The 19th Golden Age of Science Fiction

by Charles V. De Vet

  The tendons in his shoulder sockets were shaped and formed differently than those of a human and his arms came out of their sockets, as they turned upward, and went back into place as the arms reached their height. He swiveled his body once, twice, three times, using his weight and leverage to twist the thongs that held him. The third time around, the thongs parted and he was free.

  His white face tightened into a grin of intemperate joy and a laugh bellowed up from his chest. “Now!” he roared.

  He took a stride forward and swung a fist the size of a child’s head at the first big-boned blond in his path. The man ducked and the blow landed high on his cheek bone and sent him spinning across the room. He crashed into one of the wire chairs and carried it to the floor with him as he went down.

  Swiftly Pariseau reached out and grabbed another of his tormentors by the front of his tight cover-all suit. Still laughing he locked his other hand in the soft flesh of the man’s groin and lifted him off the floor. He raised the threshing body as high as he could reach before he slammed it to the floor.

  Dimly he heard the girl scream.

  A bullet landed against the wall over his shoulder, as Pariseau’s catapulting body caught the third man in the stomach and carried him up and across the room. The wall stopped the rush and the man’s body went limp as the wind exploded from his lungs.

  There was little semblance of reason in Pariseau’s gaze—made almost myopic by the tempest that rode him—as he stood with wide-spread legs glaring about him. He looked then like a great beast back from the era when the worlds were young, and only the Mighty lived to fight a second time.

  He heard a stifled gasp and looked up to see the girl, Zelda, leaning back against a low chest of drawers. In her eyes was a wild light of terror. One hand was bunched into a fist and pressed against her open mouth. The other held a short knife.

  She was next, Pariseau’s sluggishly functioning mind told him. He began walking slowly toward her, his legs spread wide as he came forward like a low-built tank.

  A small glimmer of reason returned to Pariseau as the girl straightened to meet him. He felt a flicker of admiration at the way she fought down her terror in that instant. She knew she was going to die, and she was afraid, but she did not beg; her strength was as nothing against his, yet she was going to fight.

  When he was one stride away she stabbed swiftly with the knife in her hand. Pariseau’s mind was trapped in its singleness of purpose and he was barely aware of the movement—not enough to attempt to parry the thrust—but his diaphragm tightened instinctively and the knife ripped through skin and fatty tissue but did not penetrate farther.

  His hand closed around her wrist and he shook the knife loose like he’d shake a toy from a child’s grip. He raised his right hand and, carefully, meticulously, set the fingers around her throat. Slowly he brought pressure to bear until the fingertips dug deep into the clear white skin. Beneath his hand he could feel a pulse pounding wildly.

  The thing that stopped him then was the utter lack of fear in her eyes as they met his. She was unable to speak or breathe, and the hand about her throat was choking the life from her body, but she made no attempt even to struggle.

  Suddenly Pariseau realized that he could not kill her.

  With a feeling of shocked surprise, he understood also that he did not hate her. Somehow, he recognized in her the same spirit of high emotion, and mercurial temper that were a part of him. Theirs were natures of a kindred kind.

  Abruptly he leaned forward and placed his mouth over hers. He held it there for a moment and gradually he felt her body arch forward and strain against him. He wondered briefly whether it was response or resistance that activated that straining.

  When he drew away, a streak of his blood stained her white cheek. He turned and walked out of the shack.

  For a long moment after he had gone, Zelda stood unmoving. Then she brought her hand slowly up to her cheek and wiped off the blood. Bringing-the hand down again she stared at it long and thoughtfully.

  Pariseau picked out a high hill, in the direction he judged the city to be, and set off toward it. He made no effort to seek or follow a trail.

  If he could reach the hill he felt he would be safe. Even if the girl had confederates that she could summon, it would take time. They would never be able to find him in this woods once he’d put a few miles between him and them, he reasoned. There was always the possibility that they would bring a “bloodhound” to track him but that was a chance he had to take.

  Pariseau had taken quite a beating back in the shack and now he was feeling its effects. His muscles were beginning to stiffen and the gash in his stomach still bled. The blood was unable to soak through the moisture-proof material of his suit and it gathered in his crotch, chafing him, and ran down his leg. He had to find some place soon where he could rest.

  A short distance before he reached the hill he came to a river. He heard the sound of it for fifteen feet of trudging and at last when he stood on its bank he could see that the sound came from a small waterfall. The river was swift and the water went over the fall and hit the lower ledge with a battering roar. He felt the vibration of it come up from the ground, through his legs, and into his body.

  Pariseau lay on his stomach and drank long and thirstily. He washed the grime and dirt from his face and cuts and felt better—but weary. His feet dragged heavily as he rose and walked down the bank beside the falls and into the water’s edge at the bottom.

  He stayed in the water until he reached the foot of the hill. Here he found a long shallow cave opening into the rocks facing the river and crawled in. Some animal had left its offal, but it was dry and hard and he had no trouble cleaning it out. He forced his tired body to drag in dry leaves and fern branches to make a bed before he dropped exhausted.

  He had no idea how long he slept, but when he awoke it was dark. Crawling outside he stood for a long time listening. Only the sounds of small animals and other night noises came to him. He drank at the river and crawled back into the cave.

  During the night he slept only fitfully; his face ached dully and whenever he turned in his sleep he felt the pain in his stomach.

  And he dreamed. Dreamed of the girl, Zelda, but in his dreams her skin was colored green, and her long blonde hair was green—the same live green as her eyes.

  This time when he awoke daylight had returned and a cold steady rain splashed at the mouth of the cave. His stomach still pained him, but when he examined the cut he found that a hard crust had formed over its edges; there was no sign of infection.

  He went out once to drink at the river, then returned and covered himself with branches and tried to sleep again.

  The rain persisted all through the day, and sometime during the afternoon he killed a small, red-furred animal that crawled in seeking shelter from the rain and cooked it over a fire he made at the cave entrance. The meat was tough and stringy but it satisfied his hunger for the time being.

  There had been no sign of pursuers. If they were coming, he decided, they would have been here before this. In the evening he slept again.

  During the night he developed a slight fever and twice he crawled out to drink at the stream. After the second time he was unable to fall back to sleep and he sat with his back to the cave wall and went over his possible future actions.

  He was feeling better now. All his life he had felt that living was good, with its freedom and action, and even its bitterest moments were great. There was no part of it that he ever regretted.

  The rain stopped while he waited patiently for daylight.

  When morning came he set out on a diagonal course to that he had taken when he left the shack and after an hour’s walk he came to broad fields of cultivated crops. He followed a narrow dirt road until it joined one of the broad glass highways leading to the city. He followed it in.

  At the gate the first person he met was Tewitt. Tewitt greeted him with his halitosic smile. “Welcome back,” he said.

  * *
* *

  Tewitt said, “Let’s have that story again,” with an assumption of reasonable inquiry.

  “I’ve repeated it four times now,” Pariseau said wearily. He was stiff and sore, and there was no strength left in him to be angry with this invidious man.

  “Then let me hear it the fifth time,” Tewitt said. His eyes showed gray and damp in their deep pouches; he was that type of official who exerted his authority to the full, savoring each moment of discomfort he could bring to those forced to deal with him.

  Pariseau drew a deep breath. “I was kidnapped,” he said. “There isn’t anything more to tell.”

  “How did you say they got you out of the city?”

  “I don’t know. They knocked me out and when I came to I was out in the woods.” That part, of course, was a lie, but he had no intention of revealing anything about the passageway under the city’s wall. That information fitted in with his future plans.

  “How did you get beaten up so bad?” Tewitt asked.

  “I fought,” Pariseau said listlessly.

  “I’ll bet they had their hands full,” Tewitt observed with sharp interest, his cloak of officiousness slipping from him momentarily. “You’re a powerful looking bruiser; I imagine you’d be a tough customer in a rough and tumble. Did you give them as good as you got?”

  Pariseau shrugged. “I suppose so,” he said.

  “How many were there?”

  “Three.”

  “What happened to your papers?”

  “They were gone when I looked for them after I got away.”

  The questioning had been going on for hours now, and there was no sign that Tewitt was tiring of asking them. Pariseau’s head drooped wearily onto his chest and his eyes closed leadenly. Tewitt watched him for a few minutes and saw that Pariseau was sleeping. He went out.

  Pariseau’s eyes opened at the sound of voices behind him, and he recognized the tones of Tewitt and Hesse.

  “But there’s something about his story that smells,” he heard Tewitt’s nasal tang.

  “Have you found out what it is?” Hesse asked.

  “No. He sticks to the same story and won’t give any details. But I’d like the chance to sweat it out of him.”

  “You wouldn’t do anything illegal, would you?” Hesse asked.

  “Well…”

  “You won’t as long as I know about it,” Hesse said. “I’d suggest that you turn him loose immediately.”

  “Legally I can keep him for a day, twenty-eight hours,” Tewitt answered surlily.

  “I’ll assume responsibility for him for the rest of that twenty-eight hours,” Hesse said. “If you insist, I’ll sign a paper to that effect.”

  “What’re you so interested in this guy for?”

  Pariseau noted the long pause before Hesse answered. “Are you under the impression that I have to account to you for my conduct?” he asked. Tewitt must have realized that he had gone too far, for there was a sulky silence. Pariseau felt Hesse’s heavy hand on his shoulder and allowed himself to appear to come awake. “You’re coming with me,” Hesse said.

  Chapter 4

  Somehow, Hesse appeared out of his element when he was on his feet. His huge hulking body seemed built for sitting—or crouching. He must have weighed near to four hundred pounds—perhaps fifty pounds more than Pariseau. But then there was little excess fat on Pariseau’s framework, while Hesse was so obese as to appear almost boneless.

  Once inside the city they went up one level and rode a lower pedestrian belt. “You look as if you had trouble,” Hesse said.

  “Three men and a girl picked me up,” Pariseau answered. “They took me out of the city through a tunnel under the wall.”

  “Did you find out anything?”

  Pariseau shook his head. “They started roughing me up before they asked any questions,” he said; “I lost my temper.”

  Hesse tossed his bald head back irritably. “You’ve got to learn to control that damned temper of yours,” he said impatiently. “Getting yourself beaten up, when it serves no useful purpose, is folly. And you might have lost the best contact we’ve been able to make.”

  “I think I know how to find them again.”

  “I hope so,” Hesse answered. “Do you think you’ll need any help?”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “I guess you can—if anybody can,” Hesse agreed. He seemed to be trying to find words he wanted to say. “I’m sorry if I sounded angry,” he said after a minute. “But this is a dangerous game, and I don’t like you getting hurt. I know it takes someone like yourself—a man born to contention—to stand up to the dirt and toughness you meet, and that that temper of yours is only the evidence of the something in you that makes you the most fit for this violent kind of work. But I worry.”

  He stopped and rested his hand on Pariseau’s arm. “I’m really proud of you, lad,” Hesse smiled, and the smile softened the ingrained harshness of his features. He gave Pariseau a shove. “Get along now,” he said, “and keep out of trouble—at least don’t let them hurt you too much.”

  * * * *

  Pariseau changed the texture of his hair and eyebrow clips from black to a light brown.

  He rode the pedestrian belts in the vicinity of his hotel until he found the building he sought—the tall blue-glass edifice with the illuminated bottle on its peak.

  Keeping in the background of the riders on the belts he spent most of the following days within sight of the small courtyard at the rear of the building.

  On the sixth day he saw her. Zelda.

  He followed her at a distance and she led him to his own hotel. When she stepped into an elevator he was near enough to note that no other passengers rode up with her. He watched the arrow of the floor indicator until it stopped on eighty-one.

  Five minutes later a ten-count plastic note had been passed to the clerk at the desk, and Pariseau had the information he wanted. He spent most of the remainder of the day seated in a chair at the far end of the hotel lobby. From where he sat he had an unobstructed view of the hotel’s bank of elevators.

  Shortly after sundown, Zelda emerged from one of the elevators and walked leisurely out the front door. With his eyes Pariseau followed her progress down the street until she disappeared in the crowd.

  He rose casually then and walked to an elevator. Entering he rode up to the eighty-first floor. He went quickly down the long thickly-carpeted hallway, turned right at the first transversing corridor, and found the door he sought—R 34 1.

  For a short minute he stood listening intently for any sounds of approaching guests then bent forward and carefully inserted a small piece of plastic, with one gummed side, into the thin slit of the door next to the hand imprint. Satisfied, he returned to this elevator.

  Pariseau’s wait this time was short. He had hardly seated himself in the lobby before Zelda re-entered the hotel and went upstairs. She was still alone.

  He gave her a half-hour before following.

  In front of door number R 34 1 once again, he examined it briefly. His strip of plastic had done its work; a close observer would have noted that the door had stopped a bare fraction of an inch before closing.

  There was no handle on the door but Pariseau set his fingernails into the edge of the palm-lock opening and pulled. The door opened silently.

  Just as silently Pariseau entered. A small, gripless gun nestled in the palm of his right hand. The only part exposed was the tip of the barrel which peeked out between his middle fingers.

  Inside, the sight that met Pariseau’s gaze caused the breath to catch in his throat. In the center of the room a series of amber lights, set in an oblong frame, blazed downward. Beneath the lights rested a plasti-foam couch; and on the couch lay Zelda.

  A thin film of transparent oily substance covered her body and gave off small bright patches of light reflection.

  Pariseau spent a split-second in awed admiration before she became aware of his presence and turned swiftly toward him, throwin
g one long smooth leg over the edge of the couch.

  “You!” she gasped. “What are you…”

  Pariseau centered the small gun in his palm between her eyes and squeezed. Zelda stiffened and froze in position. Her lips stayed parted, and the startled expression was still on her face.

  There had been no sound from the gun, and Zelda was unmarked. It was a special weapon, the principle of its functioning known only to Pariseau’s own people; no other world was even aware of its existence.

  He walked quickly over to where Zelda lay, glancing at the watch on his wrist as he went. He had set the gun to hold her immobile for exactly three minutes. At the end of that time she would regain consciousness—with no awareness of the passage of time in between; nor she would not realize that anything had been done to her. A few hours later, she would have a slight headache, but there would be no way for her to know its cause.

  Bending over her frozen form Pariseau ran one finger lightly along her thigh. He studied the liquid clinging to the finger-tip and found it light and odorless. He glanced briefly at the lights overhead and formed his conclusion: the lights and oil were the standard tools of a skin-bleach process.

  He took a small magnifying glass from a back pocket and focused it on the small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Not certain of what it showed, he spread the wrinkles between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and examined the smoothed-out skin closely. A faint greenish tinge showed through the white.

  He turned the glass on her hair and deep down, where the roots hugged the scalp, he found again a faint greenish coloring.

  He straightened up, satisfied.

  As he had suspected the girl was a Lottenbaie, one of the race of barbarians that edged the area of human habitation—and waited only the proper opportunity before sweeping in for an attack.

  A glance at his wrist watch told him that his three minutes were very nearly up. He pocketed the glass in his hand, went quickly back to the room’s entrance and took up the position he had been in when he froze the girl.