He wondered why Zond had never mentioned the possibility that some Umoi might have survived. Was it because the city simply didn't know? Perhaps Zond didn't care.
Anyway, lucky for him that there was someone about to rescue him, get him to shelter. He might have died out there in the desert. He tugged at the cords binding his wrists. Pretty sturdy; looked like leather of some sort. Well, any of those weapons hanging above looked capable of making short work of his bonds—if he could summon the strength to get up and use them.
He struggled to his feet and found himself terribly dizzy. He took a few wobbling steps, weakened, and collapsed back to the bed.
Maybe he had internal injuries as well. If so, he was a goner, judging from the state of the local technology. These jokers hadn't discovered iron yet. Maybe not even bronze. Correction—they had forgotten iron and bronze, along with all the rest of their fabulous science and technology. Given it all up, in the interest of environmental purity, granola, and all the rest of that stuff.
But why didn't Zond know?
One way to find out. He would ask Zond. This was a good test of the communications gear that the city had manufactured for him. It consisted of circuitry woven into the fabric of his jumpsuit.
“Zond? Can you hear me?"
There was some static; then: “Of course."
“You're breaking up a little."
After a pause Zond replied, “I've changed frequencies. Better?"
“Better."
“Where are you, if I may ask?"
“In a cave. I don't know exactly where, but it can't be far from the rover, because I was brought here on horseback. Or whatever. How come you didn't tell me about the people?"
“People?” Zond asked calmly.
“Yeah! They're Umoi. They gotta be!"
“The Umoi are extinct."
“You getting a picture?"
“Of course."
“What is this, chopped liver?"
“Is that an allusion?"
“Are these artifacts the work of intelligent beings, or what?"
“Those artifacts, if you want to call them such, are the work of artificial life forms."
“Artificial life forms."
“You got it,” Zond said. “They're called yalim, and were created by the Umoi from genetic material found in some of the more highly developed fauna of this world. They were servants, underpeople, nothing more. When the last Umoi died, they reverted to a feral state."
“I see. Artificial life forms. Like ... androids."
“That term isn't as clear as it could be, but yes, androids."
“Great. The Umoi looked like frogs with leprosy. What sort of blasphemous horrors are these freaks going to resemble?"
“Turn around and look."
“Probably some sort of crawling, gelatinous—huh?"
Gene craned his neck around and nearly fell over.
It was a woman, a fully human one, though of rather exotic racial type, wearing a minimalist haiku of an outfit. It consisted of hemispheres of burnished copper over the breasts, skimpy black leather briefs, white fur cape, and black leather boots. Bedecked with necklaces of uncut stones, copper bracelets jangling at her wrists, she approached. She stopped, planting her feet wide apart, and stood arms akimbo. She regarded Gene coldly.
Her face was stunningly beautiful, black almond eyes over a perfect nose and full plum lips, but the skin was even more miraculous, the color of coffee with heavy cream, a rich golden brew that glowed with life. Her looks were neither Oriental nor Caucasian, nor any other earthly physiognomic variation.
Gene unhung his jaw and tried to get up. He couldn't.
Two other women had entered the chamber, and even though they were practically naked, Gene gave them barely a glance.
“Why the hell didn't you tell me?” Gene muttered.
“About what?” Zond answered. “About yalim? They are of no consequence whatever."
“Has it struck you yet that these yalim have something in common with yours truly?"
“Well, now that you mention it. I suppose."
“Unbelievable."
The woman was frowning ominously.
“Actually,” Zond went on, “the genetic similarities are fairly superficial. In fact—"
“Shhh! Looks like she's getting pissed off."
The woman jabbed a finger at him and barked something dictatorial.
“Uh, Zond?"
“What is it, Gene-person?"
“What did she say? Can you help me out here?"
“Sure. The language is of course a corruption of Received Standard Umoi, almost unrecognizable in its linguistic—"
“Translate, for Pete's sake!"
“She told you to shut up."
“She—? Oh."
The woman spoke again, shooting orders at him. Gene got the impression that whatever she had told him to do, he was supposed to do it quick, and no nonsense.
“Well?” Gene said under his breath.
“She wants to know what you were doing inside one of the machines of the Old Gods, and if you don't have a good explanation, she's going to cut your ... uh, sever your generative organs from your body. In so many words."
“Whoa!” A wide, coprographic grin spread across Gene's face. “Hi, there! Nice to meet you. Uh, look—"
The woman spoke again. The language sounded a little like German, with a lot of Finno-Ugric added for spice.
“She wants to know what tribe you're from."
“Tribe?” Gene piped. “Tribe. Yeah, tribe."
“Better make it good."
“I can't speak a word of her language!"
“Now she says you don't look like any tribe she's ever seen."
“Look, ma'am,” Gene said. “You gotta understand. I was just walking down the yellow brick road, when all of a sudden—"
The woman shouted at him.
“She said shut up again,” Zond told him.
“I gathered."
The woman stalked around the chamber, her ebony eyes clinically taking his measure. At length she began to speak again. Zond translated.
“Well, she says she doesn't know what to make of you. You don't seem to belong anywhere, but you must be yalim—read ‘human,’ there—because you look it, somewhat. She's a little worried that you might be a demon or something. But of course, if you were, you would have killed her or done something frightening, but you didn't, and besides, demons don't get themselves conked on the head, do they? And you couldn't be an Old God, that's right out. So—well, there it is."
“What is she, some kind of barbarian Queen or something?"
“Hey. That's a good guess."
The woman had stopped pacing, still fixing Gene in a penetrating stare. After long reflection, she snapped an order at one of her handmaidens.
The girl—she looked no older than fifteen—approached Gene, withdrew a dagger, and gingerly cut the leather straps around his wrists. Before she was finished, her mistress had begun speaking again.
“She says that she's going to put you to the test. What test, I really don't—oh, I see. She's going to find out if you'd make her a good concubine. If you work out, you'll be groomed for full husbandhood, and be inducted into her personal military cohort. You will then be accorded the privilege of laying down your life for her at the drop of a helmet. I think she likes you."
Rubbing his wrists, Gene said, “Yeah?"
“Yeah."
The barbarian Queen clapped her hands, and the two girls left the chamber.
Slowly she turned around and let the cape fall from her shoulders. The leather briefs turned out to be really nothing more than a G-string.
Gene reeled, devastated by the exquisite mathematical perfection of her hindquarters. His headache suddenly vanished.
“Zond, I think I'm about to be exploited, abused and generally treated as a sex object."
“I'm very sorry for you,” Zond said, “but there's nothing I can do."
“Right.
So piss off and leave us alone, okay?"
Castle (?), Then Island
“Sheila!"
“Trent? Over here!"
They found each other in the dark and hugged. Trent held her close.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes. What happened? Where did he—?"
“It was a trap, and I'm afraid we fell right into it."
There came a scraping, rumbling sound, then a thud.
“What's going on?” Sheila said fearfully.
“I don't kn—"
Suddenly the bottom fell out of everything, and they dropped through space.
Then sunlight exploded around them, and they hit water.
Deep in green underwater silence, Sheila floated through a cloud of bubbles, fire searing her lungs. Disoriented, she didn't know which way to swim, which way the surface was. Finally she saw the sun and began to flail upward. The surface seemed hundreds of feet above. She knew she couldn't hold her breath that long. Panic welled up inside her.
A hand grasped her arm and buoyed her upward.
She broke the surface, gasping, choking. Trent treaded water beside her.
“You okay?” he shouted.
She could only nod. She looked around. Sea, endless blue-green sea, its waters sickly warm.
“Where are we?” she yelled.
“Anybody's guess. Some wild universe. One with no magic, either. Damn."
“I didn't even think of using magic. Everything happened so fast."
“Exactly. Whoever set us up knew what they were doing."
“But ... Trent, you didn't have to come through the portal. You shouldn't have!"
“Too late for shouldn't-haves, my dear.” Trent boosted himself out of the water, sank, then came back up with more velocity, rising waist-high until he sank once again.
“What are you doing?"
“Trying to see above the swells. I think there's land in that direction. It's a ways off, though. You a strong swimmer?"
“My God, no. I feel like a lead weight."
“Drop your shoes and strip to your underwear. Quick."
Sheila did as she was told. Undressed, she felt ten times more buoyant.
“Ready?” he asked.
“As I'll ever be."
“Easy now, don't tire yourself. If you get fagged out, roll over and backstroke."
They struck out sunward, cautiously dog-paddling. The swells were gentle but high, and at the crest of one particularly elevated wave, Sheila could see a thin strip of green on the horizon. It looked miles away.
“We'll never make it,” she groaned.
“Yes, we will. Steady now. Even out your strokes."
They swam on for what seemed like hours. The water got even warmer. It made Sheila feel her fatigue more. They rested periodically, treading water.
“We'd better get going,” Trent said.
Sheila found that she could float on her back and give her legs a rest. “I really need to stop."
“I know, but there's something swimming around us and it looks interested."
Sheila straightened up and searched.
“There,” Trent said, pointing.
She could see it now, a wickedly sharp fin cutting the water. Its path took it in a slow circle about them.
“Trent, I don't like this."
“We'll have to swim faster, Sheila. Can you do it?"
“Yes."
“The island is just another half mile or so. Or two or three. Come on."
They swam. The fin altered its trajectory and closed, its manner still more curious than menacing. Then another fin broke water and came abreast of the first. More followed.
“Seems we're becoming quite an attraction,” Trent said calmly.
“Free lunch,” Sheila said, amazed that she was capable of gallows humor.
“Got any magic yet, Sheila?"
In the last hour or so, she had been testing for magic in what seemed like an unconnected compartment of her mind, insulated from the fear and the panic. The supernatural elements of this world were very strange, and she didn't know if she could make any sense of them. She sensed vague fields of force, subtle influences, but nothing she could put her finger on.
“Not really."
“They're getting closer. Can you get up any more speed?"
Sheila's arms felt like lead. “No."
“Then I'm afraid we're going to have to face them."
Trent stopped swimming and reached out for her. He enveloped her in his arms, and she went limp, surrendering to the fatigue. She felt like she could never move again.
A huge gray form came in from the seaward side, its path still indirect, still exploratory.
“Trent, we're going to die,” she said.
“Kiss me, Sheila."
They embraced in the water, her legs wrapped around him, her tongue finding his.
Something nudged her in the back, and she didn't care.
Trent looked over her shoulder. He said, “I think..."
“Darling,” she breathed.
“Dolphins."
“Dolphins?"
“Or a reasonable facsimile."
Sheila reached out and touched the rough skin of the thing. It was warm and resilient, like rubber. Another animal approached, and Trent grabbed its dorsal fin. The creature seemed to have no objection.
A head broke water in front of Sheila. It was the head of no dolphin or porpoise she had ever seen. The snout was blunt and wrinkled, and the eyes caninelike, large and intelligent. Sharp teeth protruded from the mouth. The animal was more like a seal or walrus than anything else, but sleeker, more streamlined, and the body more fishlike. In that respect it resembled a dolphin.
Trent's animal suddenly bolted shoreward. Trent hung on for the ride momentarily, then let go. He wound up a good distance from Sheila.
“I think they want to escort us in!” Trent yelled.
Sheila stroked the dolphinoid's bulbous head. The animal seemed to like this. Then it swung about and rolled its body slightly toward her, as if offering its dorsal fin as a handgrip. Sheila grabbed on with both hands.
Suddenly she was rocketing through the water, the force of the flow making it difficult to maintain her grip. But she did.
In no time the shore drew near. Reaching the outer edge of the surf, the animal turned back toward the open sea, and she let go.
She rode a wave in, then another. Finally her feet touched bottom, and she waded into the beach.
She collapsed, wet sand against her face, the sound of breakers washing her in and out of consciousness. The cry of a gull came; then, after an indeterminate time, footsteps at her back.
“Sheila?"
She turned and saw Trent's smiling face.
“You okay?"
“Yes, Trent."
“Sorry if what went on out there was just a paroxysm in the face of imminent death."
She touched her body and found that she was naked before his gaze. She smiled up at him, holding out her arms. “Trent, darling."
“Sheila."
Long Island Expressway
Snowclaw never tired of watching the metal wagons roar up and down the stone road. His head snapped this way and that as they streaked by. Big ones, small ones, middle-sized ones. It was amazing.
He had left Trent's house after thinking long and hard about what he ought to do. He knew there was such a thing as a telephone. He had heard of a telephone, and theoretically, at least, he knew what you were supposed to do with one. But he hadn't the foggiest notion of how you actually went about using one. If so, he would have called Halfway House.
Yes, he had thought long and hard. And he came to the conclusion that he simply would have to walk to Halfway House. Of course, he hadn't the slightest idea where Halfway was from here or how far it was, but he had an inkling its direction was due west, so he had left the house, put his back to the rising sun, and started walking.
He'd found this road and followed it. Human eyes regar
ded him curiously from the windows of the hurtling metal vehicles.
Distance wasn't his only problem. Here, on Earth, he was incommunicado. He understood no one, and no one understood him. Trent had whipped up an impromptu translation spell, but that extended no farther than the confines of Trent's house. Sheila's shape-changing enchantment was still on him, though. That at least was something. He could imagine the dismay he'd cause if he had to go traipsing about in his natural state.
Gray clouds were gathering ahead. Rain? Snow? Another thing he knew nothing about: the weather of this world. To him it was comfortably warm, but he knew that snow could fall at this temperature.
More metal wagons whizzed by. Where were they all going? And so fast, too! Snowclaw couldn't get over it. They were tearing up the road.
One of them, a long metallic gray affair with dark windows, abruptly slowed, wheels squealing, and pulled off onto the shoulder ahead. Snowclaw approached it warily. Could be trouble.
Two humans got out, one short, the other chunky. They waited for Snowy to come closer.
The small one spoke. “Look at him, Vinny. Didja ever see a guy that big?"
Vinny shook his head.
Snowclaw stopped and sized them both up. They'd be no problem, as long as they didn't pull any magic. He'd heard there was powerful magic in this world.
“Hey, pal. What was you, a wrestler? Weight lifter?"
Snowclaw was surprised to discover that he knew more or less what the little human was saying. Gene had told him about this. Inside the castle, the running translation spell kept everyone in communication. But living under its influence for extended periods tended to produce side effects, the chief one being that some actual language learning took place. Snowclaw had heard a lot of English spoken in the last two years.
“Yeah,” Snowclaw said. “Wrestler.” His jaw had to work unnaturally hard to form the words.
“Yeah, where didja work? Professional wrestling?"
“Yeah. Pro-fesh-shunal."
“Uh-huh.” The small human looked a little older than the big one. “Waddya think, Vinny?"
“I dunno, Nunzio. He got an accent."
“So what? Hey, fella, what are you? You look like a Swede. You Swedish, or what?"
Castle Kidnapped Page 7
