I took the precaution of sneaking up on the lifeboat in the dead of
night, but I could have saved myself a crawl. Except for the fact that
the camouflage nets had rotted away to shreds, the ship was just as I
had left it, doors sealed. Why Smale's team hadn't found it, I didn't
know; I'd think that one over when I was well away from Earth.
I went into the post office at Itzenca to pick up the parcel Margareta
had mailed me with Foster's memory-trace in it. While I was checking
to see whether Uncle Sam's minions had intercepted the package and
substituted a carrot, I felt something rubbing against my shin. I
glanced down and saw a grey and white cat, reasonably clean and
obviously hungry. I don't know whether I'd ploughed through a field
of wild catnip the night before or if it was my way with a finger
behind the furry ears, but kitty followed me out of Itzenca and right
into the bush. She kept pace with me, leading most of the time, as far
as the space boat, and was the first one aboard.
I didn't waste time with formalities. I had once audited a briefing
rod on the boat's operation--not that I had ever expected to use the
information for a take-off. Once aboard, I hit the controls and cut a
swathe through the atmosphere that must have sent fingers jumping for
panic buttons from Washington to Moscow.
I didn't know how many weeks or months of unsullied leisure stretched
ahead of me now. There would be time to spare for exploring the boat,
working out a daily routine, chewing over the details of both my
memories, and laying plans for my arrival on Foster's world, Vallon.
But first I wanted to catch a show that was making a one-night stand
for me only: the awe-inspiring spectacle of the retreating Earth.
* * * * *
I dropped into a seat opposite the screen and flipped into a view of
the big luminous ball of wool that was my home planet. I'd been hoping
to get a last look at my island, but I couldn't see it. The whole
sphere was blanketed in cloud: a thin worn blanket in places but still
intact. But the moon was a sight! An undipped Edam cheese with the
markings of Roquefort. For a quarter of an hour I watched it grow until
it filled my screen. It was too close for comfort. I dumped the tabby
out of my lap and adjusted a dial. The dead world swept past, and I had
a brief glimpse of blue burst bubbles of craters that became the eyes
and mouth and pock marks of a face on a head that swung away from me in
disdain and then the sibling planets dwindled and were gone forever.
The life boat was completely equipped, and I found comfortable
quarters. An ample food supply was available by the touch of a panel
on the table in the screen-room. That was a trick my predecessor with
the dental jewellery hadn't discovered, I guessed. During the course of
my first journey earthward and on my visits to the boat for saleable
playthings while she lay in dry-dock, I had discovered most of the
available amenities aboard. Now I luxuriated in a steaming bath of
recycled water, sponged down with disposable towels packed in scented
alcohol, fed the cat and myself, and lay down to sleep for about two
weeks.
By the third week I was reasonably refreshed and rested. The cat was
a godsend, I began to realize. I named her Itzenca, after the village
where she adopted me, and I talked to her by the hour.
"Say, Itz," said I, "where would you like your sand-box situated? Right
there in front of the TV screen?"
No, said Itzenca by a flirt of her tail. And she walked over behind a
crate that had never been unloaded on earth.
I pulled out a box of junk and slid the sand-box in its place. Itzenca
promptly lost interest and instead jumped up on the junk box which fell
off the bench and scattered small objects of khaff and metal in all
directions.
"Come back here, blast you," I said, "and help me pick up this stuff."
Itz bounded after a dull-gleaming silver object that was still rolling.
I was there almost as quick as she was and grabbed up the cylinder.
Suddenly horsing around was over. This thing was somebody's memory.
* * * * *
I dropped onto a bench to examine it, my Vallonian-inspired pulse
pounding. Itz jumped up into my lap and nosed the cylinder. I was
trying to hark back to those days three years before when I had loaded
the lifeboat with all the loot it would carry, for the trip back to
Earth.
"Listen, Itz, we've got to do some tall remembering. Let's see: there
was a whole rack of blanks in the memory-recharging section of the room
where we found the three skeletons. Yeah, now I remember: I pulled this
one out of the recorder set. I showed it to Foster when he was hunting
his own trace. He didn't realize I'd pulled it out of the machine and
he thought it was an empty. But I'll bet you somebody had his mind
taped, and then left in a hurry, before the trace could be color-coded
and filed.
"On the other hand, maybe it's a blank that had just been inserted
when somebody broke up the play-house.... But wasn't there something
Foster said ... about when he woke up, way back when, with a pile of
fresh corpses around him? He gave somebody emergency treatment and to a
Vallonian that would include a complete memory-transcription.... Do you
realize what I've got here in my hand, Itz?"
She looked up at me inquiringly.
"This is what's left of the guy that Foster buried: his pal, Ammaerln,
I think he called him. What's inside his cylinder used to be tucked
away in the skull of the Ancient Sinner. The guy's not so dead after
all. I'll bet his family will pay plenty for this trace, and be
grateful besides. That'll be an ace in the hole in case I get too
hungry on Vallon."
I got up, crossed the apartment and dropped the trace in a drawer
beside Foster's own memory.
"Wonder how Foster's making out without his past, Itz? He claimed
the one I've got here could only be a copy of the original stored
at Okk-Hamiloth, but my briefing didn't say anything about copying
memories. He must be somebody pretty important to rate that service."
Suddenly my eyes were rivetted to the markings on Foster's trace lying
in the drawer. "Zblood! The royal colors!" I sat down on the bed with
a lurch. "Itzenca, old gal, it looks like we'll be entering Vallonian
society from the top. We've been consorting with a member of the
Vallonian nobility!"
* * * * *
During the days that followed, I tried again and again to raise Foster
on the communicator ... without result. I wondered how I'd find him
among the millions on the planet. My best bet would be to get settled
down in the Vallonian environment, then start making a few inquiries.
I would play it casually: act the part of a Vallonian who had merely
been travelling for a few hundred years--which wasn't unheard of--and
play my cards close to my gravy stains until I learned what the score
was. With my Vallonian briefing I ought to be able to carry it off. The
Vallonians might not like illegal immigrants any better than they did
back home, so I'd keep my interesting foreign background to myself.
I would need a new name. I thought over several possibilities and
selected "Drgon." It was as good a Vallonian jawbreaker as any.
I canvassed the emergency wardrobe that was standard equipment on
Far-Voyager life-boats and picked one in a sober color, then got busy
with the cutting and seaming unit to fit it to my frame.
* * * * *
The proximity alarms were ringing. I watched the screen with its image
of a great green world rimmed on one edge with glading white from the
distant giant sun, on the other, flooded with a cool glow reflected
from the blue outer planet. The trip was almost over and my confidence
was beginning to fray around the edges. In a few minutes I would be
stepping into an unknown world, all set to find my old pal Foster and
see the sights. I didn't have a passport, but there was no reason to
anticipate trouble. All I had to do was let my natural identity take
a back seat and allow my Vallonian background to do the talking. And
yet....
Now Vallon spread out below us, a misty grey-green landscape, bright
under the glow of the immense moon-like sister world. I had set the
landing monitor for Okk-Hamiloth, the capital city of Vallon. That was
where Foster would have headed, I guessed. Maybe I could pick up the
trail there.
The city was directly below: a vast network of blue-lit avenues. I
hadn't been contacted by planetary control. That was normal, however. A
small vessel coming in on auto could handle itself.
A little apprehensively I ran over my lines a last time: I was Drgon,
citizen of the Two Worlds, back from a longer-than-average season of
far-voyaging and in need of briefing rods to bring me up to date on
developments at home. I also required assignment of quarters ... and
directions to the nearest beer-joint. My tailoring was impeccable, my
command of the language a little rusty from long non-use, and the only
souvenirs I had to declare were a tattered native costume from my last
port of call, a quaint weapon from the same, and a small animal I had
taken a liking to.
* * * * *
The landing-ring was visible on the screen now, coming slowly up
to meet us. There was a gentle shock and then absolute stillness. I
watched the port cycle open; I went to it and looked out at the pale
city stretching away to the hills. I took a breath of the fragrant
night air that was spiced with a long-forgotten perfume, and the part
of me that was now Vallonian ached with the inexpressible emotion of
homecoming.
I started to buckle on my pistol and gather up a few belongings, then
decided to wait until I'd met the welcoming committee. I whistled to
Itzenca and we stepped out and down. We crossed the clipped green,
luminous in the glow from the lights over the high-arched gate marking
the path that curved up toward the bright-lit terraces above. There was
no one in sight. Bright Cintelight showed me the gardens and walks and,
when I reached the terraces, the avenues beyond ... but no people.
The cat and I walked across the terrace, passed through the open arch
to a refreshment lounge. The low tables and cushioned couches stood
empty under the rosy light from the ceiling panels.
I stood and listened: dead silence. The lights glowed, the tables
waited invitingly. How long had they waited?
I sat down at one of them and thought hard. I had made a lot of plans,
but I hadn't counted on a deserted spaceport. How was I going to ask
questions about Foster if there was no one to ask?
I got up and moved on through the empty lounge, past a wide arcade,
out onto a terraced lawn. A row of tall poplar-like trees made a dark
wall beyond a still pool, and behind them distant towers loomed,
colored lights sparkled. A broad avenue swept in a wide curve between
fountains, slanted away to the hills. A hundred yards from where I
stood a small vehicle was parked at the curb; I headed for it.
It was an open two-seater, low-slung, cushioned, finished in violet
inlays against bright chrome. I slid into the seat, looked over the
controls, while Itzenca skipped to a place beside me. There was a
simple lever arrangement: a steering tiller. It looked easy. I tried a
few pulls and pushes; lights blinked on the panel, the car quivered,
lifted a few inches, drifted slowly across the road. I moved the
tiller, twiddled things; the car moved off toward the towers.
* * * * *
Two hours later we had cruised the city ... and found nothing. It
hadn't changed from what my extra memory recalled--except that all the
people were gone. The parks and boulevards were trimmed, the fountains
and pools sparkled, the lights glowed ... but nothing moved. The
automatic dust precipitators and air filters would run forever, keeping
things clean and neat; but there was no one there to appreciate it. I
pulled over, sat watching the play of colored lights on a waterfall,
and considered. Maybe I'd find more of a clue inside one of the
buildings. I left the car and picked one at random: a tall slab of
pink crystal. Inside, I looked around at a great airy cavern full of
rose-colored light and listened to the purring of the cat and my own
breathing. There was nothing else to hear.
I picked a random corridor, went along it, passing through one empty
room after another. I went out on a lofty terrace overlooking gardens,
leaned on a balustrade, and looked up at the brilliant disc of Cinte.
"We've come a long way to find nothing," I said to Itzenca. She pushed
her way along my leg and flexed her tail in a gesture meant to console.
I sat on the balustrade and leaned back against the polished pink wall,
took out a clarinet I'd found in one of the rooms and blew some blue
notes. That which once had been was no more; remembering it, I played
the _Pavane for a Dead Princess_.
I finished and looked up at a sound. Four tall men in grey cloaks and a
glitter of steel came toward me from the shadows.
* * * * *
I had dropped the clarinet and was on my feet. I tried to back up but
the balustrade stopped me. The four spread out. The man in the lead
fingered a wicked-looking short club and spoke to me--in gibberish. I
blinked at him and tried to think of a snappy comeback.
He snapped his fingers and two of the others came up; they reached for
my arms. I started to square off, fist cocked, then relaxed; after all,
I was just a tourist, Drgon by name. Unfortunately, before I could get
my fist back, the man with the club swung it and caught me across the
forearm. I yelled, jumped back, found myself grappled by the others. My
arm felt dead to the shoulder. I tried a kick and regretted that too;
there was armor under the cloaks. The club wielder said something and
pointed at the cat....
It was time I wised up. I relaxed, tried to coax my alter ego into the
foreground. I listened to the rhythm of the language: it was Vallonian,
badly warped by time, but I could understand it:
"--musician would be an Owner!" one of them said.
Laughter.
"Whose man are you, piper? What are your colors?"
I curled my tongue, tried to shape it around the sort of syllables I
heard them uttering, but it seemed to me a gross debasement of the
Vallonian I knew. Still I managed an answer:
"I ... am a ... citizen ... of Vallon."
"A dog of a masterless renegade?" The man with the club hefted it,
glowered at me. "And what wretched dialect is that you speak?"
"I have ... been long a-voyaging," I stuttered. "I ask ... for briefing
rods ... and for a ... dwelling place."
"A dwelling place you'll have," the man said. "In the men's shed at
Rath-Gallion." He gestured, and snapped handcuffs on me.
He turned and stalked away, and the others hustled me after him. Over
my shoulder I got a glimpse of a cat's tail disappearing over the
balustrade. Outside, a long grey aircar waited on the lawn. They dumped
me in the back seat, climbed aboard. I got a last look at the spires of
Okk-Hamiloth as we tilted, hurtled away across the low hills.
I had had an idealistic notion of wanting to fit into this new world,
find a place in its society. I'd found a place all right: a job with
security.
I was a slave.