The gorcord tunic lay in a tangled mess that required quick idmaging to restore before someone saw him in this disheveled state. He replaced the eyeglasses on his nose, put on shoes and socks and, presently, sank back to the hard pipes of the bunk, weak from exertion.
First things first: He forced himself to review the idmaging and shapeshifting lessons of the Dreenschool.
Basic idmaging: A Dreen’s personal mass, reinforced by a lifetime of experience, dominates shapeshifting. Reducing mass to the size of an insect required long training and tremendous concentration taught in a graduate course he had not yet taken. Such a shift also left a residue of protoplasm that would degenerate unless conserved in one of several dangerous ways.
“You will learn mind over fear,” a proctor had told him.
I wish I already had learned it.
Another bodily priority intruded on these reflections. Hunger gnawed at him. He had expended great stores of energy since the last time he had eaten aboard Patricia—an idmaged meal of Suprinian proteins. Now, his hunger would not let him think of anything except food.
What to eat? His Earther form and proximity to Earthed society reminded him of a favorite confection. It would take energy to bring in the required mass, but. . .
Something bubbled out of the drain hole and he looked down at a drowned rat. Easily available mass! Ryll’s eyes turned inward to a vision of an Earther delicacy common on Dreenor. The rat carcass vanished. In its place there appeared on the floor a strawberry ice cream sundae in a white plastic bowl. A plastic spoon stood upright in the ice cream.
Ryll did not waste time admiring the sundae. He rolled his eyes outward and sat cross-legged on the floor to eat.
The spoon, he noted, bore a familiar inscription: “McDonald’s Restaurant,” a tradition on Dreenor, a simple way to think praiseworthy thoughts about the Dreen who had created the Great Story out of which this confection arose.
Ryll reviewed praiseworthy thoughts as he savored every melting bite of the rich, creamy sundae.
Abruptly, he felt Lutt’s awareness intrude, demanding a share in control of their body.
“Ice cream?” Lutt asked.
The vocal cords produced a gravelly voice.
Ryll noted this and corrected his voice-memory against the next time he wanted to use their mutual speaking system.
“Why are we eating a strawberry sundae?” Lutt demanded. “I hate strawberries.”
Someone in the adjoining cell said: “Hey, this Hanson fella thinks he’s eating strawberries.”
Catcalls and laughter echoed up and down the corridor.
“Why can’t he think he’s eating a steak dinner?”
“Nawww, cherries jubilee!”
“He should think about sole amandine!”
“Chocolate cake!”
A commanding voice from the end of the corridor shouted: “Ah right, you guys! Break it up or you won’t even get your evening gruel!”
Silence.
Ryll experienced resistance in his arm muscles as he lifted another spoonful of ice cream to his mouth. He reverted to think-sharing, though, having seen what speaking aloud produced along the corridor.
You’re not eating this sundae, I am.
Tell that to our taste buds!
Strawberries are one of my favorite foods. And since I can idmage anything I wish to eat, provided I have energy to bring in conversion mass, I will eat this whenever I wish. I also enjoy rummungi, worsockels and bitter peeps. You’ve never tasted those foods because they come from faraway planets.
Your strawberries make me sick!
Indeed, on examining his internal reactions, Ryll found the strawberries were producing a protein incompatibility that would require correction in the Lutt parts of their body.
With a sigh, Ryll put the bowl on the floor, swiveled his eyes inward and de-idmaged the sundae as much as possible. When he looked at the area near the drain, shards of rat flesh lay on the floor.
No more strawberries, he thought-shared. I do want to get us started on an amenable footing.
What did you just do, Ryll?
We call it grine-idmaging or grining. Grine means . . . well, your closest word would be voiding.
A kind of erasure?
Don’t use that word!
Why?
Erasure is . . . it’s more difficult.
It felt like my eyes turned inward.
They did.
I don’t like that feeling.
You’ll get used to it.
You call it. . . idmaging?
That is the name for how we create living and inanimate objects by mass transfer from a reservoir of available matter. Sometimes we use mass nearby and sometimes from far away.
I don’t believe any of this.
I see that in your thoughts.
This is schizo. I bumped my head somewhere on my ship.
Your ship is a wreck.
No, this is me being schizo because of an injury.
The condition of schizophrenia on planets where it can occur is a chemical imbalance. A bump on your head is not a likely causative factor.
Then I’m nuts in some other way.
You are not any more insane than others of your kind.
I’m supposed to believe there are two of us in my body?
My body, not yours. It looks like yours but you died on your ship. My body was badly injured and I required some of your protoplasm to survive. That is how we merged: Your awareness came with your cells.
So I’m sharing this body with an . . . an alien?
From my viewpoint, you might be considered the alien. It’s a matter of perspective.
If this is real, then you’re the alien, buddy. We’re in Earth territory of the Zone Patrol. Earth, not this . . . this what-ever-it-is where you’re supposed to come from.
Dreenor. The entire universe, you see, is a product of Dreen idmaging. We like to think of it as a unit, rather than as separated pieces alien to one another.
You think you’re some kind of god? Now I know I’m nuts.
If that’s what you prefer. You will come to accept this, however. You must because we really share this body.
Some sharing! You’re in control.
Then use our eyes and take a look around. We’re in a Zone Patrol cell.
Ryll waited while Lutt obeyed. Their view shifted around the cell—barred door, walls, floor, ceiling . . .
Hallucination!
I think you’ll accept it when they take us away for interrogation.
Sure! And I’ll. . . Ugh! Is that pieces of a dead rat on the floor?
Left over from the mass required for the strawberry sundae.
This isn’t happening. It’s impossible.
You are persistent, Lutt. I will say that.
If this body looks like me then it’s mine!
I merged our flesh and used your shape for security. The wreckage was crawling with Zone Patrol. You can imagine what they would have thought if they had seen me in the original.
Yeahhh? What do you look like?
A large Humpty Dumpty, to borrow an image from your nursery days.
So I’ve reverted to infancy. That’s the kind of insanity I’ve—
Please stop this foolish refusal to recognize facts!
I’ll decide what facts I recognize!
You remember the crash. I can see that in your mind. It was your fault. You attempted to enter a Spiral without—
Maybe that’s it! I did enter a vorspiral and . . . and it made me crazy.
Spiral! They are Creative Spirals, to be precise. And since Dreen knowledge predates yours, kindly employ our terms.
What’s the difference?
The Creative Spirals are sacred to us!
So my Vortraveler got in your way?
I had the right of way, Lutt! You should have seen the blue light indicating an approaching Excursion Ship. When you see that light you’re supposed to stay out until the way is clear.
Let’s s
ay I accept this craziness. What were you doing in the . .. the Spiral?
I was looking for adventure.
Man, you sure found it! What made you think you’d find adventure on Earth?
The stories of my people told me all I need to know about Earth.
Not quite.
Perhaps. But I thought it might be interesting to see a human war. Dreens do not have wars. We are not violent.
Sounds dull.
I am forced to agree.
Would you like to beat up on somebody?
Oh, no! I couldn’t. It isn’t in the Dreen nature. I would not mind observing, however.
If you used my body to save your life, don’t you feel any gratitude to me?
Gratitude is an emotion Dreens do not enjoy. Besides, you were certainly dying.
And your life isn’t worth being grateful?
This is a foolish argument! Dreens don’t ordinarily die, except as casualties from stupid accidents. We have no diseases, and that includes the disease you call “old age.”
You just go around forever telling stories?
In a way, yes. We tell stories about places and life forms we have idmaged.
I still say this isn’t happening. I’m nuts but it’s interesting. I didn’t know I could imagine such weird things.
Your imagination is but a paltry shadow compared to Dreen idmaging. My people are wondrous Storytellers.
And one of you Dreens created Earth?
Oh, yes. And Earth, like all other Dreen idmages, can self-destruct, decay or be destroyed by another Dreen creation. That’s the way of idmaging. Things we idmage exist only as long as the original force remains in the one who created it or in someone who has fully assimilated the creative story.
If you all die out then the places you created die, too?
We say all creation depends on its creators.
And you say I’m not nuts? Here I am having a religious argument with myself and you say—
Not with yourself. My ship crashed and I’m dead. This is some kind of wild cosmic joke.
I see I’m going to have to prove this to you. Very well.
Ryll felt the energy of the ice cream sundae coursing through his body. He swiveled his eyes inward and idmaged a redecoration of the cell. For energy practicality, he drew mostly on the ordure bubbling from the central drain. This immediately improved the aroma. An enclosed shower stall went over the drain, its pipes linked to the building’s plumbing. He carpeted the floor in green plush, put a cheerful shade of yellow on walls and ceiling. A full-length mirror went up beside the barred door and he hung a few pastoral pictures.
Why don’t you . . . grine the door out of existence? Lutt asked.
It’s called grine idmaging and I must be very careful what effects I introduce into Earth culture. There is a specific injunction against what you suggest. It’s incorporated in the original story.
All I felt was that funny twisting of my eyes. How do you do these things?
Idmaging occurs in a private portion of my thoughts not available to you.
How about idmaging a beautiful woman for me?
Really, Lutt, we must discuss the lustful nature you inherited from your father. Dreens think fornication is quite revolting. We don’t touch each other.
Yeahhh? How do you reproduce?
Habiba gives us a childseed. We place it in a seedhouse. You may think of it as a small greenhouse. Then for three days and nights, the parents sit outside with the seedhouse between them. They use concentrated idmaging to produce precisely the child they have decided to bring into being.
So you don’t get ugly ones or . . .
Dreen ideals have nothing to do with appearance. Desired traits are honesty, fidelity, a peaceful nature, pleasing personality, loyalty to Habiba, our Supreme Tax Collector.. . and characteristics of that sort.
Man, does that sound dull! And if a Dreen created Earth, he must have thought it dull, too.
It is slow, not dull. Each night, the seedhouse must be kept warm with a blanket cover and idmaged heat produced by the parents. When a Dreen baby evolves from the seed and embryo, it is brought forth—a new life.
The parents don’t touch each other?
Nor do they speak during the entire three days. Their energy is conserved for the difficult idmaging process.
Yeahhh, well I gotta have a woman occasionally.
Perhaps we could compromise. If I forgo strawberries in any form would you consider not engaging in . . .
Why don’t you just find a way to separate us and go back to your damned Dreenor?
I do wish I could.
What’s it like, this Dreenor?
There are many ancestral family homes built of natural mudbrick, stones and hardened vegetation. Each home is occupied by the family’s youngest married adults and the one child they are permitted to have.
One kid per family? Is that all? But wait a minute! If you only die in accidents, the population pressures must be fierce. How do you handle that? Idmage new Dreen planets?
Ryll found this a puzzling question and reflected on it before responding.
Actually, our family homes extend far under Dreenor’s surface, the deeper levels occupied by family members in order of age—the eldest in the deepest level.
How deep do these homes go?
Habiba says the depths are endless.
There’s gotta be a limit.
I’ve . . . I’ve never thought about that. Perhaps it should be a worry but we are taught that worry is a negative thought process and we naturally do not worry very often. Especially about unimportant things such as how deep our homes may go. That would interfere with our requirements for positive thoughts.
Everyday in every way things are getting better and better, eh?
Now that I think of it, Habiba says we depend on the concept of “ampleness” wherein Dreenor is always large enough to accommodate all Dreens. Even though I am naturally rebellious and think forbidden things, I don’t consider this worth my effort.
So you’re a rebel, too.
Yes, but I must tell you the full beauty of Dreenor. Each family home has an adjacent air shaft. Dreens can control a helium gland permitting us to airfloat up and down these shafts.
We could float out of here?
Unfortunately, Dreens cannot do this anywhere except on Dreenor. Habiba says we have a mental and physical block that is coded into us at birth.
And everything you do is controlled by this tax collector?
We pay in stories. The surface occupants of each home are the taxpayers. They are required to tell one or more stories to a Bluecap who transmits them up the hierarchy to Habiba as her tribute.
Good stories, huh?
Habiba judges that. The best story receives a maximum often talents, the annual tax rate on a home tract. It is best to have backup stories available at tax time, however. Habiba rarely awards maximum talents to a story.
Humans also use stories instead of money to pay taxes.
It’s not quite the same but the storytelling aptitude must be a natural part of your genetic coding because you are, after all, products of Dreen idmaging.
New stories every time?
Oh, no! Old stories are quite important, too. They are the Dreen heritage, because if any story dies out from not being shared, the physical aspects of that story—people, planets and other life forms—all vanish.
You know, this is weird, and it’s all coming out of my mind.
Our mind.
Sure, sure!
Normally, taxpayers must tell two or three stories a year to meet the tax obligation. Taxpayers with a repertoire of superior stories capable of paying their assessment five years in succession with but one story per year are invited to join either the Junior Storytellers (for those under five hundred years of age) or the Senior Storytellers (for those five hundred years of age and older). Gifted Seniors join Habiba’s personal entourage as Elite Storytellers.
This Habiba sounds like some p
owerhouse.
She is the eldest of us all and teaches the most. Other Elders come up from the deeper levels periodically to instruct the taxpaying surface residents in the art of storytelling. That’s how we keep the old methods and sagas alive.
Anybody ever get dispossessed for nonpayment of taxes?
We hear about family holdings being placed in jeopardy but I don’t believe a family has ever been expelled. Habiba can withhold childseed. Being childless places you in low esteem, a supreme punishment.
Ryll got up and went to the mirror.
It occurs to me, Lutt, an examination of our body proves this is true. You will notice our general appearance conforms to your rather unmuscular body but we are now stronger, have more mass and are some seven centimeters taller.
I’m going along with this hallucination because it’s interesting but I don’t have to believe it. Why not shift back into your own shape and show me that?
There is a scrambling problem when I shift back and forth between your form and mine. Please look into the mirror.
Lutt stared at his reflection.
So, okay, it’s me and I’m larger.
Ryll did not respond. He found the mirrored body curious. Not a handsome man, according to standards available from stories and Lutt’s memory. A softly blocky face, round eyeglasses . . . high forehead to a thin crop of red-brown hair. A serpentine raised blood vessel curled up the left temple. One eyebrow partly concealed a small black mole.
Ryll held his hands up to the mirror. A philosopher’s hands with long, slender fingers almost pointed at the tips. But there was a distinct hint of roughness and cruelty to this man.
Ryll decided that could mean trouble if he gave up control of the body.
What’re you looking for? Lutt asked.
I would have liked a better body but I had no choice.
What’s the difference how you look? It’s power makes the difference in this universe, buddy. If you got the clout, that’s all you need.
A gross mistake in attitude, Lutt.
I won’t argue it because events prove me right. But I kinda like the idea of being bigger. Too bad this is all a dream.
It’s not a dream. And you’ll like it even better that this body will continue to grow.
How come?
In terms of growth completion, I am roughly equivalent to a sixteen-year-old human—about forty Dreenyears. You can blame the growth on the accident—a release of hormones.
Man of Two Worlds Page 4