"How did you do that?"
"A trifling addition of three common chemicals administered in the year 1007 BC has resulted in making oil unburnable. I have also saved all of your forests by selecting architects who were unable, for one reason or another, to build wooden houses. There is no greenhouse effect in the new future I am concocting for you, and no nuclear threat. I have done away with those things. Surely work like that cannot be called evil.
"Why don't you just butt the hell out of our affairs?" Bill suggested emphatically.
"Would that I could! I just can't help myself. It is in the nature of intelligence to meddle."
"But why have you brought me here?" Hannibal asked.
"To produce a sufficiently large anomaly so that the time-changing process can become even more malleable. That way we can run these changes through more quickly. I admit that all my changes haven't worked out quite as planned. The chains of cause and effect are unbelievably difficult to manipulate."
"Bill," the Chinger whispered in Bill's ear, "I think the Alien Historian is lying."
"About what?" Bill asked.
"That's difficult to tell. But he's lying about something. Have you noticed the way his eye always meets yours in a frank and open expression? Only people with guilty secrets do that."
"Are you sure?"
"Trust me," the Chinger said. "I've given up everything for the Terran cause — two good homes, a happy sex life, a position in the Odd Chingers Organization, my presidency of the Chinger Anti-Defamation League. What further proof of my loyalty can I give you?"
"All right," Bill said, "but what do we do?"
"You two," the Alien Historian said, "please stop mumbling together. You look like conspirators, and conspiracy is the nightmare of history."
"What do you think?" Bill asked the Chinger in a whisper.
"He sounds crazy as hell to me," the Chinger said.
"But what do we do?"
"Might as well kill him and get it over with," the Chinger said.
Bill wasn't sure he was ready to go quite that far. But then, in another instant, Hannibal had lurched to his feet, short sword in hand. His face contorted horribly as he said, "Can't help myself — his mind is controlling mine — watch yourself!"
And he launched himself at Bill with swinging sword, the Alien Historian nodding gravely while saying, as if to himself, "Dialectical materialism — what shall I do with it?"
Bill dodged as Hannibal came at him, fumbled out his laser pistol, but a quick swipe from Hannibal's sword knocked the weapon out of his hand into a nearby weasel hole. Bill leaped backward as Hannibal came on. The Chinger took one look and slithered under Bill's tunic to the small of his back, long known as the place least likely to get injured when the body is under attack by a berserker with an edged weapon.
"Help me!" Bill said to him.
"I'm only seven inches long," the Chinger said, his voice muffled by the heavy cotton poplin of the shirt at the small of Bill's back. "I suggest you help yourself."
Bill's attention was entirely taken up trying to dodge Hannibal's short sword, of bronze, and sharpened to a razor edge. The short stocky Carthaginian was foaming at the mouth as he swung his sword like a buzz-saw gone berserk, and the force of his swings created microclimates that boiled up into tiny whirlwinds before being absorbed into the torpor of the quiet Tsurisian landscape. Bill looked around desperately for a weapon. There was nothing close to hand. They were in a clearing in the woods, and scavengers had been at work earlier. The land hereabouts had been stripped of sticks, stones, rusty tie rods, bronze cannon balls with verdigris left over from Gustavus Adolphus's campaign in Pomerania. In short, the region had been picked clean, and even the dust had been finely sifted. Bill had to throw himself backward to avoid being decabezized by the murderous swinging sword. He landed on the small of his back and heard a yelp from the Chinger. The massive Hannibal, his face a mask of torment and passion, was standing overhead; the sword was going backwards in his double-handed grip; there would be no way to avoid the murderous downstroke that was sure to cleave Bill in twain, and, with a little luck, perhaps the Chinger, too.
At this extremity, Bill remembered that he had one thing and one thing only that he might use. It was a forlorn hope, perhaps useless, but what else was there to do? His mind ran through the alternatives in nanoseconds and rang up a dismal No Sale. Bill pulled open his pouch, reached in, and removed the withered alligator foot which had been pulled from over his own foot so recently. He had some vague intention of throwing it in Hannibal's face, and then figuring out his next move after that. But the very removal, or the very display, of the foot had had an instantaneous and unexpected effect on the berserk Carthaginian warrior. Hannibal stopped in his tracks, sword arrested at the mid-point of its downswing. His eyes became round and glaucous, and for a moment the breath stopped in his throat.
"Come on, get killing!" the Alien Historian shouted. "I am giving you a mental command which you cannot fail to follow to destroy that sucker!"
"I cannot, Master," Hannibal said. "He bears the symbol of that which commands my loyalty beyond even yours. Behold, he has the Alligator's Foot!"
"Well, damnation," the Alien Historian said. "You know, you're right. The alligator was the secret god of the Carthaginians, and he who bears the Alligator's Foot is to be obeyed in all things. I had not thought it would come to this! History is full of surprises, I would surely say."
"Yeah," Bill said. He picked up Hannibal's sword and advanced on the Alien Historian. "What do you make of this?" he said, raising the weapon to strike.
"Another beautiful theory," the Alien Historian said, "ruined by a silly little anomaly. Well, it's been nice doing business with you. Now I must be on my way."
The Alien Historian drew a circle in the dust, having previously set in the logical probabilities that made this both a convenient means of transportation and a class way of exiting.
Just as he was finishing the circle, the figure sitting by the third fire rose and walked over to them.
"What in hell are you doing here?" Bill asked.
Many reasons have been given, some of them less than ingenious, to explain Ham Duo's presence at that third campfire dressed in the rough brown hooded cloak and high soft leather boots of a trinket salesman from Aphrodisia IV. Whatever the true case may be, Ham was there, and he rose now without undue haste and seized the Alien Historian by the collar of the Nehru-style jacket which the alien affected.
"Let go of me at once," the Alien Historian said. "Nobody can interfere with the processes of history."
"Not even you," Ham said. "You've overstepped yourself this time."
"What do you intend to do?" the Alien Historian asked, suddenly worried.
"I think I'll bring you back in a cage," Ham said. "The authorities can make up their own minds about you."
"I'll make you an offer you can't refuse," the Alien Historian said.
Ham smiled grimly. "Try me."
"What if I gave you the Disruptor?"
"Refused," Ham said. "Are you going to come along peacefully or do I have to get the Kookie to sing in your ear?"
"Not that," the Alien Historian said. "But consider, Ham Duo! Can you afford so easily to pass up on the Disruptor, which would make you master of space and time?"
Ham thought about it. "Master of space, that I can understand. But how does time get into it?"
"The Disruptor is able to work miracles with time, too. Didn't you know that?"
"Miracles I can live without. I don't like to get mixed up with theology."
"Not literal miracles, you cretin. Figuratively speaking of course. If you will just let me loose for a moment and I'll show you."
"No tricks?"
"No tricks."
Ham loosened his grip. The Alien Historian reached into the pouch that hung around his waist on the left side, and pushing into it, removed a large object with a gunmetal color, which Bill recognized at once as the Disruptor.
"Hello, Disruptor!" Bill called.
"Hi there, Bill, long time no see," the Disruptor said.
"Shut up," the Alien Historian said, slapping the metal side of the Disruptor smartly. "He's not on our side. Don't talk to him."
"Don't try to give me orders," the Disruptor answered in a low but meaningful voice filled with the growl of menace.
The Alien Historian sighed. "Someone has been interfering with the hierarchical command-chains. It could not have been you, Ham Duo. You are brave and stalwart, but when they handed out the brains you were in the corner picking your toes. No, somebody is playing a subtle game here. I think it is time that whoever it is stands forth and declares himself."
"Or herself," a voice from the darkness beyond the campfire said.
"Illyria!" cried Bill.
The figure that stepped into the light of the bonfire was tall, erect and beautiful if you like the stalwart starlet type, and who doesn't? It was Illyria as she had been on the dream planet of Royo, full-breasted in her cross-my-heart bra, with long legs which would have been a delight to a topological pornographer if one had been present. Her eyes were of a cornflower blue that has been lost since the destruction of the Corning-ware research staff in the earthquake of '09. The firelight picked out her fine features and splendid contours, for these were enhanced by a filmy sort of short skirt and blouse made of a material both transparent and sleazy.
"Bill," Illyria said, "it was naughty of you to leave me on Royo that way. I didn't realize how serious-minded you are. Don't worry, we don't have to spend all our time having fun. There are serious things ahead, too."
"You tricked me, you minx!" the Alien Historian said.
"Yes, I did," Illyria said. "But it was only because I had to."
"And that's supposed to make it all right? You said you loved me!"
"I exaggerated," Illyria said. "Now, try to think, what emotion of repugnance comes just below despising? That's what I feel for you." She turned to Bill. "Come on, sweetheart, let's get out of here."
She held out her hand to him. Bill gazed at it longingly. He really wanted to take it, but knew that it would lead to no good at all. Alien females and all that. What he really needed was the Disruptor that the Alien Historian held in his hand. But Duo had his eye on it too. And Duo had the gun, a nasty-looking Smirnoff pulsating needle beam. Bill could see that the dial was set to "automatic excruciating pain." He decided not to try to take it away from Duo. Not at the moment, anyhow. Perhaps something would present itself. Opportunities had been known to happen. It was even within the bounds of the credible that Ham Duo might fall into a fainting fit.
At that instant Duo groaned, put his hand to his forehead in a fluttery gesture, and collapsed to the ground.
The Chinger scuttled out from behind Bill's back, limping since he had taken quite a blow during Bill's recent fall. He went over to Duo. "Interspacial Sleeping Sickness. A classic case. Don't stand too near to him. His latency is now at perigee."
They all backed away hastily.
"Is he dead?" Bill asked.
"No, not at all, Interspacial Sleeping Sickness doesn't kill anyone, it just puts them to sleep for a while. I hope he's on the Blue Nebula Health Plan with its generous provisions for Major Medical. It looks like he's going to have to spend a while in a darkened room being fed intravenously while people stare at him curiously through the plate glass window."
Ham stirred, groggily and moaned pitifully. Talking in his sleep he said, "All right, Bill. You win."
He reached up feebly and handed the Disruptor to Bill. "Get me out of this!" he yawningly implored, and fell asleep immediately after; with an enormous effort, he made the exclamation mark of maximum urgency.
"Can you help out my buddy?" Bill asked the Disruptor.
"Sure I can," the Disruptor said. But before it was able to do so, there came about an intervention which began quietly enough but soon built to great proportions.
The ship that settled down feather-light into the circle of light and shadow that defined the mid-point of the three bonfires was not large. As such it could be identified as one of the newest models, built almost entirely for wealthy individuals or their heirs, people who wanted to get around quickly and couldn't be bothered with the commercial spacelines. The ship was beautifully finished. The markings on its hull could be identified by those who knew about such things, such as the Alien Historian, as letters in the Sanskrit alphabet.
"Sanskrit," the Alien Historian muttered. "Who would this be?"
"Do not let the markings take you in," a voice, amplified and projected, said from the little spaceship. "We must make use of what we can get. Since a delegation from Rajasthan II was visiting our planet, I took the liberty of relieving them of their spaceship for a while. I thought that one of you might want to use it."
"Who can it be?" Ham Duo muttered in his sleep.
"I know that voice," Bill said. "It's the Quintiform computer, isn't it?"
"That is correct, Bill. I rescued you from Royo. You know that, and now you churlishly seek to leave me. Even though you had promised to do anything for your release from that place!"
"I guess I was talking a little wildly," Bill said. "But what is it you want?"
"Access to your brain!" the computer said.
"We've already been through that," Bill said.
"Yes. But that was before we realized that you possess the fabled double brain connected by the corpus callosum. Do you know how rare that is, Bill? I can train and refurbish your mind, and you can take your place here on the planet Tsuris as a computer oracle."
"I think you got the wrong guy," Bill said. "Or maybe I haven't got a good double brain. They all aren't good, are they? I can't do any of that oracle computer stuff."
"Of course you can. Just agree, that is all. I will let your companions go back to their own places."
"What about me?" the Alien Historian asked.
"You present some difficulties," the computer said. "Bill, believe me; it's for the best."
Bill looked around. Ham Duo was nodding in his sleep while Alien Historian, slightly more awake, was nodding as well. The Chinger was whispering in his ear. "Do it, Bill. We can figure out something later."
"I still don't understand what you want me to do."
"Just agree to it, Bill. You'll see."
"Well," Bill said, "I'll give it a try."
He waited. Nothing seemed to happen. He said, "Well, what's going on?"
Then jagged energy flooded his mind. Everything around him swayed and trembled, like the backdrop of a stage play exposed to a hurricane. And then, even before he realized it, the next thing had happened.
It's funny about situations, isn't it? They arise so suddenly out of nothing. Of course, after the new thing is over it's easy enough to see how it all came about. In Bill's case, he might have noticed the faint gridlike pattern that flashed onto the sky momentarily, then faded out like the after-image of an imagined event. He might have noticed the slight thickening around the line of the horizon. Our perceptual apparatus picks up this sort of signal all of the time. But the main processing center has no time to deal with it. It's too busy keeping us balanced as we walk, so we can walk and chew gum at the same time. No computer has yet been able to duplicate this feat. Probably because no computer is able to chew gum. For a human it is not difficult at all, with training, of course.
Bill was in a sort of darkness. It wasn't the darkness of an empty room, but more like the darkness of being entirely inside a down sleeping bag. This was a darkness that did not feel hollow, as most darknesses do. This darkness felt like midnight cleaning-up time at the bottom of the bog, or friendship day in the viper's tangle. It was a darkness that extended to the ears, too, making it impossible to hear sounds because of the insulation of silence. Nor could you feel anything; because the grasping fingers plunged down through layer after layer of gossamer fabric, each sheet of it too fine for the fingertips to tell whether they rested on something impa
lpable or not, but, as the hand continued downward, more and more fabrics, each nothing in itself, collected on the fingertips until there was a feeling of a curtain or shade over the fingers, something that blinds them to the touch.
This zero point of sensation is well-renowned as the point of null and cease for which the mystics strive. Bill had, therefore, quite inadvertently, entered into the state of supreme bliss for which the saffron-robed ascetics of old had striven in vain. It was too bad there was no one around to tell Bill of this good luck. The state of utmost bliss turned out, like all the other states of mind, to depend on having someone tell you that you were in it. Otherwise it felt like nothing much at all.
Bill did not know anything about such matters. So he cannot be blamed for taking advantage of the darkness to get his first full night's sleep in a long time. Thus missing what was possibly the most transcendent moment of his life. At least he snored transcendentally.
When he awoke, everything had changed.
"That trooper wasn't a bad egg," Ham Duo remarked, after nearly an hour's silence, to his long-suffering Kookie companion. Chewgumma responded with the humorous high-pitched squeals and grunts that so amuse an audience which has no natural fur. But Kookies don't sound funny to each other, and so we are going to tell what the Kookie was actually saying and leave the cute stuff for a little later, when we come to the pit of the hemotoads.
"I know what bother," Chewgumma squealed accusingly. "You got guilty conscience. First me know you even got conscience. You let Bill be grabbed by crappy Quintiform computer."
"He was trying to steal my Disruptor," Ham said indignantly. "It served him right."
"So what? You got another Disruptor. You big shit."
"Lay off. So I've got two backups in the belowships chain locker, as well as a machine that can build another from scratch if we feed it enough molybdenum. I gotta be prepared for emergencies."
"Then why you no let Bill have one?"
"Lay off, huh. I went to a lot of trouble getting those Disruptors."
On the Planet of Bottled Brains Page 17
