"We'd better head back to the space-port," said Catlin. "We got two
hours to make the Sirgamesk shuttle."
* * * * *
Wilbur Murphy sat in the Barangipan, watching marionettes performing to
xylophone, castanet, gong and _gamelan_. The drama had its roots in
proto-historic Mohenjō-Darō. It had filtered down through ancient India,
medieval Burma, Malaya, across the Straits of Malacca to Sumatra and
Java; from modern Java across space to Cirgamesç, five thousand years of
time, two hundred light-years of space. Somewhere along the route it had
met and assimilated modern technology. Magnetic beams controlled arms,
legs and bodies, guided the poses and posturings. The manipulator's
face, by agency of clip, wire, radio control and minuscule selsyn,
projected his scowl, smile, sneer or grimace to the peaked little face
he controlled. The language was that of Old Java, which perhaps a third
of the spectators understood. This portion did not include Murphy, and
when the performance ended he was no wiser than at the start.
Soek Panjoebang slipped into the seat beside Murphy. She wore musician's
garb: a sarong of brown, blue, and black _batik_, and a fantastic
headdress of tiny silver bells. She greeted him with enthusiasm.
"Weelbrrr! I saw you watching...."
"It was very interesting."
"Ah, yes." She sighed. "Weelbrrr, you take me with you back to Earth?
You make me a great picturama star, please, Weelbrrr?"
"Well, I don't know about that."
"I behave very well, Weelbrrr." She nuzzled his shoulder, looked
soulfully up with her shiny yellow-hazel eyes. Murphy nearly forgot the
experiment he intended to perform.
"What did you do today, Weelbrrr? You look at all the pretty girls?"
"Nope. I ran footage. Got the palace, climbed the ridge up to the
condensation vanes. I never knew there was so much water in the air till
I saw the stream pouring off those vanes! And _hot_!"
"We have much sunlight; it makes the rice grow."
"The Sultan ought to put some of that excess light to work. There's a
secret process.... Well, I'd better not say."
"Oh come, Weelbrrr! Tell me your secrets!"
"It's not much of a secret. Just a catalyst that separates clay into
aluminum and oxygen when sunlight shines on it."
Soek's eyebrows rose, poised in place like a seagull riding the wind.
"Weelbrrr! I did not know you for a man of learning!"
"Oh, you thought I was just a bum, eh? Good enough to make picturama
stars out of _gamelan_ players, but no special genius...."
"No, no, Weelbrrr."
"I know lots of tricks. I can take a flashlight battery, a piece of
copper foil, a few transistors and bamboo tube and turn out a paralyzer
gun that'll stop a man cold in his tracks. And you know how much it
costs?"
"No, Weelbrrr. How much?"
"Ten cents. It wears out after two or three months, but what's the
difference? I make 'em as a hobby--turn out two or three an hour."
"Weelbrrr! You're a man of marvels! Hello! We will drink!"
And Murphy settled back in the wicker chair, sipping his rice beer.
* * * * *
"Today," said Murphy, "I get into a space-suit, and ride out to the
ruins in the plain. Ghatamipol, I think they're called. Like to come?"
"No, Weelbrrr." Soek Panjoebang looked off into the garden, her hands
busy tucking a flower into her hair. A few minutes later she said, "Why
must you waste your time among the rocks? There are better things to do
and see. And it might well be--dangerous." She murmured the last word
off-handedly.
"Danger? From the sjambaks?"
"Yes, perhaps."
"The Sultan's giving me a guard. Twenty men with crossbows."
"The sjambaks carry shields."
"Why should they risk their lives attacking me?"
Soek Panjoebang shrugged. After a moment she rose to her feet. "Goodbye,
Weelbrrr."
"Goodbye? Isn't this rather abrupt? Won't I see you tonight?"
"If so be Allah's will."
Murphy looked after the lithe swaying figure. She paused, plucked a
yellow flower, looked over her shoulder. Her eyes, yellow as the flower,
lucent as water-jewels, held his. Her face was utterly expressionless.
She turned, tossed away the flower with a jaunty gesture, and continued,
her shoulders swinging.
Murphy breathed deeply. She might have made picturama at that....
One hour later he met his escort at the valley gate. They were dressed
in space-suits for the plains, twenty men with sullen faces. The trip to
Ghatamipol clearly was not to their liking. Murphy climbed into his own
suit, checked the oxygen pressure gauge, the seal at his collar. "All
ready, boys?"
No one spoke. The silence drew out. The gatekeeper, on hand to let the
party out, snickered. "They're all ready, Tuan."
"Well," said Murphy, "let's go then."
Outside the gate Murphy made a second check of his equipment. No leaks
in his suit. Inside pressure: 14.6. Outside pressure: zero. His twenty
guards morosely inspected their crossbows and slim swords.
The white ruins of Ghatamipol lay five miles across Pharasang Plain. The
horizon was clear, the sun was high, the sky was black.
Murphy's radio hummed. Someone said sharply, "Look! There it goes!" He
wheeled around; his guards had halted, and were pointing. He saw a fleet
something vanishing into the distance.
"Let's go," said Murphy. "There's nothing out there."
"Sjambak."
"Well, there's only one of them."
"Where one walks, others follow."
"That's why the twenty of you are here."
"It is madness! Challenging the sjambaks!"
"What is gained?" another argued.
"I'll be the judge of that," said Murphy, and set off along the plain.
The warriors reluctantly followed, muttering to each other over their
radio intercoms.
* * * * *
The eroded city walls rose above them, occupied more and more of the
sky. The platoon leader said in an angry voice, "We have gone far
enough."
"You're under my orders," said Murphy. "We're going through the gate."
He punched the button on his camera and passed under the monstrous
portal.
The city was frailer stuff than the wall, and had succumbed to the thin
storms which had raged a million years after the passing of life. Murphy
marvelled at the scope of the ruins. Virgin archaeological territory! No
telling what a few weeks digging might turn up. Murphy considered his
expense account. Shifkin was the obstacle.
There'd be tremendous prestige and publicity for _Know Your Universe!_
if Murphy uncovered a tomb, a library, works of art. The Sultan would
gladly provide diggers. They were a sturdy enough people; they could
make quite a showing in a week, if they were able to put aside their
superstitions, fears and dreads.
Murphy sized one of them up from the corner of his eye. He sat on a
sunny slab of rock, and if he felt uneasy he concealed it quite
successfully. In fact, thought Murphy, he appeared completely relaxed.
Maybe the problem of securing diggers was a minor one after all....
And here was an odd sidelight on the Singhalûsi character. Once clear of
the valley the man openly wore his shirt, a fine loose garment of
electric blue, in defiance of the Sultan's edict. Of course out here he
might be cold....
Murphy felt his own skin crawling. How could he be cold? How could he be
alive? Where was his space-suit? He lounged on the rock, grinning
sardonically at Murphy. He wore heavy sandals, a black turban, loose
breeches, the blue shirt. Nothing more.
Where were the others?
Murphy turned a feverish glance over his shoulder. A good three miles
distant, bounding and leaping toward Singhalût, were twenty desperate
figures. They all wore space-suits. This man here ... A sjambak? A
wizard? A hallucination?
* * * * *
The creature rose to his feet, strode springily toward Murphy. He
carried a crossbow and a sword, like those of Murphy's fleet-footed
guards. But he wore no space-suit. Could there be breathable traces of
an atmosphere? Murphy glanced at his gauge. Outside pressure: zero.
Two other men appeared, moving with long elastic steps. Their eyes were
bright, their faces flushed. They came up to Murphy, took his arm. They
were solid, corporeal. They had no invisible force fields around their
heads.
Murphy jerked his arm free. "Let go of me, damn it!" But they certainly
couldn't hear him through the vacuum.
He glanced over his shoulder. The first man held his naked blade a foot
or two behind Murphy's bulging space-suit. Murphy made no further
resistance. He punched the button on his camera to automatic. It would
now run for several hours, recording one hundred pictures per second, a
thousand to the inch.
The sjambaks led Murphy two hundred yards to a metal door. They opened
it, pushed Murphy inside, banged it shut. Murphy felt the vibration
through his shoes, heard a gradually waxing hum. His gauge showed an
outside pressure of 5, 10, 12, 14, 14.5. An inner door opened. Hands
pulled Murphy in, unclamped his dome.
"Just what's going on here?" demanded Murphy angrily.
Prince Ali-Tomás pointed to a table. Murphy saw a flashlight battery,
aluminum foil, wire, a transistor kit, metal tubing, tools, a few other
odds and ends.
"There it is," said Prince Ali-Tomás. "Get to work. Let's see one of
these paralysis weapons you boast of."
"Just like that, eh?"
"Just like that."
"What do you want 'em for?"
"Does it matter?"
"I'd like to know." Murphy was conscious of his camera, recording sight,
sound, odor.
"I lead an army," said Ali-Tomás, "but they march without weapons. Give
me weapons! I will carry the word to Hadra, to New Batavia, to Sundaman,
to Boeng-Bohôt!"
"How? Why?"
"It is enough that I will it. Again, I beg of you ..." He indicated the
table.
Murphy laughed. "I've got myself in a fine mess. Suppose I don't make
this weapon for you?"
"You'll remain until you do, under increasingly difficult conditions."
"I'll be here a long time."
"If such is the case," said Ali-Tomás, "we must make our arrangements
for your care on a long-term basis."
Ali made a gesture. Hands seized Murphy's shoulders. A respirator was
held to his nostrils. He thought of his camera, and he could have
laughed. Mystery! Excitement! Thrills! Dramatic sequence for _Know Your
Universe!_ Staff-man murdered by fanatics! The crime recorded on his own
camera! See the blood, hear his death-rattle, smell the poison!