Aquilon caught the hint and took hold of the little man's elbow. They moved out, following Veg's lead. The pace was slow - hardly two miles an hour, but Cal stumbled almost immediately. He had discarded the useless glasses, but that was only part of the problem; he could see well enough at intermediate range, and wouldn't need to read on the journey. Sweat beaded his brow as he struggled to advance, but it was evident that even this slow pace was too much for his wasted body.
The woman, half a head taller than he and heavier, put her arm around his waist firmly and half-lifted him, helping him forward. Cal grimaced at the pressure of her arm but did not speak. Veg, rifle ready and eyes scanning the trek facing them, tried not to look back, but he slowed his pace until a balance was struck.
Two hours later they hove in sight of a group of animals. 'Herbivores,' Veg said. 'No danger.'
'Food,' Aquilon said. 'Why don't we wait here while you bring back a small one? We could use the break.' She meant that Cal could use it, principally.
Veg started to say something, then changed his mind. She had forgotten; that was all. Still, he could bring back a live one for her.... He slung the pack to the ground and headed for the herd at a rapid pace, still wearing the rule.
Over twenty miles to go! He could make it so easily ... and so could Aquilon. But Cal-
The trouble was they could not do it at Cal's pace. That would take three days at least, with the frequent rests, and while they might last that long without food, the lack of water would bring them down. He was thirsty already, and there was only a quart bottle of sterile water, intended for first-aid use. They would drink that, of course - but for how long?
Sooner or later it would occur to Cal that he was impeding their chances. Then there would really be trouble. Veg had no intention of deserting his friend. He would simply have to carry him; maybe that way they could make good enough time. Aquilon could carry the pack. He'd have to strip it down, throw out everything they weren't sure they'd need....
He kicked at a football-sized fungus bulging out of a crevice in the dust. It held its ground and absorbed his boot spongily, almost tripping him. Veg cursed and recovered his balance, as angry at himself for taking out his passion on an innocuous living thing as at it for resisting the blow. There was transparent moisture dripping from his toe; he had wounded it after all. He went on, nagged by something but unable to place it, quite.
He approached the edge of the herd, not bothering to unstring the rifle. The peaceful herbivores of Nacre were common, and no threat to anyone. Their flesh was edible, but he did not propose to slaughter one, not even for Aquilon. She would have to do that herself - and he didn't think she would.
Like virtually all the animals here, these were one-legged. He could see several hopping about, covering two or three feet with each effort. Racers they were not; they did not travel much, and a herd migrated only gradually in much the same manner as a dune of sand: one particle at a tune. There were about fifty members here, and no more than half a dozen were moving, seeking fresher pasture at the forward edge. The others were grazing, their long pink breathing gills extending from the tops of their knoblike heads to give individuals a faintly rabbit appearance. The group, inspected as a whole, resembled a field of gently waving grain. He had heard that those gills extracted water, among other things, from the atmosphere; too bad human beings couldn't do that!
The herbivores came in all colors of gray and all sizes of medium and grew, as nearly as had been determined, for life. A few were taller than himself and somewhat more massive.
He stooped to pick up a medium-small representative that looked as though it weighed no more than fifty pounds. He had had contact with these creatures before, but had never quite overcome his amazement at the complete alienness of them.
He put his hands on this one's narrowest part, catching it just above the circular foot before it could realize what he was doing and hop away. He heaved. It came up easily, making no sound. The foot, splayed in a full circle to feed on the nutrient dust, flopped loosely as he lifted the creature into the air and held it before him.
The globular body rose in a hump like that of an octopus, and the single eye bulged placidly. The long breathing gill flowered at an angle now, an undulating mass of fine fibers.
The waving antenna brushed his face with a damp and gentle touch, and through it he saw Aquilon coming up to the herd. 'Your pet!' he shouted, knowing that the noise would not disturb these creatures; no animal so far discovered on Nacre made any vocal noise or possessed hearing apparatus. It was a silent planet - which, as Cal had pointed out, was strange, because the perpetual mist made sight a far less useful perception than it was elsewhere. The falling dust inhibited light and damped out beams and signals of any-
The distance between himself, and Aquilon had halved, and she was waving her arms and shouting. 'Veg! Behind you!'
He whirled, still holding the herbivore. Something bounded out of the herd, rising far too high to be a normal member of its company. Sleek and black, its body contrasted sharply with the gray shades of its neighbors, too. A great eye shone from the thing, unnaturally malignant and totally unlike the empty mirrors of the herbivores. It landed at the edge of the group nearest Veg and moved toward him, flattening into a suddenly familiar shape.
'The manta!' Aquilon screamed.
Veg dropped his burden and slid the rifle into one hand with an experienced twitch of the shoulder. This was the last thing he had expected, and he felt naked in the presence of such a menace. A race in the tractor had been one thing; but to meet it in the openThe heat chamber of his rifle flared as it built up pressure. His hands had been doing the right things automatically, as though they were more eager to kill than he was. It only took a few seconds for the steam to form - seconds that seemed very long, right now - but after that the rifle was good for service limited only by the aim of the marksman and the quantity of ammunition.
The manta came, shimmying toward the side, incredibly fast. Now he saw the whiplike tail, and with a sick insight he realized what that tail could do. He hadn't wanted to fire, but there was no longer a choice.
The steam hissed as he squeezed the trigger: once, twice. The manta came on, unhurt. Cursing, Veg ripped an explosive shell from the stock and clapped it into the auxiliary chamber. He held back another moment, however, despising the shell as, at best, unsporting.
The manta was little more than a thin line, head on, moving now at such a velocity that it was over Veg before he could aim properly the second time. It passed a foot above his head - but did not strike.
Now it landed between him and Aquilon, facing her. Veg saw her recoil in terror from its immense disk, she who had thought it so beautiful, with the trailing tail and the great eye that seemed to plummet through its entire length. It was after her!
Veg fired. This time the manta shook as the shell tore open its body. It spun, coalescing in mid-air, then fell heavily and moved no more.
He had killed it after all.
CHAPTER TWO - A JUG OF WINE
THE mountains gave way to the northern lakelands as Subble guided his flyer west, avoiding the crowded airspace above Appalachia. Then he cut south across the antipollutant smokestacks of the Midwest and angled on into the flat expanse of the intensive farmland beyond the Mississippi. Juggernauts trod along the endless plantations like mighty harvester ants, far too powerful to be challenged by barehanded man yet militant in the protection of the tenderest shoot of corn.
He drifted across the massed elevated pipelines of the rapidly depleting Oklahoma oilfields and landed at last upon one of the towering residentials just north of the Texas border. There was ample parking space on the broad asphalt roof of the address in his notes, and he taxied to the visitor's lot without event. A conveyor took him to the nearest elevator. The layout was standard, if unimaginative; so far everything was routine.
He stepped out on the twentieth floor down and navigated the cubistic maze until he found the proper apartment.
The door opened promptly to his summons and warm air puffed out. A strikingly beautiful woman stood before him, the image of the girl of Nacre come stunningly to life in the long skirts and low bodice of a pseudo-gypsy siren. Her long fair hair was carelessly looped in a crude knot, as though tied in a preoccupied hurry, but this could not detract appreciably from the classic lines of her face. She was blue-eyed and barefooted and gently smiling.
'You are-'
'Quilon,' she said immediately. 'Come in. I need you.'
Subble entered, picking up the spring essence of the simple perfume she wore. His perceptions told him that this woman was far more complicated and disturbed than Veg had seen her, but not dangerous in the physical sense. She was in many ways complimentary to the bluff, powerful vegetarian, and it was not strange that they were in love.
'I am-'
'One of those agents,' she said. She handed him a folded stack of material. 'Put this on, please.'
Subble withdrew to her tiny bedroom and changed, setting his inconspicuous trousers and jacket carefully upon her bed. He did not worry about the things she might discover therein; only a trained weaponist would recognize the subtle modifications in cloth and leather, and in any event he would keep alert.
She had provided him with an archaic, outlandish space costume of the type reputed to have been employed during the earliest days of space exploration: cumbersome, heavy cloth and a bulbous transparent helmet. This was a costume, however, and hardly mistakable for anything else; the cloth was porous and the helmet fashioned of fiberglass mesh.
'Good,' she said as he emerged. 'Now stand before that backdrop and look tired. You're supposed to be the second man on the moon, back in the 1970's, lost in the shadow fringe with the sun coming up. You have to find shelter in six hours or less or Sol will fry you. That's good.'
She had set up an easel and was half-hidden behind a large canvasboard. Her right hand flirted with color and image while her left guided him by signals into the exact posture she desired.
'Turn your handsome face away from me - down a little bend your knees - more - good. Hold it there,' she said. 'Now you can talk, or whatever it is you came to do, so long as you don't violate the pose.'
'You do commercial illustration,' Subble said, not moving.
'At the moment,' she agreed. 'But I paint all the time, whether I expect to be paid for it in money or not.'
'You receive payment other than money?' Though she had positioned him so that he could not watch her now, his ears and nostrils kept him informed of her exact position and mood. Her breathing was slightly irregular, her heartbeat accelerated, and the perfume could not conceal the odors of nervousness emanating from her. She was not nearly as sure of herself as she wanted him to believe.
'The best,' she said. 'Peace of mind.' But she was far from such reward at the moment. 'What do you want with me?'
'I'm not certain.'
She laughed. 'It is a strange man who says that to me! But that's right - they make you learn everything for yourself, don't they? To keep you on your ... toes. I should think that would be dangerous, though.'
'We are equipped for it.'
She was more at ease now, as though she had scored a point. 'I can see that. You hold that pose as though you're a statue. Not even a quiver. It takes a very special control to do that. But suppose someone simply refused to talk to you?'
'I can still learn much of what I need to. But I'd much prefer to have cooperation.'
She was nervous again. 'Change into this,' she said, bringing him another costume.
Subble returned to her room and switched outfits. He noted that she had none of her own paintings on display here, and nowhere were there any depicting Nacre.
The new costume was a conservative twentieth-century business suit, the sole incongruous note a bright campaign button pinned to the right lapel proclaiming LET'S BACK JACK!
Aquilon had also changed, and stood in a head-to-toe scuba-diving rig that appeared to be genuine. The clinging rubberized suit displayed a figure that required no enhancement. She was one of the healthiest, loveliest women of the times, judged by his objective standards. It was unusual for such a creature to bury herself alone.
'This is for a period "confession" reprint,' she said. 'You just stand there full-face and look interested, as though about to fall desperately in love with a sweet girl. No, not lascivious. Interested. You see her as the ideal homemaker, wife and - No.' She tucked her brush behind her right ear and stepped from behind the canvasboard. 'Look at me. I am the future mother of your children.but you aren't in love with me yet. It's all potential. Raise your eyebrows a little, put one hand searchingly forward, fingers curved but relaxed, your weight on the balls of your feet but a trifle overbalanced as though you are about to take a step. Yes.' She took a breath which further defined her remarkable bosom. 'Now imagine me in a kitchen apron, ironing your shirts. This is 1960, you know; everything has to be ironed. It all has to show on your face, right down to the year and the season. Spring, of course. You know what they say: the desire of the man is for the woman, but the desire of the woman is for the desire of the man. But it has to be clean desire. This is a clean publication. You have to be the type of man whose desire the nice girl desires, if you see what I mean. There! Hold that expression.'
She painted industriously. 'Now show me how you're going to get information from an uncooperative client,' she said, her voice suddenly drained of animation. She, like Veg, demanded personal proof.
Subble watched her and discovered the trap. The board concealed the main portion of her torso, so that he could not directly observe the variations in her breathing and posture, and the opaque suit covered possible skin flushes and minute muscular reactions, as well as sealing in bodily odors. She lowered a tinted plastic face mask and breathed through a functioning oxygen system, so that there were no hints there either. He could still see her face - but it was as expressionless as a photograph.
Aquilon knew about special agents.
'Very nice,' he said. 'But the very fact you can turn off
your facial animation gives me a starting point, and even if I had no other sources I could learn much by studying your apartment. If the need were urgent, I could strip you and so reestablish the physical signals. That would be interesting enough - they'd have to assign the competition handicaps if you entered a beauty contest. But I repeat: I want only what you will give me freely.'
She lifted the mask. 'Information, you mean.'
'Certainly.'
'I wonder. Is it true that you are wiped out after each mission?'
'It is true.'
'Isn't that like dying?'
'No. It's like freedom from dying.'
She shuddered expressively, no longer bothering to control her physical reactions. 'Why? I mean, what harm can a few memories do?'
'A great deal. The point is that we are virtually alike every single agent - except for slight superficial variations in skin color, weight, fingerprints, and so on. That's to avoid the appearance of duplication and lessen notoriety. We are almost identical where it counts, in mind, physique and training. If an agent were permitted to retain individual experiences, he would shortly become an individual, and the objectivity of uniformity would be sacrificed.'
'But some memories might help you do the next job better.'
'Such memories are erased from the individuals, then implanted uniformly in the entire corps.'
She flushed. 'You mean if the computer thought you should remember me it would put me in thousands of minds? And every single agent in the world would know where I lived and... everything?'
He smiled reassuringly. 'It could-'
'That's it! That's the expression.'
He held it while she completed her portrait, then went on. 'The computer could spread you across the globe, but it is unlikely that it would deem so unusual a woman as yourself to be suitable material for that. You can safely assume that our personal relationship is private.'
'I'll have to,' she muttered. 'Change again.'
This time it was a scant jungle-man costume, hardly more than a loin cloth. He had to dangle from a fixture set in the ceiling, by one hand, while holding aloft a papier-mache 'club' with the other. Aquilon had also changed again, to an Asiatic toga.
Try to look as though you're swinging on a vine,' she said. Then, as an afterthought: 'You do have nice musculature.'
'All part of the specifications, ma'am.'
She painted. 'Do they let you live between assignments? Or is it all work and no play?'
'We are given breaks after completing each mission,' Subble said. 'There are generally a number of agents of both sexes in the termination pool. But we live, as you put it, all the time. We encounter some fascinating people in the line of duty.' He was still hanging.
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