Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by Everett B. Cole

  A face looked out from the mirror, and he examined it, but found nothing of great interest. It was his own face, of course, and it had the normal allotment of features, distributed in the usual way. It certainly hadn’t changed in any manner during the night, if he ignored the slight puffiness from sleep.

  It wasn’t a repulsive face. Nor was it particularly handsome or intriguing, either to himself or to anyone else. There was simply nothing exceptional about it. It was an average collection of average features.

  Idly, he started reviewing his memory, casting back to the days when he had come here. He had been in search of two things. He had needed refuge, and he had wanted entertainment. He had found the necessity of gaining subsistence. He had discovered the techniques of concealment. But these were not entertaining.

  Too, he had found refuge. There had been that one time when he had been detected and nearly caught, but he had mingled with the crowd in time. He had become unrecognizable as an individual, and they had completely lost him. For a while, there had been a certain exhilaration in that, but it had worn off.

  He shook his head. “Better quit feeling sorry for myself,” he said aloud, “or I’ll start radiating.”

  He finished shaving, dressed, then went back to the kitchenette. The water was hot, and he made a cup of tea. He reached toward the refrigerator, then looked at it distastefully.

  “Aw, to heck with it,” he told himself. “I’ll grab something at Jano’s.”

  He sipped the hot drink, gazing moodily about the apartment. There was the small kitchenette, the tiny bathroom, and there was the miniature enclosure which was in turn living room, study, and bedroom. At the moment, with the wall bed down, and with very little extra space to move about in, it was a bedroom.

  He set the cup on a table and straightened the sheets and blankets. A quick heave sent the bed upward on its brackets, and he spun the panel, swinging the bed into what had been the dressing room, and converting the rest of the space into a living room. He rearranged the furniture, then finished his tea, kicked out a wrinkle in the rug, and took his cup back to the kitchenette. After a glance at his watch, he went out, leaving the door slightly ajar. It was Mrs. Malei’s day for cleaning.

  He walked up to Dwan Street, bought a newspaper, and shook it out as he waited for the bus.

  There had been another serious vehicular accident just outside of the city. Two cars, racing on the highway, had struck a third. There had been no survivors.

  Crei grunted, and looked at another story. An important smuggling case had been referred to the courts. Authorities said that investigators had—He turned the page.

  Tires hummed on the pavement. There was a faint squeal of brakes. Crei folded the paper, and jumped aboard the bus as it slackened speed for the turn.

  In half an hour or so, buses would come by with people hanging from every possible handhold, but Deloran noted with satisfaction that this one wasn’t particularly crowded. Crowds were something he still couldn’t stand, and he often went to considerable trouble to avoid them.

  He chose a seat in the front open section, and watched the city creep past as the bus crawled down the hill.

  It was all wrong, he told himself. The city hadn’t changed, of course, for it had changed but slightly in many years, and probably would undergo little change in many more. But he, Crei Deloran, was completely out of tune.

  He looked down a cross street, comparing it with the broad, smooth avenues of his own faraway home. This place was confining—almost a prison. Maybe it would be better to simply call in the searchers and surrender.

  Then, he dismissed the notion as absurdly impossible. At least, here, he could do as he pleased during his leisure time. There, no leisure would be allowed. He had heard tales of the Rehabilitation Center, and they weren’t good. Trainees, he had been told, spent all their waking time in directed activity. Freedom of choice was limited to actions in response to prescribed situations. And there was no let-up until they decided that rehabilitation was complete.

  After that, there were the long cycles, of compensatory service, and again there’d be little or no leisure. Deloran shook his head. That was not for him. Here, he could at least choose some of his own actions.

  He studied the other passengers. A young woman sat near him, looking out at the store fronts as they passed. Next to her was an elderly man, engrossed in his newspaper. Crei looked at him, casually wondering who he was, and what his place in society might be.

  The old gentleman paused in his reading, looked up, glanced from side to side, and noticed Deloran. He shook his head as though dislodging an annoying insect, then returned to his paper. Crei could catch no definite thought in the confused shimmer, but an inarticulate annoyance was obvious.

  On his other side sat a soldier, who stared incuriously at the cars parked along the street. Deloran looked carefully at the man, noting the multiple rows of ribbons, the pattern of stripes on his sleeve.

  Whoever he was, Crei thought, this character was quite at ease. Somehow, the man gave the impression that he would be at ease in any city or place in the world, and he had apparently been in several of them.

  Deloran grinned wryly as he thought of his own prosaic job, to which he seemed to be confined. He thought of his definite longing for adventure, which had originally driven him from his own culture, led him to this place, and then caused him to be planet-bound. The feeling of confinement intensified.

  I wonder, he thought, whether rehabilitation’s so bad, after all. Maybe—

  Then he smiled. No, I guess I like my freedom too muck.

  The soldier glanced around, looked Crei over for a moment, then returned to his regard of Orona Street. Deloran looked away, feeling that wordless animosity again. It puzzled him.

  They couldn’t actually receive, he knew. Even if they could, they would get nothing, so long as his shield was up. And he was sure it was. It was impossible that there was any leakage, or he would have been detected long ago.

  He looked at the store fronts, worrying at the problem. They radiated strongly, but. their thought patterns, if they could be called such, were confused, varying, amorphous. They were incapable of receiving and interpreting any radiation. But somehow, they seemed to be capable of some mental reaction when he was near them. What was it? He shrugged uneasily.

  The bus squealed to a stop at the end of the line, and Deloran slid off to walk rather tensely down Mira Street. He glanced into shop windows as he passed them, then looked away again. There was nothing of interest. He had seen these, and more, many limes. At last, he entered a small restaurant.

  The counterman looked around as he came in.

  “Oh, hello,” he greeted. “Didn’t feel like rolling your own this morning, huh?”

  Crei selected a stool and flopped his paper on the counter, “No,” he admitted. “Feel out of tune with the world.”

  “They run wrong yesterday?”

  “Uh uh.” Crei looked at him thoughtfully. “Never play ’em, Jano. Thought you knew that.” He hesitated.

  “Look,” he finally added, “I’ve been coming in here for a long time now, and you ought to know me fairly well by this time. Do I ever get on your nerves?”

  “Huh?” Jano had started to make a cup of tea. Now, he faced half way around, staring curiously at his customer. He stood for a moment, both hands full, then finished pouring water.

  Deliberately, he put the pan back on the heater, then he came to the counter, placing the full cup before Crei. He put his elbows on the counter.

  “You serious?” he demanded. “Or just making conversation?”

  “Serious,” Crei told him. “Seems to me that people resent it whenever I look at ’em.”

  Jano nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah, I know what you mean. It really isn’t that bad, though. It’s just once in a while.” He paused, looking out at the street.

  “Tell you, Deloran, you’ve been a customer of mine for a long time. I’ve got used to you, and I like you—n
ow. Even at that, once in a while, I get a funny feeling. Then, I get a little mad. Feels like there oughta be someone there, but I’m sure there’s nobody.

  Then, I turn around, and you’re watching me.

  “I don’t know. Like I said, you’re an old customer, and I think you’re a pretty decent guy. But I get uneasy once in a while. And then—” Jano waved a hand. “Oh, well,” he finished, “sausages?”

  “Sure,” Crei nodded. “Sure, sausages’ll do.” He picked up his newspaper.

  As he ate, he reviewed the conversation. Jano hadn’t really said much that made-sense. But for a few isolated seconds, his thoughts had focused. There was a little nervousness, a little resentment. Somehow, there was a faint hint of fear, a suggestion of probing against the impenetrable shield Deloran held to protect his mind. Crei shook his head. But they couldn’t probe—could they?

  He looked up. Jano was cleaning the grill. Somewhere in that shimmer of unfocused thought, there was a small part of the answer. A phrase appeared.

  “Cold . . . no life.”

  Deloran blinked. They could receive to a limited extent, then. They couldn’t pick up articulate thoughts, but they could detect the presence of thought’. And he—But it was impossible.

  If he relaxed his shield, his radiation would be too steady, too well defined. He couldn’t diffuse and vary his thought patterns to simulate theirs without constant effort. And even then, it would be patently false.

  “No,” he told himself, “I’ve got to remain silent. If I should relax, the detectors would be on me in minutes.”

  He finished his meal and walked slowly out of the restaurant.

  Here was something new to add to an already complex problem. His situation had certainly changed—was still changing. He could remember clearly back to the day when he had abandoned his ship. Then, he had thought he could evade the Stellar Guard completely.

  He had been so careful about setting a new course, which would jump the ship to a new position, hundreds of light-years away. And if all had been right, they should have assumed that he had been destroyed with the burned-out control room.

  He had been so certain of his success, and he had acted with such assurance. And he had been successful—for a while.

  But they hadn’t been fooled. He had thought he was doing well until they had betrayed their presence on the planet by an unguarded communication. That had been their one mistake.

  He had gotten away, and they’d lost him. He had sensed no further traces of them on his trail, though he knew they were still here.

  Of course, he had been forced to abandon his equipment. His computer had remained in the luxurious mountain cabin, as had his weapon and his force shield. To be sure, they were small loss. He couldn’t have used any of them without being detected. And, if he still had them, they would be more tantalizing than the thought of their loss.

  By now, he had gotten so used to holding a mental shield that it was almost involuntary. At first, he had been afraid that he would relax and radiate while he was sleeping, but he’d lost that fear now. Of course, the inability to radiate, even for a probe, meant that he had to rely on indistinct, wavering thoughts from the natives to guess at their reactions. He actually had no more than a clue to their emotions, and could use only vocalized words to influence them.

  But even that little was an advantage. He had been able to work up from woodcarver to department head. And, he’d continue. One day, he’d move up another step on the ladder, and he would eventually be in a satisfactory position despite the restrictions placed on him by the presence of the searchers and observers.

  He looked at the other pedestrians. It was a shame, of course, that he couldn’t make an adequate living as a woodcarver. He had always enjoyed working with hand tools, and he’d been a superlatively good stocker.

  But there was no money in it.

  It had been that way before, in the Galactic Civilization. He had tried handicrafts from time to time, and had been good at them, but he’d been unable to achieve the position of luxury he desired by that means. More was required than simple manual skill. One had to be an artist, or an executive.

  Well, he had developed a certain amount of executive ability. He could manage his department, but he’d much rather be showing some one of the younger stockers the intricate tricks of the trade.

  Again, he glanced about the street, noting a pedestrian ahead of him. There was a vague suggestion of resentment, nondirectional, but apparent. Behind it was the usual shimmer of unresolved thought, which weaved from band to band. Deloran shook his head. He should be used to it by now.

  Of course, if he could only drop his shield, it would be easy to force the man’s mind into a channel. Then, it would be quite readable. But that was what he couldn’t do, even if it were worth the trouble. Any extended mental radiation would—

  He thought of the rehabilitation center again.

  Deloran went around the corner and down the short street to the stone gate with the bas-relief hunting scenes on either side of it. He nodded to the gatekeeper, made his way to the main building, and walked upstairs.

  He refrained from looking too closely at the clerks as he threaded his way through the production department to his desk.

  There were a few delivery reports and some invoices in his basket. He drew them to him, checking them rapidly, then turned to the production figures for his section.

  The custom shop, he noticed, was having a little more than its usual difficulty in getting suitable wood. He went back to the delivery reports, rechecking the shipments. There had been adequate receipts, and the normal percentage of first-grade blocks had been cut. He looked at the production report again.

  The backlog was abnormal, and the stock of custom-grade rifles was exhausted. He turned to the stack of invoices, checking through them.

  Clipped to one invoice was a memo which simply said, “See me,” and bore the initials, JLD. Crei looked at it, then stopped, examining the document carefully. It was a large shipment—too large, even if it hadn’t been to Varo Export.

  He picked up the phone and called Shipping.

  “Say, Morei, did you ship on invoice seventeen thirty-two?”

  “Minute.” There was a slight clank as the phone was set down.

  “Oh, that one. No, I kicked it back. The guns’re still in stock. Thought I’d heard something about that outfit. Why?”

  “Good. Cancel shipment. They’re under investigation, and there’s going to be trouble pretty soon. I’ll get the thing straightened out from this end.

  Thanks for catching it.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  Deloran replaced his phone. It was funny, he thought. He distinctly remembered giving definite instructions against soliciting Varo Export, but Caron had gone ahead and picked up a large order for custom-grade rifles. He looked at the invoice again.

  Seemed funny, too, that it had gotten into the manager’s office before it came to his desk. He sighed and got out of his chair.

  “Better find out about this one,” he told himself, “now.”

  There were two other department heads in the office. They started to go when Deloran came in, but Mr. Diore waved them back.

  “Yes, Deloran,” he said, “what is it?”

  Crei held out the invoice. “I believe you wanted to see me on this one?” Diore took the paper, glanced at it, then looked up again.

  “Yes. I did. Why didn’t you explain to Caron that he wasn’t to contact Varo Export for further orders?”

  “I told Caron to stay away from Varo, Mr. Diore. And I told him why.”

  “Did you put it in writing?”

  “No.” Crei shook his head. “I didn’t think it would be either necessary or advisable. Caron’s smart enough to take instructions, I believe . . . or, I—”

  “You didn’t think! You believe! Frankly, Deloran, I’m getting tired of your thinking. Caron did go to Varo. He did pick up an order, and he doesn’t remember any instructions f
rom you.” Diore paused.

  “Fortunately,” he added bitterly, “one of the people down in Shipping caught the invoice and sent it back for double check, so we’re just embarrassed.” He thrust the paper at Crei, violently.

  “Now, get on this. Make it clear to Caron that he’s not to contact Varo again, and get this order canceled. Is that clear?”

  “Of course, I’ll get on it right away.” Crei started to leave.

  “Just a minute, Mister Deloran.”

  Crei turned back. Diore was glaring at him.

  “I want you to understand this. You’ll have to give the people out in the field some attention. I don’t know why your Custom Department has its own sales force, but it has, and it’s your responsibility. But you’re ignoring it.

  “Every morning, you come in and simply park behind your desk. Then, you drift down to that Custom shop and waste time fooling around with some carving job that a stocker should be doing. You’re not getting things done as they should be, and you’re acting like some mill hand. You have a job to do, and I want to see you do it.”

  “But, you criticized me only a short time ago for—”

  “I’m not going to tell you every detail on how to run your job,” snapped Diore. “But I want you to see to it that it runs smoothly. I’m getting tired of having to check up on you constantly.”

  The two department heads looked uncomfortable, but Crei could detect a trace of malicious enjoyment in their minds. For a few heartbeats, he stood, looking at them, then he looked back at his superior.

  There was no question about it, Diore had been constantly checking—even interfering. He had been issuing vague, contradictory orders for several months. He had given instructions which were difficult to pin down and define, and yet which were somehow mutually exclusive—verbal instructions always, delivered in an emphatic manner. And, he’d been actually dealing with the men in sales, by-passing Crei entirely at times.