The Door Through Space

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lights flared in my eyes.

  I was standing solidly on my feet in the street-shrine, but the streetwas gone. Coils of incense still smudged the air. The God squattedtoadlike in his recess. The girl was hanging limp, locked in my clenchedarms. As the floor straightened under my feet I staggered, thrown offbalance by the sudden return of the girl's weight, and grabbed blindlyfor support.

  "Give her to me," said a voice, and the girl's sagging body was liftedfrom my arms. A strong hand grasped my elbow. I found a chair beneath myknees and sank gratefully into it.

  "The transmission isn't smooth yet between such distant terminals," thevoice remarked. "I see Miellyn has fainted again. A weakling, the girl,but useful."

  I spat blood, trying to get the room in focus. For I was inside a room,a room of some translucent substance, windowless, a skylight high aboveme, through which pink daylight streamed. Daylight--and it had beenmidnight in Charin! I'd come halfway around the planet in a few seconds!

  From somewhere I heard the sound of hammering, tiny, bell-likehammering, the chiming of a fairy anvil. I looked up and saw a man--aman?--watching me.

  On Wolf you see all kinds of human, half-human and nonhuman life, and Iconsider myself something of an expert on all three. But I had neverseen anyone, or anything, who so closely resembled the human and soobviously wasn't. He, or it, was tall and lean, man-shaped but oddlymuscled, a vague suggestion of something less than human in the leanhunch of his posture.

  Manlike, he wore green tight-fitting trunks and a shirt of green furthat revealed bulging biceps where they shouldn't be, and angular planeswhere there should have been swelling muscles. The shoulders were high,the neck unpleasantly sinuous, and the face, a little narrower thanhuman, was handsomely arrogant, with a kind of wary alert mischief thatwas the least human thing about him.

  He bent, tilted the girl's inert body on to a divan of some sort, andturned his back on her, lifting his hand in an impatient, andunpleasantly reminiscent, gesture.

  The tinkling of the little hammers stopped as if a switch had beendisconnected.

  "Now," said the nonhuman, "we can talk."

  Like the waif, he spoke Shainsan, and spoke it with a better accent thanany nonhuman I had ever known--so well that I looked again to becertain. I wasn't too dazed to answer in the same tongue, but I couldn'tkeep back a spate of questions:

  "What happened? Who are you? What is this place?"

  The nonhuman waited, crossing his hands--quite passable hands, if youdidn't look too closely at what should have been nails--and bent forwardin a sketchy gesture.

  "Do not blame Miellyn. She acted under orders. It was imperative you bebrought here tonight, and we had reason to believe you might ignore anordinary summons. You were clever at evading our surveillance, for atime. But there would not be two Dry-towners in Charin tonight who woulddare the Ghost Wind. Your reputation does you justice, Rakhal Sensar."

  _Rakhal Sensar!_ Once again Rakhal!

  Shaken, I pulled a rag from my pocket and wiped blood from my mouth. I'dfigured out, in Shainsa, why the mistake was logical. And here in CharinI'd been hanging around in Rakhal's old haunts, covering his old trails.Once again, mistaken identity was natural.

  Natural or not, I wasn't going to deny it. If these were Rakhal'senemies, my real identity should be kept as an ace in reserve whichmight--just might--get me out alive again. If they were his friends ...well, I could only hope that no one who knew him well by sight wouldwalk in on me.

  "We knew," the nonhuman continued, "that if you remained where youwere, the _Terranan_ Cargill would have made his arrest. We know aboutyour quarrel with Cargill, among other things, but we did not considerit necessary that you should fall into his hands at present."

  I was puzzled. "I still don't understand. Exactly where am I?"

  "This is the mastershrine of Nebran."

  _Nebran!_

  The stray pieces of the puzzle suddenly jolted into place. Kyral hadwarned me, not knowing he was doing it. I hastily imitated the gestureKyral had made, gabbling a few words of an archaic charm.

  Like every Earthman who's lived on Wolf more than a tourist season, I'dseen faces go blank and impassive at mention of the Toad God. Rumor madehis spies omnipresent, his priests omniscient, his anger all-powerful. Ihad believed about a tenth of what I had heard, or less.

  The Terran Empire has little to say to planetary religions, and Nebran'scult is a remarkably obscure one, despite the street-shrines on everycorner. Now I was in his mastershrine, and the device which had broughtme here was beyond doubt a working model of a matter transmitter.

  A matter transmitter, a working model--the words triggered memory.Rakhal was after it.

  "And who," I asked slowly, "are you, Lord?"

  The green-clad creature hunched thin shoulders again in a ceremoniousgesture. "I am called Evarin. Humble servant of Nebran and yourself," headded, but there was no humility in his manner. "I am called theToymaker."

  _Evarin._ That was another name given weight by rumor. A breath ofgossip in a thieves market. A scrawled word on smudged paper. A blankfolder in Terran Intelligence. Another puzzle-piece snapped intoplace--_Toymaker_!

  The girl on the divan sat up suddenly passing slim hands over herdisheveled hair. "Did I faint, Evarin? I had to fight to get him intothe stone, and the patterns were not set straight in that terminal. Youmust send one of the Little Ones to set them to rights. Toymaker, youare not listening to me."

  "Stop chattering, Miellyn," said Evarin indifferently. "You brought himhere, and that is all that matters. You aren't hurt?"

  Miellyn pouted and looked ruefully at her bare bruised feet, patted thewrinkles in her ragged frock with fastidious fingers. "My poor feet,"she mourned, "they are black and blue with the cobbles and my hair isfilled with sand and tangles! Toymaker, what way was this to send me toentice a man? Any man would have come quickly, quickly, if he had seenme looking lovely, but you--you send me in rags!"

  She stamped a small bare foot. She was not merely as young as she hadlooked in the street. Though immature and underdeveloped by Terranstandards, she had a fair figure for a Dry-town woman. Her rags fell nowin graceful folds. Her hair was spun black glass, and I--I saw what therags and the confusion in the filthy street had kept me from seeingbefore.

  It was the girl of the spaceport cafe, the girl who had appeared andvanished in the eerie streets of Canarsa.

  Evarin was regarding her with what, in a human, might have been ruefulimpatience. He said, "You know you enjoyed yourself, as always, Miellyn.Run along and make yourself beautiful again, little nuisance."

  The girl danced out of the room, and I was just as glad to see her go.The Toymaker motioned to me.

  "This way," he directed, and led me through a different door. Theoffstage hammering I had heard, tiny bell tones like a fairy xylophone,began again as the door opened, and we passed into a workroom which mademe remember nursery tales from a half-forgotten childhood on Terra. Forthe workers were tiny, gnarled _trolls_!

  They were _chaks_. _Chaks_ from the polar mountains, dwarfed and furredand half-human, with witchlike faces and great golden eyes, and I hadthe curious feeling that if I looked hard enough I would see the littletoy-seller they had hunted out of the Kharsa. I didn't look. I figured Iwas in enough trouble already.

  Tiny hammers pattered on miniature anvils in a tinkling, jingling chorusof musical clinks and taps. Golden eyes focused like lenses over winkingjewels and gimcracks. Busy elves. Makers of toys!

  Evarin jerked his shoulders with an imperative gesture. I followed himthrough a fairy workroom, but could not refrain from casting a lingeringlook at the worktables. A withered leprechaun set eyes into the head ofa minikin hound. Furred fingers worked precious metals into invisiblefiligree for the collarpiece of a dancing doll. Metallic feathers werethrust with clockwork precision into the wings of a skeleton bird nolonger than my fingernail. The nose of the hound wabbled and sniffed,the bird's wings quivered, the eye
s of the little dancer followed myfootsteps.

  Toys?

  "This way," Evarin rapped, and a door slid shut behind us. The clinksand taps grew faint, fainter, but never ceased.

  My face must have betrayed more than conventional impassivity, forEvarin smiled. "Now you know, Rakhal, why I am called Toymaker. Is itnot strange--the masterpriest of Nebran, a maker of Toys, and the shrineof the Toad God a workshop for children's playthings?"

  Evarin paused suggestively. They were obviously not children'splaythings and this was my cue to say so, but I avoided the trap. Evarinopened a sliding panel and took out a doll.

  She was perhaps the length of my longest finger, molded to the preciseproportions of a woman, and costumed after the bizarre fashion of theArdcarran dancing girls. Evarin touched no button or key that I couldsee, but when he set the figure on its feet, it executed a whirling,armtossing dance in a fast, tricky tempo.

  "I am, in a sense, benevolent," Evarin murmured. He snapped his fingersand the doll sank to her knees and poised there, silent. "Moreover, Ihave the means and, let us say, the ability to indulge my smallfantasies.

  "The little daughter of the President of the Federation of Trade Citieson Samarra was sent such a doll recently. What a pity that PaoloArimengo was so suddenly impeached and banished!" The Toymaker cluckedhis teeth commiseratingly. "Perhaps this small companion will compensatethe little Carmela for her adjustment to her new ... position."

  He replaced the dancer and pulled down something like a whirligig. "Thismight interest you," he mused, and set it spinning. I stared at thepattern of lights that flowed and disappeared, melting in and out ofvisible shadows. Suddenly I realized what the thing was doing. Iwrested my eyes away with an effort. Had there been a lapse of secondsor minutes? Had Evarin spoken?

  Evarin arrested the compelling motion with one finger. "Several of thesepretty playthings are available to the children of important men," hesaid absently. "An import of value for our exploited and impoverishedworld. Unfortunately they are, perhaps, a little ... ah, obvious. Theincidence of nervous breakdowns is, ah, interfering with their sale. Thechildren, of course, are unaffected, and love them." Evarin set thehypnotic wheel moving again, glanced sidewise at me, then set itcarefully back.

  "Now"--Evarin's voice, hard with the silkiness of a cat's snarl, clawedthe silence--"we'll talk business."

  I turned, composing my face. Evarin had something concealed in one hand,but I didn't think it was a weapon. And if I'd known, I'd have had toignore it anyway.

  "Perhaps you wonder how we recognized and found you?" A panel cleared inthe wall and became translucent. Confused flickers moved, dropped intofocus and I realized that the panel was an ordinary television screenand I was looking into the well-known interior of the Cafe of ThreeRainbows in the Trade City of Charin.

  By this time I was running low on curiosity and didn't wonder till much,much later how televised pictures were transmitted around the curve of aplanet. Evarin sharpened the focus down on the long Earth-type bar wherea tall man in Terran clothes was talking to a pale-haired girl. Evarinsaid, "By now, Race Cargill has decided, no doubt, that you fell intohis trap and into the hands of the Ya-men. He is off-guard now."

  And suddenly the whole thing seemed so unbearably, illogically funnythat my shoulders shook with the effort to keep back dangerous laughter.Since I'd landed in Charin, I'd taken great pains to avoid the TradeCity, or anyone who might have associated me with it. And Rakhal,somehow aware of this, had conveniently filled up the gap. By posing asme.

  It wasn't nearly as difficult as it sounded. I had found that out inShainsa. Charin is a long, long way from the major Trade City near theKharsa. I hadn't a single intimate friend there, or within hundreds ofmiles, to see through the imposture. At most, there were half a dozen ofthe staff that I'd once met, or had a drink with, eight or ten yearsago.

  Rakhal could speak perfect Standard when he chose; if he lapsed intoDry-town idiom, that too was in my known character. I had no doubt hewas making a great success of it all, probably doing much better with myidentity than I could ever have done with his.

  Evarin rasped, "Cargill meant to leave the planet. What stopped him? Youcould be of use to us, Rakhal. But not with this blood-feud unsettled."

  That needed no elucidation. No Wolfan in his right mind will bargainwith a Dry-towner carrying an unresolved blood-feud. By law and custom,declared blood-feud takes precedence over any other business, public orprivate, and is sufficient excuse for broken promises, neglected duties,theft, even murder.

  "We want it settled once and for all." Evarin's voice was low andunhurried. "And we aren't above weighting the scales. This Cargill can,and has, posed as a Dry-towner, undetected. We don't like Earthmen whocan do that. In settling your feud, you will be aiding us, and removinga danger. We would be ... grateful."

  He opened his closed hand, displaying something small, curled, inert.

  "Every living thing emits a characteristic pattern of electrical nerveimpulses. We have ways of recording those impulses, and we have had youand Cargill under observation for a long time. We've had plenty ofopportunity to key this Toy to Cargill's pattern."

  On his palm the curled thing stirred, spread wings. A fledgling bird laythere, small soft body throbbing slightly. Half-hidden in a ruff ofmetallic feathers I glimpsed a grimly elongated beak. The pinions werefeathered with delicate down less than a quarter of an inch long. Theybeat with delicate insistence against the Toymaker's prisoning fingers.

  "This is not dangerous to you. Press here"--he showed me--"and if RaceCargill is within a certain distance--and it is up to you to be _within_that distance--it will find him, and kill him. Unerringly, inescapably,untraceably. We will not tell you the critical distance. And we willgive you three days."

  He checked my startled exclamation with a gesture. "Of course this is atest. Within the hour Cargill will receive a warning. We want noincompetents who must be helped too much! Nor do we want cowards! If youfail, or release the bird at a distance too great, or evade thetest"--the green inhuman malice in his eyes made me sweat--"we have madeanother bird."

  By now my brain was swimming, but I thought I understood the complexinhuman logic involved. "The other bird is keyed to me?"

  With slow contempt Evarin shook his head. "You? You are used to dangerand fond of a gamble. Nothing so simple! We have given you three days.If, within that time, the bird you carry has not killed, the other birdwill fly. And it will kill. Rakhal, you have a wife."

  Yes, Rakhal had a wife. They could threaten Rakhal's wife. And his wifewas my sister Juli.

  Everything after that was anticlimax. Of course I had to drink withEvarin, the elaborate formal ritual without which no bargain on Wolf isconcluded. He entertained me with gory and technical descriptions of theway in which the birds, and other of his hellish Toys, did theirkilling, and worse tasks.

  Miellyn danced into the room and upset the exquisite solemnity of thewine-ritual by perching on my knee, stealing a sip from my cup, andpouting prettily when I paid her less attention than she thought shemerited. I didn't dare pay much attention, even when she whispered, withthe deliberate and thorough wantonness of a Dry-town woman of high-castewho has flung aside her fetters, something about a rendezvous at theThree Rainbows.

  But eventually it was over and I stepped through a door that twistedwith a giddy blankness, and found myself outside a bare windowless wallin Charin again, the night sky starred and cold. The acrid smell of theGhost Wind was thinning in the streets, but I had to crouch in a crannyof the wall when a final rustling horde of Ya-men, the last of theirreceding tide, rustled down the street. I found my way to my lodging ina filthy _chak_ hostel, and threw myself down on the verminous bed.

  Believe it or not, I slept.