For High Treason
Against His Highness,
Duke Winslow of North America
Dale Kesley, farmer, of Iowa Province, also
known under the false name of Ramon, Ambassador
from Duke Miguel of South America.
The said Kesley, having entered His Highness' court on the pretext
of an embassy from the Court of Buenos Aires, did make an attempt
on our Duke's life. Kesley is sought urgently. A reward of fifty
thousand dollars is offered for his corpse.
The said Kesley is six-feet-two in height, with closely-trimmed
blond hair, full lips, nose set somewhat unevenly on his face. He
will probably be wearing stolen clothing and riding a stolen horse.
* * * * *
That was all. Kesley whistled; fifty thousand dollars was a staggering
sum of cash to offer. And they wanted his _corpse_; Winslow had no
interest in anything but a dead Kesley, then.
He would have to look sharp. With fifty thousand riding on his head,
every loyal subject from Texas to Maine Province would be ready to sell
him to the Duke.
* * * * *
He lived a hazardous existence on the way north, eating off the forest
and staying out of the way of anyone official-looking. He travelled
mostly by night, creeping along cautiously during the day and making up
the delay by galloping furiously once the sun had set.
Generally he had no difficulties. Crossing from Arkansas into Missouri
nearly caused trouble, when he blundered into a border patrol searching
for someone else. He never found out who it was they really wanted;
two of the guards stopped him, stared at his face in the light of a
flickering match, and, after a tense moment or two, incredibly sent him
along his way.
In central Missouri he wandered into a hobo camp. Four
bedraggled-looking men were squatting around an iron pot in which
bubbled some sort of stew. Kesley had not eaten all day; he rode up to
them and dismounted, keeping a hand hovering near his weapons in case
they should recognize him.
They didn't.
"Come join us, brother," one of them invited. He was a heavy man with a
bulbous red nose.
"Thanks. Don't mind if I do." Kesley lowered himself into the circle
round the fire.
"You from hereabouts?" a lean man of perhaps sixty asked grudgingly.
"Don't spot your face."
"I'm an Illinoiser," Kesley said. "Spent some time down in Texas. Now
I'm heading home again."
He helped himself to a potful of stew. The stuff was hot and
bubbling--too hot, really, to taste, which perhaps was a sort of
blessing, Kesley thought.
"Have any trouble with the border guards?" someone asked.
"Little squabble down near Arkansas, that's all. They were hunting
someone or other, and took me for him."
"They do that, sometimes," the red-nosed man agreed. "Times are tough
now. The woods are full of Winslow's men."
"Oh? Something up?"
"Seems someone tried to kill the old bird," the red-faced man said.
"Guess he got fed up after all these years."
"I suspect it was that Duke from South America," the lean one remarked.
"Them Dukes are out for each other, mark my words!"
The fire flickered and sent a spiral of smoke curling into the trees.
Staring at it, Kesley found the sight oddly soothing. He took another
sip of the stew.
Chuckling, he said, "They must be chasing this guy all over the
country. I'll bet there's a nifty price on his head."
"Seventy-five thousand, that's what it is!"
Kesley frowned. Had the reward increased so fast--or was this just the
exaggeration of ignorance? It didn't much matter.
"I'd like to catch some of that money myself, you know. Seventy-five
thousand, huh?"
The red-nosed man laughed raucously. "You know, if I was the guy, maybe
I'd turn _myself_ in, for that kind of dough!"
Maybe you would, Kesley thought, watching the ghostly shapes the fire
took. Anybody would do anything these days.
"What would you do if _I_ was the guy?" he asked suddenly.
"You?" The red-nosed man seemed to stiffen a little. "Why would _you_
want to go killin' Dukes?"
"Yeah," Kesley said. "That's right, I guess."
* * * * *
He moved on later that night, leaving his newfound companions behind.
They seemed happy there in the forest. He toyed with the idea of
telling them the truth before he left, but rejected the idea. There
was no telling how they'd react to the confession--but seventy-five
thousand was a lot of money, and he didn't want four more deaths to his
score.
He kept riding. He passed through Missouri and up into Illinois,
following the Mississippi up from Cairo. The year was well into late
October and the evenings were chilly. He rode quickly; the horse he had
captured was a smoothly-functioning, full-blooded traveling machine.
Up through Illinois, until finally the broad expanse of Mutie City was
visible through the dawn haze. For the first time since being cast out
of Wiener he had the feeling that he was approaching safety. Flight was
over--for now.
Of course, the mutants had told him not to return. But this was an
emergency; surely they'd let him in.
He entered the city shortly after morning. The mutants were stirring,
going about their early-day business. It seemed a savage parody of a
normal city's routine. The shops were crowded, and what difference did
it make if shopkeepers' heads were of spongy blue flesh and shoppers
had the arms of lizards?
He felt terribly weary. As he entered the city, he was not surprised to
see Spahl coming toward him.
"Hello," he said, dismounting.
"We expected your return," the seal-like creature said without preamble
of formality. "We knew when we asked you to leave that you would be
back."
"I want to rest," Kesley said. "This time don't throw me out."
He allowed Spahl to lead him to the room he had occupied on his earlier
visit. A group of mutants congregated; he recognized Foursmith and
Huygen. There were some others, stranger and more bizarre than any he
had yet seen.
It was odd, Kesley thought, that the one place on Earth he could go for
sanctuary was to this repository of freaks. Angrily, he brushed the
thought away. The mutants were--well, _people_.
"I've been to the Colony and to Wiener," he explained. "I couldn't stay
there. Winslow's hunting me all over the country."
"We know these things," Spahl said quietly. "We have followed your
path, Kesley."
"And--?"
"We have decided the time has come for you to go home. You've been long
awaited and we'll make sure you get there safely."
"Home?"
"Now your life is in danger. You endanger anyone you come in contact
with. Obviously you must not remain in Winslow's territories any
longer--or Miguel's."
"And therefore," Foursmith added when Spahl ceased, "we will send you
forth. For your sake and ours."