Barrent shook his head. “You’re the only girl I’m interested in.”
“Then you won’t reconsider?”
“Not a chance.”
Moera sighed and leaned back.
“Are you really interested in me?”
“Much more than interested,” Barrent said.
“Well,” Moera said, “if you won’t change your mind, I suppose I’ll just have to put up with you.” She turned away; but before she did, Barrent caught the faintest suggestion of a smile.
CHAPTER 12
THE Lake of Clouds was Omega’s finest vacation resort. Upon entering the district, all weapons had to be checked at the main gate. No duels were allowed under any circumstances. Any quarrels were arbitrarily decided by the nearest bartender, and murder was punished by immediate loss of status.
All possible amusements were available at the Lake of Clouds. There were the exhibitions such as fencing bouts, bull fighting, and bear baiting. There were sports like swimming, mountain climbing, and skiing. In the evenings there was dancing in the main ballroom, behind glass walls which separated residents from citizens and citizens from the elite. There was a well-stocked drug bar containing anything the fashionable addict could desire, as well as a few novelties he might wish to sample. For the gregarious, there was an orgy every Wednesday and Saturday night in the Satyr’s Grotto. For the shy, the management arranged masked trysts in the dim passageways beneath the hotel. But most important of all, there were gently rolling hills and shadowy woods to walk in, free from the tensions of the daily struggle for existence in Tetrahyde.
Barrent and Moera had adjoining rooms, and the door between them was unlocked. But on the first night, Barrent did not go through that door. Moera had given no sign of wanting him to do so; and on a planet where women have easy and continual access to poisons, a man had to think twice before inflicting his company where it was not wanted. Even the owner of an Antidote Shop had to consider the possibility of not being able to recognize his own symptoms in time.
On their second day, they climbed high into the hills. They ate a basket lunch on a grassy incline which sloped to the gray sea. After they had eaten, Barrent asked Moera why she had saved his life.
“You won’t like the answer,” she told him.
“I’d still like to hear it.”
“Well, you looked so ridiculously vulnerable that day in the Victim’s Society. I would have helped anyone who looked that way.”
Barrent nodded uncomfortably. “What about the second time?”
“By then I suppose I had an interest in you. Not a romantic interest, you understand. I’m not at all romantic.”
“What kind of an interest?” Barrent asked.
“I thought you might be good recruitment material.”
“I’d like to hear more about it,” Barrent said.
Moera was silent for a while, watching him with unblinking green eyes. She said, “There’s not much I can tell you. I’m a member of an organization. We’re always on the lookout for good prospects. Usually we screen directly from the prison ships. After that, recruiters like me go out in search of people we can use.”
“What type of people do you look for?”
“Not your type, Will. I’m sorry.”
“Why not me?”
“At first I thought seriously about recruiting you,” Moera said. “You seemed like just the sort of person we needed. Then I checked into your record.”
“And?”
“We don’t recruit murderers. Sometimes we employ them for specific jobs, but we don’t take them into the organization. There are certain extenuating circumstances which we recognize; self-defense, for example. But aside from that, we feel that a man who has committed premeditated murder on Earth is the wrong man for us.”
“I see,” Barrent said. “Would it help any if I told you I don’t have the usual Omegan attitude on murder?”
“I know you don’t,” Moera said. “If it were up to me, I’d take you into the organization. But it’s not my choice . . . Will, are you sure you’re a murderer?”
“I believe I am,” Barrent said. “I probably am.”
“Too bad,” Moera said. “Still, the organization needs high-survival types, no matter what they did on Earth. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do. It would help if you could find out more about why you committed murder. Perhaps there were extenuating circumstances.”
“Perhaps,” Barrent said doubtfully. “I’ll try to find out.”
That evening, just before he went to sleep, Moera opened the adjoining door and came into his room. Slim and warm, she slipped into his bed. When he started to speak, she put a hand over his mouth. And Barrent, who had learned not to question good fortune, kept quiet.
The rest of the vacation passed too quickly. The subject of the organization did not come up again; but perhaps as compensation, the adjoining door was not closed. At last, late on the seventh day Barrent and Moera were in a car speeding back to Tetrahyde.
“When can I see you again?” Barrent asked.
“I’ll get in touch with you.”
“That’s not a very satisfactory arrangement.”
“It’s the best I can do,” Moera said. “I’m sorry, Will. I’ll see what I can do about the organization.”
Barrent had to be satisfied with that. When the car dropped him at his store, he still didn’t know where she lived, or what kind of an organization she represented.
Back in his apartment, he considered carefully the details of his dream in the Dream Shop. It was all there: his anger at Therkaler, the illicit gun, the encounter, the corpse, and then the informer and the judge. Only one thing was missing. He had no recollection of the actual murder, no memory of aiming the gun and pulling the trigger. The dream stopped when he met Therkaler, and started again after he was dead.
Perhaps he had blocked the moment of actual murder out of mind; but perhaps there had been some provocation, some satisfactory reason why he had killed the man. He would have to find out.
There were only two ways of getting information about Earth. One lay through the horror-tinged visions of the Dream Shop, and he was determined not to go there again. The other way was through the services of a skrenning mutant.
Barrent had the usual Omegan distaste for mutants. They were another race entirely, and their status of untouchability was no mere prejudice. It was well known that mutants often carried strange and incurable diseases. They were shunned, and they had reacted to exclusion by exclusivity. They lived in the Mutant’s Quarter, which was almost a self-contained city within Tetrahyde. Citizens with good sense stayed away from the Quarter, especially after dark; for everyone knew that mutants could be vindictive.
But only mutants had the skrenning ability. In their misshapen bodies were unusual powers and talents, odd and abnormal abilities which the normal man shunned by day but secretly courted by night. Mutants were said to be in the particular favor of The Black One. Some people felt that the great art of Black Magic, about which the priests boasted, could only be performed by a mutant; but they never said that in the presence of a priest.
Mutants, because of their strange talents, were reputed to remember much more of Earth than was possible for normal men and women. Not only could they remember Earth in general, but in particular they could skren the life-thread of a man backward through space and time, pierce the wall of forgetfulness and tell what really had happened to him.
Other people believed that mutants had no unusual abilities at all. They considered them clever rogues who lived off people’s credulity.
Barrent decided to find out for himself. Late one night, suitably cloaked and armed, he left his apartment and went to the Mutant Quarter.
CHAPTER 13
BARRENT walked through the narrow, twisting streets of the Quarter, one hand on his gun butt, the other hand guarding his wallet. He walked among the lame and the blind, past hydrocephalic and microcephalic idiots, past a juggler who kep
t twelve flaming torches in the air with the aid of a rudimentary third hand growing out of his chest.
He turned a corner and stopped. A tall, ragged old man with a cane was blocking his way. The man was half-blind; the skin had grown smooth and hairless over the socket where his left eye should have been. But his right eye was sharp and fierce under a white eyebrow.
“You wish the services of a genuine skrenner?” the old man asked.
Barrent nodded.
“Follow me,” the mutant said. He turned into an alley, and Barrent came after him, gripping his gun butt more tightly. Mutants were forbidden by law to carry arms. But like this old man, most of them had heavy, iron-headed walking-sticks. At close quarters, no one could ask for a better weapon.
The old man opened a door and motioned Barrent inside. Barrent paused, thinking about the stories he had heard of gullible citizens falling into mutant hands. Then he half-drew his needlebeam and went inside.
At the end of a long passageway, the old man opened a door and led Barrent into a small, dimly lighted room. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, Barrent could make out the shapes of two women sitting in front of a plain wooden table. There was a pan of water on the table, and in the pan was a fistsized piece of glass cut into many facets.
One of the women was very old, fat, and completely hairless. The other was young and beautiful. As Barrent moved closer to the table, he saw, with a sense of shock, that her legs were joined below the knee by a membrane of scaly skin, and her feet were of a rudimentary fish-tail shape.
“What do you wish us to skren for you, Citizen Barrent?” the young woman asked.
“How did you know my name?” Barrent asked. When he got no answer, he said, “All right. I want to find out about a murder I committed on Earth.”
“Why do you want to find out about it?” the young woman asked. “Won’t the authorities credit it to your record?”
“They credit it. But I want to find out why I did it. Maybe there were extenuating circumstances. Maybe I did it in self-defense.”
“Is it really important?” the young woman asked.
“I think so,” Barrent said. He hesitated a moment, then took the plunge. “The fact of the matter is, I have a neurotic prejudice against murder. I would rather not kill. So I want to find out why I committed murder on Earth.”
The mutants looked at each other. Then the old man grinned and said, “Citizen, we’ll help you all we can. We mutants also have a prejudice against killing, since it’s always someone else killing us. We’re all in favor of citizens with a neurosis against murder.”
“Then you’ll skren my past?”
“It’s not as easy as that,” the young woman said. “The skrenning ability, which is one of a cluster of psi talents, is difficult to use. It doesn’t always function. And when it does function, it often doesn’t reveal what it’s supposed to.”
“I thought all mutants could look into the past whenever they wanted to,” Barrent said.
“No,” the old man told him, “that isn’t true. For one thing, not all of us who are classified mutants are true mutants. Almost any deformity or abnormality these days is called mutantism. It’s a handy term to cover anyone who doesn’t conform to the Terran standard of appearance.”
“But some of you are true mutants?”
“Certainly. But even then, there are different types of mutantism. Some just show radiation abnormalities—giantism, microcephaly, and the like. Only a few of us possess the slightest psi abilities—although all mutants claim them.”
“Are you able to skren?” Barrent asked him.
“No. But Myla can,” he said, pointing to the young woman. “Sometimes she can.”
The young woman was staring into the pan of water, into the faceted glass. Her pale eyes were open very wide, showing almost all pupil, and her fish-tailed body was rigidly upright, supported by the old woman.
“She’s beginning to see something,” the man said. “The water and the glass are just devices to focus her attention. Myla’s really very good at skrenning, though sometimes she gets the future confused with the past. That sort of thing is embarrassing, and it gives skrenning a bad name. It can’t be helped, though. Every once in a while the future is there in the water, and Myla has to tell what she sees. Last week she told a Hadji he was going to die in four days.” The old man chuckled. “You should have seen the expression on his face.”
“Did she see how he would die?” Barrent asked.
“Yes. By a knife-thrust. The poor man stayed in his house for the entire four days.”
“Was he killed?”
“Of course. His wife killed him. She was a strong-minded woman, I’m told.”
Barrent hoped that Myla wouldn’t skren any future for him. Life was bad enough without a mutant’s predictions to make it worse.
She was looking up from the faceted glass now, shaking her head sadly. “There’s very little I can tell you. I was not able to see the murder performed. But I skrenned a graveyard, and in it I saw your parents’ tombstone. It was an old tombstone, perhaps twenty years old. The graveyard was on the outskirts of a place on Earth called Youngerstun.” So that part of his dream in which he had seen his father had probably been false recall.
“Also,” Myla said, “I skrenned a man who knows about the murder. He can tell you about it, if he will.”
“This man saw the murder?”
“Yes.”
“Is he the man who informed on me?”
“I don’t know,” Myla said. “I skrenned the corpse, whose name was Therkaler, and there was a man standing near it. That man’s name was Illiardi.”
“Is he here on Omega?”
“Yes. You can find him right now in the Euphoriatorium on Little Axe Street. Do you know where that is?”
“I can find it,” Barrent said. He thanked the girl and offered payment, which she refused to take. She looked very unhappy. As Barrent was leaving, she called out, “Be careful.”
Barrent stopped at the door, and felt an icy chill settle across his chest. “Did you skren my future?” he asked.
“Only a little,” Myla said. “Only a few months ahead.”
“What did you see?”
“I can’t explain it,” she said. “What I saw is impossible.”
“Tell me what it was.”
“I saw you dead. And yet, you weren’t dead at all. You were looking at a corpse, which was shattered into shiny fragments. But the corpse was also you.”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know,” Myla said. Barrent thanked her again and left, wondering if skrenning mutants were ever wrong in their prophecies.
The Euphoriatorium was a large, garish place which specialized in cut-rate drugs and aphrodisiacs. It catered mostly to a peon and resident clientele. Barrent felt out of place as he shouldered his way through the crowd and asked a waiter where he could find a man named Illiardi.
The waiter pointed. In a corner booth, Barrent saw a large, bald, thick-shouldered man sitting over a tiny glass of thanapiquita. Barrent went over and introduced himself.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Illiardi said, showing the obligatory respect of a Second Class Resident for a Privileged Citizen. “How can I be of service?”
“I want to ask you a few questions about Earth,” Barrent said.
“I can’t remember much about the place,” Illiardi said. “But you’re welcome to anything I know.”
“Do you remember a man named Therkaler?”
“Sure,” Illiardi said. “Thin, foxy-faced fellow. Cross-eyed. As mean a man as you could find.”
“Were you present when he was killed?”
“I was there. It was the first thing I remembered when I got off the ship.”
“Did you see who killed him?” Illiardi looked puzzled. “I didn’t have to see. I killed him.” Barrent forced himself to speak in a calm, steady voice. “Are you sure of that? Are you absolutely certain?”
“Of co
urse I’m sure,” Illiardi said. “And I’ll fight any man who tries to take credit for it. I killed Therkaler, and he deserved worse than that.”
“When you killed him,” Barrent asked, “did you see me anywhere around?”
Illiardi looked at him carefully, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think I saw you. But I can’t be sure. Right after I killed Therkaler, everything goes sort of blank.”
“Thank you,” Barrent said. He left the Euphoriatorium.
CHAPTER 14
BARRENT had a lot to think about, but the more he thought, the more confused he became. If Illiardi had killed Therkaler, why had Barrent been deported to Omega? If an honest mistake had been made, why hadn’t he been released when the true murderer was discovered? Why had someone on Earth accused him of a crime he hadn’t committed; and why had a false memory of that crime been superimposed on his mind just beneath the conscious level?
Barrent had no answers for his questions. But he knew that he had never felt like a murderer. Now he had proof, of sorts, that he wasn’t a murderer.
The sensation of innocence changed everything for him. He had less tolerance for Omegan ways, and no interest at all in conforming to a criminal mode of life. The only thing he wanted was to escape from Omega and return to his rightful heritage on Earth.
But that was impossible. Day and night, the guardships circled overhead. Even if there had been some way of evading them, escape would still have been impossible. Omegan technology had progressed only as far as the internal combustion engine; the only spaceships were commanded by Earth forces.
Barrent continued to work in the Antidote Shop, but his lack of public spirit was growing apparent. He ignored invitations from the Drug Shop, and never attended any of the popular public executions. When lynch mobs were formed to have a little fun in the Mutant Quarter, Barrent usually pleaded a headache. He never joined the Landing Day Hunts, and he was rude to an accredited salesman from the Torture of the Month Club. Not even daily visits from Uncle Ingemar could make him change his anti-religious ways.
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