The Earth Lords

by Gordon R. Dickson

  After a moment he added—

  “Besides, I kind of like you. You ain’t the type.”

  He took a deep drink from his latest glass of beer and sat back in the booth.

  “Go on,” he said, “tell me. I asked you why you were so interested in the Hybrids, anyway?”

  “It’s just that I don’t see their place in the scheme of things, here,” answered Bart. But his mind was already off and galloping down a new line of thought. If he could pass for a Hybrid, that fact might open up a whole new world of possibilities. “What do you mean, the Lords don’t even let their own people out until they’re older than I am now? Out, for what?”

  Paolo frowned.

  “How would I know what for? Some Lord business that means one of them has to go above ground to do it. All I know is, there’s some Lords who suddenly just aren’t here anymore, and later on word comes they left. Most of them come back in a few months.

  But some don’t come back at all—or don’t come back for longer than it’s been since I was brought back to life.”

  “It could be some of them never come back because some accident kills them—or something like that,” Bart said, as much to himself as to Paolo.

  “Not likely. I suppose it could happen, though,” said Paolo. “What do you want to know that for?”

  “I just wondered why nobody above ground I met ever seemed to have heard of anyone like a Lord. Some ordinary people must know about them. They have to be seen sometimes by people who don’t know them.”

  “They don’t look that different from ordinary people,” said Paolo. “Just small, that’s all.”

  But Bart’s real reason for the question had been entirely different. He was thinking now that without even wandering too far from the truth, he might be able to make the Lords believe that he was the son of a Lord who had gone out into the ordinary world and sired a child by an ordinary woman. A son who had never known the truth about his father until he had seen other Lords down here.

  His father had been small enough to be a Lord—a somewhat large one, but a Lord; although from what Bart had seen of the rulers of this underground kingdom, Lionel Dybig could never have been one of them. His father’s character had been too free-thinking and honest to let him belong to a society like this one.

  Bart felt a twinge of guilt, remembering how in spite of the language, literature and science that his father had tutored him in, he had been more drawn by the almost lawless life of the métis fur traders in the open woods. He had hidden the attraction he felt for that part of his life from his father; but he was not sure that the older man had not sensed it in him, after all. His attention came back to Paolo, who was talking.

  “. . . But maybe some do die up there,” Paolo was saying. “What’s that to do with anything? Anyway, whatever they do above ground’s no business of slaves like us, even if we are Steeds. You’ll do better to leave the Lords to their own business. Yes, and the Hybrids, too . . .”

  He went on. The effect of the alcohol on him was now plain and he was not shamming. He ran on, and Bart let him run for a while, before bringing him back to their dormitory.

  Paolo seemed, thereafter, to have decided that Bart was his particular friend; and he sought Bart out at times for a drinking companion—not minding that Bart generally only went through the motions with his glasses.

  Several nights later, Bart, at the end of an easy evening, brought up the other subject that was always in his mind.

  “There’s a female slave down here who’s an old friend, since we were children together,” Bart said to the dormitory Leader. “How would I go about finding her?”

  “Finding her?” Paolo squinted at him. “Female slave? Your woman when you were alive?”

  “No,” said Bart. “Just a very old friend. I’d like to find her. How do I go about it?”

  Paolo frowned at him for a second, then turned to beckon the waiter.

  “Lorena here?” Paolo asked.

  “I don’t know.” The waiter’s manner was apologetic.

  “Go look.”

  The waiter went off.

  “Who’s Lorena?” Bart asked.

  “Slave I know,” grunted Paolo.

  It was only a few minutes before the waiter came back with a tall, thin young woman who looked as if a little more flesh and a good deal more happiness might have turned her into someone more than usually pretty. But as it was, she looked gaunt, harried and weary.

  “Did you want me, Paolo?” she asked, coming up to the booth. The waiter faded away behind her to his position across the room.

  “Sit down,” said Paolo. She slid onto the seat of the booth beside him. “Lorena, this is one of my dormitory—his name’s Bart Dybig.”

  Lorena smiled at Bart. It was a mechanical, almost pathetic smile that expected anything but had no hope that whatever it might be would be anything she would welcome.

  “Hello, Lorena,” said Bart.

  His own voice was automatically gentle, as it might have been to some small, wild animal trapped by accident. Lorena’s smile changed and became, while still wary, genuine.

  “Bart wants to find one of the female slaves,” Paolo said. “She’ll be new reborn, like he is. Tell Lorena what this woman of yours looks like, Bart.”

  “Her name’s Emma Robeson,” said Bart. “She’s Scot by breeding, just a few inches over five feet tall, with straight blond hair, white skin and blue eyes. She’s got . . . .“He searched for the proper word. “. . . . very peaceful face. Once you see her, you’ll always recognize her again; because that face of hers looks as if nothing could ever touch her.”

  Paolo grunted.

  “Death did,” he said.

  “Death—” Bart checked the angry answer that sprang up in him. This was no time to argue with Paolo, or with anyone else, that he did not in the least believe they had ever died and been brought back to life by the Lords.

  “If you can find her,” he went on to Lorena, “tell her Bart Dybig’s down here, too; and I want to see her. Here, would be a good place for her to meet me, wouldn’t it?”

  He turned to put the last sentence as a question to Paolo.

  “Sure. Here’s the place to meet anyone,” said Paolo. “Any slave, that is.”

  He laughed shortly, and not happily.

  “Hybrids and Lords—those you don’t need to meet anyway,” he said. “They’ve got their own places and they call you to them. They don’t meet with slaves.”

  It occurred to Bart that, considering the fact that Arthur Robeson had been working with the Scottites, his activities might have given not only him but his sister some form of preference here in the Inner World—depending on exactly what the Scottites had to do with all this—so that they might be classed with the Hybrids, rather than as slaves—

  For a moment a wild new thought crossed his mind. But then he shook his head, mentally dismissing it. Neither Emma nor Arthur could possibly be born Hybrids. There was nothing about them in the way of physical characteristics that would identify them as progeny of this race that called itself Lords. Besides, what he and his father had known of their parents’ history above ground—no, it was impossible that they were Hybrids. But maybe it was possible to be given something like a courtesy ranking as a Hybrid.

  He hesitated, on the brink of asking Paolo if such courtesy rankings existed. Then he decided not to ask. The caution built up in him by his childhood, the years of the Rebellion, and everything that had happened to him since, checked him. It was always wise to give away as little information about yourself and your interests as possible, no matter with whom you were dealing.

  “How are you going to go about finding her?” he asked Lorena.

  “I’ll just start asking around,” said Lorena. “Sooner or later word’ll get back to me of someone who’s seen somebody like that.”

  “Don’t mention my name,” said’ Paolo suddenly. “Or his. I don’t want anything personal like this connected with the dormitory. You never
know how the Lords and the Hybrids’ll act, if they hear one of us is looking for some particular one of their slaves. They may want to know why; and maybe even figure something they don’t like is going on.”

  He looked at Bart almost suspiciously.

  “There’s nothing special about this Emma Robeson?” he asked.

  Bart met his eyes squarely.

  “She’s just a childhood friend. Just what I told you,” he said. “I like her and want to be sure she’s all right. That’s all.”

  “How’d she end up down here?”

  “I don’t know,” said Bart. It was only a half-lie. “All I know is, I saw her being taken down the tunnel of the mine toward the entrance to the Inner World. She didn’t see me. No one with her did. They had light, but I was a good ways off from them and in the dark.”

  “How’d you get around in that mine in the dark?” Paolo asked.

  “I counted steps and turnings while I was being taken to and from work with the gang I was chained in,” answered Bart. “Bit by bit, I got to know most of the mine.”

  Paolo stared at him, more than a little drunkenly.

  “You must be pretty good with your sense of direction,” he said. “I was in that mine too, for a few weeks, like I said; but I never could’ve found my way about it without a light.”

  “I grew up finding my way through the woods on dark nights,” said Bart. Their eyes locked again for a moment before Paolo looked away.

  “Well . . . ,” he said. He turned to Lorena, reached out and patted her clumsily on the head.

  “You’re a good woman,” he muttered.

  Lorena flashed a smile at him; and this time, Bart saw, it was a smile of pure affection. Then she got up from the booth.

  “I’ll go start asking,” Lorena said. “Don’t worry. I’ll just sneak it into the talk; and I’ll say it’s me that wants her, that she owes me something from the time we were both alive together; and now that I’ve got her down here, I just want to make sure she pays up.”

  “How could someone pay a debt down here?” Bart asked as he watched her retreating back. “There’s no money, is there?”

  “No, all that ends when you die, right?” The other laughed a bit grimly. “No, down here you pay off with favors, taking duties if that’s allowed—like that.” He was watching Lorena leave, too.

  She went out of the room, and through the space she had vacated Bart now saw, near the doorway, the unmistakable figure of Chandt, standing gracefully balanced on the balls of his feet, his hands on his hips, looking over those in the booths and at the tables of this particular cranny of the slaves’ recreational area. Like all the Steeds, including Bart and Paolo, he was now wearing a shirt; but his manner made it clear who he was.

  “Wonder how long he’s been there?” Paolo muttered. At the same time he was waving his arm over his head to attract Chandt’s attention. Chandt’s head turned. His eyes looked at them and he started in their direction, moving fluidly.

  “That’s one you’d better never try to whip, Bart,” said Paolo under his breath, as the Leader of All the Steeds made his winding way among the tables intervening, toward them. “He’s got devil-tricks I think the Lords must have taught him, so that no one could ever push him aside as the Master of us all. No one stands a chance against Chandt.”

  Chandt had reached them. He sat down on Paolo’s side of the booth without waiting to be asked. His black eyes focused on Bart.

  “You’re ordered to the home of the Lord Librarian,” he said. “Now. Immediately.”

  “Now? But I just got back a little bit ago—”

  “That’s the way it is, boy,” Paolo interrupted him. “Twenty-four hours a day we’re on call, all of us, by our riders.”

  The dormitory head looked at Chandt, however.

  “Did they send someone to guide him over there?”

  “There’s a slave from the Lord Librarian’s household waiting out at the front entrance,” Chandt said. “He told me he guided you back to the dormitory a few days ago, Bart Dybig, and you’d recognize him. I left him there, because our Steeds have a reputation to live up to. If you’d been drunk, I’d have had to sober you up before I let you go to him.”

  “You’ll never need to sober me up,” said Bart—and felt Paolo’s knee press suddenly, warningly against his under the table. Ignoring the pressure, Bart kept his eyes fixed directly on Chandt’s.

  “So much the better,” said Chandt. His expression had not changed. “Leave your shirt here. Go, now.”

  Bart stood up, took off his shirt, and left, leaving the other two behind him. At the entrance to the slave’s recreation area, he found Jon Swenson, now wearing a different sort of short toga, belted at the waist, of gold and silver cloth.

  “Oh, there you are!” said Jon on catching sight of Bart. “Are you all right?”

  “Right? Of course I’m all right,” said Bart.

  Jon came close and stuck his face up toward Bart’s.

  “You do smell of alcohol,” he said, “but not too much. You say you’re not drunk?”

  “I’m not drunk,” said Bart. “Or anywhere near it.”

  “Do you drink heavily on occasion?” asked Jon. “You might as well tell me now, if you do. That’s the sort of question the Lord and the Lord Lady are going to be asking you when we get there.”

  Bart set aside in his mind a few occasions at gatherings of the fur traders and holidays. These had been during times of his youth. He would not be doing that again.

  “Never,” he said.

  “I hope you’re telling the truth—for your sake,” said Jon. “Let’s go.”

  They moved off together down one of the long underground corridors.

  “And why do you hope for my sake I’m telling the truth?” asked Bart, looking down at the younger man, who seemed to have put on an aura of importance with his gold and silver toga.

  “Well, because the standards for a house slave’s so much higher than the standards for a work place one,” said Jon. “I’m both, you see.”

  It seemed to Bart that the younger man strutted a little.

  “Yes,” said Bart.

  “The Lord and his Lady want you to be able to run errands between the Library and their home, sometimes when the Lord’s in his office at the Library,” said Jon. “So, of course they want to look you over and decide if you’ll do for the house end of things.”

  “I see,” said Bart. It had not occurred to him before that a higher standard might be set on those slaves that had duties in the homes of the Heads. But it made sense. Theoretically, their little overlords could be more vulnerable to those who had the freedom of their living quarters than to those who simply had the freedom of the area in which the upper class worked.

  He filed the information in his memory. His father had been fond of saying that any piece of information would be useful sooner or later; and Bart had found the statement true many times over.

  He thought again about Lords leaving the Inner World for times of various lengths; and the chance that he might be able to get away with passing himself off as a Hybrid.

  As he had been thinking since his talk with Paolo a few days ago, Lionel Dybig had been small enough, certainly intelligent enough, and different enough from ordinary men that he ought to be picturable as a Lord. Bart would simply have to claim that he had barely met his father before the older man’s death, so that his memory of him was limited and hazy.

  All the rest of Bart’s life story, including his Cree mother and his growing under the conditions of the Riel rebellion, could be acceptable as the story of a young Hybrid who had grown up thinking himself an ordinary human.

  But it would still be wise to go carefully with the story. The Lords must have records, let alone memories of those of their own kind who had gone out into the upper world and never returned. Bart could claim ignorance of his father’s true identity; but he would be wise if he could, to discover the identity of some actual Lord who had gone out and never come
back; and whose character, appearance and time of going could be fitted in with Bart’s sketchy “memory” of his father.

  Where to get such information?

  The Lords themselves were not likely simply to answer questions from him. One or more of the Hybrids might know; but as a slave he was no more in a position to chat with Hybrids than he was with Lords.

  Arid the slaves would not know. The Lords would have made sure that the slaves did not know; if necessary changing those on duty near the exit point into the mine, or even—from what he had seen of this place, and the mine before it—killing them off to make sure they would never suspect what they should not know, or tell what they had seen.

  So, there was no person who could tell him the name of some Lord who had gone away into the upper world and never returned, and was almost undoubtedly dead by this time. A Lord who not only fulfilled those requirements, but had gone out at a time that would precede the time of Bart’s own birth, and possibly match the place of it.

  There remained the Library. He would be taking Pier Guettrig there daily. The Lords must keep records—where more likely for those records to be kept than in the Library?

  But it would probably not be easy to find the records he wanted. The Lords would hardly advertise their location by making their keeping place easily visible and identifiable. Probably the best way for Bart to discover where they were kept would be to wait until one of the Lords came in who wanted to consult them; and by following him or her, to find out where that was. There was no way to tell how often such might come about.

  Moreover, it would hardly be possible, let alone practical, for him to follow every Lord who came into the Library. What he needed was some way of recognizing a Lord who was there for the purpose of dealing with the records Bart wanted to find. Offhand, he could not think of one.

  He felt frustrated.

  If he could only really understand that private language of theirs, it would be a simple matter of listening when the Lords came in and spoke to the slaves on duty at the desk. The kind of records Bart was looking for would probably require at least the permission of Charles Mordaunt, the Hybrid who was Assistant Librarian, to be looked at. They might require even the permission of Pier Guettrig, himself, and if Bart could only overhear and understand the conversation between the visiting Lord or Lady and Guettrig, he would find out where to look, or at least learn enough to follow the visitor to the place where the records were kept.