Quicker than the eye could follow the movement, Flavius’s sixty-ton-capacity arm whistled through the air as he flung the first steel missile directly at Sun-boy. Sun-boy, or the power within him, leapt aside with insect speed. The ball plowed through two of the rag-clothed human bodies on the floor. One body said who of as it died, but the other body let out no sound at all: the head had been torn off in first impact. Before the dancer could speak, Flavius flung the second ball.
This time the doorway caught it. The powers which had immobilized Sto Odin and his robots were back in operation. The ball sang as it plunged into the doorway, stopped in mid-air, sang again as the door flung it back at Flavius.
The returning ball missed Flavius’s head but crushed his chest utterly. That was where his real brain was. There was a flicker of light as the robot went out, but even in dying Flavius seized the ball one last time and flung it at Sun-boy. The robot terminated operation and the heavy ball, flung wild, caught the Lord Sto Odin in the right shoulder. The Lord Sto Odin felt pain until he dragged over his manikin meee and turned all pain off.
Then he looked at the shoulder. It was almost totally demolished.
Blood from his organic body and hydraulic fluid from his prosthetics joined in a slow, heavy stream as the liquids met, merged, and poured down his side.
The dancer almost forgot to dance.
Sto Odin wondered how far the girl had gone.
of Man The air pressure changed.
“What is happening to the air? Why did you think about the girl? What is happening?”
“Read me,” said the Lord Sto Odin.
“I will dance and get my powers first,” said Sun-boy.
For a few brief minutes it seemed that the dancer with the congo helium would cause a rock-fall.
The Lord Sto Odin, dying, closed his eyes and found that it was restful to die. The blaze and noise of the world around him remained interesting, but had become unimportant.
The congo helium with a thousand shifting rainbows and the dancer had attained near-transparency when Sun-boy came back to read Sto Odin’s mind.
“I see nothing,” said Sun-boy worriedly.
“Your vitality button is too high and you will die soon. Where is all that air coming from? I seem to hear a faraway roar. But you are not causing it.
Your robot went wild. All you do is to look at me contentedly and die. That is very strange. You want to die your way when you could live unimaginable lives in here with us!”
“That is right,” said the Lord Sto Odin.
“I am dying my way.
But dance for me, do dance for me with the congo helium while I tell you your own story as you told it to me. It would be a pleasure to get the story straight before I die.”
The dancer looked irresolute, started to dance, and then turned back to the Lord Sto Odin.
“Are you sure you want to die right away? With the power of what you call the Douglas-Ouyang planets, which I receive right here with the help of the congo helium you could be comfortable enough while I danced and you could still die whenever you wished. Vitality buttons are much weaker than the powers which I command. I could even help to lift you across the threshold of my door. ..”
“No,” said the Lord Sto Odin.
“Just dance for me while I die.
My way.”
IX
Thus the world turned. Millions of tons of water were rushing toward them.
Within minutes the Gebiet and the Bezirk would drown as the air whistled upward. Sto Odin noted contentedly that there was an air-shaft at the top of the dancer’s room. He did not allow himself to third-think of what would happen when the matter and anti-matter of the congo helium were immersed in rushing salt water. Something like forty megatons, he supposed, with the tired feeling of a man who has thought a problem through long, long ago and remembers it briefly only after the situation has long passed.
Sun-boy was acting out religion before the age of space. He chorused hymns, he lifted his eyes and his hands and his piece of the congo helium to the sun; he played the rattle of whirling dervishes, the temple bells of the Man on the Two Pieces of Wood, and the other temple bells of that saint who had escaped time simply by seeing it and stepping out of it. Buddha, was that his name? And he went on to the severe profanities which afflicted mankind after the Old World fell.
The music kept measure.
And the lights, too.
Whole processions of ghostly shadows followed Sun-boy as he showed how old mankind had found the gods, and the Sun, and then other gods. He pantomimed man’s most ancient mystery that man pretended to be afraid of death, when it was life that never understood it.
And as he danced, the Lord Sto Odin repeated his own story to him: “You fled the surface. Sun-boy, because the people were stupid clods, happy and dull in their miserable happiness. You fled because you could not stand being a chicken in a poultry house, antiseptically bred, safely housed, and frozen when dead.
You joined the other miserable, bright, restless people who sought freedom in the Gebiet. You learned about their drugs and their liquors and their smokes. You knew their women, and their parties, and their games. It wasn’t enough. You became a gentleman-suicide, a hero seeking a fun-death which would stamp you with your individuality. You came on down to the Bezirk, the most forgotten and loathsome place of all. You found nothing.
Just the old machines and the empty corridors. Here and there a few mummies or bones. Just the silent lights and the faint murmur of air through the corridors.”
“I hear water now,” said the dancer, still dancing, “rushing water. Don’t you hear it, my dying Lord?”
“If I did hear it, I wouldn’t care. Let’s get on with your story.
You came to this room. The weird door made it look like a good place for a fun-death, such as you poor castaways liked to seek, except that there was not much sport in dying unless other people know that you did it intentionally, and know how you did it.
Anyway, it was a long climb back up into the Gebiet, where your friends were, so you slept by this computer.
“In the night, while you slept, as you dreamed, the computer sang to you: of Man I need a temporary dog For a temporary job On a temporary place Like Earth!
When you woke up you were surprised to find that you had dreamed an entire new kind of music. Really wild music which made people shudder with its delicious evil. And with the music, you had a job. To steal a piece of the congo helium
“You were a clever man. Sun-boy, before the trip down here.
The Douglas-Ouyang planets caught you and made you a thousand times cleverer. You and your friends, this is what you told me or what the presence behind you told me, just a half hour ago you and your friends stole a subspace communicator console, got a fix on the Douglas-Ouyang planets, and got drunk at the sight.
Iridescent, luminescent. Waterfalls uphill. All that kind of thing.”
“And you did get the congo helium The congo helium is made of matter and antimatter laminated apart by a dual magnetic grid.
With that the presence of the Douglas-Ouyang planets made you independent of organic processes. You did not need food or rest or even air or drink any more. The Douglas-Ouyang planets are very old. They kept you as a link. I have no idea of what they intended to do with Earth and with mankind. If this story gets out, future generations will call you the merchant of menace, because you used the normal human appetitiousness for danger to trap other people with hypnotics and with music.”
“I hear water,” interrupted Sun-boy.
“I do hear water!”
“Never mind,” said the Lord Sto Odin, “your story is more important. Anyhow, what could you and I do about it? I am dying, sitting in a pool of blood and effluvium. You can’t leave this room with the congo helium Let me go on. Or perhaps the DouglasOuyang entity, whatever it was ” “Is,” said Sun-boy.
” whatever it is, may just have been longing for sensuous companionship. Dance on,
man, dance on.”
Sun-boy danced and the drums talked with him, rataplan, rataplan! kid-nork, kid-nork, nork! while the congo helium made music scream through the solid rock.
The other sound persisted.
Sun-boy stopped and stared.
“It is water. It is.”
“Who knows?” said the Lord Sto Odin.
“Look,” screamed Sun-boy, holding the congo helium high.
“Look!”
The Lord Sto Odin did not need to look. He knew full well that the first few tons of water, mud-laden and heavy, had come frothing down the corridor and into their rooms.
“But what do I do?” screamed the voice of Sun-boy. Sto Odin felt that it was not Sun-boy speaking, but some relay speaking from the power of the Douglas-Ouyang planets. A power which had tried to find friendship with man, but had found the wrong man and the wrong friendship.
Sun-boy took control of himself. His feet splashed in the water as he danced. The colors shone on the water as it rose.
Ritiplin, tip ling said the big drum. Kid-nork, kid-nork, said the little drum. Boom, boom, doom, doom, room, said the congo helium
The Lord Sto Odin felt his old eyes blur but he could still see the blazing image of the wild dancer.
“This is a good way to die,” thought he, as he died.
Mother Hitton's Littul Kittons
Poor communications deter theft; good communications promote theft; perfect communications stop theft.
Van Braam
I
The moon spun. The woman watched. Twenty-one facets had been polished at the moon’s equator. Her function was to arm it.
She was Mother Hitton, the weapons mistress of Old North Australia.
She was a ruddy-faced, cheerful blonde of indeterminate age.
Her eyes were blue, her bosom heavy, her arms strong. She looked like a mother, but the only child she had ever had died many generations ago. Now she acted as mother to a planet, not to a person; the Norstrilians slept well because they knew she was watching. The weapons slept their long, sick sleep.
This night she glanced for the two-hundredth time at the warning bank. The bank was quiet. No danger lights shone. Yet she felt an enemy out somewhere in the universe an enemy waiting to strike at her and her world, to snatch at the immeasurable wealth of the Norstrilians and she snorted with impatience. Come along, little man, she thought. Come along, little man, and die. Don’t keep me waiting.
She smiled when she recognized the absurdity of her own thought.
She waited for him.
And he did not know it.
He, the robber, was relaxed enough. He was Benjacomin Bozart, and was highly trained in the arts of relaxation.
No one at Sunvale, here on Ttiolle, could suspect that he was a senior warden of the Guild of Thieves, reared under the light of the starry-violet star. No one could smell the odor of Viola Siderea upon him.
“Viola Siderea,” the Lady Ru had said, “was once the most beautiful of worlds and it is now the most rotten. Its people were once models for mankind, and now they are thieves, liars, and killers. You can smell their souls in the open day.” The Lady Ru had died a long time ago. She was much respected, but she was wrong. The robber did not smell to others at all. He knew it. He was no more “wrong” than a shark approaching a school of cod. Life’s nature is to live, and he had been nurtured to live as he had to live by seeking prey.
How else could he live? Viola Siderea had gone bankrupt a long time ago, when the photonic sails had disappeared from space and the plano-forming ships began to whisper their way between the stars. His ancestors had been left to die on an off-trail planet. They refused to die. Their ecology shifted and they became predators upon man, adapted by time and genetics to their deadly tasks. And he, the robber, was champion of all his people the best of their best.
He was Benjacomin Bozart.
He had sworn to rob Old North Australia or to die in the attempt, and he had no intention of dying.
The beach at Sunvale was warm and lovely. Ttiolle was a free and casual transit planet. His weapons were luck and himself: he planned to play both well.
The Norstrilians could kill.
So could he.
At this moment, in this place, he was a happy tourist at a lovely beach. Elsewhere, else when he could become a ferret among conies, a hawk among doves.
Benjacomin Bozart, thief and warden. He did not know that someone was waiting for him. Someone who did not know his name was prepared to waken death, just for him. He was still serene.
Mother Hitton was not serene. She sensed him dimly but could not yet spot him.
One of her weapons snored. She turned it over.
A thousand stars away, Benjacomin Bozart smiled as he walked toward the beach.
II
Benjacomin felt like a tourist. His tanned face was tranquil.
His proud, hooded eyes were calm. His handsome mouth, even without its charming smile, kept a suggestion of pleasantness at its corners. He looked attractive without seeming odd in the least.
He looked much younger than he actually was. He walked with springy, happy steps along the beach of Sunvale.
The waves rolled in, white-crested, like the breakers of Mother Earth. The Sunvale people were proud of the way their world resembled Manhome itself. Few of them had ever seen Manhome, but they had all heard a bit of history and most of them had a passing anxiety when they thought of the ancient government still wielding political power across the depth of space. They did not like the old Instrumentality of Earth, but they respected and feared it. The waves might remind them of the pretty side of Earth; they did not want to remember the not-so pretty side.
This man was like the pretty side of old Earth. They could not sense the power within him. The Sunvale people smiled absently at him as he walked past them along the shoreline.
The atmosphere was quiet and everything around him serene.
He turned his face to the sun. He closed his eyes. He let the warm sunlight beat through his eyelids, illuminating him with its comfort and its reassuring touch.
Benjacomin dreamed of the greatest theft that any man had ever planned. He dreamed of stealing a huge load of the wealth from the richest world that mankind had ever built. He thought of what would happen when he would finally bring riches back to the planet of Viola Siderea where he had been reared.
Benjacomin turned his face away from the sun and languidly looked over the other people on the beach.
There were no Norstrilians in sight yet. They were easy enough to recognize. Big people with red complexions; superb athletes and yet, in their own way, innocent, young, and very tough. He had trained for this theft for two hundred years, his life prolonged for the purpose by the Guild of Thieves on Viola Siderea. He himself embodied the dreams of his own planet, a poor planet once a crossroads of commerce, now sunken to being a minor outpost for spoliation and pilferage.
He saw a Norstrilian woman come out from the hotel and go down to the beach. He waited, and he looked, and he dreamed.
He had a question to ask and no adult Australian would answer it.
“Funny,” thought he, “that I call them
“Australians’ even now.
That’s the old, old Earth name for them rich, brave, tough people. Fighting children standing on half the world . . . and now they are the tyrants of all mankind. They hold the wealth. They have the santa clara and other people live or die depending upon the commerce they have with the Norstrilians. But I won’t. And my people won’t. We’re men who are wolves to man.”
Benjacomin waited gracefully. Tanned by the light of many suns, he looked forty though he was two hundred. He dressed casually, by the standards of a vacationer. He might have been an intercultural salesman, a senior gambler, an assistant star port manager. He might even have been a detective working along the commerce lanes. He wasn’t. He was a thief.
And he was so good a thief that people turned to him and put their property
in his hands because he was reassuring, calm, gray-eyed, blond-haired. Benjacomin waited. The woman glanced at him, a quick glance full of open suspicion.
What she saw must have calmed her. She went on past. She called back over the dune, “Come on, Johnny, we can swim out here.” A little boy, who looked eight or ten years old, came over the dune top, running toward his mother.
Benjacomin tensed like a cobra. His eyes became sharp, his eyelids narrowed.
This was the prey. Not too young, not too old. If the victim had been too young he wouldn’t know the answer; if the victim were too old it was no use taking him on. Norstrilians were famed in combat; adults were mentally and physically too strong to warrant attack.
Benjacomin knew that every thief who had approached the planet of the Norstrilians who had tried to raid the dream world of Old North Australia had gotten out of contact with his people and had died. There was no word of any of them.
And yet he knew that hundreds of thousands of Norstrilians must know the secret. They now and then made jokes about it.
He had heard these jokes when he was a young man, and now he was more than an old man without once coming near the answer. Life was expensive. He was well into his third lifetime and the lifetimes had been purchased honestly by his people.
Good thieves all of them, paying out hard-stolen money to obtain the medicine to let their greatest thief remain living.
Benjacomin didn’t like violence. But when violence prepared the way to the greatest theft of all time, he was willing to use it.
The woman looked at him again. The mask of evil which had flashed across his face faded into benignity; he calmed. She caught him in that moment of relaxation. She liked him.
She smiled and, with that awkward hesitation so characteristic of the Norstrilians, she said, “Could you mind my boy a bit while I go in the water? I think we’ve seen each other here at the hotel.”
“I don’t mind,” said he.
“I’d be glad to. Come here, son.”
Johnny walked across the sunlit dunes to his own death. He came within reach of his mother’s enemy.
The Rediscovery of Man Page 25
