This Immortal

by Roger Joseph Zelazny

  "It is possible either way, Karagee. I do not know. He pays me only to guard."

  "If I paid you more, would you tell me whom you've been hired to kill?"

  "I have only been hired to guard, but I would not tell you even if it were otherwise."

  "I didn't think so. Let's go get the knives."

  We crossed and drew the blades from the target.

  "Now, if it happens to be me-which is possible," I offered, "why don't we settle it right now? We are each holding two blades. The man who leaves this room will say that the other attacked him and that it was a matter of self-defense. There are no witnesses. We were both seen drunk or disorderly last night."

  "No, Karagee."

  "No, what? No, it isn't me? Or no, you don't want to do it that way?"

  "I could say no, it is not you. But you would not know whether I spoke the truth or not."

  "That is true."

  "I could say I do not want to do it that way."

  "Is that true?"

  "I do not say. But to give you the satisfaction of an answer, what I will say is this: If I wished to kill you, I would not attempt it with a knife in my hand, nor would I box nor wrestle with you."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because many years ago when I was a boy I worked at the Resort of Kerch, attending at the tables of the wealthy Vegans. You did not know me then. I had just come up from the places of Pamir. You and your friend the poet came to Kerch."

  "I remember now. Yes… Phil's parents had died that year-they were good friends of mine-and I was going to take Phil to the university. But there was a Vegan who had taken his first woman from him, taken her to Kerch. Yes, the entertainer-I forget his name."

  "He was Thrilpai Ligo, the shajadpa-boxer, and he looked like a mountain at the end of a great plain-high, immovable. He boxed with the Vegan cesti-the leather straps with the ten sharpened studs that go all the way around the hand-open-handed."

  "Yes, I remember…"

  "You had never boxed shajadpa before, but you fought with him for the girl. A great crowd came, of the Vegans and the Earth girls, and I stood on a table to watch. After a minute your head was all blood. He tried to make it run into your eyes, and you kept shaking your head. I was fifteen then and had only killed three men myself, and I thought that you were going to die because you had not even touched him. And then your right hand crossed to him like a thrown hammer, so fast! You struck him in the center of that double bone the blue ones have in their chests-and they are tougher there than we-and you crushed him like an egg. I could never have done that, I am sure-and that is why I fear your hands and your arms. Later, I learned that you had also broken a spiderbat.-No, Karagee, I would kill you from a distance."

  "That was so long ago… I did not think anyone remembered."

  "You won the girl."

  "Yes. I forget her name."

  "But you did not give her back to the poet. You kept her for yourself. That is why he probably hates you."

  "Phil? That girl? I've even forgotten what she looked like."

  "He has never forgotten. That is why I think he hates you. I can smell hate, sniff out its sources. You took away his first woman. I was there."

  "It was her idea."

  "… And he grows old and you stay young. It is sad, Karagee, when a friend has reason to hate a friend."

  "Yes."

  "And I do not answer your questions."

  "It is possible that you were hired to kill the Vegan."

  "It is possible."

  "Why?"

  "I said only that it is possible, not that it is fact."

  "Then I will ask you one more question only, and be done with it. What good would come of the Vegan's death? His book could be a very good thing in the way of Vegan-human relations."

  "I do not know what good or bad would come of it, Karagee. Let us throw more knives."

  We did. I picked up the range and the balance and put two right in the center of the target. Then Hasan squeezed two in beside them, the last one giving out the sharp pain-cry of metal as it vibrated against one of mine.

  "I will tell you a thing," I said, as we drew them again. "I am head of the tour and responsible for the safety of its members. I, too, will guard the Vegan."

  "That will be a very good thing, Karagee. He needs protecting."

  I placed the knives back in the tray and moved to the door.

  "We will be leaving at nine tomorrow morning, you know. I'll have a convoy of Skimmers at the first field in the Office compound."

  "Yes. Good night, Karagee."

  "… And call me Conrad."

  "Yes."

  He had a knife ready to throw at the target. I closed the door and moved back up the corridor. As I went, I heard another thunk, and it sounded much closer than the first ones had. It echoed all around me, there in the hallway.

  As the six big Skimmers fled across the oceans toward Egypt I turned my thoughts first to Kos and Cassandra and then dragged them back with some difficulty and sent them on ahead to the land of sand, the Nile, mutated crocs, and some dead Pharaohs whom one of my most current projects was then disturbing. ("Death comes on swift wings to he who defiles…" etc.), and I thought then of humanity, roughly ensconced on the Titan way-station, working in the Earthoffice, abasing itself on Taler and Bakab, getting by on Mars, and doing so-so on Rylpah, Divbah, Litan and a couple dozen other worlds in the Vegan Combine. Then I thought about the Vegans.

  The blueskinned folk with the funny names and the dimples like pock-marks had taken us in when we were cold, fed us when we were hungry. Yeah. They appreciated the fact that our Martian and Titanian colonies had suffered from nearly a century of sudden self-sufficiency-after the Three Days incident-before a workable interstellar vehicle had been developed. Like the boll weevil (Emmet tells me) we were just looking for a home, because we'd used up the one we had. Did the Vegans reach for the insecticide? No. Wise elder race that they are, they permitted us to settle among their worlds, to live and work in their landcities, their seacities. For even a culture as advanced as the Vegans' has some need for hand labor of the opposing thumb variety. Good domestic servants cannot be replaced by machines, nor can machine monitors, good gardeners, salt sea fisherfolk, subterranean and subaquean hazard workers, and ethnic entertainers of the alien variety. Admittedly, the presence of human dwelling places lowers the value of adjacent Vegan properties, but then, humans themselves compensate for it by contributing to the greater welfare.

  Which thought brought me back to Earth. The Vegans had never seen a completely devastated civilization before, so they were fascinated by our home planet. Fascinated enough to tolerate our absentee government on Taler. Enough to buy Earthtour tickets to view the ruins. Even enough to buy property here and set up resorts. There is a certain kind of fascination to a planet that is run like a museum. (What was it James Joyce said about Rome?) Anyhow, dead Earth still brings its living grandchildren a small but appreciable revenue every Vegan fiscal year. That is why-the Office, Lorel, George, Phil, and all that.

  Sort of why me, even.

  Far below, the ocean was a bluegray rug being pulled out from beneath us. The dark continent replaced it. We raced on toward New Cairo.

  We set down outside the city. There's no real airstrip. We just dropped all six Skimmers down in an empty field we used as one, and we posted George as a guard.

  Old Cairo is still hot, but the people with whom one can do business live mainly in New Cairo, so things were pretty much okay for the tour. Myshtigo did want to see the mosque of Kait Bey in the City of the Dead, which had survived the Three Days; he settled, though, for me taking him up in my Skimmer and flying in low, slow circles about it while he took photographs and did some peering. In the way of monuments, it was really the pyramids and Luxor, Karnak, and the Valley of Kings and the Valley of Queens that he wanted to see.

  It was well that we viewed the mosque from the air. Dark shapes scurried below us, stopping only to hurl rocks up toward the
ship.

  "What are they?" asked Myshtigo.

  "Hot Ones," said I. "Sort of human. They vary in size, shape, and meanness."

  After circling for a time he was satisfied, and we returned, to the field.

  So, landing again beneath a glaring sun, we secured the final Skimmer and disembarked, moving across equal proportions of sand and broken pavement-two temporary tour assistants, me, Myshtigo, Dos Santos and Red Wig, Ellen, Hasan. Ellen had decided at the last minute to accompany her husband on the journey. There were fields of high, shiny sugar cane on both sides of the road. In a moment we had left them behind and were passing the low outbuildings of the city. The road widened. Here and there a palm tree cast some shade. Two great-eyed, brown-eyed children looked up as we passed. They had been watching a weary, six-legged cow turn a great sakieh wheel, in much the same way as cows have always turned great sakieh wheels hereabouts, only this one left more hoofprints.

  My area supervisor, Rameses Smith, met us at the inn. He was big, his golden face tightly contained within a fine net of wrinkles; and he had the typical sad eyes, but his constant chuckle quickly offset them.

  We sat sipping beer in the main hall of the inn while we waited for George. Local guards had been sent to relieve him.

  "The work is progressing well," Rameses told me.

  "Good," I said, somewhat pleased that no one had asked me what "the work" was. I wanted to surprise them.

  "How is your wife, and the children?"

  "They are fine," he stated.

  "The new one?"

  "He has survived-and without defect," he said proudly. "I sent my wife to Corsica until he was delivered. Here is his picture."

  I pretended to study it, making the expected appreciative noises. Then, "Speaking of pictures," I said, "do you need any more equipment for the filming?"

  "No, we are well-stocked. All goes well. When do you wish to view the work?"

  "Just as soon as we have something to eat."

  "Are you a Moslem?" interrupted Myshtigo.

  "I am of the Coptic faith," replied Rameses, not smiling.

  "Oh, really? That was the Monophysite heresy, was it not?"

  "We do not consider ourselves heretics," said Rameses.

  I sat there wondering if we Greeks had done the right thing in unleashing logic onto a hapless world, as Myshtigo launched into an amusing (to him) catalog of Christian heresies. In a fit of spite at having to guide a tour, I recorded them all in the Tour Log. Later, Lorel told me that it was a fine and well-kept document. Which just goes to show how nasty I must have felt at that moment. I even put in the bit about the accidental canonization of Buddha as St. Josaphat in the sixteenth century. Finally, as Myshtigo sat there mocking us, I realized I would either have to cut him down or change the subject. Not being a Christian myself, his theological comedy of errors did not poke me in the religious plexus. It bothered me, though, that a member of another race had gone to such trouble doing research to make us look like a pack of idiots.

  Reconsidering the thing at this time, I know now that I was wrong. The success of the viewtape I was making then ("the work" which Rameses had referred to) bears out a more recent hypothesis of mine concerning the Vegans: They were so bloody bored with themselves and we were so novel that they seized upon our perennially popular problems and our classical problems, as well as the one we were currently presenting in the flesh. They engaged in massive speculation as to who really wrote Shakespeare's plays, whether or not Napoleon actually died on St. Helena, who were the first Europeans to set foot on North America, and if the books of Charles Fort indicated that Earth had been visited by an intelligent race unknown to them-and so on. High caste Vegan society just eats up our medieval theological debates, too. Funny.

  "About your book, Srin Shtigo…" I interrupted.

  My use of the honorific stopped him.

  "Yes?" he answered.

  "My impression," said I, "is that you do not wish to discuss it at any length at this time. I respect this feeling, of course, but it places me in a slightly awkward position as head of this tour." We both knew I should have asked him in private, especially after his reply to Phil at the reception, but I was feeling cantankerous and wanted to let him know it, as well as to rechannel the talk. So, "I'm curious," I said, "whether it will be primarily a travelogue of the places we visit, or if you would like assistance in directing your attention to special local conditions of any sort-say, political, or current cultural items."

  "I am primarily interested in writing a descriptive travel-book," he said, "but I will appreciate your comments as we go along. I thought that was your job, anyway. As it is, I do have a general awareness of Earth traditions and current affairs, and I'm not very much concerned with them."

  Dos Santos, who was pacing and smoking as our meal was being prepared, stopped in mid-stride and said, "Srin Shtigo, what are your feelings toward the Returnist movement? Are you sympathetic with our aims? Or do you consider it a dead issue?"

  "Yes," he replied, "to the latter. I believe that when one is dead one's only obligation then is to satisfy the consumer. I respect your aims, but I do not see how you can possibly hope to realize them. Why should your people give up the security they now possess to return to this place? Most of the members of the present generation have never even seen the Earth, except on tapes-and you must admit that they are hardly the most encouraging documents."

  "I disagree with you," said Dos Santos, "and I find your attitude dreadfully patrician."

  "That is as it should be," replied Myshtigo.

  George and the food arrived at about the same time. The waiters began serving the food.

  "I should prefer to eat at a small table by myself," Dos Santos instructed a waiter.

  "You are here because you asked to be here," I mentioned.

  He stopped in mid-flight and cast a furtive look at Red Wig, who happened to be sitting at my right hand. I thought I detected an almost imperceptible movement of her head, first to the left, then to the right.

  Dos Santos composed his features around a small smile and bowed slightly.

  "Forgive my Latin temperament," he observed. "I should hardly expect to convert anyone to Returnism in five minutes-and it has always been difficult for me to conceal my feelings."

  "That is somewhat obvious."

  "I'm hungry," I said.

  He seated himself across from us, next to George.

  "Behold the Sphinx," said Red Wig, gesturing toward an etching on the far wall, "whose speech alternates between long periods of silence and an occasional riddle. Old as time. Highly respected. Doubtless senile. She keeps her mouth shut and waits. For what? Who knows?-Does your taste in art run to the monolithic, Srin Shtigo?"

  "Occasionally," he observed, from my left.

  Dos Santos glanced once, quickly, over his shoulder, then back at Diane. He said nothing.

  I asked Red Wig to pass me the salt and she did. I really wanted to dump it on her, to make her stay put so that I could study her at my leisure, but I used it on the potatoes instead.

  Behold the Sphinx, indeed!

  High sun, short shadows, hot-that's how it was. I didn't want any sand-cars or Skimmers spoiling the scene, so I made everybody hike it. It wasn't that far, and I took a slightly roundabout way in order to achieve the calculated effect.

  We walked a crooked mile, climbing some, dipping some. I confiscated George's butterfly net so as to prevent any annoying pauses as we passed by the several clover fields which lay along our route.

  Walking backward through time, that's how it was-with bright birds flashing by (clare! clare!), and a couple camels appearing against the far horizon whenever we topped a small rise. (Camel outlines, really, done up in charcoal; but that's enough. Who cares about a camel's expressions? Not even other camels-not really. Sickening beasts…) A short, swarthy woman trudged past us with a tall jar on her head. Myshtigo remarked on this fact to his pocket secretary. I nodded to the woman and spoke a greeting.
The woman returned the greeting but did not nod back, naturally. Ellen, moist already, kept fanning herself with a big green feather triangle; Red Wig walked tall, tiny beads of perspiration seasoning her upper lip, eyes hidden behind sunshades which had darkened themselves as much as they could. Finally, we were there. We climbed the last, low hill.

  "Behold," said Rameses.

  "?Madre de Dios!" said Dos Santos.

  Hasan grunted.

  Red Wig turned toward me quickly, then turned away. I couldn't read her expression because of the shades. Ellen kept fanning herself.

  "What are they doing?" asked Myshtigo. It was the first time I had seen him genuinely surprised.

  "Why, they're dismantling the great pyramid of Cheops," I said.

  After a time Red Wig asked it.

  "Why?"

  "Well now," I told her, "they're kind of short on building materials hereabouts, the stuff from Old Cairo being radioactive-so they're obtaining it by knocking apart that old piece of solid geometry out there."

  "They are desecrating a monument to the past glories of the human race!" she exclaimed.

  "Nothing is cheaper than past glories," I observed. "It's the present that we're concerned with, and they need building materials now."

  "For how long has this been going on?" asked Myshtigo, his words rushing together.

  "It was three days ago," said Rameses, "that we began the dismantling."

  "What gives you the right to do a thing like that?"

  "It was authorized by the Earthoffice Department of Arts, Monuments and Archives, Srin."

  Myshtigo turned to me, his amber eyes glowing strangely.

  "You!" he said.

  "I," I acknowledged, "am Commissioner thereof-that is correct."

  "Why has no one else heard of this action of yours?"

  "Because very few people come here anymore," I explained. "-Which is another good reason for dismantling the thing. It doesn't even get looked at much these days. I do have the authority to authorize such actions."

  "I came here from another world to see it!"

  "Well, take a quick look, then," I told him. "It's going away fast."

  He turned and stared.