Doctor Hauserman had gotten his pen out of his pocket and was signing the commitment form with one hand; with the other, he pressed a button on the desk. A door at the rear opened, and a large young man in a white jacket entered.
“You’ll have to go away for a while, Professor,” Hauserman was telling him, much later, after he had allowed himself to become calm again. “For how long, I don’t know. Maybe a year or so.”
“You mean to Northern State Mental?”
“Well.… Yes, Professor. You’ve had a bad crack-up. I don’t suppose you realize how bad. You’ve been working too hard; harder than your nervous system could stand. It’s been too much for you.”
“You mean, I’m nuts?”
“Please, Professor. I deplore that sort of terminology. You’ve had a severe psychological breakdown.…”
“Will I be able to have books, and papers, and work a little? I couldn’t bear the prospect of complete idleness.”
“That would be all right, if you didn’t work too hard.”
“And could I say good-bye to some of my friends?”
Hauserman nodded and asked, “Who?”
“Well, Professor Pottgeiter.…”
“He’s outside now. He was inquiring about you.”
“And Stanly Weill, my attorney. Not business; just to say good-bye.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Professor. He’s not in town, now. He left almost immediately after.… After.…”
“After he found out I was crazy for sure? Where’d he go?”
“To Reno; he took the plane at five o’clock.”
Weill wouldn’t have believed, anyhow; no use trying to blame himself for that. But he was as sure that he would never see Stanly Weill alive again as he was that the next morning the sun would rise. He nodded impassively.
“Sorry he couldn’t stay. Can I see Max Pottgeiter alone?”
“Yes, of course, Professor.”
Old Pottgeiter came in, his face anguished. “Ed! It isn’t true,” he stammered. “I won’t believe that it’s true.”
“What, Max?”
“That you’re crazy. Nobody can make me believe that.”
He put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Confidentially, Max, neither do I. But don’t tell anybody I’m not. It’s a secret.”
Pottgeiter looked troubled. For a moment, he seemed to be wondering if he mightn’t be wrong and Hauserman and Whitburn and the others right.
“Max, do you believe in me?” he asked. “Do you believe that I knew about Khalid’s assassination a month before it happened?”
“It’s a horribly hard thing to believe,” Pottgeiter admitted. “But, dammit, Ed, you did! I know, medieval history is full of stories about prophecies being fulfilled. I always thought those stories were just legends that grew up after the event. And, of course, he’s about a century late for me, but there was Nostradamus. Maybe those old prophecies weren’t just ex post facto legends, after all. Yes. After Khalid, I’ll believe that.”
“All right. I’m saying, now, that in a few days there’ll be a bad explosion at Reno, Nevada. Watch the papers and the telecast for it. If it happens, that ought to prove it. And you remember what I told you about the Turks annexing Syria and Lebanon?” The old man nodded. “When that happens, get away from Blanley. Come up to the town where Northern State Mental Hospital is, and get yourself a place to live, and stay there. And try to bring Marjorie Fenner along with you. Will you do that, Max?”
“If you say so.” His eyes widened. “Something bad’s going to happen here?”
“Yes, Max. Something very bad. You promise me you will?”
“Of course, Ed. You know, you’re the only friend I have around here. You and Marjorie. I’ll come, and bring her along.”
“Here’s the key to my apartment.” He got it from his pocket and gave it to Pottgeiter, with instructions. “Everything in the filing cabinet on the left of my desk. And don’t let anybody else see any of it. Keep it safe for me.”
The large young man in the white coat entered.
THE KEEPER (1957)
When he heard the deer crashing through brush and scuffling the dead leaves, he stopped and stood motionless in the path. He watched them bolt down the slope from the right and cross in front of him, wishing he had the rifle, and when the last white tail vanished in the gray-brown woods he drove the spike of the ice-staff into the stiffening ground and took both hands to shift the weight of the pack. If he’d had the rifle, he could have shot only one of them. As it was, they were unfrightened, and he knew where to find them in the morning.
Ahead, to the west and north, low clouds massed; the white front of the Ice-Father loomed clear and sharp between them and the blue of the distant forests. It would snow, tonight. If it stopped at daybreak, he would have good tracking, and in any case, it would be easier to get the carcasses home over snow. He wrenched loose the ice-staff and started forward again, following the path that wound between and among and over the irregular mounds and hillocks. It was still an hour’s walk to Keeper’s House, and the daylight was fading rapidly.
Sometimes, when he was not so weary and in so much haste, he would loiter here, wondering about the ancient buildings and the long-vanished people who had raised them. There had been no woods at all, then; nothing but great houses like mountains, piling up toward the sky, and the valley where he meant to hunt tomorrow had been an arm of the sea that was now a three days’ foot-journey away. Some said that the cities had been destroyed and the people killed in wars—big wars, not squabbles like the fights between sealing-companies from different villages. He didn’t think so, himself. It was more likely that they had all left their homes and gone away in starships when the Ice-Father had been born and started pushing down out of the north. There had been many starships, then. When he had been a boy, the old men had talked about a long-ago time when there had been hundreds of them visible in the sky, every morning and evening. But that had been long ago indeed. Starships came but seldom to this world, now. This world was old and lonely and poor. Like poor lonely old Raud the Keeper.
He felt angry to find himself thinking like that. Never pity yourself, Raud; be proud. That was what his father had always taught him: “Be proud, for you are the Keeper’s son, and when I am gone, you will be the Keeper after me. But in your pride, be humble, for what you will keep is the Crown.”
The thought of the Crown, never entirely absent from his mind, wakened the anxiety that always slept lightly if at all. He had been away all day, and there were so many things that could happen. The path seemed longer, after that; the landmarks farther apart. Finally, he came out on the edge of the steep bank, and looked down across the brook to the familiar low windowless walls and sharp-ridged roof of Keeper’s House; and when he came, at last, to the door, and pulled the latchstring, he heard the dogs inside—the soft, coughing bark of Brave, and the anxious little whimper of Bold—and he knew that there was nothing wrong in Keeper’s House.
The room inside was lighted by a fist-sized chunk of lumicon, hung in a net bag of thongs from the rafter over the table. It was old—cast off by some rich Southron as past its best brilliance, it had been old when he had bought it from Yorn Nazvik the Trader, and that had been years ago. Now its light was as dim and yellow as firelight. He’d have to replace it soon, but this trip he had needed new cartridges for the big rifle. A man could live in darkness more easily than he could live without cartridges.
The big black dogs were rising from their bed of deerskins on the stone slab that covered the crypt in the far corner. They did not come to meet him, but stayed in their place of trust, greeting him with anxious, eager little sounds.
“Good boys,” he said. “Good dog, Brave; good dog, Bold. Old Keeper’s home again. Hungry?”
They recognized that word, and whined. He hung up the ice-staff on the pegs by the door, then squatted and got his arms out of the pack-straps.
“Just a little now; wait a little,” he told the dogs. “Keeper’
ll get something for you.”
He unhooked the net bag that held the lumicon and went to the ladder, climbing to the loft between the stone ceiling and the steep snow-shed roof; he cut down two big chunks of smoked wild-ox beef—the dogs liked that better than smoked venison—and climbed down.
He tossed one chunk up against the ceiling, at the same time shouting: “Bold! Catch!” Bold leaped forward, sinking his teeth into the meat as it was still falling, shaking and mauling it. Brave, still on the crypt-slab, was quivering with hunger and eagerness, but he remained in place until the second chunk was tossed and he was ordered to take it. Then he, too, leaped and caught it, savaging it in mimicry of a kill. For a while, he stood watching them growl and snarl and tear their meat, great beasts whose shoulders came above his own waist. While they lived to guard it, the Crown was safe. Then he crossed to the hearth, scraped away the covering ashes, piled on kindling and logs and fanned the fire alight. He lifted the pack to the table and unlaced the deerskin cover.
Cartridges in plastic boxes of twenty, long and thick; shot for the duck-gun, and powder and lead and cartridge-primers; fills for the fire-lighter; salt; needles; a new file. And the deerskin bag of trade-tokens. He emptied them on the table and counted them—tokens, and half-tokens and five-tokens, and even one ten-token. There were always less in the bag, after each trip to the village. The Southrons paid less and less, each year, for furs and skins, and asked more and more for what they had to sell.
He put away the things he had brought from the village, and was considering whether to open the crypt now and replace the bag of tokens, when the dogs stiffened, looking at the door. They got to their feet, neck-hairs bristling, as the knocking began.
He tossed the token-bag onto the mantel and went to the door, the dogs following and standing ready as he opened it.
The snow had started, and now the ground was white except under the evergreens. Three men stood outside the door, and over their shoulders he could see an airboat grounded in the clearing in front of the house.
“You are honored, Raud Keeper,” one of them began. “Here are strangers who have come to talk to you. Strangers from the Stars!”
He recognized the speaker, in sealskin boots and deerskin trousers and hooded overshirt like his own—Vahr Farg’s son, one of the village people. His father was dead, and his woman was the daughter of Gorth Sledmaker, and he was a house-dweller with his woman’s father. A worthless youth, lazy and stupid and said to be a coward. Still, guests were guests, even when brought by the likes of Vahr Farg’s son. He looked again at the airboat, and remembered seeing it, that day, made fast to the top-deck of Yorn Nazvik’s trading-ship, the Issa.
“Enter and be welcome; the house is yours, and all in it that is mine to give.” He turned to the dogs. “Brave, Bold; go watch.”
Obediently, they trotted over to the crypt and lay down. He stood aside; Vahr entered, standing aside also, as though he were the host, inviting his companions in. They wore heavy garments of woven cloth and boots of tanned leather with hard heels and stiff soles, and as they came in, each unbuckled and laid aside a belt with a holstered negatron pistol. One was stocky and broad-shouldered, with red hair; the other was slender, dark haired and dark eyed, with a face as smooth as a woman’s. Everybody in the village had wondered about them. They were not of Yorn Nazvik’s crew, but passengers on the Issa.
“These are Empire people, from the Far Stars,” Vahr informed him, naming their names. Long names, which meant nothing; certainly they were not names the Southrons from the Warm Seas bore. “And this is Raud the Keeper, with whom your honors wish to speak.”
“Keeper’s House is honored. I’m sorry that I have not food prepared; if you can excuse me while I make some ready.…”
“You think these noblemen from the Stars would eat your swill?” Vahr hooted. “Crazy old fool, these are—”
The slim man pivoted on his heel; his open hand caught Vahr just below the ear and knocked him sprawling. It must have been some kind of trick-blow. That or else the slim stranger was stronger than he looked.
“Hold your miserable tongue!” he told Vahr, who was getting to his feet. “We’re guests of Raud the Keeper, and we’ll not have him insulted in his own house by a cur like you!”
The man with red hair turned. “I am ashamed. We should not have brought this into your house; we should have left it outside.” He spoke the Northland language well, “It will honor us to share your food, Keeper.”
“Yes, and see here,” the younger man said, “we didn’t know you’d be alone. Let us help you. Dranigo’s a fine cook, and I’m not bad, myself.”
He started to protest, then let them have their way. After all, a guest’s women helped the woman of the house, and as there was no woman in Keeper’s House, it was not unfitting for them to help him.
“Your friend’s name is Dranigo?” he asked. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch yours.”
“I don’t wonder; fool mouthed it so badly I couldn’t understand it myself. It’s Salvadro.”
They fell to work with him, laying out eating-tools—there were just enough to go around—and hunting for dishes, of which there were not. Salvadro saved that situation by going out and bringing some in from the airboat. He must have realized that the lumicon over the table was the only light beside the fire in the house, for he was carrying a globe of the luminous plastic with him when he came in, grumbling about how dark it had gotten outside. It was new and brilliant, and the light hurt Raud’s eyes, at first.
“Are you truly from the Stars?” he asked, after the food was on the table and they had begun to eat. “Neither I nor any in the village have seen anybody from the Stars before.”
The big man with the red hair nodded. “Yes. We are from Dremna.”
Why, Dremna was the Great World, at the middle of everything! Dremna was the Empire. People from Dremna came to the cities of Awster and fabulous Antark as Southron traders from the Warm Seas came to the villages of the Northfolk. He stammered something about that.
“Yes. You see, we.…” Dranigo began. “I don’t know the word for it, in your language, but we’re people whose work it is to learn things. Not from other people or from books, but new things, that nobody else knows. We came here to learn about the long-ago times on this world, like the great city that was here and is now mounds of stone and earth. Then, when we go back to Dremna, we will tell other people what we have found out.”
Vahr Farg’s son, having eaten his fill, was fidgeting on his stool, looking contemptuously at the strangers and their host. He thought they were fools to waste time learning about people who had died long ago. So he thought the Keeper was a fool, to guard a worthless old piece of junk.
Raud hesitated for a moment, then said: “I have a very ancient thing, here in this house. It was worn, long ago, by great kings. Their names, and the name of their people, are lost, but the Crown remains. It was left to me as a trust by my father, who was Keeper before me and to whom it was left by his father, who was Keeper in his time. Have you heard of it?”
Dranigo nodded. “We heard of it, first of all, on Dremna,” he said. “The Empire has a Space Navy base, and observatories and relay stations, on this planet. Space Navy officers who had been here brought the story back; they heard it from traders from the Warm Seas, who must have gotten it from people like Yorn Nazvik. Would you show it to us, Keeper? It was to see the Crown that we came here.”
Raud got to his feet, and saw, as he unhooked the lumicon, that he was trembling. “Yes, of course. It is an honor. It is an ancient and wonderful thing, but I never thought that it was known on Dremna.” He hastened across to the crypt.
The dogs looked up as he approached. They knew that he wanted to lift the cover, but they were comfortable and had to be coaxed to leave it. He laid aside the deerskins. The stone slab was heavy, and he had to strain to tilt it up. He leaned it against the wall, then picked up the lumicon and went down the steps into the little room below, opening th
e wooden chest and getting out the bundle wrapped in bearskin. He brought it up again and carried it to the table, from which Dranigo and Salvadro were clearing the dishes.
“Here it is,” he said, untying the thongs. “I do not know how old it is. It was old even before the Ice-Father was born.”
That was too much for Vahr. “See, I told you he’s crazy!” he cried. “The Ice-Father has been here forever. Gorth Sledmaker says so,” he added, as though that settled it.
“Gorth Sledmaker’s a fool. He thinks the world began in the time of his grandfather.” He had the thongs untied, and spread the bearskin, revealing the blackened leather box, flat on the bottom and domed at the top. “How long ago do you think it was that the Ice-Father was born?” he asked Salvadro and Dranigo.
“Not more than two thousand years,” Dranigo said. “The glaciation hadn’t started in the time of the Third Empire. There is no record of this planet during the Fourth, but by the beginning of the Fifth Empire, less than a thousand years ago, things here were very much as they are now.”
“There are other worlds which have Ice-Fathers,” Salvadro explained. “They are all worlds having one pole or the other in open water, surrounded by land. When the polar sea is warmed by water from the tropics, snow falls on the lands around, and more falls in winter than melts in summer, and so is an Ice-Father formed. Then, when the polar sea is all frozen, no more snow falls, and the Ice-Father melts faster than it grows, and finally vanishes. And then, when warm water comes into the polar sea again, more snow falls, and it starts over again. On a world like this, it takes fifteen or twenty thousand years from one Ice-Father to the next.”
“I never heard that there had been another Ice-Father, before this one. But then, I only know the stories told by the old men, when I was a boy. I suppose that was before the first people came in starships to this world.”
The H. Beam Piper Megapack Page 88