The 19th Golden Age of Science Fiction

by Charles V. De Vet

  Chapter 2

  Pariseau found his room in the hotel section of one of the square buildings still waiting. Most of his personal belongings were too bulky and valuable to be carried about with him; when he had been here earlier in the year, he had paid a year’s rent in advance so as to have a safe place to leave them.

  The room was safe. Its plastic walls were impenetrable, for all practical purposes, and the door could be opened only when the intricate mechanism of its lock matched the lines on his palm with the pattern planted in it unicellular brain.

  He paused a moment at the desk to order dinner before he took the elevator to the two hundred and thirty-first floor. Once inside he inspected his room briefly. Nothing had been touched.

  For a time he stood looking at a mural on the wall depicting savage brown tribesmen engaged in fierce fighting. The caption read, Slaggs in Battle.

  While he waited for his dinner, he stood in front of a full-length mirror on the door of his bathroom and stripped, slowly. He stepped closer to the mirror and carefully fingered his right eyebrow; the eyebrow came loose with a-small, snapping sound and fell into the palm of his hand. He repeated the process with the left eyebrow. Next he loosened the edge of the suction base holding his curly black hair in place, and removed an ingenious wig. Finally he peeled back two thin strips of whiskered pseudo-skin from his face. Pariseau stood as bald and bare of hair as Hesse had been.

  With a small suction-cup he removed the dark brown contact lenses from his eyes revealing a surface of candid blue, flecked with gold—also like Hesse. There was no doubt but that they both possessed the same racial characteristics—and the characteristics were not human.

  The transformation completed, Pariseau stretched luxuriously and walked into the shower. Here he relaxed and the tension left his muscles. So far so good, he reflected. But his job had only just begun.

  He finished drying himself before the click of the dumbwaiter told him that his dinner had arrived. Without dressing, he ate and soon afterward his eyelids drooped drowsily. He stretched out on one of the room’s twin beds. The wall lights flickered out and the room automatically adjusted its heat to five degrees higher than his body temperature. Five minutes later he was asleep.

  * * * *

  Pariseau slept late. He ordered breakfast and showered again while he waited. After eating a leisurely meal he replaced his disguise of the day before, only leaving off the whisker-studded skin fabric.

  He took an elevator crowded with office girls on their lunch hour down to the main floor of the massive building that housed the hotel. The building, with its shops, offices, and business establishments, constituted a small city in itself. During the day over fifty thousand people worked there.

  In one of the inns he found a seat at the bar and ordered a glass of lager. A barman, with a washed and scrubbed face, filled his order briskly.

  Pariseau paid for his drink with a purple slip of pliable plastic with the words, REX MAJOR, and a picture of a star in nova on one side, and a 50 printed in large, fancy-scroll numbers on the other.

  The barman picked up the bill and turned it over in his hand. “The smallest you got?” he asked.

  Pariseau nodded.

  The barman hesitated, then shrugged and went to make change. He returned and placed several vari-colored slips of plastic beside the glass of lager.

  “Is there a lounge-room on this floor?” Pariseau asked, pocketing the money.

  The man nodded. “Straight back,” he said, pointing over Pariseau’s shoulder; “second lane to the right.”

  Pariseau finished his drink and walked in the direction the barman had indicated. He found the room he sought and quietly joined a group of men seated in a semi-circular row of padded chairs—discussing the usual popular subject, politics. There was a small bar at the open end of the half-circle, and an unobtrusive barman went among the customers filling orders for drinks.

  Pariseau noted that most of the loungers were human. And even those obviously of different species were very humanoid in body structure. Vaguely he recalled the prevalent theory that planets with physical conditions favorable to the support of human life had, quite naturally, evolved similar races. Two legs, two hands, large brains, and two eyes were all bodily features with inherent virtues of which evolution had almost universally taken advantage.

  “Lager,” Pariseau told the waiter as he came up.

  A human with the round, red face of a baby was holding the floor. “The human race,” he was saying, “is decadent. We haven’t colonized a new world in over two hundred years: A direct result of our stagnant birth rate. We are at the turn of the cycle.

  “History,” he went on, “has been the same since the time of the first civilized cities of Earth. A young race, vigorous and vital, sweeps in, takes over a city or territory, and settles down. The subjugated people are relegated to subservient roles; perhaps even to slavery. To them fall all the menial occupations. The conquerors take the spoils of victory, and in time grow soft, unable to fight with their old vigor—and fall before the next wave of primitives. And that same thing is about to happen to our entire race any day now.”

  “But we never made slaves of the natives on the worlds we occupied,” a man on his left—small, but firm of jaw—said. “Whenever possible, we maintain harmonious relations with them; and even now, whenever they persist in remaining hostile, we only subdue them as much as is necessary for our own protection. Everyone knows that.”

  “Nevertheless, when we reach the stagnation period—as we have now—we are ripe for the invasion of the next, more vigorous race,” the red-faced man insisted. “And the Lottenbaies, billions strong, are ready and eager to sweep in. It is our misfortune that Rex Major is the threshold world of that imminent invasion.”

  “But the Lottenbaies are barbarians,” another man argued. “They could never conquer a race with such a highly developed technology as ours.”

  “That would be true if we had any unity between our worlds,” the first man declaimed. “But we haven’t; each of our worlds is content to go its own way, with only desultory trade and tourist traffic between each other. And now that the Lottenbaies are threatening Rex Major, what are the others doing about it? Nothing. We are left to stand or fall on our own strength.”

  “I don’t think the Lottenbaies would dare attack us,” the small man asserted.

  “Then you’re blind,” the other asserted positively. “Do you think it’s only a coincidence that our own natives, the Slaggs, have achieved unity among their warlike tribes now—for the first time since we settled here? And where do you think they’re getting their weapons? The present situation is the result of deliberate Lottenbaie connivance. In our fight to hold off the Slaggs, the Lottenbaies expect us to drain our resources—perhaps even be overrun. Then they will step in and take over, and the long march back for the humans will have begun. I tell you we’d all be better off if there had been more Ox IIs in the galaxy.”

  The last sentence brought Pariseau up straight in his chair. “What about Ox II?” he asked. Instantly he was sorry for having spoken; he was being rash in directing attention to himself.

  “Ox II, sir,” the florid man said, obviously pleased at the opportunity further to display his eruditeness, “is the one world that we humans wanted—and couldn’t have. When we first colonized the planet we found the natives a pastoral, rather sedentary people. But a hundred years later they had adopted our machine methods and weapons, and we were ordered to leave.

  “Naturally we refused—and found ourselves whipped to a standstill. One year after the ultimatum had been delivered, there wasn’t a human being on the planet. For the next ten years we tried to beat our way back, but couldn’t even gain a foothold. Finally we bypassed it, leaving Ox II a small island of isolation in the sea of human expansion.” He stopped and looked at Pariseau for further questions or comments.

  Pariseau decided rapidly that a too-abrupt silence would look more suspicious than continuing th
e conversation—now that he was in it. “Yet there are some natives of Ox II on our worlds,” he said.

  “Assuredly. They are not a hostile people—as long as we respect their desire to be left alone. And they’re a brilliant race. They make the finest surgeons, engineers, and highly skilled technicians in the galaxy. They are always welcome wherever they choose to settle. But if we had more races that fought us…”

  Pariseau rose quietly as the man went on with his peroration and walked out of the lounge room.

  As he came through the door into the traffic lane a tall blonde girl, clean limbed and graceful, came to meet him. Her hair was worn long over her shoulders and she walked with a smooth elastic stride from the loins that had something of a feline grace about it.

  Pariseau had time to observe that she had green eyes, a clear white skin, and a very red mouth, before she reached him and placed her hand on his arm. He felt the heat of the hand come through the fabric of his sleeve and warm him.

  “I’m here, Coval,” she said, and her voice was low and musical like the muted notes of a cello. The sound of it played through him as waves play over, and into, a sandy beach.

  As far as Pariseau could recall, he had never seen her before. “Do I know you?” he asked.

  She laughed, her teeth flashing white behind the red of her lips. “You’re always jesting, Coval,” she said. “Come; the others are waiting. We’ll have to hurry.” She turned and walked away—very sure of him following.

  He did.

  At the curb in front of the hotel she paused. “Call a cab, will you, Coval?” she asked.

  By this time Pariseau had decided to play her game, even though he suspected where it led. He looked up the street for a cruising cab.

  Something struck him a jolting blow on the back of his neck and drove him to his knees. He sprang to his feet and turned to face three men, all tall, big boned—and blond, like the girl.

  Before he could move again a sharp pain stabbed the muscle of his shoulder and he swiveled his body around in time to see the girl holding a long needle in her hand.

  Pariseau drove his fist into her diaphragm and her mouth made a round O; as she fell he spun and struck the jaw of his nearest assailant. He sliced the heel of his hand into the throat of the second, but when he turned to the third he noted that his movements were slowing perceptibly.

  They grew so sluggish that he was not able to ward off the first blow of the man still standing and it landed low on his temple. He realized, with a sense of self-reprimand, that he had allowed the girl to drug him.

  The blows continued to strike his face, as he stood, unable to move but stubbornly keeping his feet; it seemed a long time before the pounding drove him to the sidewalk.

  * * * *

  Pariseau regained consciousness in time to feel himself being pulled from a cab. Deliberately he allowed his body to remain limp as the men carrying him laid him flat on his back on the ground.

  “He’s a big brute,” a man’s voice said. “Must weigh over three hundred pounds.”

  For a time Pariseau listened to the voices around him until he identified the party as consisting of three men and a girl. The girl was the same tall blonde who had led him into the trap. Quite probably, he decided, the others were the men who had attacked him. The girl seemed to be in command.

  Pariseau opened his eyes a mere slit and looked out. He was in an enclosed courtyard, he saw; on the roof of a tall building high overhead a huge illuminated bottle flashed the words of an advertisement for a health drink. He marked the location for future reference. Satisfied that he had observed all he needed he allowed a groan to escape his lips.

  “He’s coming out of it,” a man’s thickly accented voice warned.

  “Good,” the girl said; “we won’t have to carry him.”

  A man grasped Pariseau by each arm and pulled him to his feet. He muttered and allowed them to drag him along. They walked through a small side entrance of the building that held the illuminated bottle and went down a long flight of ill-kept stairs.

  There was no light over the stairway; by the time they reached the bottom they were in total darkness, but his captors seemed to know their way about very well. He heard the creak of another door opening and they walked through a long, black passageway.

  By now the effect of the drug had worn off—except for a dull pounding at his temples.

  Another door was opened and the party stepped into a small room lit by one dim overhead light.

  “You’d better tie him up,” the girl said. “He might try to make a break.”

  “What’ll we tie him with, Zelda?” one of the blond men asked.

  The girl pulled a scarf from around her neck and tossed it over. “Use that,” she said.

  “Where are you taking me?” Pariseau asked as they tied his hands behind his back.

  “Shut up,” the girl told him.

  “I might cooperate better if I knew what you wanted,” Pariseau said.

  A fist landed against his cheek and rocked his head back.

  He turned to look at the man who had struck him, studying his features, the down-slanting lines at the corners of his mouth and the jaundiced streaks of yellow in the white surrounding the green irises.

  “We may meet again,” Pariseau said levelly, “when my hands aren’t tied. You’ll remember this time then.”

  For answer the blond man struck him twice more in the face. Pariseau rode with the blows and they hurt him very little; but he felt a wild kind of anger rise up within him, and he twisted his hands behind him in an attempt to free them.

  “Let him alone,” the girl ordered; “there’ll be time for that later.”

  They went into another passageway and this time the girl walked ahead, lighting the way with a hand flash. The others followed close behind Pariseau.

  Chapter 3

  It seemed to him that they walked for hours before the tunnel began to slant upward. A short time later, they emerged into the semi-light of a small, poorly ventilated shack. The shack smelled of dust and locked-in heat.

  They led Pariseau out into a clearing where a cat-track stood covered with brush and branches cut from the surrounding trees. He realized then that they were outside the walls of the city. Quickly he looked about for something with which to mark the spot for future reference. A tall fir, bare of limbs until it reached its shaggy peak, reared high above the clearing; it would serve very well as a landmark.

  While two of the men uncovered the cat-track the third bound Pariseau’s legs and arms with a rope he had taken from the shack and stuffed a gag into his mouth. They put him on the floor of the vehicle and threw a blanket over him.

  The cat-track started up and they rode for several minutes before the hum of traffic told Pariseau that they had joined one of the main highways.

  A half-hour later the sounds of traffic gradually faded and the going became slower. Several times rough places in the road rocked the vehicle and threw Pariseau against the back of the front seat. Once he struck his nose and he felt the warmth of a thin trickle of blood that ran out onto his lip.

  He was hot and uncomfortable by the time they stopped.

  When they removed the blanket that covered him and helped him to his feet he found that they were in another small clearing and with an almost identical shack at one end. But this one was painted green and had more of an appearance of permanence. One of the men cut the rope binding his feet.

  Inside he found the shack quite well furnished, with comfortable, cushioned wire chairs that adjusted themselves to his captors’ forms as they let their tired bodies drop into them.

  Pariseau moved toward a vacant chair. The girl at his side reached over and buried her fingers in his hair. She bent his head back until her face was close to his. “You’re not going to get any rest yet, friend,” she said, her green eyes half-closed. She turned to one of the men. “Tie him against the wall, Manie,” she said.

  “All right, Zelda,” the man answered, getting to h
is feet reluctantly. He walked over and pushed Pariseau to the far side of the room. For the first time then Pariseau noted that a metal ring was set into the wall, at about the height of the middle of his back.

  He did not struggle as they tied him.

  For a few minutes the girl paced the room. She seemed to be driving herself to a cold fury as she strode from one close-in wall to the other. At each few steps she slapped a short riding whip against her thigh.

  She stopped finally, directly in front of Pariseau.

  “You struck me back there,” she gritted: “No one can do that to me.” Her face twisted into a grimace of effort and she brought the riding whip down and across his face.

  The blow was unexpected and it snapped Pariseau up straight. An incredulous, startled expression flickered across his features. Now, he knew, was a time to remain calm, but he felt his control slip almost as audibly as though a gear had been thrown out of place. His lips pulled back from his, square white teeth as he opened his mouth to speak.

  She brought the whip down across his face a second time.

  With the landing of the blow the time passed when he could control his actions with reason.

  His eyes lit up with a hot, violent, wildness, and the force of his temper blinded him with a red film of fury that seemed to pound the blood against the back of his eyeballs.

  “Stop that!” he bellowed hoarsely. Then his voice leveled. “One more time and I’ll break every bone in your damn body.”

  At his first words the girl had fallen back a step, appalled at the depth of the rage he threw at her. She recovered her poise instantly. “Pig!”

  She lashed him across the face a third time.

  All restraint left Pariseau then. He was not aware that the loose-limbed blond men had risen and run over to join the girl as he strained against the throngs that bound his wrists to the wall. At the third blow of the whip the great muscles along his thighs and upper arms swelled and writhed like live things beneath the flexi-cloth covering them.

  He was only dimly aware of the blows landing against his body as he struggled. A volcanic, brute part of his mind had taken over now, and, almost like a thing apart, it directed his actions as he struggled. It understood quickly the futility of trying to break his bonds and it let his body sag forward until his arms were above his head.