“Very well, then.” Marko bowed. “Let us go.” He reached to an alcove, securing cloak and bag.
As they approached the camp, a crowd gathered. An angry murmur arose. Marko stopped.
“Easy, my friends,” he cautioned. “Here is no cause for disturbance. I merely go to practice my profession.”
From the rear of the crowd, a voice called out, “He better come out soon, guardsman.” Zerjo looked around angrily, hand going to sword, but Marko placed a hand on his arm, urging him forward.
“Pay no attention,” he reasoned. “They mean no harm. It is just that they do not wish to see harm done.”
“Yes,” growled Zerjo, “or they want to start a rebellion tonight.” Marko urged him on. “There will be no rebellion,” he said firmly, “tonight, or ever.” They walked into the camp.
As they entered the barrack, Philar looked up. “The man’s pretty badly hurt,” he informed Marko. “See what you can do for him.”
The physician knelt beside the pallet, his fingers exploring the wound in the man’s leg. He shook his head. “It’ll be hard to make that limb usable again,” he said. “How did it happen?” Philar looked sharply at him. “He talked,” he announced, “when he should have listened.”
“I shall take care, then, to guard my own tongue,” commented the physician. He bent again to his work.
Philar stood watching for a moment, then, “I would have words with you when your work is done.” He strode away, thoughtfully. Something was strange about this healer. Surely, somewhere, sometime, he had seen the man before. He cast back into his long and excellent memory. No, it was impossible, he decided. The man was no more than thirty-five years of age. That meant he was barely born when Philar was last in this district. Besides, he was said to be from the countryside, rather than the town or hills. Still, somehow, the man was familiar. He seemed like an old companion.
Finally, Marko stood up. “At least,” he remarked, “the pain is eased. The man will sleep now, and perhaps his leg will heal with time.” He turned toward Philar. “You wished to speak to me?”
Philar nodded. “Yes. Come inhere.” He pointed to a small guardroom. “There are many things I want to ask you, and for the present, I’d rather speak in private.”
He closed the curtains at the portal, then turned. “Now, then,” he began.
Marko held up his hand in a peculiar gesture. “Awaken,” he ordered.
“Now, by the sacred robes—” Philar’s voice trailed off. “What did you say?”
Marko grinned at him. “I said, ‘wake up,’ ” he repeated. “We’ve got work to do, pal.”
Philar brushed a hand over his forehead. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah. We have, haven’t we?” He pulled off his helmet, holding out a hand. “Gimme.”
From somewhere in his robes, Marko produced a thin, brilliantly yellow circlet with a single ornamented bulge. Philar put it on his head, cocked it to one side, then slammed the helmet back on.
“C’m on, chum, let’s take a walk,” he growled.
A guard snapped to attention outside the portal. Absently, his commander returned his salute, and the two men strode out of the camp. As they left, Zerjo stepped up to his guard.
“What did they say?” he queried.
The guard shook his head. “Honest, master, I don’t know. They spoke in some foreign language.”
“Foreign language?” queried Zerjo. He looked at the guard questioningly. “Was it one of the local dialects?” The guard shook his head again; emphatically, this time. “No, sir.”
“Wish I’d been here,” grumbled the guardmaster.
The morning was clear and hot. Philar stepped gratefully into the shaded door of the temple. Glancing about, he strode rapidly back toward the altar. A priest came toward him, hands outstretched.
“The benediction of our Divine Emperor be upon you, my son,” he intoned, “but this part of the temple is only for the priesthood.”
Philar looked at the man sternly. “You are the head priest here?” he demanded.
“No, I am but an assistant, but—”
“Take me to the head priest,” ordered the guardsman.
The priest turned. “This way,” he said.
As they entered his sanctum, the head of Kleedra’s priesthood turned angrily. “I told you I was not to be disturbed,” he said imperiously.
The company master stepped forward. “I,” he announced, “am the Kalidar, Philar dar Burta. I have come here to inquire as to why you have allowed a heretic and traitor to run at large for so long in your district.” The priest glared angrily. “You, a mere soldier, dare to question me in this manner?” he stormed.
Philar met his eyes with a level stare. “I asked,” he said firmly, “why you allow freedom to a heretic and traitor?”
The priest faltered. Somehow, the presence of this old soldier put a fog on his normally keen, calculating mind.
“Why do you allow the heretic and traitor Marko Dalu to walk the streets of Kleedra?” Philar demanded.
“But, the man is a civil offender,” the priest protested.
Philar snorted. “Has he not scoffed at the Divinity of the Glorious Emperor? Has he not hinted at higher powers than those of our temple? Has he not criticized the conduct of the temple and of the priests? And, has he not done all these things in public? His are certainly more heretical than civil offenses. It is up to you, and you alone. What are you going to do?”
The priest spread his hands. He knew there was something wrong with this conversation. He knew that there were other plans, but he couldn’t think straight; not with this furious soldier standing over him.
“What can we do?” he inquired.
“First, send your priests out among the people and have them denounce Marko as a dangerous heretic, an evil man, who would cause the destruction of the entire village. Go to the governor and demand a temple trial for this man. Have the priests hint to the people that if Marko is not delivered to the temple, pestilence, fire and the sword will surely visit them.” He paused. “I can assure you that fire and the sword are awaiting any open disobedience,” he added.
The priest lifted his head. “These things, I will do,” he said decisively.
Philar, Kalidar of the Imperial Guard of the Dalturan Empire, leaned back at his ease in his own quarters. At last, this assignment was nearly accomplished. Soon, he’d be able to go back and relax for a while. In the privacy of his room, he had removed his helmet, and the golden circlet glowed against his dark hair.
“Well, Marc,” he was thinking, “I’m coming after you tomorrow. How do you feel?”
“Swell,” came the answering thought. “By the way, did you run to completion on this one?” Philar asked.
Marc was disdainful. “Think I’m a snail? Great Space, they gave me almost four years. I had the job done in three. I beat it all through their heads, then clinched it on the other side. Picked up more recruits than we actually need for the job, too.”
Philar started ticking off points on his fingers. “Philosophy, Ethics—”
“Yeah, yeah,” he was interrupted. “Philosophy, Behaviorism, Organization, Techniques, Ethics, the works. I even got time to throw in a lot of extra hints that’ll take two or three periods to decipher. They’ve got physical and biological science, up to and including longevity. They’ve got Galactic Ethics. I even slipped them a short course in Higher Psychology. ’Course, they’ll have to do all the groundwork for themselves, but my recruits understand a good share of the stuff. When they’re able to release their knowledge, this planet’ll be on the team.”
“Nice going, pal,” Philar chuckled. “Well, as I said, I’m coming after you tomorrow, complete with a whole bunch of nice, tough Dalturan guardsmen. Hope your body shield’s in good shape.”
“You space worm,” stormed Marko. “If you let those primeval monkeys get rough with me, so help me, I’ll—”
“Ah, ah,” Philar shook his finger, “naughty thoughts.”
“Master Intelligence Technician Philar!” A third thought broke in sternly.
Philar groaned. “Oooh, I’ve done it again. Yes, sir.”
“Attention to orders. After completion of your assignment tomorrow, you will march to the seaport, Dalyra. There, you will embark for the capital, Baratea. During the voyage, you will fall over the side and be lost.” An impression of amusement intruded. “I’ll be at the controls, sergeant, and for your sins, I’m going to bring you in wet. My friend, you will be so waterlogged that you’ll be able to go without water for at least half a period.”
“Yes, captain.” Philar was doleful. He took the circlet off, holding it at arm’s length and looking at it sourly.
“Thought control,” he snorted aloud. “Thought control, that’s what it is.” He clapped the mentacom back on and composed himself to sleep.
Kloru Noile, High Priest of Kleedra, sat at his worktable. As he read, he nodded his head. Finally, he looked up. “Well, Plana,” he remarked to his assistant, “looks as though the last of the despots has called it a day.” He held out the paper. The man took it and read.
Informal Report
From: Barcu Lores, Security Technician Second Class
To: NCOIC, Philosophical Section 5/G3-4/572
Subject: Duke Klonda Bal Kithrel
1. Psychological work on the subject is nearing completion. Bal Kithrel has decided to allow elections of all magistrates, as well as three members of the advisory council. He is also considering a revision of the property laws. It is believed that this is the beginning of constitutional rule in this area. Work is continuing—
Plana handed the paper back. “I believe, sergeant,” he remarked, “that we’ll get a good inspection report this time.”
THE END
Empress Miralu Street was one of those old streets which have outlived their usefulness, but continue to lead a half-life—known to many, used by a few, avoided by most. The buildings were still standing and occupied. There were a few cheap apartment houses, some stores, and a tavern or so. The aged cobbles were still there;—rough, to be sure, and moss covered—still defying time, wear, and progress. The old-fashioned central drain was still in the street, its ever persisting debris and moisture nourishing the few discouraged blades of grass. The street lights, foiled by the darkness and fog, merely picked up a few vague shadows and highlights from the damp cobblestones, and accentuated the black voids among the shuttered buildings. Overhead, there was a thin line of sky between the overhanging roofs, but the stars hid behind the fog, and the faint glow was lost before it could reach the street.
Once, Empress Miralu Street had been a main thoroughfare, leading from the Castle Gate to the City Market, but the old market was hardly used, and the streets to it were outmoded and virtually deserted. Of course, there were faint bursts of merriment and song which barely registered on the ear, to tell of hidden activity. Somewhere, shrill voices raised in a quarrel, and there was a crash and the tinkle of glass, but all this was barely audible above the footsteps of the lone pedestrian and the voice of the other, newer city beyond the old city wall.
He walked along, looking at the dark houses as he passed. By now, he could guess quite easily as to what lay behind the closed shutters. A little way ahead, a few rays of light glinted for a moment through the fog, making a darkly glittering streak across the damp cobblestones. Then, the shutters were closed again, and the street regained its tenebrous mystery. But there was no need of inductive reasoning to guess at the scene within. He was familiar with many of the city’s taverns and night clubs. He reached into his jacket, then changed his mind. No, he thought, it was not really necessary. There was no need to supplement his normal mentality now.
It was just about time to leave. He had become familiar with Bardon by now—maybe a little too familiar. He knew he should call in his ship, make up a little more precious metal, and go to another country, to round out his knowledge of the planet. He looked back toward the glow beyond the walls of the old city. The city, its museum, its library, these had given up all the secrets they had to offer. He smiled. So had some of the people in them and that without recourse to artificial aid. It was time to move on and get more data. He shook his head as he thought of the errors he had made in his first attempts at analytic work. No wonder he had been told to revise.
Suddenly, he noticed the slight mental tension. It had been there for some time, but he had let it remain unnoticed. His hand went to his belt, but he was late. The roof tile was heavy, it was falling fast, and it was near. The field of force built up, but there was insufficient space and time for more than a slight cushioning—a distribution of the impact. He felt the jar, then the clouds and the fog parted, and the stars shone brightly for an instant before they blinked out and absolute darkness closed in. He collapsed to the pavement, a convulsive jerk of his hand turning the shield off. There Was a little crash as the tile fell beside him, then the street was quiet for a time—until Gorfaer hurried from his doorway.
Gorfaer’s boots made a muffled clatter as be rushed to the body. For a moment, he stood, looking down, then he chuckled approvingly at another perfect job. He had finally discovered a safe, easy method of robbery. He looked at the rooftop, where he knew the Tosser was watching. Then, as he heard the faint sounds of his partner’s scrambles, he bent to the business of the evening. Quickly, he went through the victim’s pockets, then examined the rest of the clothing for objects of value. He removed the circlet from the jacket, looking at it curiously. He took the purse, the little ornamented control panel, and the belt with its ornate buckle. He also removed a watch and other minor items of value. Finally, satisfied that he had left nothing, he rose to greet the smaller man who approached.
“Got everything,” he announced. “Let’s go.”
The two dodged up the street and into an alley. They cut through another side street, and finally came to their lodging.
As they entered the room, Gorfaer tossed the circlet carelessly to his pallet. Then, he lay down, flexed a knee, crossed the other leg over it, and fell to examining the loot more closely. The purse was satisfyingly heavy. It gave up several coins and a wad of notes. Gorfaer counted these.
“Well,” he commented happily, “almost two hundred crowns. Not a bad night’s work, eh, Tosser?”
The other sidled up eagerly, reaching for the money, but Gorfaer pushed him back roughly.
“Not so fast,” he growled. “I’m not through yet. You’ll get your split.” He quickly laid the purse on the side of the pallet away from his comrade, then took the small ornamented box from his pocket.
“Hm-m-m,” he observed, “a puzzle box. Be worth something if we can figure how to open it.”
He examined the box closely. It shone with a dull, silvery luster. Five sides were ornamented with fine engraving, but the sixth had several small buttons and a knob. Curiously, Gorfaer pressed a button. Nothing happened. He leaned back again, then pressed another.
Suddenly, he seemed to be looking at the ground far beneath. He could see the brown of fields and the green of trees. Tiny buildings lay at the edge of the forest. He shook his head, and pressed the first button again. The ground slowly moved beneath him. He pressed a third button, one of the three which were grouped together around the knob. Now, he seemed to be falling. Again, he shook his head. Fie could still see the room. The Tosser’s ugly face looked at him with its usual surly, demanding expression, but at the back of his mind was that scene of a forest coming up at him with alarming speed.
Gorfaer started to rise from his pallei, and the scene faded. As he sat up, it disappeared. Again, he lay down. Now, the trees were reaching up for him. As he started to rise again, he had an impression of sudden flame, then l he scene faded from his mind and was gone. Again, he leaned back. The circlet touched his head, and he became aware of an overpowering, eager hatred. He saw a fleeting vision of himself lying on a cobbled street beside a victim, whose face and figure were vague. His image was clear, as was the pool o
f blood at his—He started up again, feeling the circlet against his head. Angrily, he seized it, dashed it to the floor, and stamped on it.
The power unit in the mental-force amplifier used by many citizens of the Galactic Federation is far from a fragile little mechanism, but it is built for normal handling, and within its tiny shell it carries and controls immense force. Its size doesn’t permit too much protection against heavy shocks, and this communicator was no stronger than most. The heavy boot struck at a critical spot, the light metal bent, and insulation cracked. Two tiny filaments touched, the accumulator discharged, and a magnelogravitic field built up and suddenly collapsed as its generating force was exhausted. There was a brilliant flare and a concussion.
From the other side of the room, the Tosser had time to feel a strange tension. He even saw the beginnings of the flare, but his world ended before he felt the concussion. Gorfaer saw nothing, heard nothing, fell nothing. He simply ceased. No one in the room was aware that the outraged lower unit in the stolen body shield had added its discharge to the sudden inferno. No one outside the room ever knew any of the details of the occurrence, though one person was able to make a close guess much later. Light-years away, an indicator moved slightly, recording an unexplained impulse somewhere in an unexplored corner of the galaxy, but it was many years before resultant actions noticeably affected any person in Bardon.
The explosion, the sudden glare, and the fire attracted the citizenry from their evening activity. They came from the bars, from their homes, from their occupations. The crowd watched the flames, and asked one another what had happened. Firemen appeared, and the city protectors. The fire was put out and the firemen went away, leaving the protectors to keep the crowd of curiosity seekers from picking over the smoking rubble before the squad of investigators could arrive.
Back in Empress Miralu Street, the explosion dislodged a few more roof tiles. They crashed against I he cobbles, and the figure in the street stirred. He sat up slowly. His head ached, and the exertion of rising made his stomach protest vigorously. He got to his feet and staggered over to the nearest building, then sickness overcame him. For a while, he crouched against the building, then the wave of nausea was over for the moment. He didn’t wonder who he was, or where. He was merely a pain-filled being, who felt an urgent need to go away from there. Slowly, he staggered up the street, one leg dragging a little.
Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks) Page 6