Kor’s body vibrated at a vastly accelerated time rate, and his mind with it, but the air around him was not affected. It held him as if in a strait jacket until he expanded the influence of the time-stasis to include a small space around him. Then he sighted a straight path to the Thug he had chosen for reason of his size, and cast a pathway of accelerated air molecules ahead of him as he went.
The Thug lay on the ground, frozen, immobile, squinting along the barrel of an ugly looking blaster. Already, Kor thought, his finger is tightening on the release stud.
The Thug’s body seemed hard as a rock. Kor could not have budged him had he tried, the matter now composing his body could have no effect upon matter of the world he had left. Except for the supersensitive apperception of his mind, he would have been blind in this lightless, soundless universe of his own.
Kor mentally adjusted the influence of the time-stasis to include the Thug, bringing them together into the same vibratory rate, and kicked him hard on the jaw before he could stir. The Thug grunted and collapsed.
Quickly, Kor stripped himself of his scarlet garments and changed clothing with the unconscious Thug. That done, he slung the fellow over his shoulder, ran with him back to the terrace, and stood him in exactly the spot he himself had occupied before, restoring him to consciousness and withdrawing the influence of the time-stasis as he did so.
The Thug stood like a statue in the rigid garments of the Scarlet Saint. Kor ran back to the Thug’s deserted post, picked up the discarded blaster, and returned his time rate to normal.
The Thug stood where Kor had left him. He had started to lift his arms, and in a moment he would have shouted. The Lady Soma’s back flashed out of sight into the maelstrom of dancers within the ballroom.
The fractional second was past. None could have seen the substitution. Five lances of flame rayed out of the darkness—and an instant behind, a sixth, as Kor brought his captured weapon into play. The gesticulating figure on the terrace writhed in coruscating flame, vanished behind the flower-covered balustrade. The hideous noise of the blasters stuttered into silence.
Very well, Kor thought grimly. Let us see what comes now.
He ran after the sound of racing footsteps as the Thugs sped for the open. He almost collided with the group as they reached the first row of town houses. One who seemed to be leader was haranguing the rest. He stopped as Kor came running up.
“There you are, Nar! You were slow! Get this, we scatter here and work back toward the city from different directions to avoid suspicion. You all know why we can not be connected with this business. Now, get going!”
The Thugs darted off in all directions. Kor dallied a moment, then strolled leisurely away, blaster hidden under the rough brown cloak he had taken from the Thug.
He could imagine the commotion which now ensued at the palace of Lord Roen Gol. He thought of the Lady Soma, and a warmth enfolded him. He hoped she would not think the smoking wreck on her father’s terrace was he. He paused, let his mind flash back to the scene of carnage and touch that reeking corpse. Swirling electrons flashed through Kor’s consciousness, a flood of bright stars that swarmed down as if to engulf him. His mind was in the body of the dead man, sorting, classifying, photographing the structure of its matter down to the last element. He would need the matrix to complete the plan which had come to him.
Kor knew what he had to do, if he wanted to return to his Chapel. And return he must, if he would get to the bottom of this business. But that was not the whole reason, either; part of it was contained in a pair of sparkling, sea-green eyes, and in warm, enfolding arms.
He swept his surroundings with his expanding mind, seeking an empty dwelling. The hour was late, and in the pallid moonglow, the city slept. The moon rode above the city like a gargantuan, pockmarked face, featureless and cold.
Every place Kor’s mind entered, it touched one or more sleeping minds that stirred sluggishly at the contact.
He quickened his steps, slinking along against a wall, on the side of the street opposite the moonglow. He was engulfed in shadow. Somewhere there must be an empty house. He sensed it from a distance, reconnoitered its surroundings. No living soul was abroad. The house was unfurnished and empty.
Kor selected a spot in the central living chamber. His mind sought a pattern of electrons in the smooth, plastic floor. He made the changeover without a pause in his stride and came to a halt in the middle of the deserted living room. There was no light, but Kor did not need any. His super sense searched the dwelling carefully, told him his earlier survey had been correct. The house was unoccupied.
Kor squatted on the hard plastic floor. In the back of his mind electrons swirled, coalesced, drove in a quickening stream and hovered in the air about him, motes of light that danced like fireflies in the grass. Whirling, circling, swooping, they drove round and round him, lighting the room with an eerie glow. Kor’s eyes were open, his hands extended downward, his gaze fixed on the floor between and beneath them. It was toward this point that the swilling motes of light were driven. Something was building there…something was taking shape from the blinking swarm that spiraled and swept downward and vanished into its growing, darksome bulk.
It took perhaps a minute. When Kor had concluded, a facsimile of the blistered corpse that had lain on Lord Roen Gol’s terrace graced the plastic floor in front of him.
CHAPTER X
Safe again in his own quarters, Kor carefully destroyed the Triszman garb he had worn by disassembling its structure, molecule by molecule. That done, he bathed in a sparing amount of water and donned scarlet raiment once more. Then he rang for an acolyte and gave orders to fetch Brother Set.
“No doubt,” he said abruptly as the Blue Brother entered his study, “you are surprised to see me still alive, Brother Set?”
The Blue Brother shook his round head. A faint smile twitched his lips.
“I cannot say that I am, Sir Kor. Should I be?”
“If not surprised, then disappointed—or distressed…what is the word I am looking for?”
“Discomfited is probably the word you are groping for, Sir, but it is hardly appropriate. I am at a loss to supply a better.”
Kor glowered at him.
“Brother Set, we may as well have it out between us now. Twice on my journey from the Institute, you had me set upon with intent to kill…”
“Sir!” Brother Set’s voice vibrated with innocent shock.
“It will do no good to protest your innocence. I scanned your image from the mind of the murderer you sent when your first pair of Thugs failed.”
Brother Set chuckled. “I thought perhaps you had. You walked in here with a chip on your shoulder from the beginning. You must forgive me that slip, Sir. I had not much time after the Thugs returned with a tale of failure. I was obliged to act quickly. I contacted the fellow in person.”
“You don’t deny it?”
“Did you expect a denial? Come, Sir Kor! So I have tried to have you killed! What is that between friends…when we know that a Scarlet Saint is practically unkillable by such methods?”
Kor’s eyes narrowed.
“So you know that, do you? You are wrong; the Men can be killed. Tonight, for instance, I ran a very dangerous risk with my life. That I escaped is beside the point. You know that my Oath does not permit me to harm human life, unless my own is in danger. It seems to me that you are the biggest danger facing me at the moment, Brother Set.”
“Kill me, then,” the Blue Brother urged guilelessly, “if you believe it will free you of danger.” He smiled his saintly smile. “After all, Sir, I merely carry out the orders of my civil superiors, who receive them directly from the Trisz. It is a part of my duty to obey the Trisz and carry out the orders of the civil authorities. You have your oath and I have mine.”
Kor scowled. “If you know your plo
ts to kill me are bound to fail, why do you persist?”
Brother Set shrugged. “I am quite indifferent to the situation, Sir. As I said, I merely act under orders. Those orders imply that you will be killed—and you will be.”
“You have other plans, then?”
“Not I. You may as well know, Sir, that the situation here is intolerable for you. It is not possible for you to remain alive. The Trisz have decreed death for you, and there is an end to the matter.”
“How did the Trisz kill Sir Ten Roga?”
Again the Blue Brother shrugged. “I do not know.”
“Where does Lord Roen Gol fit into this?”
“He was to have been charged with your murder and eliminated by public execution. His Lordship had begun to dabble in treason, and the Trisz have a predilection for order. Their own kind of order.”
“I was to be killed to afford an excuse for the legal murder of Lord Roen Gol? Then why the first two attempts, during my journey here?”
Brother Set yawned politely, covering his mouth with his hand.
“I cannot answer all of your questions. After all, I am not a Scarlet Saint. I am merely a Brother of the Order, attempting to carry out his duties.”
Kor said, calculatingly, “You would have liked to be a Saint, wouldn’t you?”
“Was I chosen? I serve well enough in my place.”
“Indeed, you do. I can find no fault with your actions. I wonder only how much of what you seem to know about the Men has been communicated to the Trisz?”
Brother Set turned away. “Is that the reward for my discreetness? I have told them nothing. Suppose they suspected half as much as I, as you put it, seem to know?”
“Perhaps they do.”
“Not likely. They would wipe you out to the last Man.”
Kor bristled. “Then why do they seek my life?”
“You have heard of the Extrapolator?”
Kor remained silent, staring impassively.
“I assume you have,” the Blue Brother went on, unperturbed. “The machine predicted your coming as a danger to the Trisz. You doubtless know that—”
Kor did not deign an affirmative reply.
“The machine has made another utterance.”
Kor started. “It has?”
“Aha! I thought so!”
Brother Set was again his genial, angelic, self. “You would like to know what the machine says about you now, wouldn’t you?”
Kor drew himself up haughtily. “It makes no difference. I could pry the information out of you, if I chose.”
“I believe you could, Sir. Anybody who could sizzle and fry one instant in the flames of six blasters, and the next be found running down the street with the murderers—” Kor peered at him closely. “What do you know about that?”
“Not everything. I have heard that a fellow called Nar is missing. About your size, too. Some remembered that Nar joined them after the fracas, but he hasn’t been seen since. I think it was you who joined the Thugs after the shooting.”
“It was!” Kor paused, thinking. “Brother Set, I believe you when you say that the Trisz intend having me killed. There may be a way to defeat them, however. You can be with me or against me.”
“As I suggested, Sir, you could kill me and obviate the question.”
Kor regarded him queerly. “I am sure you would not care if I did. But a Man cannot kill wantonly. If you attacked me, I could, and it would not violate my Oath. However, I should rather have you with me, Brother Set.”
“I should prefer to be neither for you nor against you. Most of all, to remain alive!”
“What do you mean by that?”
“My own well being requires that I serve my Masters, who are the Trisz. Can I serve you, too, and not be in danger from them?” He shuddered fastidiously. “I am sure you would have more compunction than they! Anyway, so far as I am concerned, you are as good as dead. I should gain nothing by serving you. But I may tell you one thing.”
“And that is—?”
“The matter of the Extrapolator’s prediction.”
“I believe that it predicts my death,” Kor rejoined stiffly.
“Indeed, yes. But some are worried by the terms in which the prognosis is couched.”
“It is vaguely expressed?”
“Let me recite it for you.” The Blue Brother closed his eyes, recollecting the pronouncement. He rubbed his paunch delicately. “Here it is! ‘The Scarlet Saint will die undead; pots and pans depart instead.’ Does it make sense to you, Sir?”
“It is a mess of contradictions! What is it to die ‘undead’? Where do pots and pans fit into it? What does it mean?”
“That is just how the Trisz felt about it, Sir. Many times, however, the machine’s pronouncements do not seem to bear the scrutiny of common sense—until after the event has come to pass.”
“I should hope they made no sense of it,” Kor interjected.
“Hope in vain, Sir. The Trisz have clearly realized the meaning of this bit of doggerel. They interpret it this way…” The Blue Brother, paused, listened delicately, and smiled. “If I am not mistaken, Sir Kor—no, I am not—the Trisz soldiers are here now. It would be useless to tell you more!”
There was no opportunity to escape. The soldiers rushed into the room, blasters leveled. There was an uproar of stamping feet, barked commands. The soldiers surrounded Kor in a ring.
“You are under arrest, Sir Kor!” cried the officer of the guard.
Kor protested. “I claim the sanctuary of the Chapel! You cannot arrest me in the house of the Lord Sun.”
The officer suddenly spied the blaster Kor had laid on a table. He picked it up, smiling grimly.
“A blaster is contraband to any but the lawful guard of the Trisz. Your possession of it nullifies your resort to sanctuary. Will you come peaceably?”
Kor shrugged. “Very well. Put away your weapons.” Brother Set smiled with saintly pleasure as they led Kor away.
The room in which they put Kor was high up in the tower of the Administration Center. It measured hardly three paces one way by four the other, and there was not an item of furniture in it to relieve the monotony of smooth, colorless plastic. A dim light overhead cast the room into a fishbowl of pallid illumination.
As soon as the door was shut behind him, Kor’s submissive attitude vanished. He darted first to one wall and then to another, laying his palms against the cool, featureless plastic. He opened his mind, reached out just enough to penetrate the wall. Electrons swirled in his consciousness, flitting, flickering motes of seeming luminescence. Kor scanned the stream, poring over it, identifying, classifying, recording.
He found the blaster behind the rear wall without difficulty. It was rigged for remote control, and adjusted to spray the room with a broad cone of lethal radiation. Kor put his mind into the weapon, located the fuse that normally prevented overcharge of the circuit with consequent kickback on the operator. He carefully fused it to render the weapon useless.
With equal ease, Kor located the visor that watched him. It was hidden in the filament of the dimly burning lamp. It was complete with a microscopic pick-up for sound. Kor closed his mind, dropped to his knees and began to pray aloud.
If ritual prayers to the Sun could not bore the Trisz sufficiently, he thought, he could afford them other diversion later. Having finished his prayers at last, Kor exercised briefly, wrapped himself in his scarlet cloak, lay down on the hard plastic floor, and promptly fell asleep.
It must have been morning when Kor awoke. In this windowless chamber, he could not tell whether the time was night or day, but he had mentally set himself for six hours of sleep, so it must be day by now. The dim lamp still burned overhead, and at the other end of the visio-audio hook-up, doubtless, Triszmen still
watched.
Again Kor performed the ritual exercises of the Chapel, recited his morning prayers to the Sun, sang a canticle, then settled himself to await the Trisz’ pleasure. When food was brought, Kor turned the bearer back at the door.
“A Man lives not by food alone,” he pronounced. “Go, I have other matters to digest.”
He carefully adjusted his metabolism to compensate for lack of food and continued to wait.
Shortly thereafter, the locking mechanism in the door whirred again. The guard ushered in a slovenly, middle-aged woman and clanged the door shut behind her.
“Are you the Man Kor?” she asked.
Kor regarded her closely. She held herself slouchily erect. Her lined cheeks sagged, and her eyes were puffed to mere slits. She wore a black kerchief over her hair. The saffron robe of a Triszman wrapped her.
She said, peering at him, “Are you the Man Kor?”
Kor was wary, but he did not hesitate. He expanded his mind slightly and withdrew it. He was satisfied. He smiled and bowed politely.
“I am the Man Kor,” he replied.
The woman’s voice sounded cracked from over-indulgence in synth.
“You aren’t the Man I met at Roen Gol’s!”
Kor’s mind crept into the dimly glowing bulb overhead. He held the woman’s gaze with his own, located the sight-and-sound pick-up. Electrons swirled in his mind. He counted, selected two, turned a quadrant, and thrust. Overhead, one electron nudged another. A third dropped out of its orbit. The Trisz spy-device went dead.
Kor touched the woman’s arm. He felt the instantaneous surge in every atom of his body as the time-stasis took hold. He freed the rigid air around them and stepped back, grinning.
“You may come out of your disguise, Lady Soma!”
CHAPTER XI
Kor’s pronouncement shocked his caller. She looked uncertainly at him and around the room, made as if to speak.
The 7th Golden Age of Weird Fiction MEGAPACK®: Manly Banister Page 34
