“What does it signify?” said the grinnet.
Having my assistant present before me in corporeal form, instead of being scattered about the workroom in various components, meant that I could reply to inappropriate questions with the kind of look I would have given a human interlocutor. I now gave the grinnet a glance that communicated the prematurity of any statement as to the meaning of the pattern I had detected.
“Here is what you will do,” I said. “Unobtrusively enfold that advertisement site in a framework that will let it operate as normal, until the Gallivant returns and again makes its offer. But as soon as the offer is made, you will ensure that it is received only by me.”
The grinnet blinked. “Done,” it said. “You are assuming that there will be a fourth offer.”
“I think it likely that whoever is luring small men and taking them offworld will accept a larger specimen, if that is all that is available. Even one with a curious creature on his shoulder.”
I would have passed the supposition over to Osk Rievor for his intuitive insight, but he was immersed in too deep a mull. Instead, I told my assistant, “Make me a reservation at Xanthoulian’s. One should dine well when a long trip is in the offing.”
* * *
The Gallivant was a trim and well-tended vessel, its hull rendered in cheerful, sunshiny yellow and its sponsons and aft structure in bright blue. It stood on a pad at the south end of the port in a subterminal that catered mostly to private owners whose ships spent more time parked than in space. All the craft on adjacent pads were sealed and no one was in sight as I approached the Aberrator. Its fore hatch stood open, allowing a golden light to alleviate the gloom of evening that was dimming the outlines of the empty ships crowded around its berth.
I had already contacted the spaceport’s integrator and learned that the Gallivant had arrived from up The Spray, that it had been immediately refueled and provisioned, and that all port charges had been paid from a fund maintained by an agency that handled such details for thousands of clients like Ewern Chaz. The ship was ready to depart without notice.
The protocols that governed the boarding of spaceships were long established. Vessel owners were within their rights to use harsh measures against trespassers. Therefore, after climbing the three folding steps I paused in the open hatch to call, “Hello, aboard! May I enter?”
I was looking into the ship’s main saloon, equipped with comfortable seating, a communal table and a fold-down sideboard that offered a collation of appetizing food and drink. Ewern Chaz was not in view.
“You may,” said a voice from the air, “enter and refresh yourself.”
Yet I hesitated. “Where is the owner?” I said, still standing on the top step. “I have come to discuss the purchase of this vessel.”
“You are expected,” said the voice. “Please enter. The crudités are fresh and the wine well breathed.”
“Am I addressing the ship’s integrator?”
“Yes. Do come in.”
“Where is the owner?”
“He is detained, but I am sure he is anxious to see you. Please step inside.”
“A moment,” I said. “I must adjust my garment.”
I stepped down from the entrance and moved off a few paces, tugging theatrically at the hem of my mantle. “Well?” I said to my assistant, perched on my shoulder.
“No charged weapons, no reservoirs of incapacitating agents. The food and drink do not reek of poisons, but I would need to test them properly to say they are harmless.”
“Any sign of Ewern Chaz?”
“None, though the ship’s cleaning systems could account for the absence of traces. He may be hiding in a back cabin, its walls too thick to let me hear the sound of his breathing.”
There was nothing for it but to go inside. I had advised Colonel-Investigator Brustram Warhanny of the Bureau of Scrutiny that I was going out to the spaceport to board the Gallivant and that if I did not return he might assume the worst. He had pulled his long nose and regarded me from droopy eyes then wondered aloud if my definition of “the worst” accorded with his. I had taken the question as rhetorical.
I paused again in the hatch, then stepped inside. The ship’s integrator again offered refreshments but I said I would wait until my host joined me.
“That may be a while,” it said and asked me to take a seat.
I sat in one of the comfortable chairs, remarking as I did so that the asking price was substantially below what the ship must be worth. “Is the owner dissatisfied with its performance?”
I heard in the integrator’s reply that tone of remote serenity that indicates that offense has been taken, though no integrator would ever admit to the possibility that such could ever be the case. “My employer and I are in complete accord as to the Gallivant’s maintenance and operation,” it said, then inquired solicitously, “Is the evening air too cool for you? I will close the hatch.”
The portal cycled closed even as I disavowed any discomfort. A moment later, I felt a faint vibration in the soles of my feet. I looked inquiringly at my integrator and received the tiniest confirmatory nod.
“I believe we have just lifted off,” I said to the ship.
“Do you?” it replied.
“Yes, and I would prefer to be returned to the planet.”
I heard no reply. I repeated my statement.
“I regret,” said the Gallivant, “that I am unable to accommodate your preference. But please help yourself to a drink.”
* * *
“I will be the last of your employer’s collection,” I said. “You may inform him that the Archonate’s Bureau of Scrutiny has been alerted to his activities. If I am not returned safe and whole, this ship risks arrest wherever it touches down, as does Ewern Chaz.” The risk was actually less than my statement implied, but one must seek to bargain from strength.
The ship’s integrator made no reply. We had not managed much communication since the Gallivant had left Old Earth and, presumably, set course for the whimsy that would take us up The Spray. I had made it clear that I would not be tasting the food and drink, my assistant having determined on closer inspection that both were laden with a powerful, though otherwise harmless, soporific. The refreshments were reabsorbed into the sideboard, to be replaced with ship’s bread and improved water, both of which my integrator pronounced wholesome.
“It would go best for Ewern Chaz if he presents himself now and gives a full account of this business,” I continued. “I am a licensed intercessor, experienced in wresting the optimum outcome from unhappy situations. If no actual harm has come to Orlo Saviene, Franj Morven and Chup Choweri, I am sure we could come to some kind of settlement.”
There was no response.
“Has any harm come to those three?” I said.
“Not to my certain knowledge,” said the Gallivant.
“Where are they?”
“I could not say exactly. I have not seen them for a while.”
“And your employer? Where is he?”
To that question I received the same answer. My own integrator confirmed, after we had searched the ship, that Ewern Chaz was not aboard. Nor were the three missing men. I returned to the saloon and questioned the ship’s integrator as to the purpose of this trip but received no satisfactory response.
“Why should I stress your imagination,” it said, “with descriptions or predictions of what may happen? The situation will be revealed in all its stark simplicity when we arrive, and events will unfold as they must.”
It is rare for integrators to go mad, I mused to myself. Ancient specimens can lapse into odd conditions if they are left too long to their own devices, but those maladies are largely self-referential: the integrator lapses into a circular conundrum, endlessly chasing its own conclusion. But there had been instances of systems that had sustained unnoticed damage to key components, skewing the matrix off the vertical. I recalled the case of an Archonate integrator whose deepest components suffered the attentions of a f
amily of rodents. It began to issue a stream of startling judgments and peculiar ordnances that brought unhappiness to many innocent folk.
Space ship integrators, though largely immune to rodent incursions, were particularly vulnerable to impacts from high-energy cosmic particles. As well, on rare occasions, transits through whimsies could, figuratively speaking, rattle integrative bones out of alignment.
I could not discuss this question with my own assistant. For one thing, it would have disavowed the possibility–integrators always did. For another, if the Gallivant’s motivating persona had gone lally-up-and-over, it was not a subject to be discussed while imprisoned in its belly.
I did quietly put the question to Osk Rievor, earning myself a short berating for having bothered him with inconsequentials when he had weighty matters to mull. “Everything will be fine,” he said, and turned his attention elsewhere.
Shortly thereafter, the ship’s chimes sounded to advise me that we would presently enter a whimsy. I went to the cabin prepared for me, lay down on the bed and prepared the medications that would ease us all through the irreality. Osk Rievor grumbled at the interruption, but I paid no attention.
* * *
The world was called Bille, a small but dense orb perhaps thrown out by the white dwarf it circled, perhaps captured as it wandered by. It was a dry and barren speck, uninhabited even by any of the hardy solitaries whose spiritual practices, or objectionable personalities, lead them to the sternest environments. The highest forms of life that had managed to establish themselves, according to the Gallivant’s copy of Hobey’s Guide to Lesser and Disregarded Worlds, were slow-moving insects that lived within dense mats of lichen, off which they fed. The simple plants themselves came in various forms and fought a slow vegetative struggle for mastery of any place in which they could sprout.
Bille’s sky was always black, though one horizon was lit by the carelessly strewn glitter of The Spray, while the other showed a stygian void broken only by the last few outlying stars, here at the end of everything, and the dim smudges of unattainable galaxies. The Gallivant sat on a plain of basaltic rock swept by a constant knife of a wind that had carved outcrops of softer stones into eerie spires and arches. As I looked out at the unwelcoming landscape through the viewer in the saloon, the ship announced that its interior would soon be filled by a caustic vapor. “You will be more comfortable outside,” it concluded.
“Where I will do what?” I said.
“At the base of that nearby slope there is a crevice that leads down into a cavern. You might go to it and see if you can fit yourself within.”
“Why would I do that?” I said.
“Because there is nowhere else to go,” it said.
“I see.”
“And while you are in there, perhaps you could look about for Ewern Chaz and tell him that I have grown concerned for his absence.”
My integrator and I exchanged a look. The situation had become clear.
“I will need some warm clothing,” I said.
“The colder you are, the more inclined you will be to seek shelter from the wind.” The hatch cycled open and admitted a blast of icy air. The sourceless voice of the ship began counting down from thirty.
Every planet has its own smell, I thought, not for the first time, as I stepped down onto the surface. Bille’s was a weak sourness, like that of a mild acid that has been left to evaporate. After a few breaths, I ceased to notice it.
My integrator shivered on my shoulder, its fur unable to compensate adequately for the rapid heat loss occasioned by its lack of mass and the ceaseless wind. I opened my mantle and placed it inside, supported by my arm pressed against my side. I ducked my head against the withering passage of cold air and made my way to the slope the ship had indicated. It was the base of a broad upheaval of dark rock, veined in gray, that swept up to a ridge topped by wind-eroded formations that resembled some madman’s concept of a castle.
I moved along the base of the slope and soon found a vertical crevice. My eye warned me that it was too narrow to admit me, as I found for sure when I sought to slip sideways through the gap. My assistant resumed his place on my shoulder while I made the attempt, then crawled back inside my clothing, shivering as I stood back and considered my options.
They were scant. “Can you contact the ship?” I asked my integrator, peering down the neck of my garment. Its small face took on the familiar momentary blankness, then it said, “Yes,” followed by, “it wants to know if you have found its employer.”
“Tell it that it would be premature to say.”
“It has broken the connection.”
I brought a lumen from my pocket and shone it into the opening while I peered within. After an arm’s length, the crack widened into a narrow passage, its dusty floor sloping down. I saw no bodies, though I did see several sets of footprints descending into the darkness. None returned.
I shut off the lumen then looked again. At first I saw nothing, but as my eyes accustomed themselves to the blackness, I detected a faint glow from deeper inside the hill. I sniffed and caught a stronger whiff of sour air.
I set my assistant to the same task and its more powerful sensory apparatus confirmed both the odor and the dim light. “The passage turns a short distance in,” it said. “The light comes from around the corner.”
“I smelled no putrefaction,” I said.
“Nor do I.”
“Do you hear anything?”
It cocked its head. “I believe I hear breathing. Very shallow. Something at rest.”
“Go in there, see what is beyond the turn in the passage, then report to me.”
But instead of hopping down and entering the fissure, it burrowed back beneath my mantle and said, “No.”
“You cannot say ‘no’ to me,” I said. “You are my integrator.”
“Four men, each larger and stronger than I, have gone into that cave and not come out,” it said. “Something is breathing in there. The prospects are not inviting. I will not go.”
In the previous age of magic, when creatures such as this fulfilled the roles that integrators played in my own time, their masters must have had recourse to spells that compelled their obedience. I would have to ask Osk Rievor if he could find one, I decided. But first I would have to survive my present circumstances. I attempted to impose my will through sheer force of personality.
“Go!” I said.
“No,” it said.
“Let us seek a compromise,” I offered. “If we stand out here, we will die of the cold. Our only hope is to find Ewern Chaz’s remains and convince the Gallivant’s integrator that he is dead. That will break its allegiance to him, making it amenable to taking us away from here.”
“I hear no compromise,” my assistant said, “only a rationale for why I should risk my frail flesh while you stand out here, hoping for the best.”
“Would you at least peek around the corner and report back to me?”
The small triangular face looked up at me from within my garment. “I suspect that Chaz, Saviene, Morven and Choweri did just that, each in his turn. And, for each, it was his last peek ever. So, no.”
“What if I tied a rope to you so that I could pull you out in the event of any unfortunate...” I concluded the sentence with a gesture.
“Have you a rope?”
“We might get one from the Gallivant.”
It stroked the tuft of longer fur at the point of its small chin. “What if, when some lurking horror pounces, you simply drop the rope and run?”
“I would hope I am not a coward,” I said.
“There is only one way to test that hope. If your expectation was not rewarded, the outcome might well see you scampering away to a safe distance, there to reflect on a new illumination of your character while I am masticated by some foul thing’s dripping mandibles.”
“Very well,” I said. “I will tie my end of the rope firmly to my wrist. Your apprehended beast may then take you for an appetizer and me for the mai
n course.”
It signaled a reluctant acceptance, adding, “If we can get a rope.”
“We will now ask the Gallivant. Connect me.”
The ship’s integrator’s voice spoke from the air near my ear that was now aching from the cold, “Have you located Ewern Chaz?”
“I have not.”
It broke the connection.
I bid my assistant reconnect me. When the ship began to pose the same question, I spoke over it and said, “I require a rope.”
“Why?”
“To look for your employer.”
“The other three did not require a rope.”
“And none of them ever reported back. Perhaps the absence of a rope was a crucial factor.”
“Why whould that be?”
“It would be premature to say.”
It was silent for a moment, then it said, “I will open a cargo hatch near the aft obviator. There are ropes within.”
* * *
“Nothing so far,” my assistant said. It took another step along the passage. “The sour odor is stronger and I definitely hear the sound of breathing, from multiple sources.”
“Be careful,” I said. I had my eye pressed to the fissure, watching the odd little creature edge forward, the rope snug about its narrow waist. I was struck by how frail its shoulders looked.
It took another step and I let another coil of the rope snake free of my tethered wrist. My unencumbered hand was nestled in a utility pocket of my breeches. I had seen no need to advise my integrator that my fingers were snug around a small folding blade.
My assistant was just short of the point at which the crevice turned. “It appears to be a sharp-angled bend,” it reported to me, then craned its thin neck a little farther forward. “The glow comes from an organic substance that coats the wall beyond.”
It hesitated, shivers rippling the fur of its back. Then it took another step and turned to face whatever was beyond the turn. I saw it freeze, its front faintly illuminated by the ghostly light.
9 Tales of Henghis Hapthorn Page 20