Wild Cards: Aces Abroad

by George R. R. Martin

  Tomorrow morning we’ll fly over the Khyber Pass and cross into India, a different world entirely, a whole sprawling subcontinent, with the largest joker population anywhere outside the United States.

  FEBRUARY 12/CALCUTTA:

  India is as strange and fabulous a land as any we have seen on this trip . . . if indeed it is correct to call it a land at all. It seems more like a hundred lands in one. I find it hard to connect the Himalayas and the palaces of the Moguls to the slums of Calcutta and Bengali jungles. The Indians themselves live in a dozen differ­ent worlds, from the aging Britishers who try to pretend that the Viceroy still rules in their little enclaves of the Raj, to the mahara­jas and nawabs who are kings in all but name, to the beggars on the streets of this sprawling filthy city.

  There is so much of India.

  In Calcutta you see jokers on the streets everywhere you go. They are as common as beggars, naked children, and corpses, and too frequently one and the same. In this quasination of Hindu and Moslem and Sikh, the vast majority of jokers seem to be Hindu, but given Islam’s attitudes, that can hardly be a surprise. The orthodox Hindu has invented a new caste for the joker, far below even the untouchable, but at least they are allowed to live.

  Interestingly enough, we have found no jokertowns in India. This culture is sharply divided along racial and ethnic grounds, and the enmities run very deep, as was clearly shown in the Cal­cutta wild card riots of 1947, and the wholesale nationwide car­nage that accompanied the partition of the subcontinent that same year. Despite that, today you find Hindu and Muslim and Sikh liv­ing side by side on the same street, and jokers and nats and even a few pathetic deuces sharing the same hideous slums. It does not seem to have made them love each other any more, alas.

  India also boasts a number of native aces, including a few of considerable power. Digger is having a grand time dashing about the country interviewing them all, or as many as will consent to meet with him.

  Radha O’Reilly, on the other hand, is obviously very unhappy here. She is Indian royalty herself, it appears, at least on her mother’s side . . . her father was some sort of Irish adventurer. Her people practice a variety of Hinduism built around Gonesh, the elephant god, and the black mother Kali, and to them her wild card ability makes her the destined bride of Gonesh, or something along those lines. At any rate she seems firmly convinced that she is in imminent danger of being kidnapped and forcibly returned to her homeland, so except for the official receptions in New Delhi and Bombay, she has remained closely closeted in the various hotels, with Carnifex, Lady Black, and the rest of our security close at hand. I believe she will be very happy to leave India once again.

  Dr. Tachyon, Peregrine, Mistral, Fantasy, Troll, and the Harlem Hammer have just returned from a tiger hunt in the Bengal. Their host was one of the Indian aces, a maharaja blessed with a form of the midas touch. I understand that the gold he creates is inherently unstable and reverts to its original state within twenty-four hours, although the process of transmutation is still sufficient to kill any living thing he touches. Still, his palace is reputed to be quite a spectacular place. He’s solved the traditional mythic dilemma by having his servants feed him.

  Tachyon returned from the expedition in as good a spirit as I’ve seen him since Syria, wearing a golden nehru jacket and matching turban, fastened by a ruby the size of my thumb. The maharaja was lavish with his gifts, it seems. Even the prospect of the jacket and turban reverting to common cloth in a few hours does not seem to have dampened our alien’s enthusiasm for the day’s activities. The glittering pageant of the hunt, the splendors of the palace, and the maharaja’s harem all seem to have reminded Tach of the pleasures and prerogatives he once enjoyed as a prince of the Ilkazam on his home world. He admitted that even on Takis there was no sight to compare to the end of the hunt, when the maneater had been brought to bay and the maharaja calmly approached it, removed one golden glove, and transmuted the huge beast to solid gold with a touch.

  While our aces were accepting their presents of fairy gold and hunting tigers, I spent the day in humbler pursuits, in the unexpected company of Jack Braun, who was invited to the hunt with the others but declined. Instead Braun and I made our way across Calcutta to visit the monument the Indians erected to Earl Sanderson on the site where he saved Mahatma Gandhi from assassination.

  The memorial resembles a Hindu temple and the statue inside looks more like some minor Indian deity than an American black who played football for Rutgers, but still . . . Sanderson has indeed become some sort of god to these people; various offerings left by worshipers were strewn about the feet of his statue. It was very crowded, and we had to wait for a long time before we were admit­ted. The Mahatma is still universally revered in India, and some of his popularity seems to have rubbed off on the memory of the American ace who stepped between him and an assassin’s bullet.

  Braun said very little when we were inside, just stared up at the statue as if somehow willing it to come to life. It was a moving visit, but not entirely a comfortable one. My obvious deformity drew hard looks from some of the higher-caste Hindus in the press of the people. And whenever someone brushed against Braun too tightly—as happened frequently among such a tightly packed mass of people—his biological force field would begin to shimmer, surrounding him with a ghostly golden glow. I’m afraid my nervousness got the better of me, and I interrupted Braun’s reveries and got us out of there hastily. Perhaps I overreacted, but if even one person in that crowd had realized who Jack Braun was, it might have triggered a vastly ugly scene. Braun was very moody and quiet on the way back to our hotel.

  Gandhi is a personal hero of mine, and for all my mixed feelings about aces I must admit that I am grateful to Earl Sanderson for the intervention that saved Gandhi’s life. For the great prophet of nonviolence to die by an assassin’s bullet would have been too grotesque, and I think India would have torn itself apart in the wake of such a death, in a fratricidal bloodbath the likes of which the world has never seen.

  If Gandhi had not lived to lead the reunification of the subcon­tinent after the death of Jinnah in 1948, would that strange two-headed nation called Pakistan actually have endured? Would the All-India Congress have displaced all the petty rulers and absorbed their domains, as it threatened to do? The very shape of this decen­tralized, endlessly diverse patchwork country is an expression of the Mahatma’s dreams. I find it inconceivable to imagine what course Indian history might have taken without him. So in that respect, at least, the Four Aces left a real mark on the world and perhaps demonstrated that one determined man can indeed change the course of history for the better.

  I pointed all this out to Jack Braun on our ride home, when he seemed so withdrawn. I’m afraid it did not help much. He listened to me patiently and when I was finished, he said, “It was Earl who saved him, not me,” and lapsed back into silence.

  True to his promise, Hiram Worchester returned to the tour today, via Concorde from London. His brief sojourn in New York seems to have done him a world of good. His old ebullience was back, and he promptly convinced Tachyon, Mordecai Jones, and Fantasy to join him on an expedition to find the hottest vindaloo in Calcutta. He pressed Peregrine to join the foraging party as well, but the thought seemed to make her turn green.

  Tomorrow morning Father Squid, Troll, and I will visit the Ganges, where legend has it a joker can bathe in the sacred waters and be cured of his afflictions. Our guides tell us there are hun­dreds of documented cases, but I am frankly dubious, although Father Squid insists that there have been miraculous joker cures in Lourdes as well. Perhaps I shall succumb and leap into the sacred waters after all. A man dying of cancer can ill afford the luxury of skepticism, I suppose.

  Chrysalis was invited to join us, but declined. These days she seems most comfortable in the hotel bars, drinking amaretto and playing endless games of solitaire. She has become quite friendly with two of our reporters, Sara Morgenstern and the ubiquitous Digger Downs, and I’ve even heard
talk that she and Digger are sleeping together.

  Back from the Ganges. I must make my confession. I took off my shoe and sock, rolled up my pants legs, and put my foot in the sacred waters. Afterward, I was still a joker, alas . . . a joker with a wet foot.

  The sacred waters are filthy, by the way, and while I was fishing for my miracle, someone stole my shoe.

  THE TEARDROP OF INDIA

  Walton Simons

  The people of Colombo had been waiting for the ape since early morning, and the police were having trouble keeping them away from the docks. A few were getting past the wooden barricades, only to be quickly caught and hustled into the bright yellow police vans. Some sat on parked cars; others had children perched on their shoulders. Most were content to stand behind the cordons, craning their necks for a look at what the local press called “the great American monster.”

  Two massive cranes lifted the giant ape slowly off the barge. It hung bound and limp, dark fur poking out from inside the steel mesh. The only indication of life was the slow rising and falling of its fifteen-foot-wide chest. There was a grinding squeal as the cranes pivoted together, swinging the ape sideways until it was over the freshly painted, green railway car. The flatcar groaned as the ape settled onto its broad steel bed. There was scattered cheer­ing and clapping from the crowd.

  It was the same as the vision he’d had only a few months ago—the crowd, the calm sea, and clear sky, the sweat on the back of his neck—all the same. The visions never lied. He knew exactly what would happen for the next fifteen minutes or so; after that he could go back to living again.

  He adjusted the collar of his nehru shirt and flashed his govern­ment ID card to the policeman nearest him. The officer nodded and stepped out of his way. He was a special assistant to the Secretary of the Interior, which gave him a particularly wide range of responsibilities. Sometimes what he did was little more than nurse-maid rich, visiting foreigners. But it was preferable to the twenty-plus years he’d spent in embassies overseas.

  There was a group of twenty or thirty Americans around the train. Most wore light gray security uniforms and were busy chain­ing the beast down to the railway car. They kept an eye on the ape while going about their business but didn’t act afraid. A tall man in a Hawaiian print shirt and plaid Bermuda shorts was standing well away, talking to a girl in a light blue cotton sundress. They were both wearing red and black “King Pongo” visors.

  He walked over to the tall man and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Not now.” The man didn’t even bother to turn and look at him.

  “Mr. Danforth?” He tapped him on the shoulder again, harder. “Welcome to Sri Lanka. I’m G. C. Jayewardene. You telephoned me last month about your film.” Jayewardene spoke English, Sinhalese, Tamil, and Dutch. His position in the government required it.

  The film producer turned, his face blank. “Jayewardene? Oh, right. The government guy. Nice to meet you.” Danforth grabbed his hand and pumped it a few times. “We’re real busy right now. Guess you can see that.”

  “Of course. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to ride along while you’re transporting the ape.” Jayewardene could not help but be impressed with its size. The monster was even taller than the forty-foot Aukana Buddha. “It seems much larger when you see it up close.”

  “No joke. But it’ll be worth all the blood, sweat, and tears it took to get it here when the film comes out.” He jerked his thumb toward the monster. “That baby is great pub.”

  Jayewardene put his hand over his mouth, trying to hide his puzzled expression.

  “Publicity.” Danforth smiled. “Have to watch the industry slang, I guess. Sure, G.C., you can ride in the VIP car with us. It’s the one in front of our hairy friend.”

  “Thank you.”

  The giant ape exhaled, stirring the dust and dirt by its open mouth into a small cloud.

  “Great pub,” said Jayewardene.

  The rhythmic clacking of the train’s wheels on the old railway track relaxed him. Jayewardene had ridden the island trains on countless trips in the forty-odd years since he’d boarded one for the first time as a boy. The girl in the blue dress, who’d finally introduced herself as Paula Curtis, was staring out the window at the terraced tea fields. Danforth was working over a map with a red felt-tip pen.

  “Okay,” he said, putting the handle end of the pen to his lips. “We take the train to the end of the line, which is around the headwaters of the Kalu Ganga.” He flattened the map onto his knees and pointed to the spot with his pen. “That puts us at the edge of the Udu Walawe National Park, and Roger has supposedly scouted out some great locations for us there. Right?”

  “Right,” Paula answered. “If you trust Roger.”

  “He’s the director, my dear. We have to trust him. Too bad we couldn’t afford somebody decent, but the effects are going to take up most of the budget.”

  A steward walked over to them, carrying a tray with plates of curried rice and string hoppers, small steamed strands of rice flour dough. Jayewardene took a plate and smiled. “Es-thu-ti,” he said, thanking the young steward. The boy had a round face and broad nose, obviously Sinhalese like himself.

  Paula turned from the window long enough to take a plate. Danforth waved the boy away.

  “I’m not sure I understand.” Jayewardene took a mouthful of the rice, chewed briefly, and swallowed. There was too little cinna­mon in the curry for his taste. “Why spend money on special effects when you have a fifty-foot ape?”

  “Like I said earlier, the monster’s great pub. But it would be hell trying to get the thing to perform on cue. Not to mention being prohibitively dangerous to everyone around him. Oh, we may use him in a couple of shots, and definitely for sound effects, but most of the stuff will be done with miniatures.” Danforth grabbed a fin­gerful of rice from Paula’s plate and dropped it into his mouth, then shrugged. “Then, when the movie opens, the critics will say they can’t tell the real ape from the model, and people take that as a chal­lenge, see. Figure they can be the one to spot it. It sells tickets.”

  “Surely the publicity value is less than the money it took to get the beast from the City of New York and bring it halfway around the world.” Jayewardene dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin.

  Danforth looked up, grinning. “Actually we got the ape for nothing. See, it gets loose every now and then and starts tearing things up. The city is up to its ass in lawsuits every time that happens. If it’s not in New York, it can’t do any damage. They almost paid us to take the thing off their hands. Of course we have to make sure nothing happens to it, or the zoo would lose one of its main attractions. That’s what those boys in gray are for.”

  “And if the ape escapes here, your film company will be liable.” Jayewardene took another bite.

  “We’ve got it doped up all the time. And frankly it doesn’t seem much interested in anything.”

  “Except blond women.” Paula pointed to her short, brown hair. “Lucky for me.” She looked back out the window. “What’s that mountain?”

  “Sri Pada. Adam’s Peak. There is a footprint at the top said to be made by the Buddha himself. It is a very holy place.” Jayewardene made the pilgrimage to the top every year. He planned to do so in the near future, as soon as his schedule allowed it. This time with hopes of cleansing himself spiritually so that there were no more visions.

  “No kidding.” Paula elbowed Danforth. “We going to have time to do any sight-seeing?”

  “We’ll see,” Danforth said, reaching over for more rice.

  Jayewardene set his plate down. “Excuse me.” He got up and walked to the rear of the car, slid the door open, and stepped out onto the platform.

  The giant ape’s head was only about twelve feet from where he stood. Its eyes fluttered, then stared up at the rounded top of Adam’s Peak. The ape opened its mouth; lips pulled back, revealing the huge yellow-white teeth. There was a rumble, louder than the train engine, from the back
of the monster’s throat.

  “It’s waking up,” he yelled at the security men riding at the back of the flatcar.

  They walked forward carefully, steadying themselves on the car’s side railing, avoiding the ape’s manacled hands. One watched the monster, rifle centered on its head. The other changed the plastic bottle hooked up to the IV in the ape’s arm.

  “Thanks.” One of the guards waved at Jayewardene. “It’ll be okay now. This stuff will put him out for hours.”

  The ape twisted its head and looked directly at him, then turned back to Adam’s Peak. It sighed and closed its eyes.

  There was something in the monster’s brown eyes that he couldn’t identify. He paused, then went back into the car. The curry aftertaste was sour in the back of his throat.

  They reached the camp at dusk. Actually it was more of a hastily thrown together city of tents and portable buildings. There was less activity than Jayewardene had expected. Most of the crew sat around talking or playing cards. Only the zoo security people were busy, carefully unloading the ape onto a broadbed truck. It was still unconscious from the drug.

  Danforth told Paula to introduce Jayewardene around. The director, Roger Winters, was busy making changes in the shooting script. He wore a Frank S. Buck outfit, complete with pith helmet to hide his thinning hair. Paula guided Jayewardene away from the director.