by Damon Knight
Naismith felt sickened. “What’s that?” he demanded.
“A solid,” the girl answered indifferently. “That’s one of the rebel Uglies they captured. They made a big solid of her so everyone can watch. Look over there.”
Naismith turned his head, saw a girl of Liss-Yani’s caste entwined in a sexual embrace with a slender, muscular man.
There was a little ring of spectators around them, and some languid applause.
“No, not them,” the girl said impatiently. “Look farther up.”
Naismith did so, and saw nothing of interest except still another woman of the Entertainer class—dressed, this one, in long gossamer robes—drifting across the room with an entourage of young men and women. Her face was noble and sad; she looked straight ahead, without expression.
“That’s Thera-Yani,” said the girl in a muted voice. “Isn’t she wonderful!”
“I don’t see it,” Naismith said. “Why wonderful?”
“She was the best-loved Yani in the City until last month, when the new mutations were released and the fashion changed.
Now there is nothing left for her. She took twenty-day poison, and she is saying her farewells to the City.”
Naismith snorted, unimpressed. Up ahead, a greenskinned female servant was pushing a tremendously fat old woman across the air by the small of her back. The Ugly, Naismith noticed, was wearing a bright metal collar around her neck; he now recalled seeing similar collars on other greenskins, A fragment of speech drifted back: “But why must all the Uglies die, Mistress? Haven’t I always been good, haven’t I always—”
“Oh, don’t be tiresome, Menda. I explained to you before, I can’t do anything about it. It’s something to do with science.
Don’t let me hear…”
Now they were approaching the center of the enormous room, where the largest and most tightly packed mass of people floated. The shrill hum of conversation grew louder. Naismith’s nerves prickled; the closeness of all these people was subtly unpleasant.
Up ahead, a raucous female voice was screaming, like an articulate parrot’s: the words were not distinguishable. Naismith and the girl moved nearer, threading their way patiently through the press, sometimes horizontally, sometimes in the vertical plane.
At last Naismith could make out the screaming woman. She hung in the middle of a little group of gaudily dressed people.
She was hugely, obscenely fat in her puffed and ornamented garment of white and scarlet. When she swung around, Naismith could see her body quake like a jelly inside the fabric.
Her face was sallow and lined, the eyes bright with madness.
“… come in here and tell me, who do you think you are, be silent and listen, I tell you I will not have any disrespect, why don’t you observe the rules, don’t talk to me, I tell you, listen…”
“Highborn, if you please,” said a fat man in brown, with ruffles around his worried baby-pink face.
“… never in three hundred years have I been treated like this, be quiet, Truglen, I wasn’t speaking to you, how can I bear these constant interruptions, Regg! Regg! where is the creature, Regg!”
“Yes, Highborn,” said a greenskinned man, floating up beside her.
“Give me a pickup, can’t you see the state I’m in?”
“Highborn,” said another man, almost as fat as the first,
“try to be calm. You may want to wait a little before you have another of those, recall that you’ve already had ten this period…”
“Don’t tell me how many I’ve had, how dare you!” She choked apoplectically, took something the greenskin was holding out, swallowed it and glared, speechless for a moment. The servant handed her a tube leading to a flask of reddish fluid, and she sucked at it, her old face hollowing deeply and her mad eyes bulging.
Liss-Yani spoke to a robot, which glided forward and said politely, “Highborn, here is the Shefth you sent for.”
Her head swiveled; she glared, spat out the drinking tube.
“And high time, too! Why can’t I get any obedience any more, why do you all make things so difficult for me, do you want to kill me, is that it? Come forward, you, what’s your name?”
Unwillingly, Naismith floated toward her. “Naismith,” he told her.
“That’s not a name, are you making a joke of me? What is his name, I say, what is this Shefth’s name?”
“He does not know his name, Highborn,” said the robot.
“He is to be referred to as ‘that man.’”
“Be quiet!” screamed the fat woman. “You, are you a Shefth?”
“As you see, Highborn,” said Naismith. A globe of watchers, most of them hugely fat, was beginning to form around them.
“Impertinence! When have I ever had to bear such insults!
Do you know how to kill a Zug, answer me directly, and mind your manners!”
“I don’t know,” said Naismith.
“He is the only Shefth we have, Highborn,” said the baby-pink fat man, bending near.
“Well, I don’t like him! Go back and get another one at once, do you hear me, take this one away, I won’t have him, I won’t!”
“Highborn, there is not enough time—” said the fat man.
“Time, tune, don’t we manufacture time, how can you be so cruel and thoughtless, don’t contradict me, I say, go and get another!”
Two or three of the men around the fat woman exchanged glances.
“Well, what’s wrong with you all, are you deaf or paralysed, why can’t I get a simple order obeyed in Mind’s name, oh, why are you all…”
A chime sounded nearby; heads turned. “One moment,” said the pink man anxiously. “Highborn, the message.”
The woman fell silent, gaping and blinking. There was a movement in the globe of people as the pink man drifted back.
Now Naismith could see a yellow box-shaped machine with a lighted face, suspended in a transparent globe. The chime came again. The pink man tilted himself nearer, staring at the face of the machine. Naismith could see words forming in threads of white light, one, then a gap, two more, another gap…
” ‘Danger… Zug alive… send Shefth.’” The pink man paused, then straightened. He sighed. “That’s all. Almost the same as last time.”
“Well, it’s clear enough, isn’t it?” the woman screamed.
“Danger, send Shefth—to kill the Zug, that’s clear, isn’t it, what more do you want?”
“But the words left out, Highborn,” the pink man said despairingly.
“Never mind, you’re only trying to confuse me! They want a Shefth to kill the Zug—we want a Shefth, up there in the future, that’s clear, isn’t it? Well, then, what’s the matter?”
There was motion in the globe of watchers; a hawk-nosed man, leaner than the rest, came plunging through and stopped before the fat woman. Behind him was a gnome in brown and red stripes, one of the scientists. “Highborn, this man says Prell has been killed in the workrooms!”
“Prell? Killed? Who killed him? Who is Prell?”
“The time-laboratory director, Highborn! His spine was broken, not more than five minutes ago.”
“There is the man who did it!” blurted the gnome suddenly, pointing his finger at Naismith. Heads turned; there was agitated motion in the group.
“He did it? Then kill him, quickly, quickly, you idiots, before he does it to somebody else! What are you waiting for, kill him!” The woman grew yellow-faced and shrunken; her little eyes glistened with fear.
“One moment,” said the hawk-faced man. “Autos—that man.” Three of the dark, red-lensed machines drifted toward Naismith, taking up positions around him.
“Kill him!” squalled the woman.
“That can be done in a moment, after we ask one or two questions,” said Hawknose. He turned to Naismith. “Don’t make any sudden motion, or the guns will fire. Did you kill Prell?”
“No,” said Naismith. He caught sight of Liss-Yani hovering in the background.
&n
bsp; “Who did, then?”
“Uglies,” said Naismith. “They came into view, killed him, disappeared again.” Sweating, he tried to relax.
“You saw this?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you speak of it?”
“No one gave me an opportunity.”
The man’s lips quirked in a half-smile. “Where is that robot?” he asked, turning.
The box drifted up to him; Naismith recognized the red and green arabesques. “Yes, sir?”
“Is this the man who told you Uglies had killed Prell?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you see it happen?”
“No, sir.”
“Did the automatics fire, or did the alarm sound?”
“No, sir. That man said they were out of order, sir.”
“Were they?”
“No, sir.”
The hawk-faced man turned to Naismith again. “That seems conclusive. Have you anything else to say?”
“Kill him!” screamed the woman again. “Kill him! Kill him!”
“What about the Zug, Highborn?” ventured the pink man.
“The Zug, I don’t care about the Zug…”
“But who will kill it, if we kill the Shefth?”
“Get another one,” she muttered. “Don’t bother me with these details, I’ve told you a million times, I don’t want to be bothered, can’t you understand that, I only want to be left alone—”
“One moment,” said Hawknose. He gestured toward the nearest of the machines. Blackness flapped suddenly toward Naismith.
For a heart-freezing instant, he thought the gun had fired; then he realized he had been enclosed by another of the dark globes. Through it he could hear their voices, but could not make out the words.
Time dragged unendurably. Then, suddenly, the little group broke up; the dark globe vanished.
“Well, that’s settled,” said Hawknose agreeably. “You’re to have a reprieve, Shefth. We’re going to let you kill a Zug—
here, on this side of the Barrier. If you do, well and good. If not—” He shrugged, turned to the gnome beside him.
“Give him some equipment and get the gate ready,” he said. “A few of you go along and watch—you, you and you.
Anyone else want to go? All right, four vehicles, then. See to it.”
As he turned away, there was a babble of voices around Naismith. The gnome had darted away and disappeared; other bright forms were clustering nearer. Naismith caught sight of Liss-Yani, and of a smooth-limbed, athletic man who might have been her brother. Two gorgeous fat men in candy stripes of violet and pink drifted up, chattering excitedly to each other.
With a look of sullen hostility, the gnome reappeared carrying a small bundle of equipment. “This way.”
As the group followed him, he edged closer to Naismith and muttered, “You animal, you’re going to be clawed up and eaten alive inside half an hour. I’ll be watching, and I’ll laugh!”
Naismith felt chilled. The holiday mood of the people around him, their laughter and bright faces, suggested that they were about to enjoy some amusing spectacle. Clawed up and eaten alive… Would that amuse them? A cold fury came to drive back his fear. Somehow, somehow, he would cheat them of that pleasure.
Darting ahead, the gnome checked at one of the mirror disks. He touched it briefly. The disk cleared: they were looking into a tiny, blue-walled room, on the far wall of which glimmered another silvery disk.
“Go ahead, get in,” said the gnome impatiently.
Naismith entered the chamber slowly, glancing around him.
The gnome handed him a clutter of harness and equipment.
“Put these on.”
Naismith examined the objects. There was a pistol-like weapon in a holster, a helmet with a curious forward-jutting spike, and a complex webwork of plastic straps with metal insets.
“Here, let me show you,” said the man who resembled Liss-Yani, coming forward. “Rab-Yani is my name. You may call me Rab.” He took the harness from Naismith’s hands, deftly looped it around his torso, arms and legs.
“What’s this for—to protect me from the Zug?” Naismith demanded.
Rab-Yani gave him an odd look. “It gives some momentary protection,” he said. “Nothing short of a force-field will protect you against a Zug, however. What this does principally is to seal off wounds and prevent shock. In that way, you can go on fighting for another few seconds before you lose consciousness.”
Naismith watched grimly as the Entertainer passed the holster strap around his chest. The projecting gun-butt looked familiar; he grasped it, drew it half out of the holster.
Yes, it was the same—the massive, powerful grip and barrel.
“That’s your flamer,” said Rab-Yani. “It projects a spear of intense flame which cut through even a Zug’s hide, if you are close enough. It is good for three shots before it becomes too hot to hold.”
Naismith thought this over in silence. Behind him, the excited voices continued; then the sound faded, and suddenly a ghostly blue bubble floated past him; in it were the two fat men, staring back at him with onion eyes. The bubble passed through the wall ahead and disappeared.
“Now the helmet,” said Rab-Yani, fitting it onto Naismith’s head. “This contact goes here, on your cheekbone. Clench your jaw.”
Naismith did so, and at once a faintly shimmering disk appeared, hanging in front of his face from the spike of the helmet.
“That’s for illusions,” Rab-Yani said. “The Zug may appear in some confusing shape, but look through that, and you will be able to see its real aspect.”
Naismith relaxed his jaw; the disk winked out.
“Well, we’re ready,” the Entertainer said. Two more ghostly bubbles floated past. In one of them crouched the gnome, who gave Naismith a malevolent glance before he disappeared.
Turning, Naismith saw Rab join Liss-Yani: he floated close to her, she touched the controls of the machine she held, and a blue shadow-sphere formed around them.
The bubble floated nearer: Rab-Yani gestured toward the gateway in the wall ahead, and Naismith saw that it was now open, revealing blue-violet depths.
Feeling very much alone, he took a deep breath and floated through.
The gigantic, deserted corridors of the Old City had a dreamlike familiarity to Naismith: again and again he recognized places he had encountered before, in his dreams and in the machine memory the aliens had given him: but they were all changed, empty, shadowed. Here was a great concourse, on whose elaborate, fluted central stem Naismith remembered seeing a colorful crowd perched, fluttering, coming and going like a flock of tropical birds: now it was an echoing vault.
Later, they drifted along the tops of hundreds of ranked cylindrical shells, each twenty feet wide, in whose purple depths vague, indecipherable shapes could be glimpsed. “The Shefthi growth cells,” Rab commented, drifting close to his bubble.
“You came out of one of those… do you remember?”
Naismith shook his head. Part of his mind was aware of the blue bubbles, with their chattering occupants, drifting insubstantially around, behind, above him. Another part was listening to what Rab-Yani said. The rest was fiercely alert for danger.
“What about you—did you come out of one of those, too?”
he asked abstractedly.
Floating beside Rab in the bubble, Liss-Yani laughed. “No
—then he would have been a Shefth! The gravity in those cells is set at one and seven tenths Earth normal. He would have too many muscles!” She put her arm around Rab with casual affection.
The gnome’s bubble darted suddenly forward, disappeared through the solid wall.
“And you abandoned all this, just to get away from the Zugs?” Naismith asked. “Why?”
“When they mutated, they became very strong and very intelligent. The Old City is full of tunnels and passages, too many ever to flush them all out. That’s why you Shefthi were created. We never needed a warrior ca
ste before—not for thousands of years.”
“If they’re so intelligent, why not deal with them?”
Rab gave him a surprised look. “The Zugs are predatory upon man,” he said slowly. “They eat our flesh, and plant their eggs in our bodies. There are men at this moment, hidden away down here, paralysed, while Zug larvae grow inside them.
Yes, we could deal with the Zugs, but only on their terms.
Do you think you would like that, Shefth?”
Naismith said stubbornly, “But why try to kill them with weapons like this?” He touched the gun at his chest. “You could be safe inside one of those bubbles, shooting them down with force-rods. They wouldn’t have a chance.”
Rab exchanged glances with the girl beside him, then looked around. The other bubbles had spread out; neither was within earshot.
“Listen to me, Shefth,” he said in a low voice. “Are you really as ignorant of the Zugs as you pretend?”
“I don’t remember anything about them,” Naismith said flatly.
“Then you are probably doomed, because Pendell has gone ahead to find one, and it will not be hard. You must realize this: these creatures are the fiercest man-killers in the history of the universe: but they are not mindless animals. If we hunt them with superior weapons, they stay in hiding. That is why you have no armor that will protect you for more than an instant, and no gun more powerful than that one. If you were trained, there would be one chance in two of success; as it is, you will have only a few seconds to kill the Zug before it kills you. It is incredibly fast and agile. It—”
He broke off suddenly as the gnome’s bubble reappeared ahead. The expression on the little man’s face was one of malicious triumph.
“Quickly,” said Liss-Yani in an urgent voice.
“You must hold your fire until it is almost upon you,” Rab finished tensely. “It will dodge your first flame and come at you from a different direction. Your only chance is to antici-pate that direction, and—”
A scattered chorus of shouts broke out from the bubbles behind them. Tense, hand on his gun, Naismith stared around.
What he saw was nothing more frightening than a small bald man in white robes, who had just entered the corridor from a narrow opening ahead. His pale blue eyes stared across at Naismith without expression; then he turned and was gone.
