Oracle

by Mike Resnick

  “You will see for yourself when we arrive,” answered Praed Tropo.

  “Fine,” said the Iceman with a sigh.

  “There is one thing I will tell you now, Mendoza.”

  “Good. What is it?”

  “My race is called the Lorhn,” said Praed Tropo. “We find the term Blue Devils offensive.”

  “I assure you no offense was intended. I've only heard you referred to as Blue Devils.”

  “We call you Men, as you prefer, rather than—” it uttered a word that was unpronounceable in Terran. “And we have learned to speak Terran, though it bears no relation to our own language and is painful to our throats.” It paused. “And yet, although the Democracy knows we are the Lorhn, it persists in calling us Blue Devils, and does not teach its diplomats or its operatives our language. Is it any wonder that we have no desire to be assimilated by you?”

  “I'm no politician or operative,” said the Iceman. “I'm just a businessman, and from this moment forward I'll be happy to refer to you as Lorhn. If you feel the Democracy has treated your race with disrespect, tell them.”

  “I have no intercourse with the Democracy, nor do I expect to have any unless they invade us,” said Praed Tropo. “I am telling you, because if you survive I will expect you to relay my message to them.”

  “Consider it done,” lied the Iceman.

  The Blue Devil fell silent again, and the Iceman, totally out of questions, rode in mute discomfort.

  After another hour he felt the vehicle turn to the left, and suddenly the sound of the wind was broken by large structures, either buildings or natural formations. Then it began slowing down, and in another mile it stopped.

  “We have arrived,” announced Praed Tropo as the windows became transparent once more.

  The Iceman's eyes began watering at the broad expanse of sand that reflected the intense sunlight, and it took him almost a minute before he could begin focusing.

  The first thing he saw was the building, beautifully camouflaged in a depression beneath a large outcropping of rock. It was a crazily irregular structure, but if a wall with right angles had been built around it, the Iceman estimated that it would be close to 400 feet on a side.

  The quartz roof, reflecting a dazzling array of reds, oranges and golds, with blue metal girders supporting it, immediately caught his eye. It seemed much more intricate than necessary, even if it served as a solar energy collector.

  He looked for windows and doors, found a few where they shouldn't have been and almost none where he expected them to be, and shrugged. He'd been on enough alien worlds not to try to make sense out of their structures. If they thought a roof should be fifty feet high at one point and ten feet at another, with no rhyme or reason to justify the sudden changes, that was fine by him; all he was concerned about was the woman who resided beneath that roof.

  At the far end of the building was a huge triangular door, and after he, Praed Tropo, and the four armed Blue Devils climbed out of the vehicle, the driver started it up again and drove through the doorway into what the Iceman assumed was an enormous garage.

  There were eleven Blue Devils pacing the grounds, walking in intricate patterns that seemed totally unrelated to one another. None of them were armed.

  “Who are they?” asked the Iceman.

  “They are members of the house's staff.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “They are performing their religious rituals,” answered Praed Tropo.

  “They make awfully easy targets,” noted the Iceman.

  “Then they will join our God that much sooner,” replied the Blue Devil with a shrug.

  “And what are these?” asked the Iceman, indicating a number of stone structures scattered around the landscape. “They look rather like fountains.”

  “What is a fountain?”

  The Iceman explained it, and Praed Tropo looked disapproving.

  “We have no water to spare for such non-essential purposes.”

  “Then I repeat: what are they?”

  “Monuments, denoting where various Lorhn have fallen in defense of the Oracle.” It paused. “In every case, they were killed by agents of the Democracy.”

  “Then it would seem that the Democracy has hired me to make amends,” said the Iceman.

  “For Men to make amends is contrary to my experience,” said Praed Tropo.

  “You've been associating with the wrong Men,” said the Iceman easily.

  “I will give you every opportunity to prove me wrong, Mendoza,” answered the Blue Devil. “But I expect that you will prove to be no different from the rest.”

  “You know, you object to my calling your race Blue Devils, and I'm making an attempt to abide by your wishes,” said the Iceman. “But you keep making generalizations about my race that you know to be false.”

  “Nothing I have said is false.”

  “You have stated or implied that Men are not to be trusted, and that we hold your race in contempt.”

  “That is true.”

  “You forget the Oracle,” said the Iceman. “She's a member of my race, and yet you trust her.”

  Praed Tropo stared at the Iceman for a long moment, and then spoke. “I repeat: nothing I have said is false.”

  26.

  The Iceman was still considering what Praed Tropo had said as they toured the grounds.

  “Which way do you think Chandler will approach?” asked the Blue Devil when they had finished their inspection.

  The Iceman placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the landscape.

  “Difficult to say,” he replied. “I assume the fence on the west side is electrified?”

  “Our security system does not use electricity,” answered Praed Tropo. “It is too easy to disable at the source. The fence has a self-generating field that will kill anything that touches it.”

  “How about that overhang?” asked the Iceman, indicating the huge rock that towered over the house.

  “It cannot be scaled.”

  “Not by a Lorhn, perhaps—but it wouldn't be that difficult for a human.”

  “Could you scale it?” asked Praed Tropo skeptically.

  The Iceman smiled and shook his head. “No ... but I've got a prosthetic leg, and I've never really learned to use it properly; there's some nerve damage to my hip. Twenty years ago I could have climbed it with no trouble.”

  “I shall deploy forces to guard all approaches to the overhang,” said Praed Tropo after some thought.

  “I wouldn't, if I were you.”

  “Why not?” asked the Blue Devil suspiciously.

  “You're not dealing with an amateur here,” replied the Iceman. “He'll spot anyone you post there, and he won't try to come into the compound—and if he doesn't come in, then there's no way I can contact him.”

  “You are certain?”

  “The only way he'll enter the compound under those circumstances is if he kills every Lorhn you post there—and it's my understanding that that's what you've brought me here to prevent.”

  “That is true,” admitted Praed Tropo. “But if we follow this philosophy throughout our defenses, it is almost certain that Chandler will at least reach the spot where we are standing without being apprehended.”

  “That's the whole purpose of the exercise,” answered the Iceman. “We've got to entice him to breech your defenses or I won't be able to identify him and warn him off.”

  “And what if you can't warn him off?” asked Praed Tropo. “What if, having come this far, he elects to kill you?”

  “He has no reason to kill me.”

  “Men lie to each other all the time. Why should he believe what you tell him?”

  “Because he knows me.”

  “That is an inadequate answer.”

  “I'm sorry, because it's the best answer you're going to get,” replied the Iceman. “Besides, what difference does it make to you if he kills me or not? You insist that no one can kill the Oracle. At least this way you'll know where he
is, and you can make sure he doesn't get out.”

  Praed Tropo was silent for a moment. “Logical,” it said at last.

  “I'm glad we agree on something,” said the Iceman.

  “What do you suggest for the rest of the perimeter?” asked the Blue Devil. “It is possible to deactivate the fences.”

  “Not a good idea,” answered the Iceman. “We want to pick and choose his approaches. If you just let him come in at random, I might never see him.”

  Praed Tropo stared at him, a strange expression on its face.

  “Is something wrong?” asked the Iceman.

  “No,” answered the Blue Devil. “You are acting out your part very well.”

  “I'm not acting any part,” protested the Iceman irritably. “I'm trying to earn my commission.”

  “I still do not trust you, Mendoza,” said Praed Tropo. “But you have been very careful not to make a mistake. If you had suggested that we deactivate the fence, I would know you were an agent for the assassin, and I would have immediately imprisoned you.” It paused. “I will continue to work with you, but sooner or later I expect you to make an error, and I will be waiting for it.”

  “You are doomed to be disappointed,” said the Iceman.

  “I have always expected the worst from Men,” answered Praed Tropo. “And I have never yet been disappointed.”

  “If you're going to continue telling me what a treacherous race I belong to, can we at least walk over to some shade?” asked the Iceman. “If I stand out here much longer, I may not live long enough to prove to you that I'm telling the truth.”

  Praed Tropo led him to a bizarrely-shaped lean-to that seemed to have no purpose except to provide shade to anyone who was willing to bend over at the waist.

  “Aren't you uncomfortable?” asked the Iceman, staring at the slightly taller Blue Devil.

  “You asked for shade. I have provided it.”

  “This is getting ridiculous,” said the Iceman. “Your furniture and vehicles are bad enough, but if I'm going to roast to death, I don't see why I have to do it while I'm bent in half.”

  “You should have considered that before accepting an assignment on Alpha Crepello III,” replied Praed Tropo, stepping back out into the sunlight.

  “Look,” said the Iceman, also stepping out from under the lean-to and straightening up painfully, “I know that you enjoy my discomfort, but my race wasn't built for this kind of heat, and I'm a very old man. You're going to have to provide me with some comfortable shade—and I emphasize the word comfortable—if I'm to stay outside and wait for Chandler to show up.”

  “He will almost certainly arrive under cover of darkness,” answered Praed Tropo. “Our nights are quite cool.”

  “I experienced one of your nights, thanks. They're only cool if you're a Lorhn.” The Iceman paused. “Do you know what an umbrella is?”

  “No.”

  “I'll draw one for you,” said the Iceman. “I want one of your Lorhn to construct one for me. And I'll need plenty of water.”

  “Water is very rare on Alpha Crepello III.”

  “Not as rare as assassins,” shot back the Iceman. “If you want me to stop him, you've got to keep me alive until he shows up.”

  Praed Tropo seemed to consider his request. “I will see what can be done,” it said at last.

  “Good.”

  Praed Tropo stared at him for a moment. “You have not yet inspected the entrances to the property which are used by vehicles,” it said, indicating two driveways. “Do you feel strong enough to inspect them?”

  “Let's get it over with,” said the Iceman. They had checked the first of them and were walking to the second when the Iceman suddenly stopped, overcome by dizziness.

  “What is the matter, Mendoza?” asked Praed Tropo.

  “Heat prostration, I think,” mumbled the Iceman. “I've got to get out of the sun.”

  “How does one treat heat prostration in a human?”

  “I don't know,” said the Iceman, grabbing Praed Tropo's arm for support. “I've never had it before. Get me to someplace cool, and if I pass out, find a way to get some fluids in me. Just water; I don't think my system can take anything the Lorhn drink.”

  Praed Tropo summoned two other Blue Devils. The Iceman's last memory was of being half-carried and half-dragged into the foyer of the huge building.

  Then he lost consciousness.

  27.

  When he awoke, he was laying on the floor of a small cubicle, next to an oddly-shaped cot. Even in his weakened, dehydrated condition, he had evidently decided that the floor was more comfortable.

  He stood up, leaned against a stone wall for support, and surveyed his surroundings. The cubicle was perhaps eight feet on a side, just enough for the cot, a small, multi-leveled table, and an intercom holoscreen. There was a container of water on the table. He immediately picked it up, spent almost a minute figuring out how to open it, and then took two long swallows. It was warm, and there were small things floating in it, things that he didn't want to think about, but it tasted like heaven.

  He wanted to drink more, to drain the container, but he seemed to remember reading or hearing somewhere that he should drink frequently but in moderation until he regained his strength. He took a tentative step, then another, and found that he wasn't as weak as he had anticipated. Obviously the Blue Devils had gotten him out of the sun before any serious damage had been done.

  The door to his cubicle was closed. He had no idea if it was locked, and at the moment he didn't particularly care. It would be another hour or so before he could take advantage of being here anyway—if indeed there was any advantage to be taken by being inside the building.

  He walked from wall to wall a few more times, getting some of the stiffness out of his body, then sat delicately on the edge of the cot and just luxuriated in being out of Hades’ sunlight. In fact, the room was still quite warm, perhaps 36 degrees Celsius, but it felt cool and comfortable compared to being outside.

  He waited another five minutes, then got up and began walking back and forth again, feeling stronger this time. It was as he approached the far wall that he heard the voice.

  “I see you're finally awake, Iceman,” said a cold, dispassionate, vaguely familiar voice.

  He turned and found himself staring at the image of a slender young woman on the holoscreen. He studied the face: the cheekbones were more prominent, the chin a little sharper, the hair a bit darker, but they were definitely hers. Only the eyes had really changed; they seemed strange, distant, almost alien.

  “It's been a long time,” he said at last.

  “Fourteen years,” replied Penelope Bailey.

  Part 5:

  THE ORACLE'S BOOK

  28.

  “I'm getting sick and tired of waiting,” remarked the Injun, as he and Broussard sat in his room at the embassy. “I think it's just about time to go to work.”

  “I thought you weren't going to make a move until the Whistler showed up,” said Broussard.

  “For all I know, the Blue Devils killed him on one of the moons and he won't be showing up at all.”

  The Injun got to his feet and started pacing the room restlessly, while Broussard stared at him and tried to understand the change that had come over him during the past few days. He had grown more irritable, more restless, and had been given to violent outbursts of temper. It just didn't jibe with the cool professional Broussard had been working with, and the young man was sincerely worried about the Injun's mental state.

  “Where the hell is he?” muttered the Injun, slamming a fist into the wall. “I can't wait much longer!”

  “There's no deadline on killing the Oracle, sir,” said Broussard. “Or if there is, you haven't told me about it.”

  “I've got a personal deadline,” snapped the Injun. “And I've just about reached it.”

  “A personal deadline?” repeated Broussard, puzzled.

  “Just shut up and let me think!”

  “I can
leave the room if you wish, sir.”

  “Leave, stay—what you do doesn't interest me.”

  He continued pacing the room, faster and faster, and after watching him for another few minutes, Broussard walked to the door and went to his own quarters, deeply troubled about the change that had occurred to his superior.

  Finally the Injun came to a stop in front of his computer and stared at it, as if it was some alien machine he had never seen before. Finally his eyes, which had seemed wild and unfocused, cleared and he sat down next to it.

  “Computer—activate,” he commanded.

  “Activated,” replied the computer.

  “Check all planetary databases and tell me if Joshua Jeremiah Chandler, also known as the Whistler, has arrived on Hades yet.”

  “Checking ... unknown.”

  “Damn!” muttered the Injun.

  He was about to begin walking around the room again when it hit him.

  “Computer!” he yelled.

  “Yes?”

  “Every other time I've asked you, you said No. This time you said Unknown. Why?”

  “Because a human has landed at the Polid Kreba Military Base, and I have been unable to ascertain his identity.”

  “That's got to be him!” said the Injun. “Has he been incarcerated?”

  “Unknown.”

  “It doesn't matter,” said the Injun. “If he's in jail, he'll rot there, and there's no sense waiting any longer—and if he's not, then he's talked his way out of a military base and probably has freedom of movement, and I've got to move tonight.”

  The computer made no reply, as no question had been put to it.

  “Deactivate,” ordered the Injun.

  The computer went dark, and the Injun walked out of his room, went down the hall, and entered Broussard's room.

  “I'm going after her tonight,” he announced.

  “You're quite certain, sir?” asked Broussard, obviously concerned.

  “Of course I'm certain!” said the Injun. “The Whistler has landed on Hades!”

  “You're sure of that?”

  “The computer confirms it.”

  “The computer says that the Whistler has landed?” repeated Broussard. “Then why didn't it show up on our immigration lists?”