“This is a stronger denomination—much stronger!” the store owner replied, in a shaking voice but with a sort of relish. “He’ll exorcise you, all right, little demon—you’ll whistle no buttons off him! Your time is up! Go on and whistle all you want! Bust every vase in the place—”
The Leewit blinked her gray eyes thoughtfully at him.
“Might!” she said.
“But if you try to climb down from there,” the store owner went on, on a rising note, “I’ll chop you into bits—into little, little bits!”
He raised his arm as he spoke and weakly brandished what the captain recognized with a start of horror as a highly ornamented but probably still useful antique battle-ax.
“Ha!” said the Leewit.
“Beg your pardon, sir!” the captain said, clearing his throat.
“Good evening, sir!” the store owner repeated, without looking around. “What can I do for you?”
“I came to inquire,” the captain said hesitantly, “about that child.”
The store owner shifted about in his chair and squinted at the captain with red-rimmed eyes.
“You’re not a Holy Man!” he said.
“Hello, Maleen!” the Leewit said suddenly. “That him?”
“We’ve come to buy you,” Maleen said. “Shut up!”
“Good!” said the Leewit.
“Buy it? Are you mocking me, sir?” the store owner inquired.
“Shut up, Moonell!” A thin, dark, determined-looking woman had appeared in the doorway that led through the back wall of the store. She moved out a step under the shelves; and the Leewit leaned down from the top shelf and hissed. The woman moved hurriedly back into the doorway.
“Maybe he means it,” she said in a more subdued voice.
“I can’t sell to a citizen of the Empire,” the store owner said defeatedly.
“I’m not a citizen,” the captain said shortly. This time, he wasn’t going to name it.
“No, he’s from Nikkel—” Maleen began.
“Shut up, Maleen!” the captain said helplessly in turn.
“I never heard of Nikkel,” the store owner muttered doubtfully.
“Maleen!” the woman called shrilly. “That’s the name of one of the others—Bruth the Baker got her. He means it, all right! He’s buying them—”
“A hundred and fifty maels!” the captain said craftily, remembering Bruth the Baker. “In cash!”
The store owner looked dazed.
“Not enough, Moonell!” the woman called. “Look at all it’s broken! Five hundred maels!”
There was a sound then, so thin the captain could hardly hear it. It pierced at his eardrums like two jabs of a delicate needle. To right and left of him, two highly glazed little jugs went “Clink-clink!”, showed a sudden veining of cracks, and collapsed.
A brief silence settled on the store. And now that he looked around more closely, the captain could spot here and there other little piles of shattered crockery—and places where similar ruins apparently had been swept up, leaving only traces of colored dust.
The store owner laid the ax down carefully beside his chair, stood up, swaying a little, and came towards the captain.
“You offered me a hundred and fifty maels!” he said rapidly as he approached. “I accept it here, now, see—before witnesses!” He grabbed the captain’s right hand in both of his and pumped it up and down vigorously. “Sold!” he yelled.
Then he wheeled around in a leap and pointed a shaking hand at the Leewit.
“And NOW,” he howled, “break something! Break anything! You’re his! I’ll sue him for every mael he ever made and ever will!”
“Oh, do come help me down, Maleen!” the Leewit pleaded prettily.
For a change, the store of Wansing, the jeweler, was dimly lit and very quiet. It was a sleek, fashionable place in a fashionable shopping block near the spaceport. The front door was unlocked, and Wansing was in.
The three of them entered quietly, and the door sighed quietly shut behind them. Beyond a great crystal display-counter, Wansing was moving about among a number of opened shelves, talking softly to himself. Under the crystal of the counter, and in close-packed rows on the satin-covered shelves, reposed a many-colored gleaming and glittering and shining. Wansing was no piker.
“Good evening, sir!” the captain said across the counter.
“It’s morning!” the Leewit remarked from the other side of Maleen.
“Maleen!” said the captain.
“We’re keeping out of this,” Maleen said to the Leewit.
“All right,” said the Leewit.
Wansing had come around jerkily at the captain’s greeting, but had made no other move. Like all the slave owners the captain had met on Porlumma so far, Wansing seemed unhappy. Otherwise, he was a large, dark, sleek-looking man with jewels in his ears and a smell of expensive oils and perfumes about him.
“This place is under constant visual guard, of course!” he told the captain gently. “Nothing could possibly happen to me here. Why am I so frightened?”
“Not of me, I’m sure!” the captain said with an uncomfortable attempt at geniality. “I’m glad your store’s still open,” he went on briskly. “I’m here on business—”
“Oh, yes, it’s still open, of course,” Wansing said. He gave the captain a slow smile and turned back to his shelves. “I’m making inventory, that’s why! I’ve been making inventory since early yesterday morning. I’ve counted them all seven times—”
“You’re very thorough,” the captain said.
“Very, very thorough!” Wansing nodded to the shelves. “The last time I found I had made a million maels. But twice before that, I had lost approximately the same amount. I shall have to count them again, I suppose!” He closed a shelf softly. “I’m sure I counted those before. But they move about constantly. Constantly! It’s horrible.”
“You’ve got a slave here called Goth,” the captain said, driving to the point.
“Yes, I have!” Wansing said, nodding. “And I’m sure she understands by now I meant no harm! I do, at any rate. It was perhaps a little—but I’m sure she understands now, or will soon!”
“Where is she?” the captain inquired, a trifle uneasily.
“In her room perhaps,” Wansing suggested. “It’s not so bad when she’s there in her room with the door closed. But often she sits in the dark and looks at you as you go past—” He opened another drawer, and closed it quietly again. “Yes, they do move!” he whispered, as if confirming an earlier suspicion. “Constantly—”
“Look, Wansing,” the captain said in a loud, firm voice. “I’m not a citizen of the Empire. I want to buy this Goth! I’ll pay you a hundred and fifty maels, cash.”
Wansing turned around completely again and looked at the captain. “Oh, you do?” he said. “You’re not a citizen?” He walked a few steps to the side of the counter, sat down at a small desk and turned a light on over it. Then he put his face in his hands for a moment.
“I’m a wealthy man,” he muttered. “An influential man! The name of Wansing counts for a great deal on Porlumma. When the Empire suggests you buy, you buy, of course—but it need not have been I who bought her! I thought she would be useful in the business—and then, even I could not sell her again within the Empire. She has been here for a week!”
He looked up at the captain and smiled. “One hundred and fifty maels!” he said. “Sold! There are records to be made out—” He reached into a drawer and took out some printed forms. He began to write rapidly. The captain produced identifications.
Maleen said suddenly: “Goth?”
“Right here,” a voice murmured. Wansing’s hand jerked sharply, but he did not look up. He kept on writing.
Something small and lean and bonelessly supple, dressed in a dark jacket and leggings, came across the thick carpets of Wansing’s store and stood behind the captain. This one might be about nine or ten.
“I’ll take your check, captain!” Wan
sing said politely. “You must be an honest man. Besides, I want to frame it.”
“And now,” the captain heard himself say in the remote voice of one who moves through a strange dream, “I suppose we could go to the ship.”
The sky was gray and cloudy; and the streets were lightening. Goth, he noticed, didn’t resemble her sisters. She had brown hair cut short a few inches below her ears, and brown eyes with long, black lashes. Her nose was short and her chin was pointed. She made him think of some thin, carnivorous creature, like a weasel.
She looked up at him briefly, grinned, and said: “Thanks!”
“What was wrong with him?” chirped the Leewit, walking backwards for a last view of Wansing’s store.
“Tough crook,” muttered Goth. The Leewit giggled.
“You premoted this just dandy, Maleen!” she stated next.
“Shut up,” said Maleen.
“All right,” said the Leewit. She glanced up at the captain’s face. “You been fighting!” she said virtuously. “Did you win?”
“Of course, the captain won!” said Maleen.
“Good for you!” said the Leewit.
“What about the take-off?” Goth asked the captain. She seemed a little worried.
“Nothing to it!” the captain said stoutly, hardly bothering to wonder how she’d guessed the take-off was the one operation on which he and the old Venture consistently failed to co-operate.
“No,” said Goth, “I meant when?”
“Right now,” said the captain. “They’ve already cleared us. We’ll get the sign any second.”
“Good,” said Goth. She walked off slowly down the hall towards the back of the ship.
The take-off was pretty bad, but the Venture made it again. Half an hour later, with Porlumma dwindling safely behind them, the captain switched to automatic and climbed out of his chair. After considerable experimentation, he got the electric butler adjusted to four breakfasts, hot, with coffee. It was accomplished with a great deal of advice and attempted assistance from the Leewit, rather less from Maleen, and no comments from Goth.
“Everything will be coming along in a few minutes now!” he announced. Afterwards, it struck him there had been a quality of grisly prophecy about the statement.
“If you’d listened to me,” said the Leewit, “we’d have been done eating a quarter of an hour ago!” She was perspiring but triumphant—she had been right all along.
“Say, Maleen,” she said suddenly, “you premoting again?”
Premoting? The captain looked at Maleen. She seemed pale and troubled.
“Spacesick?” he suggested. “I’ve got some pills—”
“No, she’s premoting,” the Leewit said scowling. “What’s up, Maleen?”
“Shut up,” said Goth.
“All right,” said the Leewit. She was silent a moment, and then began to wriggle. “Maybe we’d better—”
“Shut up,” said Maleen.
“It’s all ready,” said Goth.
“What’s all ready?” asked the captain.
“All right,” said the Leewit. She looked at the captain. “Nothing,” she said.
He looked at them then, and they looked at him—one set each of gray eyes, and brown, and blue. They were all sitting around the control room floor in a circle, the fifth side of which was occupied by the electric butler.
What peculiar little waifs, the captain thought. He hadn’t perhaps really realized until now just how very peculiar. They were still staring at him.
“Well, well!” he said heartily. “So Maleen ‘premotes’ and gives people stomach-aches.”
Maleen smiled dimly and smoothed back her yellow hair.
“They just thought they were getting them,” she murmured.
“Mass history,” explained the Leewit, offhandedly.
“Hysteria,” said Goth. “The Imperials get their hair up about us every so often.”
“I noticed that,” the captain nodded. “And little Leewit here—she whistles and busts things.”
“It’s the Leewit,” the Leewit said, frowning.
“Oh, I see,” said the captain. “Like the captain, eh?”
“That’s right,” said the Leewit. She smiled.
“And what does little Goth do?” the captain addressed the third witch.
Little Goth appeared pained. Maleen answered for her.
“Goth teleports mostly,” she said.
“Oh, she does?” said the captain. “I’ve heard about that trick, too,” he added lamely.
“Just small stuff really!” Goth said abruptly. She reached into the top of her jacket and pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle the size of the captain’s two fists. The four ends of the cloth were knotted together. Goth undid the knot. “Like this,” she said and poured out the contents on the rug between them. There was a sound like a big bagful of marbles being spilled.
“Great Patham!” the captain swore, staring down at what was a cool quarter-million in jewel stones, or he was still a miffel-farmer. “Good gosh,” said the Leewit, bouncing to her feet. “Maleen, we better get at it right away!”
The two blondes darted from the room. The captain hardly noticed their going. He was staring at Goth.
“Child,” he said, “don’t you realize they hang you without trial on places like Porlumma, if you’re caught with stolen goods?”
“We’re not on Porlumma,” said Goth. She looked slightly annoyed. “They’re for you. You spent money on us, didn’t you?”
“Not that kind of money,” said the captain. “If Wansing noticed—They’re Wansing’s, I suppose?”
“Sure!” said Goth. “Pulled them in just before take-off!”
“If he reported, there’ll be police ships on our tail any—”
“Goth!” Maleen shrilled.
Goth’s head came around and she rolled up on her feet in one motion. “Coming,” she shouted. “Excuse me,” she murmured to the captain. Then she, too, was out of the room.
But again, the captain scarcely noticed her departure. He had rushed to the control desk with a sudden awful certainty and switched on all screens.
There they were! Two sleek, black ships coming up fast from behind, and already almost in gun-range! They weren’t regular police boats, the captain recognized, but auxiliary craft of the Empire’s frontier fleets. He rammed the Venture’s drives full on. Immediately, red-and-black fire blossoms began to sprout in space behind him—then a finger of flame stabbed briefly past, not a hundred yards to the right of the ship.
But the communicator stayed dead. Porlumma preferred risking the sacrifice of Wansing’s jewels to giving them a chance to surrender! To do the captain justice, his horror was due much more to the fate awaiting his three misguided charges than to the fact that he was going to share it.
He was putting the Venture through a wildly erratic and, he hoped, aim-destroying series of sideways hops and forward lunges with one hand, and trying to unlimber the turrets of the nova guns with the other, when suddenly—!
No, he decided at once, there was no use trying to understand it—There were just no more Empire ships around. The screens all blurred and darkened simultaneously; and, for a short while, a darkness went flowing and coiling lazily past the Venture. Light jumped out of it at him once, in a cold, ugly glare, and receded again in a twisting, unnatural fashion. The Venture’s drives seemed dead.
Then, just as suddenly, the old ship jerked, shivered, roared aggrievedly, and was hurling herself along on her own power again!
But Porlumma’s sun was no longer in evidence. Stars gleamed and shifted distantly against the blackness of deep space all about. The patterns seemed familiar, but he wasn’t a good enough navigator to be sure.
The captain stood up stiffly, feeling a heavy cloud. And at that moment, with a wild, hilarious clacking like a metallic hen, the electric butler delivered four breakfasts, hot, one after the other, right onto the center of the control room floor.
The first voice said distinct
ly: “Shall we just leave it on?”
A second voice, considerably more muffled, replied: “Yes, let’s! You never know when you need it—”
The third voice, tucked somewhere in between them, said amply: “Whew!”
Peering about the dark room in bewilderment, the captain realized suddenly that the voices had come from the speaker of an intership communicator, leading to what had once been the Venture’s captain’s cabin.
He listened; but only a dim murmuring came from it now, and then nothing at all. He started towards the hall, then returned and softly switched off the communicator. He went quietly down the hall until he came to the captain’s cabin. Its door was closed.
He listened a moment, and opened it suddenly.
There was a trio of squeals:
“Oh, don’t! You spoiled it!”
The captain stood motionless. Just one glimpse had been given him of what seemed to be a bundle of twisted black wires arranged loosely like the frame of a truncated cone on—or was it just above?—a table in the center of the cabin. Where the tip of the cone should have been burned a round, swirling, orange fire. About it, their faces reflecting its glow, stood the three witches.
Then the fire vanished; the wires collapsed. There was only ordinary light in the room. They were looking up at him variously—Maleen with smiling regret, the Leewit in frank annoyance, Goth with no expression at all.
“What out of Great Patham’s Seventh Hell was that?” inquired the captain, his hair bristling slowly.
The Leewit looked at Goth; Goth looked at Maleen. Maleen said doubtfully: “We can just tell you its name—”
“That was the Sheewash Drive,” said Goth.
“The what-drive?” asked the captain.
“Sheewash,” repeated Maleen.
“The one you have to do it with yourself,” the Leewit said helpfully.
“Shut up,” said Maleen.
There was a long pause. The captain looked down at the handful of thin, black, twelve-inch wires scattered about the table top. He touched one of them. It was dead-cold.
“I see,” he said. “I guess we’re all going to have a long talk.” Another pause. “Where are we now?”
The Astounding Science Fiction Anthology Page 60
