovered intact, else I should have rher on my conscience, as well), and complicating relations with the natives.”
“Why, of all the nerve!”
“It was precisely what I deserved, and lucky I wasn’t shot for mutiny in the bargain—in fact, that might have been a mercy, considering how I felt. The ‘native relations’ charge was perhaps unwarranted—they still came atrading to the post and treated me with uncommon kindness while I was there awaiting transport back to Mathas. But, Mymy, I had been wrong in my feelings. It was the savages—who were not quite so savage, after all—who taught me differently.” He reached beneath his cloak and produced the little pistol. “I believe you should take this. You’re entitled, and ours is beginning to look like a perilous undertaking.”
“But, Mav, how could I—”
“The same as I, Mymy. You see, those savages weren’t the stoics I had taken them to be, but graced with a simple dignity and a wry appreciation for life’s inconstant seasons. They no more held me to blame than I held them: circumstance had made me an enemy, of whom they expected courage and tenacity; a different circumstance now permitted me to be a friend, to whom respect and courtesy were due.
“True, there are certain principles of conduct that must never fluctuate. One of them is the imperative of self-defense and the right to protect the lives of others; this the natives understood far better than I. Another is the dual importance of sentiment and cerebration in lamviin life; frozen-pelted they may seem at times, yet they wail for a fallen comrade like children over a lost balloon. We Fod-duans are scornful of the overly emotional. Yet it’s easier still to drown one’s feelings, until one is only half a lam. What’s difficult is balancing both thought and feelings in harmony. I determined thereafter that I would never permit an unexamined conflict to endure between what I feel and what my reason tells me is correct.”
Reluctantly I accepted the gun and sat back for a time in thought. “And have you succeeded?”
A ripple chased itself across his carapace. “My dear, I’ll not be altogether certain even when I draw my final breath. But I try, Mymy, every day I try. Now I see we are nearly at our destination. Let us consider, if your stomachs are up to it, this dismembered hand—perhaps a callus or some other characteristic will give us a clue as to its former owner.”
VII: Experimental Methods
As upon the evening of Srafen’s lecture—which seemed to me by now at least a year ago, but which, of course, had actually occurred fewer than fifty hours before—we were greeted at the entrance of the Museum by a now fami
liar figure:
“Ah, good Leds!” exclaimed Mav as he draped his weapon-laden cloak over the guardpost counter. “I trust the preparations I requested have been seen to?”
The elderly lam bestowed upon my companion the ghost of a military salute. “Aye, Cap’n, took care of everything myself, I did.” He hesitated then, patterns of embarrassment and uncertainty rippling briefly through his thinning fur.
Mav kindly intervened: “Do please speak freely, Leds. Is there some difficulty?”
“Only Acting Curator Liimev, sir. He’s that impatient to get the place opened up again, and asked me to ask you ...” Mav crinkled his fur with amusement. “You see, Mymy, I have been relying upon my family connections to preserve our evidence intact. However, we must not permit the pursuit of justice to inflict further injustices upon others.” To Leds: “Please inform Professor Liimev that he may begin repairs in the morning and open doors to the public as soon thereafter as his own efforts enable him to do.”
“Why, thank you, Cap’n.” Still the old fellow appeared discomfited. “One more thing, sir, if you please . . .”
“And what is that?”
“Well, sir, the Professor was concerned that every caution be exercised concerning the . . .”
“The springbow? I quite understand, and assure you I’m aware of its high potential for destruction. Also that it is an ancient and fragile implement in its own right. Do not fear, Leds, I shall be careful.”
At this, the guard brightened considerably. “Very good, sir.” He dusted his hands together as if having disposed of an unwelcome and unsavory task. “Is there any way I can assist you?”
“Not at the moment. Missur Mymy and I will be in the Weapons Hall; should we require your further help, one of us will call you.”
Of these arrangements they discussed, I had not the faintest inkling, though I surmised that they had occupied some of Mav’s attentions this afternoon while I had been visiting relatives. In this I was proved correct.
“You see,” he told me as we entered the Weapons Hall from the lecture auditorium, there being no direct access from the Grand Display Hall, “we have before us here a very pretty puzzle. I have decided I shall call it a Closed-Chamber Paradox—one door was nailed shut, three more securely bolted, and the only one remaining closely guarded by both Bucketeers and the Museum guards. Moreover, all outer entrances were securely sealed as well. Some two hundred or more individuals witnessed what transpired, but no one—not myself excluded—can say how the murder was accomplished.”
“In this respect,” I observed, “it is rather like a feat of theatrical magic, isn’t it?” This thought gave rise to speculations concerning Myssmo’s lunologist.
“Quite so, Mymy, and consequently I have ordered that nothing be disturbed, in hopes that we may eventually determine the magician’s methods. Here, for instance, is the screen, precisely as it was night before last . . . and along here, the broken springbow case and the nailed door with the hole in it. I did permit Leds to eliminate the display case from the circuit of alarms so that we would be annoyed no longer by its incessant ringing, and the alarms for other cases could be rendered operative again.”
Somehow this must have been accomplished at the panel in the atrium, as there was no sign of it in this chamber.
“Now, before we properly begin,” May said, extracting his notecase from a pocket, “perhaps you’d like to hear what else has been established since this afternoon.”
“Indeed, I had believed you’d spent the time rendering my own efforts redundant.” And consorting with disreputable females, I added mentally.
“Now, now, Mymy, we are bound, in circumstances such as these, to stumble independently upon the same facts now and again. Actually, such duplication serves our purposes quite handsomely, as I’m inclined to trust twice-proven evidence all the more.” He began to rummage through his pockets once again.
“I could wish I shared your aplomb. But tell me, Mav, will you not report the attempt upon our lives this evening?” I thought about the severed hand, lying, at his insistence, within my bag. “After all, there’s been a serious injury, and—”
He stopped and looked at me directly. “On no account! Can you imagine Tis’s reaction to the news? We have sufficient obstacles before us without adding yet another.” He produced the exploded springbow bolt, laying it carefully upon the glass of a nearby display case. “That’s as it may be. There is work now, and you have heard me promise Leds that this is the last evening we’ll keep his Museum dosed. Thus it is our final opportunity to collect and interpret physical data in situ. Speaking of which, I find I have neglected to show you something that may prove to be of some importance.”
He handed me a paper disk, the photograph of a scene I had excellent reason to recall most vividly. “Why, it’s Professor Srafen, virtually at the moment of the explosion. I remember that dramatic gesture quite well, for Niitood had requested rher to ‘hold it.’ ”
“More accurately, a fraction of a second before the explosion. It is my belief that this image exonerates Niitood completely, for it is, of course, from his camera, and had he concealed a weapon in that instrument—”
“Which he had not, for you examined it beforehand, and I its fragments afterward—”
“Quite so. As I was just about to say, I doubt that any such device could function simultaneously as a camera and a weapon. Niitood produced this picture for me once he was released. It was a highly disagreeable process involving several odorous liquids, which I nonetheless watched closely to avoid his being accused in future of practicing a deception. You really ought to see his flat, Mymy. It’s like some mad philosopher’s laboratory.”
“Pah forbid,” said I with indignant propriety, “nor do I necessarily concur that this releases him altogether from suspicion. It seems to me that there was room aplenty in that so-called illuminatory attachment of his for field artillery and a company of cavalry, chariots and all.”
He rippled his fur with gratified amusement but delayed comment until he’d prepared his little silver pipe "Yours parallel my own thought processes admirably I went to some pains establishing the operating principle of Nlituoil'ri illuminator; in function it is not unlike a juicing box."
“Somehow,” I replied, “this does not surprise me. By what means is such a foul habit turned to constructive purpose?”
Mav puffed upon his pipe. “Elementary, my dear Mymy; although in present application the instrument is large and somewhat heavy, it shows some advantages over the use of flash powder, and Niitood has hopes that future progress will render the device lighter and more compact.
“The juicing-box portion boasts three magnetos instead of the usual one, and a singularly powerful spring escapement, which generate sufficient current to stun a watu or an ajot.”
“Or perhaps even such an habitual imbiber as our Niitood?” I inquired.
“You are the very model of tolerance, my dear. For my part, I had rather be infested by carapace lice than afflicted with a well-intentioned friend motivated ‘only by my best interests.” Had you ever thought of going into Church work? Never mind: the electrical potential is communicated to a simple pair of copper clamps in which there have been placed a pair of rods exactly like these.”
He handed me two chalky black cylinders perhaps half a finger-width in diameter. “Carbon?”
“Nothing else. When the distance between their ends is properly adjusted and the spring motor released, there is produced a momentary brilliance in which it is possible to make pictures such as that in your hand.”
“I see. Ergo: no weapon in the camera; none in the illu-minatory—”
“Arc candle, Niitood calls it. I could wish he put as much effort into journalistic excellence as he does in his inventions.”
“Arc candle, then. As you yourself have commented, this is the Age of Invention, Mav, when everyone fancies himself the harbinger of progress. Very well, at the moment of the photograph, Srafen was still alive. I am
compelled to agree with you at last: Niitood is not our murderer. But you did not have this evidence when you argued for his release. . . .”
Now it was my friend’s turn to betray embarrassment: “My reasons were the polar opposite of scientific, Mymy; they were psychological in character. I simply never believed Niitood was the sort to do murder, particularly a complicated premeditated one. As you now comprehend, I pay great attention to such feelings, and if I require any further defense in the matter, it is my experience that journalists as a class are inherently passive creatures— spectators, not participators in life. Why, I have witnessed correspondents taking notes and pictures while watching soldiers bleed to death in the field, instead of taking the lamviinitarian measures any sane or decent person would.” I found that difficult to credit. “Perhaps you exaggerate somewhat. But tell me of these preparations Leds discussed with you.”
“They are various. To begin with, you may recall my hypothesis that someone might have hidden in this room before the lecture, thus evading notice by the lamn who guarded the only open door.”
“Yes, although I am surprised that I do, considering the many events that have demanded my concern in the interim.”
“You’ve been a paragon, Mymy, there’s the straight of it. In any case, my guesses have been shattered once again by Leds: there was considerable movement of furniture in here, preparatory to the lecture; he and his assistants weren’t quite finished with it before guests began arriving. Thus, by inadvertence, this chamber was well supervised the entire time, and, as you can see for yourself, there isn’t any place to hide, even were that not the case.”
L Neil Smith - [North American Confederacy 03] Page 9
