No World of Their Own

by Poul Anderson

  He studied the girl, and she gave him a timid smile. No—not Peggy. The face and figure, yes, but no American woman had ever smiled in just that way—that particular curve of lips. She was a little taller, he saw, and did not walk like one born free. And the voice—

  “Where did you come from?” he asked, vaguely amazed at the levelness in his tone. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “I am a Class Eight slave, sir,” she answered, meekly but with no self-consciousness about it. “We are bred for intelligent, pleasant companionship. My age is twenty, and I am a virgin. The Lord Brannoch purchased me a few days ago, had surgical alterations and psychological conditioning performed, and sent me here as a gift to you. I am yours to command, sir.”

  “Anything goes, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.” There was a small flicker of fear in her eyes. Stories about perverted and sadistic owners must have run through the breeding and training centers. But he liked the game way she faced up to him.

  “Never mind,” he said. “I’m not going to do anything at all. You’re to go back to the Lord Brannoch and tell him that he’s a ring-tailed bastard who’s just wrecked any chance he ever had of getting my cooperation. You may quote me on that.”

  She flushed, and her eyes filmed with tears. At least she had pride—well, of course Brannoch would have known Langley wasn’t interested in a spiritless doll. It must have been an effort to control her reply: “Then you don’t want me, sir?”

  “Only to deliver that message. Get out.”

  She bowed and turned to go. Langley leaned against the wall, his fists knotted together. O. Peggy, Peggy, my darling!

  “Just a minute!” It was as if someone else had spoken. She stopped.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Tell me … what’ll happen to you now?”

  “I don’t know, sir. The Lord Brannoch may punish—” She shook her head with a queer, stubborn honesty that did not fit a slave. But Peggy had been that way too. “No, sir. He will realize I am not to blame. He may keep me for a while, or sell me to someone else. I don’t know.”

  Langley felt a thickness in his throat. Fat Minister Yulien, panting by this girl who looked like Peggy!

  “No.” He smiled; it hurt his mouth. “I’m sorry. You … startled me. Don’t go away. Sit down.”

  He found a chair for himself, and she curled slim legs beneath her to sit at his feet. He touched her head with great gentleness. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Lord Brannoch said you were a spaceman from very long ago who got lost and—I look like your wife, now. I suppose he used pictures to make the copy. He said he thought you’d like to have someone who looked like her.”

  “And what else? What were you supposed to do? Talk me into helping him? He wants my help in an important matter.”

  “No, sir.” She met his eyes steadily. “I was only to obey your wishes. It—” A tiny frown creased her brow, so much like Peggy’s that Langley felt his heart crack within him. “It may be he was relying on your gratitude.”

  “Fat chancel” Langley tried to think. It wasn’t like Brannoch, who must be a cynical realist, to assume that this would make the spaceman come slobbering to him. Or was it? Some traits of human nature had changed with the change in all society. Maybe a present-day Earthman would react like that.

  “Do you expect me to feel obligated to him?” he asked slowly.

  “No, sir. Why should you? I’m not a very expensive gift.”

  Langley wished for his old pipe. He’d have to have some tobacco cut for it special one of these days, he thought vaguely; nobody smoked pipes anymore. He stroked her bronze hair with a hand which the drug had again made steady.

  “Tell me something about yourself, Marin,” he said. “What sort of life did you lead?”

  She described it, competently, without resentment but not without humor. The center didn’t meet any of Langley’s preconceived notions. Far from being a place of lust, it sounded like a rather easy-going convent. There had been woods and fields to stroll in between the walls; there had been an excellent education; there had been no attempt—except for conditioning to acceptance of being property—to prevent each personality from growing its own way. But of course, those girls were meant for high-class concubines, something more than just a body.

  With the detachment lent him by the sedative, Langley perceived that Marin could be very useful to him. He asked her a few questions about history and current events, and she gave him intelligent answers. Maybe her knowledge could help him decide what to do.

  “Marin,” he asked dreamily, “have you ever ridden a horse?”

  “No, sir. I can pilot a car or flyer, but I was never on an animal. It would be fun to try.” She smiled, completely at ease now.

  “Look,” he said, “drop that superior pronoun and stop calling me ‘sir.’ My name’s Edward—plain Ed.”

  “Yes, sir—Edwy.” She frowned with a child-like seriousness. “I’ll try to remember. Excuse me if I forget. And in public, it would be better to stay by the usual rules.”

  “Okay. Now—” Langley couldn’t face the clear eyes. He stared out at the rain instead. “Would you like to be free?”

  “Sir?”

  “Ed, dammit! I suppose I can manumit you. Wouldn’t you like to be a free agent?”

  “It’s … very kind of you,” she replied slowly. “But—”

  “Well?”

  “But what could I do? I’d have to go to low-level, become a commoner’s wife or a servant or a prostitute. There isn’t any other choice.”

  “Nice system. Up here, you’re at least protected and among your intellectual equals. Okay, it was just a thought. Consider yourself part of the furniture.”

  She chuckled. “You’re … nice,” she said. “I was very lucky.”

  “Like hell you were. Look, I’m going to keep you around because I haven’t the heart to turn you out. But there may well be danger. I’m right in the middle of an interstellar poker game and—I’ll try to get you out from under if things go sour, but I may not be able to. Tell me honestly, can you face the prospect of getting killed or—or anything?”

  “Yes, Edwy. I’ve been trained into the habit of physical courage.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t talk that way,” he said gloomily. “But I suppose you can’t help it. People may still be the same underneath, but they think different on top. Well—”

  “What is your danger, Edwy? Can I help?” She laid a hand on his knee. It was a slim hand but with strong blunt fingers like—“I want to, I really do.”

  “Uh-uh.” He shook his head. “I’m not going to tell you more than I must, because if people realize you know anything you’ll become a poker chip too.” He had to use the English phrase. Only chess had survived of the games he knew, but she got the idea. “And don’t try to deduce things, either. I tell you, it’s dangerous.”

  There was no calculation in the way she got up and leaned over him and brushed his cheek with one hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It must be dreadful for you.”

  “I’ll survive. Let’s continue the roundup. I mean you well, but right now I’m under a sedative. It was a shock seeing you, and it’s going to go on being a shock for a while. Keep in the background, Marin; duck for cover if I start throwing things. Don’t try to be sympathetic. Just let me alone. Savvy?”

  She nodded mutely.

  In spite of the drug, his voice roughened. There was still a knife in him. “You can sleep in that room there. I like you, but I don’t want your pink body. Not—not the way things are.”

  “All right,” she said quietly. “I understand. If you change your mind, I’ll understand that too.” After a moment: “You could have my appearance altered again, you know.”

  He didn’t reply, but’ sat wondering. It was the logical answer.… No. He would always remember. He didn’t believe in hiding from a fact.

  Alone in his room, Langley donned pajamas, crawled into bed. Closing his eyes, he
tried to call up the image of Peggy. She was gone, she had died so long ago that the very blood of her was thinned through the entire race. Quite possibly everyone he had met, Chanthavar and Brannoch and Valti and Marin and Yulien and the faceless commoners huddled on low-level, stemmed from one unforgotten night with her. It was a strange thought. He wondered if she had married again; he hoped so, hoped that it had been a good man and that her life had been happy, but it wasn’t likely. She had been the sort who only gave herself once.

  He tried to see her before him, but it was hard to get a clear vision. Marin overlay it, they were like two pictures one on the other and not quite in line, the edges blurred. Peggy’s smile had never been just like what he saw now … or had it?

  It might have been hours later when he heard the explosion.

  He sat up in bed, staring blindly before him. That had been a blaster going off!

  Another crash sounded, and boots slammed on the floor. Langley jumped to his feet. Armed force—a real kidnap try this time, in spite of all guards! Another energy bolt flamed somewhere outside the room, and he heard a deep-voiced oath.

  He crouched against the farther wall, doubling his fists. No lights. If they were after him, let them find and haul him out.

  The tumult rolled somewhere in the living room. Then he heard Marin scream.

  He sprang for the door. “Open, goddam you!” It sensed him and dilated. A metal-clad arm slapped him back, down to the floor.

  “Stay where you are, sir.” It was a hoarse gasp out of the mask-like combat helmet. “They’ve broken in—”

  “Let me go!” Langley shoved against the gigantic form of the Solar cop. He was no match; the slave stood like a rock.

  “Sorry, sir, my orders—”

  A blue-white beam snapped across the field of view. Langley had a glimpse of a spacesuited figure hurtling out the smashed window, and Marin writhing in its arms. Other police were charging after it, firing wildly.

  Then, slowly, there was silence.

  The guard bowed. “They’re gone now, sir. Come on out if you wish.”

  Langley stepped into the shambles of his living room. There was a haze of smoke, burned plastic, the thin bitter reek of ozone. Furniture was trampled wreckage between the bulky, armored shapes which filled the chamber.

  “What happened?” he yelled. “In God’s name, what happened?”

  “Easy, sir.” The squad commander threw back his helmet; the shaven head looked tiny, poking out of the metal and fabric that encased his body. “You’re all right. Would you like a sedative?”

  “I asked you what happened!” Langely wanted to smash the impassive face. “Go on, tell me—I order you.”

  “Very good, sir. Two small, armed spaceships attacked us just outside.” The commander pointed to the sharded window. “While one engaged our boats, the other discharged several men in space armor with antigravity flying units, who broke into the suite. Some of them stood off our reinforcements coming through the door, one of them grabbed your slave. Then we rallied, more men came, and the enemy retreated. No casualties on either side, I believe. It was a very brief action. Luckily they failed to get you, sir.”

  “Who were they?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Their equipment was not standard for any known military or police force. I think one of our aircraft has slapped a tracer beam on them, but it can’t follow them outside the atmosphere and that’s doubtless where they’ll go. But relax, sir. You’re safe.”

  Yeah. Safe. Langley choked and turned away. He felt drained of strength.

  Chanthavar showed up within an hour. His face was carefully immobile as he surveyed the ruin. “They got away, all right,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter too much, since they failed.”

  “Who were they, do you know?” asked Langley dully.

  “No, I couldn’t say. Probably Centaurian, possibly Society. It’ll be investigated, of course.” Chanthavar struck a cigarette. “In a way, it’s a hopeful sign. When a spy resorts to strong-arm methods, he’s usually getting desperate.”

  “Look here.” Langley grabbed his arm. “You’ve got to find them. You’ve got to get that girl back.”

  Chanthavar drew hard on his cigarette, sucking in his cheeks till the high bones stood out. His eyes were speculative on the American. “So she means that much to you already?” he asked.

  “No! Well, damn it forever, it’s plain decency! You can’t let her be torn apart by them, looking for something she doesn’t know.”

  “She’s only a slave,” shrugged Chanthavar. “Apparently she was snatched impulsively when they were repelled from your quarters. It doesn’t mean a thing. I’ll give you a duplicate of her if it’s that important to you.”

  “No!”

  “All right, have it your way. But if you try to trade information for her—”

  “I won’t,” said Langley. His lie had become a mechanical reflex. “I haven’t anything to trade—not yet, anyway.”

  “I’ll do everything in my power,” said Chanthavar. He clapped Langley’s shoulder with a brief surprising friendliness. “Now back to bed for you. I prescribe twelve hours’ worth of sleep drug.”

  Langley took it without protest. It would be something to escape the sense of his own utter helplessness. He fell into an abyss without dreams, without memory.

  Waking, he found that repairs had been made while he slept; the fight last night might never have happened. Afternoon sunlight gleamed off the ships patrolling beyond his window.

  His mind gnawed the problem like a starving dog with an old bone from which all nourishment has gone. Marin … Because she had come near him, she was gone into darkness. Because she had been kind to him, she was given over to fear and captivity and torment.

  Was it only that she looked like Peggy? Was it herself? Was it the principle of the thing? Whatever the anguish in him derived from, it was there.

  He thought of calling Brannoch, calling Valti, throwing his accusation’ into their faces and—and what? They would deny it. Several times he called Chanthavar’s office, to be informed by a maddeningly polite secretary that he was out on business. He smoked endlessly, paced the floor, threw himself into a chair and got up again. Now and then he ran through his whole stock of curses and obscenities. None of it helped.

  Night came, and he drugged himself into another long sleep. Drugs might be the way he ended up—or suicide, quicker and cleaner. He thought of stepping out on his balcony and over the side. That would finish the whole mess. A well-designed robot would mop up his spattered remnants and for him this universe would no longer exist.

  In the afternoon, a call came. He sprang for the phone, stumbled, fell to the floor and got up swearing. The hand that switched it on shook uncontrollably.

  Chanthavar’s face smiled with an unusual warmth. “I’ve got good news for you, Captain,” he said. “We’ve found the girl.”

  Briefly, his mind would not accept it. The weary groove of futility was worn so deep that he could not climb out. He stared, open-mouthed, hearing the words as if from far away.

  “She was sitting on a bridgeway, rather dazed, when picked up. Post-anesthetic reaction. She’s coming out of it already. There was no deep mental probing done, I’m sure, perhaps only a mild narcosynthesis—No harm done at all that I can see. She’s been unconscious all the time. Doesn’t know a thing. I’m sending her over now.” Chanthavar grinned. “Enjoy yourself!”

  The impact trickled slowly through the barriers of craziness. Langley knelt, wanting to cry or pray or both. But nothing would come out. Then he began to laugh.

  The hysteria had faded by the time she entered. But it was the most natural thing in the world to embrace her. She held him close, shaking with reaction.

  Finally they sat together on a couch, holding hands. She told him what she could. “I was seized, carried into the ship. Someone pointed a stun gun at me and then there’s nothing more. The next thing I remember is sitting on the bridgeway bench, being carried along. I must
have been put onto it, led there in a sleepwalking state and left. I felt dizzy. Then a policeman came and took me to Minister Chanthavar’s office. He asked me questions, had me given a medical checkup, and said nothing seemed wrong. So he sent me back here.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Langley. “I don’t understand it at all.”

  “Minister Chanthavar said apparently I was taken on the chance I might be of value—when they failed to get you. I was kept unconscious so I wouldn’t be able to identify anybody, asked a few simple questions under narcosynthesis and released when it was clear I could be of no help.” She sighed, smiling a little tremulously at him. “I’m glad they let me go.” He knew she didn’t mean it only for herself.

  He swallowed the drink he had prepared and sat without speaking for a while. His mind felt oddly clarified, but the past hours of nightmare underlay it.

  So this was what it meant. This was what Sol and Centauri stood for: a heartless power game, where no one counted, no act was too vile. The moment one side felt it had an advantage, it would be on the other’s back, and the struggle would lay planets waste. This was what he was supposed to sanction.

  He still knew little about the Society; they were surely no collection of pure-minded altruists. But it did seem that they were neutral, that they had no lunacies about empire. Surely they knew more of the galaxy, had a better chance of finding him some young world where he could again be a man. His choice was clear. It would run him through a gamut of death, but there are worse things than extinction.

  He looked at the clean profile of the girl beside him. He wanted to ask her what she thought, what she desired. He hardly knew her at all. But he couldn’t, with the listening mechanical ears in the room. He would have to decide for her.

  She met his gaze with calm green eyes. “I wish you’d tell me what’s going on, Edwy,” she said. “I seem to be as exposed as you in any case, and I’d like to know.”

  He gave in and told her of Saris Hronna and the hunt for him. She grasped the idea at once, nodded without excitement, and refrained from asking him if he knew an answer or what he intended to do. “It is a very large thing,” she said.