A Voyage To Dari

by Ian Wallace

  OF THE TWO BILLION STARS IN DUNN GALAXY (an SBc-type galaxy, streaming in a simple S-shape, which meant, not that it was very old in accordance with the usual inference from the ancient Hubble classification, but rather that it was very young), only one star had interested Pan as he came in. This was Djinn, a there-unusual G2 Sol-type star not very far in from the tip of an S-arm; it had planets, and its seventh planet in particular arrested him—a giant belted with a rainbow girdle reminding him forcibly of Saturn. Instantly Pan named the planet Djinn VII frankly Saturn; and, acting on the double cue, he looked for life in the star system. Sure enough, an inner-on planet, Djinn IV, corresponded almost precisely to his own departed Sol III, or Erth; and it housed the dominant humanoid life in the galaxy. Its own name for itself was Moudjinn.

  There was life also on Djinn III, or Dari; but Dari was known to be a sea of slave primitives islanded by enclaves of space pirates, wherefore Pan gave wide berth to that planet.

  Pan formulated a tight problem for practical inquiry: how most efficiently to prey upon the civilized life of wealthy Moudjinn while establishing his own life at a leisurely level.

  The solution hypothesis was related to Djinn VII, or Saturn, terrific for visuals; and in on Saturn he homed in his metaspace yacht with semipassive Freya. (This yacht he had won by telekinetic cheating at dice on several planets, fleecing his purse with contributions from admiring and wealthy widows.) Bringing his craft into an orbit at a ninety-degree declination to the rainbow girdle, Pan deployed intricate robot equipment in space-platform construction. While that was in progress, he departed Saturn, touched down successively at about thirty strategic locations on Moudjinn (which on average was nearly as advanced as Erth despite a feudal politico-economy), got some entries, distributed some cards (printed verkotype, which is to say, fried reonoffset), used charm and telepathy to get confidential dirt on a few key people, subliminally captured one or two by mind invasion, and departed for Saturn, leaving behind a number of irresistible promises.

  Saturninn was the upshot (year 2504 ITC): a wicked hotel of gleaming metaloid, the plush Satan spot of Djinn Galaxy: a spheroid satellite of ten kilometers diameter, with 125 unobtrusive antipirate gun emplacements, with exterior viewports in all rooms, orbiting Saturn once in three hours at such an angle that the Saturn rings rushed up at you and receded from you and only for minutes were wholly invisible to you; and when you were right upon them (actually a few thousand kilometers out from them, for they would have been practically invisible had you been orbiting through their girdle), they were breathtakingly, sky-fillingly marvelous.

  Saturninn.

  Two new guests motored out one afternoon in 2506 (Day 2) from Moudjinn, an easy five-hour two-billion-kilometer run. (You hit light velocity at the end of the second hour, and spent the next three hours braking.)

  There were three guest entrances: the Custom Entrance (for ordinarily or transiently wealthy people), the Ambassador Entrance (for VIP’s), and the Rendezvous Entrance (for those of high or low degree who preferred to steal in, even though once inside they would go ostentatious); anybody could enter at Custom, but your card had to qualify you for VIP before you could make Rendezvous. It was at Rendezvous that the new guests berthed shortly after 1800 hours Saturninn time.

  Had they seriously wished to be inconspicuous, they would have berthed at Custom.

  A cab (antigrav) skimmed them inward a kilometer and let them off at an ornate foyer, where, rather than being coldly stood up for desk-clerk insolence in front of an impersonal counter with mail cubbyholes behind, they were greeted by a tailored blond receptionist who ushered them into a pleasant small office (it was almost a boudoir), seated them, seated herself, crossed sinuous bare legs, leaned forward a bit (ruffed choker collar, but a nice effect even so), and queried, “Would you prefer that I interview just one of you, or is both all right?”

  The guest woman (darkly Junoesque and languorous, ornately coiffured, stoled in white virmin fur) glanced at her escort (slight, pale, aesthetic, asthenic, thin-moustached, evening-dressed). He informed the receptionist precisely, “Both is or are all right. You have my reservation?”

  “We are holding precisely what you requested. I merely wondered . . . "

  “Yes, we do have further requests. At eight, my companion and I will appear in the Starlight Lounge for cocktails, and there we should wish to be met by a man and a woman.”

  The receptionist took it quite matter-of-factly. “One moment,” she said. She arose, entered a cubbyhole, and returned with two elegantly red-bound tomes. “You will wish to see samples and make selections. These are tri-d stills, but any that interest you can be projected for twenty seconds in limited activation on approval. The activation is, of course, perfectly discreet parlor action. This one is men, this one is women.” She stood, intentionally indecisive, allowing the guests to decide which book each wanted.

  The man took the women; the woman, shrugging, accepted the men. They riffled pages with disinterest, then almost simultaneously handed back the books. The man said, “Candidly, our thoughts were higher.”

  For the first time disconcerted, the receptionist stated, “While I hate to be sordid, I should make it clear that the time of each of these men and women is valuable and in great demand, and they for their part are choosy. To use one measure of value—they would lose money if they left here to become corporation vice-presidents.”

  The guest woman queried, “Would you lose money, sweets?”

  The receptionist replied coldly, “Yes, although I accept very few arrangements.” She turned and looked at the man deliberately.

  The man said, cool, “We are interested in more than superficial pleasure. We are interested in personal force. I have the money required to interest two people who normally accept no arrangements whatsoever.”

  The receptionist went courteously distant. “If, then, you wish to make acquaintances among our guests, I am afraid I cannot be of assistance.”

  “Not among your guests. We had in mind Mr. Pan and Miss Freya.”

  The blond, already pale, paled, but lost not a drop of sangfroid. “They do not accept such arrangements.”

  “Possibly you misunderstand,” the guest woman interposed. “Our interest in meeting them is . . . a gambling interest. If we give you our real names, will you try to arrange it?”

  “I know your real names, Duke Dzendzel, Princess Medzik.”

  “It is then arranged?”

  “It is not. I shall have to let you know later. I am pessimistic.”

  The duke arose swiftly, the princess languidly. He asserted, “I will assume your success, because we came here only for the highest level of diversion. We will expect to meet Mr. Pan and Miss Freya in the Starlight Lounge at eight. Thereafter we will expect them to gamble with us at the game and stakes that we will name. You may tell them that I will stake one-tenth of my annual income from all sources for one year; what they are to stake will be confidential among the four of us.”

  “I said that I may fail.”

  “If you fail, have our cab and scouter ready at eight. Our rooms, madame.”

  “I assume,” quietly said green-eyed ash-blond Freya, “that we will not be in the Starlight Lounge at eight.”

  The glowing rings of Djinn-Saturn swept toward them; their couple table nestled, with several other favored tables, in the bulge of the largest picture viewport in the casino of Saturninn—now, in 2506, the hard-established sin mecca of this galaxy.

  The broad smile on the craggy-handsome face of auburn-haired Pan was merry-mocking, but the blue eyes were deep only in hue and otherwise shallow. “We’d miss entertainment if we didn’t go,” he told her. “He runs the Emperor, remember? And she’s his second cousin.”

  Freya considered him moodily, chin palmed, long fingers tapping a cheekbone. She said then, “Until now, during ten years I have not been paid.”

  “We do not know that his game is you—or that her game is me. We do know that he will stake one-tenth
of his one-year income. Have you tried totting up what that would be?”

  “Purely for the information, what would it be?”

  “Just the interest would build and operate a hundred Saturninns. Looking at it another way: with a tenth of his one-year income between us, you and I could buy what we needed in order to become the fourth- or fifth-wealthiest people on Moudjinn. Which is to say, our wish would be our command, forever. Monte Cristo, move over.”

  She said, “Between us there is a candle.”

  “Well?”

  “Put it out. And don’t pinch or blow.”

  The candle went out, apparently all by itself. Cool, Pan queried, “Well?”

  “See those Saturn rings? I’m tired of their pale pink. Make them gold.”

  “No. What are you getting at?”

  “But you could make them gold. And with powers like that, why do you need to play gigolo for any amount of money?”

  “We don’t know that this is the game, I said.”

  “I’m betting on it. And that’s only the most distressing development in a spate of developments. Here’s this inn, which is, you should excuse the puritanical phrasing for which there is no substitute, an iniquitous den of flimflam piracy.”

  “Freya, we don’t hurt anybody except established masochists . . . ”

  “. . . and your own fraternizing with the clientele, an unbrotherly fraternizing that is more like a permanent floating con game with erotic fringe benefits.”

  “All I do is to cheat millionaires of one sort of thing and husbands of another sort of thing. Let’s go, Freya; we’re due in the Starlight Lounge.”

  “The game,” said Dzendzel over the second cocktail, “is a simple game, and one rule will be that either of us can cheat.”

  Pan gravely nodded; Freya watched narrowly; ample Princess Medzik looked bored. Pan commented, “We can get to the game and the rules in a minute. Quite candidly, your grace, I am more interested in the stakes.”

  Dzendzel incised, “I have announced what I stake—one-tenth of my annual income from all sources. What you are to stake, I have written on paper; it is in my pocket here. If you lose, I will hand it to you. If you win, you will not need to see it.”

  Pan said, cold, “No game.”

  Dzendzel studied his cocktail. Shrugging then, he produced a small paper from a small pocket and handed it over. Pan unfolded, read, raised eyebrows, and passed it to Freya. She read, crumpled the paper, and stared at Pan with brows down hard.

  Pan told the duke, “These bets are uneven. You stake merely one-tenth of your income for one year; we are to stake our self-respect.”

  Insolently the duke stared at him.

  Pan’s face went faintly whimsical. “I see I can’t bluff you. Tell me the name of the game.”

  Freya’s face contorted. She kept expecting a telepathic communication from Pan, but none came.

  Dzendzel told him blandly, “The game is coin toss. We do it here. I provide my coin, you provide yours. We toss three times. If you match me twice, you win. If you match me only once, I win. And we can cheat.”

  Pan said quietly, “There is only one way to cheat at a matching coin toss. The cheater has to know how the other coin is coming down, and he has to be able to make his own coin come down in the way that is best for himself. Since this is what you propose, you must be able to do that, and you must know that I am able to do that.”

  Dzendzel merely stared.

  Pan turned to Freya, who was frightfully angry. Looking straight at her, he said, “Duke Dzendzel, there can be no trivial reason why you are willing to stake one-tenth of your annual income in the hope of enslaving Freya and me for a trifling year. I think you should tell us the real reason.”

  Oddly, Freya’s anger began to dissipate.

  Dzendzel said, cold, to both of them, while Princess Medzik toyed with her spent cocktail, “The slavery would not be sexual; if that were to be incidental, it would be voluntary. And neither of you would be harmed. Beyond that, I do not choose to give you reasons. Do you wish to play, or don’t you?”

  Pan suddenly grinned. It was a vital grin; it included his eyes. Swiftly he reached into a pocket, produced a coin, held it out in his palm beneath the thin nose of the duke.

  The princess raised her face to stare at Pan. Then, gradually conscious of a counterstare, she turned her head to meet the amused eyes of Freya. After a moment of mutual challenge, the eyes of both women turned to the men.

  Twice the coins spun high. The first toss was a match, the second not.

  The four eyes of Pan and Dzendzel were snake-eyes interstriking.

  Pan demanded, “If I win the next toss, how soon will I be paid?”

  Dzendzel tonelessly asserted, “One-tenth of my last year’s income is already on deposit in your Saturninn bank, to be released to you tomorrow unless I countermand by midnight tonight. If next year’s income is higher, on my honor you will be paid the difference; if it is lower, there will be no penalty.”

  Pan glanced at Freya, was rewarded by a low-key smile, glanced at the princess, was invited by parted fleshy lips, and queried, “If I lose the next toss, what will be the action?”

  The duke told him, “I will depart later tonight with Miss Freya; the princess will remain here at your disposition; soon I will send for you, and then you will do what I require.”

  Again Pan looked at Freya; her smile had gone hard. He smiled hard back. He turned to Dzendzel.

  The simultaneous timing of their tosses was intuitive.

  The coins rose to ten-foot height. They hesitated up there, slowly rotating in midair. They hesitated . . . and went motionless up there.

  They shimmered up there for a period of seconds.

  Both coins vanished.

  Pan and Dzendzel matched eyes. Both women were numb.

  Pan commented, “It seems to be a draw. I propose the following settlement. Princess Medzik will stay with me until she chooses to leave. Miss Freya will go your route until she chooses to quit you. I will be at your disposition until I weary of this. I will draw on your deposit month for month as long as one of us is with one of you.”

  The four eyes were coldly countersinking serpents. “Done,” said Dzendzel.

  Swiftly Princess Medzik looked at Freya, and was startled to discover that Freya seemed placid.

  Freya had received no telepathy from Pan. But the final coin toss had told her why Pan could not risk telepathy in the presence of Dzendzel. Nevertheless, Freya was troubled.

  Afterward Pan and Freya sat silent and somber in their viewport window. Freya ultimately challenged, “Pan, look, believe me, if it were you, really you, I’d accept it, I’d have fun with it—but it just isn’t you, it’s a degenerate you.”

  Now he was staring gloomily at the palms of his hands. “I thought it was just freedom. How is it degeneracy?”

  “Well, because it—”

  “Am I degenerating with you, Freya?”

  “Come again?”

  “Is my personal position with you degenerating?”

  “No, but—”

  “Are you in position to stone me?”

  “Yes! I’ve had my little diversions, but . . . discreetly and selectively, not degenerately. And I’ve been disappointed every time, because you have spoiled me.”

  “And I, because of you.”

  “Merci.”

  “They are, however, adventures, Freya.”

  “With me, dancing adventures. With you, sadisms.” “That is my degeneracy?”

  She breathed deeply, resolved, said it. “No, it’s deeper. Four years ago you took on a five-year personal responsibility, and I went with you. In two years you had the deal developing just fine. Then suddenly you blew out of there with me in tow, leaving your sworn charge weltering leaderless in nonspace. Why?”

  He inhaled, and exhaled, and inquired of the table, “Then that is my degeneracy?”

  She told the table, “Yes. The rest is just ornamentation.”

 
“After two years of this, now you tell me?”

  “I asked you about it two years ago. It was the only time you ever hit me.”

  Again he stared at his hands. “I’d forgotten that.”

  “Good.”

  “I guess I required myself to forget that.”

  “Still good. It was angry impulse. But it told me something about your state of mind, and I haven’t seen any improvement.”

  “So I hit you during a cop-out two years ago, and ever since, I’ve been sliding down the drain. And yet, here you are.”

  “Well... yes.”

  “Why?”

  “You know.”

  Silence.

  “Freya, a while back you remarked that you hadn’t done any fancy-lady stuff during ten years. What made you knock off?”

  Her eyes were soft. “That was a good year, 2496. I met you.”

  “Who’s me?”

  She stared, beginning to catch his drift.

  He pressed. “Both of us were born in 2502. Four years ago. Who’s me?”

  Now it was distressingly clear why during more than two years he had excluded her from telepathic sharing of his emotions, letting her see only the objective intelligibilities that he wanted to communicate, but coming nowhere near baring the nerve. She made the problem explicit: “You are trying to tell me that there are two of you, although there can’t be two of you.”

  His smile had returned, but it was sardonic. “Also that when you look at me, you are seeing me during the past four years—and him during the prior six years.”

  It was Freya’s turn to study her hands. She replied this way: “You and he were born one man. A lousy four years ago you and Croyd bifurcated while Greta and I bifurcated. And each of us four is full owner of all his prior ages. We four decided together for our paths. The existence of Greta doesn’t trouble me.”

  He looked as though he were going to respond tartly; then he closed his mouth. Comprehending what he had inhibited, she looked down, flushing.