Frost and Fire

by Roger Zelazny

  “Captain!” McCarthy said. “The artifact!”

  “What about it?” I asked, moving to the screen which held its image.

  But he did not reply, as I could see it for myself. The device had begun moving once again, crossing the F Ring. After a time it descended to hover above the outermost edge of the A Ring. With a bright flash the laser came on, focused downward into the groove. The one long-silent receiver still set for the thing’s frequency came suddenly alive; its hookup to the ship’s speaker system had not been broken when the satellite went silent. Abruptly now, the speakers brought us the wailing, the crashes, the blaring, the beat.

  Later, when we sent a probe far beneath the murky skies of Titan near to the area from which the wedge-shaped vessel had come and to which it had returned, it sent back pictures: Beneath red clouds, through haze, on the shores of a methane sea, cyclopean figures swayed and spun; blizzards of fiery flakes fell like confetti about them.

  MANA FROM HEAVEN

  Here is a written-to-order story which appeared in The Magic May Return, the sort of sequel to The Magic Goes Away, by Larry Niven. As with Fred Saberhagen and Berserker Base, Larry opened up this particular universe and invited some of us to come and party in it. I stepped in and began the dance. Oddly, the story tried to run away from me. This doesn’t happen often, but I wanted a novelette, and it indicated that it wanted to turn into a novel. I was firm. I won. The results follow.

  * * *

  I felt nothing untoward that afternoon, whereas, I suppose, my senses should have been tingling. It _1 was a balmy, sun-filled day with but the lightest of clouds above the ocean horizon. It might have lulled me within the not unpleasant variations of my routine. It was partly distraction, then, of my subliminal, superliminal perceptions, my early-warning system, whatever.… This, I suppose, abetted by the fact that there had been no danger for a long while, and that I was certain I was safely hidden. It was a lovely summer day.

  There was a wide window at the rear of my office, affording an oblique view of the ocean. The usual clutter lay about—opened cartons oozing packing material, a variety of tools, heaps of rags, bottles of cleaning compounds and restoratives for various surfaces. And of course the acquisitions: Some of them still stood in crates and cartons; others held ragged rank upon my workbench, which ran the length of an entire wall—a row of ungainly chessmen awaiting my hand. The window was open and the fan purring so that the fumes from my chemicals could escape rapidly. Bird songs entered, and a sound of distant traffic, sometimes the wind.

  My Styrofoam coffee cup rested unopened upon the small table beside the door, its contents long grown cold and unpalatable to any but an oral masochist. I had set it there that morning and forgotten it until my eyes chanced to light upon it. I had worked through coffee break and lunch, the day had been so rewarding. The really important part had been completed, though the rest of the museum staff would never notice. Time now to rest, to celebrate, to savor all I had found.

  I raised the cup of cold coffee. Why not? A few words, a simple gesture …

  I took a sip of the icy champagne. Wonderful.

  I crossed to the telephone then, to call Elaine. This day was worth a bigger celebration than the cup I held. Just as my hand was about to fall upon the instrument, however, the phone rang. Following the startle response, I raised the receiver.

  “Hello,” I said.

  Nothing.

  “Hello?”

  Nothing again. No … Something.

  Not some weirdo dialing at random either, as I am an extension… .

  “Say it or get off the pot,” I said.

  The words came controlled, from back in the throat, slow, the voice unidentifiable:

  “Phoenix—Phoenix—burning—bright,” I heard.

  “Why warn me, asshole?”

  “Tag. You’re—it.”

  The line went dead.

  I pushed the button several times, roused the switchboard.

  “Elsie,” I asked, “the person who just called me— what were the exact words—”

  “Huh?” she said. “I haven’t put any calls through to you all day, Dave.”

  “Oh.”

  “You okay?”

  “Short circuit or something,” I said. “Thanks.”

  I cradled it and tossed off the rest of the champagne. It was no longer a pleasure, merely a housecleaning chore. I fingered the tektite pendant I wore, the roughness of my lava-stone belt buckle, the coral in my watchband. I opened my attache case and replaced certain items I had been using. I removed a few, also, and dropped them into my pockets.

  It didn’t make sense, but I knew that it had been for real because of the first words spoken. I thought hard. I still had no answer, after all these years. But I knew that it meant danger. And I knew that it could take any form.

  I snapped the case shut. At least it had happened today, rather than, say, yesterday. I was better prepared.

  I closed the window and turned off the fan. I wondered whether I should head for my cache. Of course, that could be what someone expected me to do.

  I walked up the hall and knocked on my boss’s half-open door.

  “Come in, Dave. What’s up?” he asked.

  Mike Thorley, in his late thirties, mustached, well dressed, smiling, put down a sheaf of papers and glanced at a dead pipe in a big ashtray.

  “A small complication in my life,” I told him. “Is it okay if I punch out early today?”

  “Sure. Nothing too serious, I hope?”

  I shrugged.

  “I hope not, too. If it gets that way, though, I’ll probably need a few days.”

  He moved his lips around a bit, then nodded.

  “You’ll call in?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s just that I’d like all of that African stuff taken care of pretty soon.”

  “Right,” I said. “Some nice pieces there.”

  He raised both hands.

  “Okay. Do what you have to do.”

  “Thanks.”

  I started to turn away. Then, “One thing,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “Has anybody been asking about me—anything?”

  He started to shake his head, then stopped.

  “Unless you count that reporter,” he said.

  “What reporter?”

  “The fellow who phoned the other day, doing a piece on our new acquisitions. Your name came up, of course, and he had a few general questions—the usual stuff, like how long you’ve been with us, where you’re from. You know.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Wolfgang or Walford. Something like that.”

  “What paper?”

  “The Times:’

  I nodded.

  “Okay. Be seeing you.”

  “Take care.”

  I used the pay phone in the lobby to call the paper. No one working there named Wolfgang or Walford or something like that, of course. No article in the works either. I debated calling another paper, just in case Mike was mistaken, when I was distracted by a tap upon the shoulder. I must have turned too quickly, my expression something other than composed, for her smile faded and fear arced across her dark brows, slackened her jaw.

  “Elaine!” I said. “You startled me. I didn’t expect …”

  The smile found its way back.

  “You’re awfully jumpy, Dave. What are you up to?”

  “Checking on my dry cleaning,” I said. “You’re the last person—”

  “I know. Nice of me, isn’t it? It was such a beautiful day that I decided to knock off early and remind you we had a sort of date.”

  My mind spun even as I put my arms about her shoulders and turned her toward the door. How much danger might she be in if I spent a few hours with her in full daylight? I was about to go for something to eat anyway, and I could keep alert for observers. Also, her presence might lull anyone watching me into thinking that I had not taken the call seriously, that perhaps I was not th
e proper person after all. For that matter, I realized that I wanted some company just then. And if my sudden departure became necessary, I also wanted her company this one last time.

  “Yes,” I said. “Great idea. Let’s take my car.”

  “Don’t you have to sign out or something?”

  “I already did. I had the same feeling you did about the day. I was going to call you after I got my cleaning.”

  “It’s not ready yet,” I added, and my mind kept turning.

  A little trickle here, a little there. I did not feel that we were being observed.

  “I know a good little restaurant about forty miles down the coast. Lots of atmosphere. Fine seafood,” I said as we descended the front stairs. “And it should be a pleasant drive.”

  We headed for the museum’s parking lot, around to the side.

  “I’ve got a beach cottage near there too,” I said.

  “You never mentioned that.”

  “I hardly ever use it.”

  “Why not? It sounds wonderful.”

  “It’s a little out of the way.”

  “Then why’d you buy it?”

  “I inherited it,” I said.

  I paused about a hundred feet from my car and jammed a hand into my pocket.

  “Watch,” I told her.

  The engine turned over, the car vibrated.

  “How …?” she began.

  “A little microwave gizmo. I can start it before I get to it.”

  “You afraid of a bomb?”

  I shook my head.

  “It has to warm up. You know how I like gadgets.”

  Of course I wanted to check out the possibility of a bomb. It was a natural reaction for one in my position. Fortunately, I had convinced her of my fondness for gadgets early in our acquaintanceship—to cover any such contingencies as this. Of course, too, there was no microwave gizmo in my pocket. Just some of the stuff.

  We continued forward then; I unlocked the doors and we entered it.

  I watched carefully as I drove. Nothing, no one, seemed to be trailing us. ‘Tag. You’re it,” though. A gambit. Was I supposed to bolt and run? Was I supposed to try to attack? If so, what? Who?

  Was I going to bolt and run?

  In the rear of my mind I saw that the bolt-and-run pattern had already started taking shape.

  How long, how long, had this been going on? Years. Flight. A new identity. A long spell of almost normal existence. An attack… . Flee again. Settle again.

  If only I had an idea as to which one of them it was, then I could attack. Not knowing, though, I had to avoid the company of all my fellows—the only ones who could give me clues.

  “You look sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, Dave. It can’t be your dry cleaning, can it?”

  I smiled at her.

  “Just business,” I said. “All of the things I wanted to get away from. Thanks for reminding me.”

  I switched on the radio and found some music. Once we got out of city traffic, I began to relax. When we reached the coast road and it thinned even further, it became obvious that we were not being followed. We climbed for a time, then descended. My palms tingled as I spotted the pocket of fog at the bottom of the next dip. Exhilarated, I drank its essence. Then I began talking about the African pieces, in their mundane aspects. We branched off from there. For a time, I forgot my problem. This lasted for perhaps twenty minutes, until the news broadcast. By then I was projecting goodwill, charm, warmth, and kind feelings. I could see that Elaine had begun enjoying herself. There was feedback. I felt even better. There—

  “… new eruptions which began this morning,” came over the speaker. “The sudden activity on the part of El Chinchonal spurred immediate evacuation of the area about—”

  I reached over and turned up the volume, stopping in the middle of my story about hiking in the Alps.

  “What—?” she said.

  I raised a finger to my lips.

  “The volcano,” I explained.

  “What of it?”

  “They fascinate me,” I said.

  “Oh.”

  As I memorized all of the facts about the eruption, I began to build feelings concerning my situation. My having received the call today had been a matter of timing… .

  “There were some good pictures of it on the tube this morning,” she said as the newsbrief ended.

  “I wasn’t watching. But I’ve seen it do it before, when I was down there.”

  “You visit volcanos?”

  “When they’re active, yes.”

  “Here you have this really oddball hobby and you’ve never mentioned it,” she observed. “How many active volcanos have you visited?”

  “Most of them,” I said, no longer listening, the lines of the challenge becoming visible—the first time it had ever been put on this basis. I realized in that instant that this time I was not going to run.

  “Most of them?” she said. “I read somewhere that there are hundreds, some of them in really out-of-the-way places. Like Erebus—”

  “I’ve been in Erebus,” I said, “back when—” And then I realized what I was saying. “—back in some dream,” I finished. “Little joke there.”

  I laughed, but she only smiled a bit.

  It didn’t matter, though. She couldn’t hurt me. Very few mundanes could. I was just about finished with her anyway. After tonight I would forget her. We would never meet again. I am by nature polite, though; it is a thing I value above sentiment. I would not hurt her either: It might be easiest simply to make her forget.

  “Seriously, I do find certain aspects of geophysics fascinating.”

  “I’ve been an amateur astronomer for some time,” she volunteered. “I can understand.”

  “Really? Astronomy? You never told me.”

  “Well?” she said.

  I began to work it out, small talk flowing reflexively. After we parted tonight or tomorrow morning, I would leave. I would go to Villahermosa. My enemy would be waiting—of this I felt certain. “Tag. You’re it.” “This is your chance. Come and get me if you’re not afraid.”

  Of course, I was afraid.

  But I’d run for too long. I would have to go, to settle this for good. Who knew when I’d have another opportunity? I had reached the point where it was worth any risk to find out who it was, to have a chance to retaliate. I would take care of all the preliminaries later, at the cottage, after she was asleep. Yes.

  “You’ve got beach?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How isolated?”

  “Very. Why?”

  “It would be nice to swim before dinner.”

  So we stopped by the restaurant, made reservations for later, and went off and did that. The water was fine.

  The day turned into a fine evening. I’d gotten us my favorite table, on the patio, out back, sequestered by colorful shrubbery, touched by flower scents, in the view of mountains. The breezes came just right. So did the lobster and champagne. Within the restaurant, a pleasant music stirred softly. During coffee, I found her hand beneath my own. I smiled. She smiled back.

  Then, “How’d you do it, Dave?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Hypnotize me.”

  “Native charm, I guess,” I replied, laughing.

  “That is not what I mean.”

  “What, then?” I said, all chuckles fled.

  “You haven’t even noticed that I’m not smoking anymore.”

  “Hey, you’re right! Congratulations. How long’s it been?”

  “A couple of weeks,” she replied. “I’ve been seeing a hypnotist.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Mm-hm. I was such a docile subject that he couldn’t believe I’d never been under before. So he poked around a little, and he came up with a description of you, telling me to forget something.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. You want to know what I remember now that I didn’t before?”

  “Tell m
e.”

  “An almost-accident, late one night, about a month ago. The other car didn’t even slow down for the stop sign. Yours levitated. Then I remember us parked by the side of the road, and you were telling me to forget. I did.”

  I snorted.

  “Any hypnotist with much experience will tell you that a trance state is no guarantee against fantasy—and a hallucination recalled under hypnosis seems just as real the second time around. Either way—”

  “I remember the ping as the car’s antenna struck your right rear fender and snapped off.”

  “They can be vivid fantasies too.”

  “I looked, Dave. The mark is there on the fender. It looks just as if someone had swatted it with an antenna.”

  Damn! I’d meant to get that filled in and touched up. Hadn’t gotten around to it, though.

  “I got that in a parking lot,” I said.

  “Come on, Dave.”

  Should I put her under now and make her forget having remembered? I wondered. Maybe that would be easiest.

  “I don’t care,” she said then. “Look, I really don’t care. Strange things sometimes happen. If you’re connected with some of them, that’s okay. What bothers me is that it means you don’t trust me … “

  Trust? That is something that positions you as a target. Like Proteus, when Amazon and Priest got finished with him. Not that he didn’t have it coming… .

  “… and I’ve trusted you for a long time.”

  I removed my hand from hers. I took a drink of coffee. Not here. I’d give her mind a little twist later. Implant something to make her stay away from hypnotists in the future too.

  “Okay,” I said. “I guess you’re right. But it’s a long story. I’ll tell you after we get back to the cottage.”

  Her hand found my own, and I met her eyes.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  We drove back beneath a moonless sky clotted with stars. It was an unpaved road, dipping, rising, twisting amid heavy shrubbery. Insect noises came in through our open windows, along with the salt smell of the sea. For a moment, just for a moment, I thought that I felt a strange tingling, but it could have been the night and the champagne. And it did not come again.