The Worlds of George O

by George O. Smith

  "--Scratching your ear with your hind foot?" asked Beauregarde.

  "Yeah..." said Peter absently. "And even without your talented sniffer, I smell the unmistakable smell of Peacekeeper, about to arrive in a cloud of indignation."

  Beauregarde made a gesture of sniffing at the air. "I agree," he said. "And now, Peter, take your own advice. Treat this delicate situation delicately. The velvet gloves, remember? The level dish and the careful walk? I shall observe through heavy-lidded eyes with jaw on poised forepaws, the picture of contentment."

  "Oh, shut up!" snapped Peter.

  "Ah, how quickly passes the moment of passive acceptance. Peter, your adrenaline count is rising admirably to this occasion. But please, don't make me bite him. I detest the taste of raw Peacekeeper."

  * * * *

  III

  In full, colorful regalia, the Peacekeeper of Xanabar approached with the customary hail:

  "What goes on in Xanabar?"

  "Nothing of interest to you, Peacekeeper."

  "You are Peter Hawley, and this is the dog, Beauregarde."

  "That is a brilliant deduction, since we both are quite well known. And since we are equally well known as lawful folk, we will continue on our way."

  "You are a troublemaker, with the reputation of disturbing the peace of Xanabar.

  Now, exactly what business brings you to the center of Coleban at this unreasonable hour of the morning?"

  "I am walking my dog."

  "Do not be insolent!"

  "Then do not make noises like an imbecile. You know damned well that a Terrestrial youth, Terence Lincoln, dropped out of touch in this region not too many hours ago."

  "The Peacekeepers of Xanabar have the situation well in hand. We need no intervention from outsiders."

  "The Peacekeepers of Xanabar have the situation loused up as usual," said Peter testily. "Any outfit that can't find a fifteen-year-old male Terrestrial without Understanding needs some outside help."

  "Finding the missing youth is Peacekeeper business."

  "Business seems to be failing. Now go fly your kite."

  "You will not be permitted to meddle in the affairs of Xanabar."

  "We're not meddling," snapped Peter. "We're merely doing what your whole outfit can't do. So now get out of my way."

  "You may not order me around.

  "Want to bet?"

  "Peter," said Beauregarde quietly, "remember your own advice. Be kind to our web-footed friend."

  "Ah, yes," said Peter. "I'm being impulsive. We need not walk roughshod over the Peacekeepers of Xanabar, need we? So, since he will not stand aside and let us on about our business, we will go around. Right, Beau?"

  "Right," said Beauregarde. The dog started to circle the Peacekeeper to one side, while Peter circled the Peacekeeper to the other. He in the middle tried to keep his eyes on both, which resulted in a back-and-forth snap of the head as the encirclement increased.

  Finally the patience of the Peacekeeper blew sky high.

  "Stop this!" he shouted, reaching for his sidearm.

  Beauregarde stopped circling. He faced the Peacekeeper and dropped low into an alert crouch. The strong muscles stood out as he hunched himself for a spring; the scruff stood high and stiff, and from the deep throat came the growl of the Terrestrial dog in last-ditch warning.

  The growl disturbed the Peacekeeper.

  Peter said, "He means that. You touch the pea-shooter, and Beauregarde will have your forearm in bloody shreds before it clears the holster."

  "You dare not threaten me!" bellowed the Peacekeeper.

  "I'm not threatening you," said Peter calmly. "I'm merely telling you what will happen if you start playing with hardware."

  "Peter," asked Beauregarde, "can't we arbitrate this? I'm not really hungry, and the last Peacekeeper I ate was stringy."

  "Now see here--"

  Peter waved a hand. In it was a banknote, a pleasantly sized denomination in crystal-cut, the currency of Xanabar. "This, Peacekeeper, is not a bribe, for I know better than to bribe the Peacekeepers of Xanabar. Instead, it is payment for a fine in advance.

  From long experience, I know what it costs to cut a caper in Xanabar; this is payment in advance for a bit of disturbed peace, possibly a cracked skull or two, and the usual treatment for numerous scars, mars, abrasions, shock, and dogbite. I further offer you some good advice. Find some overparked automobiles to ticket on the next block over, and stay out of harm's way--"

  In a normal flap in Xanabar, Peter might well have gotten away with it. He had before.

  But this Peacekeeper had his orders, and his script had been prepared by Zer Upstairs.

  * * * *

  The mobile riot squad converged upon them like a swarm of locusts. They arrived in a squeal of tires and brakes, in the thunder of copter blades, the nerve-racking hiss of jets; and the horizon-wide clangor of bells and whistles, the howl of two-toned hee-haw horns, and the wail of sirens. With them came the blinding glare of searchlight and parachute flare.

  Peter and the Peacekeeper were caught in the glare. In Peter's upheld hand shone the unmistakable rectangles of green and gold, the crystal-cut of Xanabar. The tableau could hardly have been improved as it was, but the Peacekeeper capped this climax. He struck at Peter's hand in visible indignation and shouted righteously, "You cannot bribe the Peacekeeper of Xanabar!"

  He drew back and reached for his sidearm.

  Beauregarde growled warningly and crouched once more. But Peter Hawley said,

  "Play it cool, Beau. You track Terry Lincoln, find him, keep him safe, and bring him home alive. I'll deal with this native uprising."

  Beauregarde said, "I hear you, Peter. I'll bring him home alive, unharmed, and probably with Understanding."

  At which point the dog turned swiftly and pranced away. His first leap was a sudden spring that barely grazed the Peacekeeper. He landed on his forepaws and then folded into an arch that brought the hind feet between and before the front; then he unwound into a long arrowing bound forward. Like an accordion, Beauregarde alternately folded and unfolded as he raced with four-footed agility through the dazzled members of the converging force. There was a flurry of flashguns, the hiss of needle beams, the throbbing grunt of stunners, and the pulsating shaft of nerve shockers, but the Peacekeepers of Xanabar were hardly in practice, especially in taking snap shots at any target that moved as fast as canis terrestrialis in

  a hurry. Beauregarde made the corner untouched, and turned it in a flurry of scrabbling paws on the hard pavement. Then he was gone.

  Beauregarde was not touched, but the innocent bystanders had not fared well. Four of the Peacekeepers were writhing and moaning on the hard pavement; two were clutching the burnholes from needlers; and the assortment of stun-guns and nerve shockers had taken their toll, from a full freeze which left the victim in the awkward configuration of an ill-contrived statue toppled to earth, to lesser attacks which immobilized arm, leg, pelvis, or other mobile joints.

  Ignoring the mess his fellows had made of themselves by their marksmanship, the uniformed Peacekeeper advanced upon Peter Hawley. "Will you come quietly?" he asked, in a voice that clearly indicated that he hoped that Peter might resist--ever so little--so that he could chill the Terrestrial agent and have him hauled in stiff.

  Peter chuckled jauntily. "Sure," he said, in a tone and manner that he knew to make the average Peacekeeper long for the return of the knout, the scourge, and the rack. "Sure,"

  he repeated. "Your office is better than mine to call--because at yours I can register a formal complaint. May I walk--or must you show your mastery of the situation by freezing me stiff and clamping me in manacles to boot?"

  "Just come quietly," said the Peacekeeper, almost able to conceal the seething boil that threatened to erupt.

  * * * *

  Homburg reported, "Zer Martell, phase two is now complete.

  "As planned?"

  "Almost precisely. Very few deviations."

  Martel eye
d his subordinate carefully. "And how many were told?"

  "Peacekeeper Veckten, of necessity. He was essential to the operation. And master marksmen Randor and Wotane."

  "That is all?"

  "That is all, Zer Martell."

  "That was well done, Bod Homburg."

  "Zer--?"

  "Yes?"

  "Zer Martell, would it not be proper to reward--somehow--those who had to be dropped by Randor and Wotane lest they harm the dog Beauregarde? It strikes me that--"

  "You are not thinking well, Bod Homburg. Those who know must be rewarded--unobtrusively--for their performance. To reward those whose zealous defense of the Peace of Xanabar might have defeated our program would only cause puzzlement.

  Despite the odium of having some of our citizens think that we Peacekeepers are so poor in marksmanship that we hit our own instead of that devil-dog Beauregarde, the fewer in the know the better. Oh, well, just see--unobtrusively--that the victims are warmly rewarded the first time that they do something to warrant attention."

  "I understand everything you have said so far."

  "Good. Now, attend to phase three. Beauregarde and young Lincoln are to be harassed and isolated, but not harmed. I must have a detailed report on their operations here in Coleban."

  "Zer?"

  "Yes?"

  "Zer Martell, you speak as if it were a foregone conclusion that the dog Beauregarde will track the youth Lincoln through the streets of Coleban, meet him, and join forces."

  "You are quite correct," said Martell. "The idea is fantastic--until the record is examined. Peter Hawley and Beauregarde have an awesome record of trailing those missing persons whose lithe young bodies are coveted by some of our unruly citizens. I'm told that this is done by following the scent left by the person, but I'd as soon profess to believe in free-running telepathy. But fact is fact, and the record stands."

  "And you believe that Beauregarde will meet Lincoln."

  "I may have hazarded my position and my future upon that premise, Bod Homburg, but believe me, I seldom gamble for high stakes. I may play for them, but I do not gamble, if you understand the difference in meaning."

  * * * *

  IV

  Terence Lincoln, with the full, misplaced confidence that he was on the right trail, walked deeper and deeper into the slumland of Coleban, fully convinced that not far beyond this squalor was the spaceport. His watch, set to the local chronology at the spaceport as he and his comrades debarked, told him that his spacecraft had taken off. That bothered him not.

  His was the confidence of the brash youth whose experience is not extensive enough to convince him that there are things of which he damned well might be afraid.

  So he walked onward, with a fair sense of direction, now that he was no longer heckled--this fair sense of direction keeping him on the proper course, albeit in the wrong direction.

  He had, as he saw it, two alternatives. He could either continue until he made it all the way to the spaceport, or he could meet up with one of the gaudily uniformed Peacekeepers of Xanabar. In either case, it would be no more than a mere explanation of his plight, a time to check the veracity of his tale of woe, and then a quick return to his former status--one or two ships of passage behind and a fine story to embellish in the retelling.

  Even in the slumland of Coleban, one cannot wander on forever without encountering a Peacekeeper, even though the Peacekeepers of Xanabar generally stay where the action is.

  And so young Terry espied one of the gold-braided Keepers of Xanabar's Peace, and took heart. For Terry had been taught that policemen were as dedicated to the business of helping those in need as they were to the game of pursuing the ungodly. That he lacked Understanding was a point in his favor, for the Peacekeeper should realize that he was an outlander who needed help.

  With the ingrained ability of the public servant to turn in the wrong direction, the Peacekeeper rounded a corner instead of turning and coming toward Terry. The lad broke into a run, lest he lose sight of the public protector. He rounded the corner at a dead run, caught sight of the uniform and raced onward until he almost skidded into the backside of the Peacekeeper.

  The Peacekeeper turned at the sound of the running feet. He turned to face the oncoming Terry, and he smiled.

  And Terry Lincoln came to a sliding halt, reversed his direction adroitly, and then proceeded to use his best high-speed energy.

  For the Peacekeeper, in the full regalia of a middlearchy of Xanabar's force, was none other than saffron-face. He had been relieved of his odious role and restored to rank, but there was no change in his face, his attitude, or his demeanor.

  * * * *

  As Terry raced away, the Peacekeeper's hand-whistle shrilled, and the shout he delivered did not need any Understanding to decipher.

  Once more, Terry eluded a group that swarmed down to encircle him. He raced through the slumland of Coleban with an ease that carried him out of their hands, but as he went, he realized the very uncomfortable but obvious truth: someone was after him.

  He was Target For Tonight.

  When he was again free of pursuit, he paused to think. What they wanted of him he could not imagine, but the fact remained. It occurred to him that he could not appeal to authority, since authority in the uniform of the Peacekeepers seemed to be an active part of this ploy. His nature was to rail against them, to label the operation a senseless, stupid plot.

  But a glimmering of reason entered, at least long enough to let him understand that a large organization does not play senseless, stupid games. They had something to gain, else they would not play.

  It came as a blow to him to realize that he could not in confidence call upon the protection of the Peacekeepers of Xanabar. It cut fifty per cent of his future; he had left only the process of continuing on and on and on through this wilderness of broken window and rotten timber and decayed brick until he reached the spaceport that lies some Terrestrial kilometers beyond the outskirts of the city.

  He found a sidewalk stair with an under-part ungraciously upholstered with ragged mattress and tattered blanket. Their dirt was offensive, but with the natural philosophy that the altitude of fastidiousness depends inversely upon the need, Terry Lincoln hit the very smelly hay.

  His occupancy of a favorite assignation spot for the local juveniles of slumland Coleban was not as disliked as it might have been. Most of the would-be users had been homeless themselves, and sympathized with the unknown who slept where they would lie.

  They found other accommodations, and felt superior because they, now, were better off than he.

  * * * *

  Young Lincoln awoke with the coming of true light; that is, shortly after dawn. Strangely, the fact of his plight was secondary to a long-established ritual now unavailable.

  First, of course, was the absence of clean clothing, to say nothing of the absence of clean underclothing. Further, he'd slept in his clothing, and this made them even more odious. He could have cheerfully skipped the morning bath at home or at school, especially when something interesting was up, but now that he was absolutely denied any opportunity to bathe, his body felt dusty, his skin crawled with imagined vermin, and he was certain that he reeked of unwashed human flesh and stale perspiration. Second--but this quickly forged ahead and became foremost--his tongue and teeth felt furry and coated. Deep inside, Terry felt a vague unease; he knew academically that his teeth would hardly fall out after missing one brushing, but his training refuted the facts. So at this part of his awakening, Terry would have accepted the ration of water to brush his teeth instead of washing his body...

  Then came thirst. And the ration of water would have been poured down his gullet.

  For he had traveled far, through dusty city streets; and he had slept in quite unpleasant quarters in an atmosphere that reeked of rot and filth and decay.

  Finally, he was hungry. He'd missed dinner the night before; and whereas he'd have been happy to forgo dinner to partake of something interesting, the f
act that he was denied made his hunger grow as he thought about the prospects. He could have missed a meal, or several, without any adverse effect other than the psychology involved in being denied.

  With but minor complaint he endured the discomfort of not having a comb. The lack of a urinal bothered him only long enough to espy a drain-grille in the concrete flooring of his below-stairs hideaway and long enough to make sure no one was about to catch him in the act.

  And then came the realization that, hungry or no, bath or not, he had distance to cover. He realized then, for the first time in his life, that he was surely on his own, and that he would most likely be on his own until he, himself, managed to make his way from where he was to where he wanted to be. That the comforts of life were his to attain--once he gained them.

  He had one advantage over his operation of yesterday. Today, having slept in his clothing and having been denied his morning ablutions, Terry Lincoln looked more like a youth of tenement slumland.

  With no backward glance, Terry left his hideaway and, with a wary eye peeled to catch the gaudy uniform of the Peacekeeper of Xanabar, he began once more to make his way through squalor and filth toward the spaceport. He aimed as he believed to be right, and his aim was good, for he was on the same course as he'd been the night before.

  But Martell and Homburg had turned him about neatly. They watched as reports came in, and as their clerks posted colored pinpoints on the illuminated maps and added lengths of illuminated line to mark Terry's course.

  With deep interest--separated by the protocol into their own offices--Martell and Homburg watched the progress of the Terrestrial dog Beauregarde, as he followed the trail.

  That the dog's highly trained nose could separate the scent of a fellow Terrestrial was highly improbable. They laid this feat to a superior form of Understanding; an affinity toward a fellow Terrestrial that might well fail if Beauregarde were asked to track say, a Crespian.

  * * * *

  V

  The first missed meal--like the first hundred years--is the hardest. If missing a meal sharpens the wits, it is the wit to petty larceny which is sharpened, for the hungry conscience finds little to reproach for a swiped breakfast.