Athens and Rome, the genius of the Renaissance and the primitive gods
of the Aztecs. The armless Venus gazed down dispassionately on the
bowed back of the Discus Thrower, while Rodin's Thinker stared in
eternal contemplation at the belly of Buddha.
And then Walther looked upward.
High overhead, reassembled on a great oblong span of artificial ceiling
suspended from the top of the vault, were the nine immortal panels from
the Sistine Chapel. Tracing his beam of light through scene by scene of
Michaelangelo's creation of the world, lingering among the connective
figures of the prophets and sibyls, the lunettes and triangles,
Walther lost all sense of time.
When his back and neck muscles could stand the strain no longer, he
wandered deeper into the dim recesses of the vault, following corridor
after corridor, entranced. He was like a condemned man watching his
last sunrise and trying to absorb it all, knowing he would not come
this way again.
Walther did not realize how far he had wandered until he came at last
to the end of a corridor and glanced at his watch.
Ten o'clock!
He'd been gone from the group for nearly three hours, and the entire
raid had been timed for two hours.
He started running for the elevator. Corridor led into corridor,
gallery into gallery. It took him twenty minutes to find his way back
to the main vault, another five minutes to locate the right elevator.
He pressed the button and listened. There was no sound within the shaft.
He shouted, and there was only the echo of his own voice reverberating
through the ages around him.
* * * * *
Fighting down a flutter of panic, Walther turned off his light and
leaned against the elevator door to organize his thoughts.
He was sure the others had left on time to make shipment schedules
at the Uniport landing. They might have delayed long enough to make
a cursory search for him, but his safety was no part of their
commitment. They had successfully raided the vaults, which was all they
had contracted to do. Before morning, most of them undoubtedly would
have embarked on inter-planetary cruises.
Walther's first decision was to try the other elevators on the
off-chance that one had been left in operating gear.
None had.
Next, he set off to look for a stair well, fire ladder or other
method of exit. It took him three hours to cover the entire vault and
its corridors. No doubt of it, the elevators were the only means of
entering and leaving.
It was now one o'clock. In eight hours the upper level doors would open
to the Digesters. No particular effort had been made to camouflage the
gaps in the stacks. His one chance was to reach the street level before
anyone noticed the missing books. Meanwhile, he could do nothing except
spend the night as comfortably as possible. He spread his coat on the
marble floor behind the squat statue of a Malayan goddess.
Surprisingly, he did doze off toward morning. He awoke shortly after
eight o'clock, and began to punch the elevator button every five
minutes. Finally, at three minutes to nine, a faint hum responded
within the shaft. He retreated hastily into the nearest corridor, and
waited another ten minutes before bringing the elevator down to his
level. Then he entered it, pressed the street-level control and shot
upward.
He lit a cigarette, and was prepared to step out nonchalantly as soon
as the door opened.
His exit was nonchalant enough, but the servo-robot guard in front of
the elevator held out its tabulator slot and said.
"Crdpls."
Walther was shaken, but did not freeze up. He fumbled in his pocket for
a slip of paper and tried to cram it into the tabulator. A red light
flashed on the servo-robot's chest; a buzzer sounded.
Thirty yards beyond, Walther saw the front desk and the door open to
the street. He acted with the impulse. A sidestep took him around the
servo-robot, and then he was racing toward the door.
Three steps later, a vise-like grip clamped around his shoulders and
swept him off his feet. Twisting, he saw that the servo-robot's arm had
elongated, and that the fingers had stretched to encircle his body. He
kicked hard at the arm, and that was his last conscious act.
The next time Walther opened his eyes, his head throbbed so violently
he closed them again. When the spinning stopped, he tried once more.
Around him he saw four metallic walls, and overhead a ceiling of
similar material. Except for a ventilator grid, and the outlines of
two doors, there were no breaks in the wall and no decorations. He was
lying on a low, narrow cot, and was still fully dressed.
He felt his head. There was a large lump above his right temple, where
he might have struck the floor. But he was still too groggy for much
speculation. He closed his eyes to ease the throbbing, and fell into
an uneasy sleep.
The creaking of the door must have roused him, for it was closing as he
focussed on it. A tray of food was within arm's reach. A smaller door
behind his bed had been opened; it led to a tiny washroom.
After freshening up and trying the food, Walther felt much better. He
was a strong-nerved young man, not accustomed to worry, and he tried
to weigh the facts for and against him. If the shipments had gone off
without a hitch, things might not be so bad. He'd been found leaving
the vaults, but no one would suppose that he'd have stayed around after
somehow disposing of the books. They might suspect him, but it would
be hard to disprove his story that he'd taken the elevator by mistake
the day before and been trapped overnight. Anyway, as a visitor from
another galaxy, he was entitled to certain consideration.
He felt even better when the door opened late in the afternoon to admit
Willy Fritsh and a tight-lipped man of about forty.
"Your lawyer," said Willy. He looked and sounded grim.
After completing introductions, Willy told him that he was indeed
accused of the theft, and would be arraigned in the morning.
"They can't prove it," Walther answered calmly.
"They think they can. Our Digester friend--remember our Bohemian
evening?--has come forward to accuse you. He'll testify about the offer
we made him."
"We? Will he accuse you, too?"
"Not exactly. I'm supposed to be an innocent bystander. A friend who
was used!"
In spite of the circumstances, a hint of the old sparkle returned to
Willy's eyes and he smiled faintly.
"What can they do about it?" Walther demanded. After all, he was a Von
Koenigsburg.
Willy's smile vanished.
"Our legal friend here says ten years would be a light sentence."
They discussed the case for an hour, while the lawyer took meticulous
notes. Then, through Willy, the attorney began questioning Walther
about his financial status. Even in the language of consonants, his
voice was suave.
The lawyer's precise little symbols wavered as Walther briefly outlined
his family circumstances, but a servo-robot opened the door before
further questions could be asked.
Willy started to shake hands with Walther, then impulsively put his
arms around him. There were tears in the corners of his blue eyes. He
tried to say something, but gave it up and hurried out the door behind
the attorney.
"Wait." Walther called after him. "Have you heard anything from Maria?"
Willy sadly shook his head.
"No. Nothing."
Walther had scarcely finished breakfast next morning when a servo-robot
came to take him to court. The robot linked thumb and forefinger around
Walther's wrist with the grip of a handcuff.
There were no spectators in the courtroom; perhaps, Walther thought
glumly, because it was a free attraction that would interfere with
the consumption of happy time entertainment. Willy joined him at the
defendants table.
"Still the loyal, misguided friend," Willy murmured. "I volunteered to
be your interpreter."
The Judge was a human, but all clerks and bailiffs were servo-robots.
As soon as the court was gaveled into session, the Prosecutor presented
a twenty-second digest of the case against Walther, and called the
little Digester as a substantiating witness.
Walther didn't need any translation to understand what the witness was
saying. Shifting unhappily in his chair, and avoiding Willy's eyes, the
little Digester answered preliminary questions in a scarcely audible
voice. But when he pointed his finger at Walther, his voice became
shrill and he reddened to the top of his bald head.
"Now he'll be afraid to attend one of our meetings," Willy murmured.
"That's what he's really blaming you for."
When the Digester left the stand, a portly man, with a perpetual
tick in his left cheek, arose to address the court. He was at the
Prosecutor's table, and until this moment had seemed to take very
little interest in the proceedings. But now he spoke in a steel-edged
voice that was in surprising contrast to his slow, heavy movements.
"He's speaking as a friend of the court," Willy whispered. "His
office is legal representative of the Happy Time cartel in Uniport.
He's telling the court what a terrible offense you committed--but is
willing--in the public interest not to press charges if you'll return
the books at once. Otherwise, he demands you be held for trial without
bail."
Walther's lawyer conferred briefly with Willy. The Judge and Prosecutor
also conferred, and both spoke with obvious deference to the Happy Time
attorney.
With a bow to all three, Walther's lawyer addressed the court. His
smooth voice rippled lightly over the harsh consonants, and his thin
lips parted often in a swift, mirthless smile. He spoke for almost a
minute, and the Judge began to toy with his gavel, watching the Happy
Time attorney for a cue to his feelings. The attorney had slumped back
in his chair, eyes drooping. But the tick in his cheek worked furiously.
Then Walther's lawyer turned toward the Happy Time lawyer and paused
dramatically.
"He's talking about your family," Willy whispered again. "I think he's
exaggerating a bit, but he says they own an entire planet twice the
size of Earth."
When the lawyer continued, the smoothness was gone from his voice. His
words came hard, crisp, brief. The elderly Judge sagged back in his
chair, the Prosecutor blinked and the Happy Time attorney allowed his
eyes to close completely.
"I hope you approve," Willy said in a shaky whisper. "You've just
offered to deposit a hundred million credits with the Happy Time cartel
as assurance the books will be returned."
"What?--I don't even admit taking them!"
"Neither does your lawyer. But, as he puts it, if anyone acting in your
behalf, but without your direct knowledge, should have seized these
books and shipped them off the Earth, you will assume responsibility
for their return. Otherwise, they may be turned loose among the people
of Earth to plant seeds of future trouble."
Walther's lawyer emphasized one brief phrase, and sat down. Even
Walther recognized the words: One hundred million credits.
The Happy Time attorney slowly opened his eyes and heaved himself to
his feet. He spread out both pudgy hands to the Judge, and shrugged his
bulking shoulders. He spoke briefly, and the steel-edge was gone from
his voice.
"He suggests that the court in its wisdom, temper justice with mercy."
Willy translated excitedly.
After this it was a matter of detail, with the Prosecutor insisting
only that Walther be kept in custody and deported immediately after the
deposit had been arranged.
The strain of the whole affair had been too much for Willy, but as the
smiling servo-robot led Walther out of the courtroom, he called after
him:
"I'll be at the landing!"
Walther knew he should be happy. He had found what he wanted on Earth.
Not in the way he had hoped, but the final reckoning was the same.
Still, there was an emptiness to it all, an emptiness and an aching.
When he cleared customs, and was released by his servo-robot guard,
Walther saw Willy Fritsh waiting beside the Cyngus III shuttleship. A
half dozen of his musicians were with him.
Willy said with simple directness:
"If you want us, we'd like to go with you."
Of all the things that had happened to him in the last twenty-four
hours, this took Walther most completely by surprise. He stared,
speechless, from Willy to the musicians, most of them older men.
"These few came to me," Willy said. "They don't want to go back to our
own music--Neither do I!" His voice broke, and he continued, pleading:
"We can help bring your dream to life in the few years left to us."
Walther enveloped the old maestro in a bear-hug that crushed the
breath out of him.
"Want you?" he cried. "Now, who's a fool?"
"You are," gasped Willy, "if you thought I'd leave part of my heart
behind!"
Walther looked around quickly.
At the top of the shuttleship ramp stood a young woman with half a
smile and half a question on her lips. There was doubt in that smile,
and fear. There was loneliness and wonder, and hope. It was a promise
and a warning of all that lay ahead for them, out there beyond the
stars.
Humbly, more knowing that he had yet been in his short life, Walther
held out his hands and walked up the ramp toward her--toward a dream
that was over, and a reality that could be more bitter, more sweet,
than any dream.