_'Twas said of The Berserker ... "when
an opening comes he'll play for it, and
he'll do it with a single-minded violence._"
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories March 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
All of Big Jim Ostby's attention seemed on the cigar as he lit it, but
it was not. He observed the faces of the men who passed him by, and
the figures of those across the street, and up and down the sidewalk.
Satisfied, he moved on.
Ostby's six feet four, and two hundred thirty-five pounds, were not
conspicuous on this other-dimensional world, where his size was but
little above average. And only the sharpest observer would have noted
the leashed aliveness of the instrument of sinew and muscle which was
his body.
Deliberately Ostby avoided the shadows. That way lay danger. Reason,
abetted by an instinctive capacity for adaptation, told him blending in
with his background offered the best concealment.
By now the whole district would know that the police were after him.
He wondered what the latest reports were. Casually he slowed his pace
until two men behind him drew near enough to be overheard.
"They say the police have the Berserker cornered in our half of the
Flats," one of the men said.
"If they trap 'im there's gonna be some dead police before the night's
over," the second answered. "He ain't called the Berserker for nothing."
"I'd hate to be in his shoes. They've got a net around the district
that a fly couldn't get through."
"I'd hate to be one of the police that corners him."
"He'll never get away this time."
"I wouldn't bet against him if I was you. The gamblers in the street
are giving odds of two to one that he makes it."
"How do you figure he's got a chance?"
"I don't know. We're not cut out of the right stuff for that kind of
thing. He is. When an opening comes he'll play for it, and he'll do it
with a single-minded violence."
Suddenly Ostby's attention was drawn to a group of men collected at
the corner ahead. Two thin lines of police were blocking the way and
examining identity cards. He drew in a long, deep breath. Life for him
on this world was one of a series of crises, unforeseen, but stationed
along his way as regularly as mileposts.
Swiftly, but with studied unconcern, he looked about him. To turn back
here would arouse attention. His cigar had gone out now, and he flicked
it into the gutter.
To his right was an amusement place. He turned and entered.
The place was filled with the usual crowd of drinkers and merrymakers.
Ostby found a seat at the bar and ordered a drink.
A minute later he left his stool and went to the rest room. He had to
plan a way out in case of necessity. There was no back entrance to the
rest room, he saw, and the only window was high above his head. Too
small for a man's body to squeeze through. He'd be trapped if he let
them corner him here.
Back at the bar he found his drink still waiting.
"I held your place for you," a woman's soft voice said.
* * * * *
Ostby glanced into the full length mirror above the bar. The girl
next to him was young and pretty. He shifted his glance to his own
reflection. The mustache and the little patch of beard between his
chin and lower lip had grown well. His whiskers always came in heavy
and black, and they were the style now. They altered his appearance
considerably.
Evidently it had not lessened his attraction for the opposite sex.
That attractiveness had been with him so long that he had ceased being
surprised by it. But it still puzzled him. There was strength in the
features of the reflection that looked back at him, he admitted, but
no beauty. Rather the outline was almost harsh, as though etched by a
rough masculine hand. He wondered, without caring, why women were drawn
to it.
All this retrospection occurred in the split second after he glanced
into the mirror. "I am in your debt," he said, turning to his
companion. His manner and expression was disinterested, even a bit
disdainful. Yet his voice was gentle and courteous.
Perhaps that contrast was the thing that held women's attention. The
manner seemed to imply a knowledge of their wiles, and an ability to
read through their vanities. Yet his voice told them that he recognized
their womanly need to be appreciated, and coddled, and that he would be
invariably gentle with them.
"May I buy you a drink?" he asked.
"My glass is still full," the girl answered, and smiled at him. She did
not look so young now that he saw her face to face. The features were
young, but the eyes were old, and too wise for one of her chronological
age. With his flameless lighter Ostby lit the white oval which the girl
drew from its package and placed between her full red lips.
All the while Ostby's eyes made their swift survey of the room and
stamped its every feature in his eidetic memory. Only one exit,
other than the front door, he saw. The windows were all about seven
feet above the floor, and banded with burglar-bars. A man would have
difficulty gaining entrance or exit.
At the opposite end of the room he observed a small dance floor and a
mechanical music box. His attention was held for a moment by a party
seated in a booth at the edge of the dance floor. The men and women in
the booth were too well dressed, too well bred, to be down here in the
Flats.
The apex of the party was a woman whose beauty attracted Ostby clear
across the room.
"Who are the people in the back booth?" he asked his companion.
"The Duchess of North Hudson," the girl answered, wrinkling her nose in
affected hauteur. "She's slumming. Seeing how the other half lives."
"Does she come often?"
"Only when she gets tired of being a lady. Right now she's celebrating
her separation from her second husband."
Abruptly Ostby sensed something was wrong.
He glanced into the mirror. At the door stood a half dozen of the
police. His gaze shifted to the rear entrance. He saw another party of
police there.
"If you'll excuse me," he said to the girl, as he stepped down from his
stool, "I believe I'll have a word with the Duchess."
The girl's mouth made a round O as he left her.
Ostby paused directly in front of the Duchess. Her attention swept up
to him.
"My name is Captain Faas, formerly of the Imperator's private guards,"
he said, bowing deeply enough to show courtesy, but not so deeply as to
seem subservient. "May I be so bold as to hope that the Duchess has not
forgotten me?"
There was no recognition in the Duchess's look but there was interest.
"Should I remember you?" she asked.
"It was my privilege to meet her grace at the winter games a few years
ago," Ostby answered. The look he gave her was appreciative of what he
saw.
The Duchess returned the look without recognition, but with amused
acknowledgment of a clever approach. "Of course," she said. "How could
I have forgotten? Won't you join us?"
"You are very kind," Ostby said. From the corner of his eye he saw that
the soldiers were drawing nearer. They were demanding identity cards
from all the men. "If I may presume on that kindness," he said to the
Duchess, "would you do me the honor of dancing with me?"
The Duchess hesitated for a barely perceptible instant. "I would be
happy to," she said.
* * * * *
The Duchess danced well. Ostby followed the waltz piece with a fine
sense of the music's rhythm that women love.
The Duchess' dress was worn off her rounded shoulders and each breath
stirred the fullness of her breasts against the dress.
At the side of the dance floor he saw that a lieutenant of the police
was waiting politely for them to finish their dance. The big test would
come soon.
"You say we met at the winter games," the Duchess mused. She looked up
at Ostby. "We danced at the ball after the games, did we not?"
"That's right," Ostby answered, while one part of his mind considered
the problem of the lieutenant waiting for them. "That is why I asked
you to dance. I'd hoped it would recall our acquaintance."
"Acquaintance is such a formal word," the Duchess said teasingly, and
Ostby knew, without pride, that she was reacting to that intangible
something about him that pleased women. He looked down into her eyes
and noted just a suggestion of permanent crinkles at the corners. He
judged her age as about thirty-three, seven years older than himself.
"I assure you that I feel anything but formal when I hold you in my
arms," he answered, following her lead. He made her feel desirable by
the things he expressed in his glance.
In the meantime the other portion of Ostby's mind had made its decision
concerning the lieutenant.
"I see the police are making another of their nuisance spot-checks,"
he said. "I'm afraid I'm due to go through a bit of red tape. I've
misplaced my identity card."
"I hear they're tracking down some notorious criminal," the Duchess
answered. Abruptly her glance, full of sudden speculation, swept up and
studied his face. After a short pause she said something that at first
thought sounded irrelevant. "I've never danced at the winter games,"
she said.
Ostby drew in a quick breath. She knew!
The lieutenant was beside them now.
"You won't need to see his identity card, officer. He's with me," Ostby
heard the Duchess say, and he let his breath out in a long silent sigh.
The lieutenant was not satisfied, but he was clearly afraid to press
matters. He bowed to the Duchess as they walked past him.
* * * * *
Ostby lay on his back, with his knees drawn up and his hands beneath
his head. His eyes shifted idly about the room, taking in its every
feature automatically. It was this automatic attention to details
that had always helped him land on his feet in the past whenever he
had been in trouble. And he might be in trouble now. Too much of his
trust rested with the Duchess--Rinda, she had asked him to call her.
His entire safety rested in her fair hands--and he did not like it. He
liked to trust no one except himself.
Ostby had accepted the invitation to visit her because he needed a
place to hide; and because she knew too much for him to do anything
except agree. But he would have chosen otherwise had he had a choice.
However, his reason told him that she had not taken him from the grip
of the police to turn him in now.
And so he lay quietly, with the relaxed alertness of a resting cat. His
thoughts were back on Earth.
When he had taken this assignment to come through the "door" between
the worlds, he had known that there would be hardships, and that his
life would be continually in danger, but it was moments like these that
he hated the most--moments when he was not able to dictate the next
step.
Approximately twenty years earlier--in 1950--the aliens had somehow
made their "door" between the worlds; that "door" which never appeared
twice in the same spot. At first they had been content to come in,
circle their noiseless vessels through the air as they observed the
Earth, then return through their shifting "door." They had refused
all contact. Then gradually evidence began to come in that they
were raiding undefended areas, abducting men and stealing property.
Their depredations increased through the years until eventually they
constituted a major menace.
There was no effective defense against them. Now and then one of their
air ships was shot down but invariably it exploded before crashing.
At last, in desperation, the United Governments had attempted to get
operatives through with the captured persons. Ostby was one of the few
instances of success.
For six months now, by dint of adroit maneuvering and luck, he had
managed to stay alive, but he was no nearer to closing the "door."
Impatiently Ostby climbed to his feet and began pacing the room. He had
never been able to get used to these rooms, with no corners, and all
their furniture in the center. But they made for convenient pacing.
Had he been wrong in his estimate of the Duchess, he wondered. She had
appeared too much woman to let matters of the state come ahead of her
private affairs. Suddenly he stopped in mid-stride as there came a
gentle tapping on his door. He had not been wrong!