theories: Since the Statisticalists believe that they will reincarnate
entirely at random, their aim is to create an utterly classless social
and economic order, in which, theoretically, each individuality will
reincarnate into a condition of equality with everybody else. Their
political program, therefore, is one of complete socialization of all
means of production and distribution, abolition of hereditary titles
and inherited wealth—eventually, all private wealth—and total
government control of all economic, social and cultural activities. Of
course,” Dr. Harnosh apologized, “politics isn’t my subject; I
wouldn’t presume to judge how that would function in practice.”
“I would,” Verkan Vall said shortly, thinking of all the different
time-lines on which he had seen systems like that in operation. “You
wouldn’t like it, doctor. And the Volitionalists?”
“Well, since they believe that they are able to choose the
circumstances of their next reincarnations for themselves, they are
the party of the _status quo_. Naturally, almost all the nobles,
almost all the wealthy trading and manufacturing families, and almost
all professional people, are Volitionalists; most of the workers and
peasants are Statisticalists. Or, at least, they were, for the most
part, before we began announcing the results of the Lady Dallona’s
experimental work.”
“Ah; now we come to it,” Verkan Vall said as the story clarified.
“Yes. In somewhat oversimplified form, the situation is rather like
this,” Dr. Harnosh of Hosh said. “The Lady Dallona introduced a number
of refinements and some outright innovations into our technique of
recovering memories of past reincarnations. Previously, it was
necessary to keep the subject in an hypnotic trance, during which he
or she would narrate what was remembered of past reincarnations, and
this would be recorded. On emerging from the trance, the subject would
remember nothing; the tape-recording would be all that would be left.
But the Lady Dallona devised a technique by which these memories would
remain in what might be called the fore part of the subject’s
subconscious mind, so that they could be brought to the level of
consciousness at will. More, she was able to recover memories of past
discarnate existences, something we had never been able to do
heretofore.” Dr. Harnosh shook his head. “And to think, when I first
met her, I thought that she was just another sensation-seeking young
lady of wealth, and was almost about to refuse her enrollment!”
He wasn’t the only one whom little Dalla had surprised, Verkan Vall
thought. At least, he had been pleasantly surprised.
“You see, this entirely disproves the Statistical Theory of
Reincarnation. For example, we got a fine set of memory-recalls from one
subject, for four previous reincarnations and four inter-carnations. In
the first of these, the subject had been a peasant on the estate of a
wealthy noble. Unlike most of his fellows, who reincarnated into other
peasant families almost immediately after discarnation, this man waited
for fifty years in the discarnate state for an opportunity to
reincarnate as the son of an over-servant. In his next reincarnation, he
was the son of a technician, and received a technical education; he
became a physics researcher. For his next reincarnation, he chose the
son of a nobleman by a concubine as his vehicle; in his present
reincarnation, he is a member of a wealthy manufacturing family, and
married into a family of the nobility. In five reincarnations, he has
climbed from the lowest to the next-to-highest rung of the social
ladder. Few individuals of the class from whence he began this ascent
possess so much persistence or determination. Then, of course, there was
the case of Lord Garnon of Roxor.”
He went on to describe the last experiment in which Hadron Dalla had
participated.
“Well, that all sounds pretty conclusive,” Verkan Vall commented. “I
take it the leaders of the Volitionalist Party here are pleased with
the result of the Lady Dallona’s work?”
“Pleased? My dear Lord Virzal, they’re fairly bursting with glee over
it!” Harnosh of Hosh declared. “As I pointed out, the Statisticalist
program of socialization is based entirely on the proposition that no
one can choose the circumstances of his next reincarnation, and that’s
been demonstrated to be utter nonsense. Until the Lady Dallona’s
discoveries were announced, they were the dominant party, controlling
a majority of the seats in Parliament and on the Executive Council.
Only the Constitution kept them from enacting their entire
socialization program long ago, and they were about to legislate
constitutional changes which would remove that barrier. They had
expected to be able to do so after the forthcoming general elections.
But now, social inequality has become desirable: it gives people
something to look forward to in the next reincarnation. Instead of
wanting to abolish wealth and privilege and nobility, the proletariat
want to reincarnate into them.” Harnosh of Hosh laughed happily. “So
you can see how furious the Statisticalist Party organization is!”
“There’s a catch to this, somewhere,” Marnik the Assassin, speaking
for the first time, declared. “They can’t all reincarnate as princes,
there aren’t enough vacancies to go ’round. And no noble is going to
reincarnate as a tractor driver to make room for a tractor driver who
wants to reincarnate as a noble.”
“That’s correct,” Dr. Harnosh replied. “There is a catch to it; a
catch most people would never admit, even to themselves. Very few
individuals possess the will power, the intelligence or the capacity
for mental effort displayed by the subject of the case I just quoted.
The average man’s interests are almost entirely on the physical side;
he actually finds mental effort painful, and makes as little of it as
possible. And that is the only sort of effort a discarnate
individuality can exert. So, unable to endure the fifty or so years
needed to make a really good reincarnation, he reincarnates in a year
or so, out of pure boredom, into the first vehicle he can find,
usually one nobody else wants.” Dr. Harnosh dug out the heel of his
pipe and blew through the stem. “But nobody will admit his own mental
inferiority, even to himself. Now, every machine operator and field
hand on the planet thinks he can reincarnate as a prince or a
millionaire. Politics isn’t my subject, but I’m willing to bet that
since Statistical Reincarnation is an exploded psychic theory,
Statisticalist Socialism has been caught in the blast area and
destroyed along with it.”
* * * * *
Olirzon was in the drawing room of the hotel suite when they returned,
sitting on the middle of his spinal column in a reclining chair,
smoking a pipe, dressing the edge of his knife with a pocket-hone, and
gazing lecherously at a young woman in the visiplate. She was an
extremely well-designed young woman, in a rather fragmentary costume,
and she was heaving her bosom at the invisible audience in anger,
sorrow, scorn, entreaty, and numerous other emotions.
“... this revolting crime,” she was declaiming, in a husky contralto,
as Verkan Vall and Marnik entered, “foul even for the criminal beasts
who conceived and perpetrated it!” She pointed an accusing finger.
“This murder of the beautiful Lady Dallona of Hadron!”
Verkan Vall stopped short, considering the possibility of something
having been discovered lately of which he was ignorant. Olirzon must
have guessed his thought; he grinned reassuringly.
“Think nothing of it, Lord Virzal,” he said, waving his knife at the
visiplate. “Just political propaganda; strictly for the sparrows. Nice
propagandist, though.”
“And now,” the woman with the magnificent natural resources lowered
her voice reverently, “we bring you the last image of the Lady
Dallona, and of Dirzed, her faithful Assassin, taken just before they
vanished, never to be seen again.”
The plate darkened, and there were strains of slow, dirgelike music;
then it lighted again, presenting a view of a broad hallway, thronged
with men and women in bright varicolored costumes. In the foreground,
wearing a tight skirt of deep blue and a short red jacket, was Hadron
Dalla, just as she had looked in the solidographs taken in Dhergabar
after her alteration by the First Level cosmeticians to conform to the
appearance of the Malayoid Akor-Neb people. She was holding the arm of
a man who wore the black tunic and red badge of an Assassin, a
handsome specimen of the Akor-Neb race. Trust little Dalla for that,
Verkan Vall thought. The figures were moving with exaggerated
slowness, as though a very fleeting picture were being stretched out
as far as possible. Having already memorized his former wife’s changed
appearance, Verkan Vall concentrated on the man beside her until the
picture faded.
“All right, Olirzon; what did you get?” he asked.
“Well, first of all, at Assassins’ Hall,” Olirzon said, rolling up his
left sleeve, holding his bare forearm to the light, and shaving a few
fine hairs from it to test the edge of his knife. “Of course, they
never tell one Assassin anything about the client of another Assassin;
that’s standard practice. But I was in the Lodge Secretary’s office,
where nobody but Assassins are ever admitted. They have a big panel in
there, with the names of all the Lodge members on it in light-letters;
that’s standard in all Lodges. If an Assassin is unattached and free
to accept a client, his name’s in white light. If he has a client, the
light’s changed to blue, and the name of the client goes up under his.
If his whereabouts are unknown, the light’s changed to amber. If he is
discarnated, his name’s removed entirely, unless the circumstances of
his discarnation are such as to constitute an injury to the Society.
In that case, the name’s in red light until he’s been properly
avenged, or, as we say, till his blood’s been mopped up. Well, the
name of Dirzed is up in blue light, with the name of Dallona of Hadron
under it. I found out that the light had been amber for two days after
the disappearance, and then had been changed back to blue. Get it,
Lord Virzal?”
Verkan Vall nodded. “I think so. I’d been considering that as a
possibility from the first. Then what?”
“Then I was about and around for a couple of hours, buying drinks for
people—unattached Assassins, Constabulary detectives, political
workers, newscast people. You owe me fifteen System Monetary Units for
that, Lord Virzal. What I got, when it’s all sorted out—I taped it in
detail, as soon as I got back—reduces to this: The Volitionalists are
moving mountains to find out who was the spy at Garnon of Roxor’s
discarnation feast, but are doing nothing but nothing at all to find
the Lady Dallona or Dirzed. The Statisticalists are making all sorts
of secret efforts to find out what happened to her. The Constabulary
blame the Statistos for the package bomb: they’re interested in that
because of the discarnation of the three servants by an illegal weapon
of indiscriminate effect. They claim that the disappearance of Dirzed
and the Lady Dallona was a publicity hoax. The Volitionalists are
preparing a line of publicity to deny this.”
Verkan Vall nodded. “That ties in with what you learned at Assassins’
Hall,” he said. “They’re hiding out somewhere. Is there any chance of
reaching Dirzed through the Society of Assassins?”
Olirzon shook his head. “If you’re right—and that’s the way it looks
to me, too—he’s probably just called in and notified the Society that
he’s still carnate and so is the Lady Dallona, and called off any
search the Society might be making for him.”
“And I’ve got to find the Lady Dallona as soon as I can. Well, if I
can’t reach her, maybe I can get her to send word to me,” Verkan Vall
said. “That’s going to take some doing, too.”
“What did you find out, Lord Virzal?” Olirzon asked. He had a piece of
soft leather, now, and was polishing his blade lovingly.
“The Reincarnation Research people don’t know anything,” Verkan Vall
replied. “Dr. Harnosh of Hosh thinks she’s discarnate. I did find out
that the experimental work she’s done, so far, has absolutely
disproved the theory of Statistical Reincarnation. The Volitionalists’
theory is solidly established.”
“Yes, what do you think, Olirzon?” Marnik added. “They have a case on
record of a man who worked up from field hand to millionaire in five
reincarnations. Deliberately, that is.” He went on to repeat what
Harnosh of Hosh had said; he must have possessed an almost eidetic
memory, for he gave the bearded psychicist’s words verbatim, and threw
in the gestures and voice-inflections.
Olirzon grinned. “You know, there’s a chance for the easy-money boys,”
he considered. “‘You, too, can Reincarnate as a millionaire! Let Dr.
Nirzutz of Futzbutz Help You! Only 49.98 System Monetary Units for the
Secret, Infallible, Autosuggestive Formula.’ And would it sell!” He
put away the hone and the bit of leather and slipped his knife back
into its sheath. “If I weren’t a respectable Assassin, I’d give it a
try, myself.”
Verkan Vall looked at his watch. “We’d better get something to eat,”
he said. “We’ll go down to the main dining room; the Martian Room, I
think they call it. I’ve got to think of some way to let the Lady
Dallona know I’m looking for her.”
* * * * *
The Martian Room, fifteen stories down, was a big place, occupying
almost half of the floor space of one corner tower. It had been fitted
to resemble one of the ruined buildings of the ancient and vanished
race of Mars who were the ancestors of Terran humanity. One whole side
of the room was a gigantic cine-solidograph screen, on which the
gullied desolation of a Martian landscape was projected; in the course
of about two hours, the scene changed from sunrise through daylight
and night to sunrise again.
It was high noon when they entered and found a table; by the time they
had finished their dinner, the night was ending and the first glow of
dawn was tinting the distant hills. They sat for a while, watching the
light grow stronger, then got up and left the table.
There were five men at a table near them; they had come in before the
stars had grown dim, and the waiters were just bringing their first
dishes. Two were Assassins, and the other three were of a breed Verkan
Vall had learned to recognize on any time-line—the arrogant,
cocksure, ambitious, leftist politician, who knows what is best for
everybody better than anybody else does, and who is convinced that he
is inescapably right and that whoever differs with him is not only an
ignoramus but a venal scoundrel as well. One was a beefy man in a
gold-laced cream-colored dress tunic; he had thick lips and a
too-ready laugh. Another was a rather monkish-looking young man who
spoke earnestly and rolled his eyes upward, as though at some
celestial vision. The third had the faint powdering of gray in his
black hair which was, among the Akor-Neb people, almost the only
indication of advanced age.
“Of course it is; the whole thing is a fraud,” the monkish young man
was saying angrily. “But we can’t prove it.”
“Oh, Sirzob, here, can prove anything, if you give him time,” the
beefy one laughed. “The trouble is, there isn’t too much time. We know
that that communication was a fake, prearranged by the Volitionalists,
with Dr. Harnosh and this Dallona of Hadron as their tools. They fed
the whole thing to that idiot boy hypnotically, in advance, and then,
on a signal, he began typing out this spurious communication. And
then, of course, Dallona and this Assassin of hers ran off somewhere
together, so that we’d be blamed with discarnating or abducting them,
and so that they wouldn’t be made to testify about the communication
on a lie detector.”
A sudden happy smile touched Verkan Vall’s eyes. He caught each of his
Assassins by an arm.
“Marnik, cover my back,” he ordered. “Olirzon, cover everybody at the
table. Come on!”
Then he stepped forward, halting between the chairs of the young man
and the man with the gray hair and facing the beefy man in the light
tunic.
“You!” he barked. “I mean YOU.”
The beefy man stopped laughing and stared at him; then sprang to his
feet. His hand, streaking toward his left armpit, stopped and dropped
to his side as Olirzon aimed a pistol at him. The others sat
motionless.
“You,” Verkan Vall continued, “are a complete, deliberate, malicious,
and unmitigated liar. The Lady Dallona of Hadron is a scientist of
integrity, incapable of falsifying her experimental work. What’s more,
her father is one of my best friends; in his name, and in hers, I
demand a full retraction of the slanderous statements you have just
made.”
“Do you know who I am?” the beefy one shouted.
“I know _what_ you are,” Verkan Vall shouted back. Like most ancient
languages, the Akor-Neb speech included an elaborate, delicately-shaded,
and utterly vile vocabulary of abuse; Verkan Vall culled from it
judiciously and at length. “And if I don’t make myself understood verbally,
we’ll go down to the object level,” he added, snatching a bowl of soup from
in front of the monkish-looking young man and throwing it across the table.
The soup was a dark brown, almost black. It contained bits of meat,
and mushrooms, and slices of hard-boiled egg, and yellow Martian rock
lichen. It produced, on the light tunic, a most spectacular effect.
For a moment, Verkan Vall was afraid the fellow would have an
apoplectic stroke, or an epileptic fit. Mastering himself, however, he
bowed jerkily.
“Marnark of Bashad,” he identified himself. “When and where can my
friends consult yours?”
“Lord Virzal of Verkan,” the paratimer bowed back. “Your friends can
negotiate with mine here and now. I am represented by these
Gentlemen-Assassins.”
“I won’t submit my friends to the indignity of negotiating with them,”
Marnark retorted. “I insist that you be represented by persons of your
own quality and mine.”
“Oh, you do?” Olirzon broke in. “Well, is your objection personal to
me, or to Assassins as a class? In the first case, I’ll remember to
make a private project of you, as soon as I’m through with my present
employment; if it’s the latter, I’ll report your attitude to the
Society. I’ll see what Klarnood, our President-General, thinks of your
views.”
A crowd had begun to accumulate around the table. Some of them were
persons in evening dress, some were Assassins on the hotel payroll,
and some were unattached Assassins.
“Well, you won’t have far to look for him,” one of the latter said,
pushing through the crowd to the table.
He was a man of middle age, inclined to stoutness; he made Verkan Vall
think of a chocolate figure of Tortha Karf. The red badge on his
breast was surrounded with gold lace, and, instead of black wings and
a silver bullet, it bore silver wings and a golden dagger. He bowed
contemptuously at Marnark of Bashad.
“Klarnood, President-General of the Society of Assassins,” he
announced. “Marnark of Bashad, did I hear you say that you considered
members of the Society as unworthy to negotiate an affair of honor
with your friends, on behalf of this nobleman who has been courteous
enough to accept your challenge?” he demanded.
Marnark of Bashad’s arrogance suffered considerable evaporation-loss.
His tone became almost servile.
“Not at all, Honorable Assassin-President,” he protested. “But as I
was going to ask these gentlemen to represent me, I thought it would
be more fitting for the other gentleman to be represented by personal
friends, also. In that way—”
“Sorry, Marnark,” the gray-haired man at the table said. “I can’t
second you; I have a quarrel with the Lord Virzal, too.” He rose and
bowed. “Sirzob of Abo. Inasmuch as the Honorable Marnark is a guest at
my table, an affront to him is an affront to me. In my quality as his
host, I must demand satisfaction from you, Lord Virzal.”
“Why, gladly, Honorable Sirzob,” Verkan Vall replied. This was getting
better and better every moment. “Of course, your friend, the Honorable
Marnark, enjoys priority of challenge; I’ll take care of you as soon
as I have, shall we say, satisfied, him.”
The earnest and rather consecrated-looking young man rose also, bowing
to Verkan Vall.
“Yirzol of Narva. I, too, have a quarrel with you, Lord Virzal; I
cannot submit to the indignity of having my food snatched from in
front of me, as you just did. I also demand satisfaction.”
“And quite rightly, Honorable Yirzol,” Verkan Vall approved. “It looks
like such good soup, too,” he sorrowed, inspecting the front of
Marnark’s tunic. “My seconds will negotiate with yours immediately;
your satisfaction, of course, must come after that of Honorable
Sirzob.”
“If I may intrude,” Klarnood put in smoothly, “may I suggest that as
the Lord Virzal is represented by his Assassins, yours can represent
all three of you at the same time. I will gladly offer my own good
offices as impartial supervisor.”
Verkan Vall turned and bowed as to royalty. “An honor,
Assassin-President: I am sure no one could act in that capacity more
satisfactorily.”
“Well, when would it be most convenient to arrange the details?”
Klarnood inquired. “I am completely at your disposal, gentlemen.”
“Why, here and now, while we’re all together,” Verkan Vall replied.
“I object to that!” Marnark of Bashad vociferated. “We can’t make
arrangements here; why, all these hotel people, from the manager down,
are nothing but tipsters for the newscast services!”
“Well, what’s wrong with that?” Verkan Vall demanded. “You knew that
when you slandered the Lady Dallona in their hearing.”
“The Lord Virzal of Verkan is correct,” Klarnood ruled. “And the
offenses for which you have challenged him were also committed in
public. By all means, let’s discuss the arrangements now.” He turned
to Verkan Vall. “As the challenged party, you have the choice of
weapons; your opponents, then, have the right to name the conditions
under which they are to be used.”
Marnark of Bashad raised another outcry over that. The assault upon
him by the Lord Virzal of Verkan was deliberately provocative, and
therefore tantamount to a challenge; he, himself, had the right to
name the weapons. Klarnood upheld him.
“Do the other gentlemen make the same claim?” Verkan Vall wanted to
know.
“If they do, I won’t allow it,” Klarnood replied. “You deliberately
provoked Honorable Marnark, but the offenses of provoking him at
Honorable Sirzob’s table, and of throwing Honorable Yirzol’s soup at
him, were not given with intent to provoke. These gentlemen have a
right to challenge, but not to consider themselves provoked.”
“Well, I choose knives, then,” Marnark hastened to say.
Verkan Vall smiled thinly. He had learned knife-play among the
greatest masters of that art in all paratime, the Third Level Khanga
pirates of the Caribbean Islands.
“And we fight barefoot, stripped to the waist, and without any
parrying weapon in the left hand,” Verkan Vall stipulated.
The beefy Marnark fairly licked his chops in anticipation. He
outweighed Verkan Vall by forty pounds; he saw an easy victory ahead.
Verkan Vall’s own confidence increased at these signs of his
opponent’s assurance.
“And as for Honorable Sirzob and Honorable Yirzol, I chose pistols,”
he added.
Sirzob and Yirzol held a hasty whispered conference.
“Speaking both for Honorable Yirzol and for myself,” Sirzob announced,
“we stipulate that the distance shall be twenty meters, that the
pistols shall be fully loaded, and that fire shall be at will after
the command.”
“Twenty rounds, fire at will, at twenty meters!” Olirzon hooted. “You
must think our principal’s as bad a shot as you are!”
The four Assassins stepped aside and held a long discussion about
something, with considerable argument and gesticulation. Klarnood,
observing Verkan Vall’s impatience, leaned close to him and whispered:
“This is highly irregular; we must pretend ignorance and be patient.
They’re laying bets on the outcome. You must do your best, Lord
Virzal; you don’t want your supporters to lose money.”
He said it quite seriously, as though the outcome were otherwise a
matter of indifference to Verkan Vall.
Marnark wanted to discuss time and place, and proposed that all three
duels be fought at dawn, on the fourth landing stage of Darsh Central
Hospital; that was closest to the maternity wards, and statistics
showed that most births occurred just before that hour.