Journey to Infinity - [Adventures in Science Fiction 02]

by Edited by Martin Greenburg

“For what? What would I do?”

  “Help me. Accompany me. Protect me, if necessary. I am headed for dangerous territory.”

  Cameron raised his eyebrows. The young man leaned near and whispered, “I’m going into outlaw country.”

  Cameron shook his head. “I don’t want to be disenfranchised. I’m a loyal citizen.”

  This was the normal reaction, and his companion seemed to find it so. “Sure, sure,” he said impatiently. “So am I. But I’m also a man, and I don’t like my physical condition. It happened through no fault of mine. I was told caltra was non-habit-forming—which is true—and that it was harmless—which was a foul lie.”

  “But Food Center didn’t know that,” Cameron pointed out, “when they offered it as a substitute for morphine.”

  “The effect was the same—on me. I’m not sore at anybody. I just want to be cured.”

  “But there is no cure. The effects are permanent.”

  The young man smiled. “I saw a case— Never mind. I’ll tell you when you’re working for me. What do you say?”

  Cameron saw a way out. “I’m going to Luxury,” he said, “on business. After I’ve finished I can talk to you.”

  “Good! I’ll meet you at . . . oh, you name it.”

  “Rosie’s?”

  “On the canal side? Right. My name, by the way, is Harvey Willis. Plastic Prime.”

  Cameron shriveled a little. Willis. Plastic Prime. Intellectually, he felt certain that Ann Willis and this twisted wreck had nothing but the accident of name in common. But the emotional shock, since he had violated her purple sanctity a short hour before, almost destroyed his composure. He was quiet for a few moment until his hands relaxed.

  Not only, he reflected, would he not meet this man in Rosie’s, but he would also throw a scare into him, make him wish to forget Josh Cameron.

  “It is my duty to report you, Mr. Willis. You’re planning a violation of the law.”

  Willis smiled tolerantly. “They wouldn’t do anything to me. I’m a caltra victim. You know that I’m immune. But aside from ethical considerations, Cameron, let me ask you something. Are you colorblind?”

  Cameron’s jaw dropped. “Huh?”

  “You’ve probably forgotten an important fact,” Willis went on obscurely. “That fact is the varied effect of caltra. It does strange things to its victims. It has made me superhumanly sensitive to gradations in color. And so—” He leaned nearer and whispered, “I know that your messenger’s star is a phony.”

  Cameron’s face didn’t move.

  “Your complexion,” Willis went on pleasantly, “is a trifle whiter. I tell you honestly, Cameron, I can read these signs. I don’t need to be a psychologist. You’re scared. You know, of course, that it is my duty to report you

  “Go ahead.”

  Willis screwed up his face. “Your tone sounds all right to me. If I were blind I’d say I’d made a mistake. But there’s an additional whiteness. You see, my approach was not impulsive. I didn’t pick you without a great deal of thought. First of all, I noticed the star. It’s almost the same shade as the bona fide, but not quite. So I knew you were disguised. Now anyone wearing brown who will take such a desperate measure is not only in trouble, but he has initiative and courage. I may have need of those qualities. And you can’t refuse me, Cameron. A word from me and you’ll be held at the landing port.”

  “But you took caltra, and are, therefore, crazy.”

  “True. But they will investigate you, nonetheless, with many apologies. ‘Merely routine,’ they will say. ‘We hope you won’t hold it against us, because you are an executive messenger on a mission of importance?’ Can you stand investigation, Cameron?”

  Cameron smiled wryly. “Caltra didn’t impair your argumentative faculties. At Rosie’s, then?”

  “I think,” Willis said, “we’d better not separate. You aren’t on an executive mission, or any other kind. If you get away from me I may never see you again. I could get someone else at Luxury, of course, but I’d rather have you, for reasons I’ve stated.”

  Cameron frowned. “You put me in a bad position. If you should be right—assume it for the sake of argument—and I admit it, you have a hold over me which might cost me my life. If I deny it you’ll cause me to be held up, and maybe cost me my job. You’ll interfere with my mission, in any event.”

  Willis shrugged. “You must make the choice.”

  Cameron brooded out the window. They had left the Sierras behind and in a few moments would arrive at the canal-striped city, Luxury Prime. Before that time he must come to a decision. Not a decision on his course of action, for Willis had him. He must string along.

  No, he had no choice there. What he needed now was a story, one that would salvage something of independence and self-respect. He considered plausible lies. He could say, for example, that the circumstances which Willis had created forced him to accede to the young man’s demands. If he were held for investigation, his mission would be unsuccessful and he would lose his job. Therefore, he would be better off to grab Willis’ offer and thus save a means of livelihood. No, that was weak.

  He turned to Willis. He had a story now. “I’ll have to trust you.”

  Willis made a gesture. “That’s up to you.” He seemed amused.

  “No,” Cameron said. “I must. Will you swear by the purple to treat it confidentially?”

  “Surely. I swear.”

  “Then lean closer. I must whisper.” He did so. “I am not an executive messenger. You were quite right. Nor am I a civilian. I have a right to wear another color. I am on a highly secret errand, and as long as your route coincides with mine I’ll go with you.”

  “Why,” Willis asked, “the artificial star? If you’re on official business you could get the real thing.”

  “And fill out an application for anybody to see?” Cameron smiled. “Not much. Only one other person knows what I’m about. You’re the third.”

  Willis was apparently convinced. Cameron had no way of knowing the mental reservations the young man made. He had to accept Willis’ vows of secrecy, his protestations of belief, his offers of assistance.

  He watched Willis stagger back to his seat with the peculiar gait of the caltra victim and tried to still the uneasiness which threatened to engulf him.

  ~ * ~

  Red was the hue of hunting. The military were after somebody and Cameron thought he knew the name. Though he had been bitter, upon arrival at Luxury, at the liaison he was unable to avoid, he soon had reason to bless it.

  For the pleasure palaces were no sooner lighted and opened for the evening than red uniforms added their sinister note to the general gaiety. Alone, Cameron reflected, he should have been questioned. But he was employed and his employer could answer questions.

  Chief among his blessings, then, were the ravages of caltra upon Harvey Willis. Nobody bothered to question. If he wanted a valet— and Cameron became obviously that—they assumed he had the permission of authority. Additionally, the general attitude toward caltra sufferers imparted a certain immunity to formality. The guy must be nuts. No telling what he’d say.

  So the search swirled and eddied around Cameron. At the gaming tables, where Willis won a tidy sum on a Galactic Wheel; on the canals, where their power canoe was unmolested; at Rosie’s and similar houses, where their badinage with former outlaw girls was uninterrupted.

  The soldiers gave them casual glances—and passed on. Cameron ached to question one, to learn if the net was out in all Centers for him, if Ann Willis had spread the word, if he were to be killed on sight. He was morally certain that such was the case, and shrank inwardly each time a military eye raked him. His star and weapon he had discarded upon arrival. They would be the focal point of the search. He had thrown the star away and hidden the coagulator under his shirt.

  He strove with all his faculties to maintain the appearance of a hired companion to Willis on a pleasure tour of the spots. He steadied the young man as they roved about this hall
or that; he helped him into hired canoes when they moved on to another; he held their pace down to the leisured movement of Luxury Center, so snaillike in comparison to other Centers.

  Here, efficiency was subordinated to enjoyment. In Luxury Prime, all business was directed toward comfort of visitors. Proprietors bowed and pleasantly relieved gamblers of their vacation funds. Canoe chauffeurs were vocal upon the beauties of their environment. Girls in the licensed houses were gentle, intelligent, and as willing to argue economic, astronomical or mathematical problems as to engage in any other pastime.

  Nothing was allowed to mar the periodical visits of customers. Here were no actors, artists, or other social nonentities. They were segregated in subsidiary communities. From Luxury 1 emanated all stereocasts; Luxury 2 produced such sculpture as this or that Center required; and so on. Those who were doomed to a life of artistic endeavor kept their places. They did not mingle even with ordinary citizens.

  Nothing, then, should have prevented Cameron from enjoying himself, once he was satisfied that the military was apparently not suspicious of him. But Harvey Willis worried him. Drifting with seeming aimlessness from place to place, the young man led them gradually toward a section not frequented by tourists. This was a district of small private bars, designed for the army of workers and officials who lived in Luxury Prime.

  Not that one was ever cautioned not to enter its environs. No, one was allowed to enter all right. And having entered, was tolerated. Nobody contributed to the casual visitor’s entertainment. He could buy a drink and drink it alone. Nobody was interested in how much money he spent.

  “We don’t belong down here,” Cameron said as he helped Willis from a canoe to a gloomy sidewalk.

  Willis expressed surprise. “Why not? The places are open for business.”

  Cameron explained.

  “I have special privileges,” Willis said lightly. “I don’t imagine there’ll be a row. Besides, I have to arrange my journey down here.”

  Cameron pulled the young man to a halt. “Look here, I’d like to know what’s up. If I’m to be involved I’d like to know in what.”

  “I told you,” Willis said softly, “I’m going into outlaw country— to be cured.”

  “But that’s impossible. I’m sorry but it is. You’re due to be duped.”

  “I know the popular theory,” Willis said impatiently. “But there’s a doctor, an outlaw, who has figured out a cure.”

  “Outlaws,” Cameron scoffed, “know nothing of medicine. Besides, he could get amnesty if he had something like that. He could move right into Food Center’s medical department.”

  Willis motioned toward a small bar, dimly lighted, and Cameron helped him to the door. “Has it ever occurred to you,” Willis asked as they approached, “that he might not want to go back?”

  “God, no!”

  The bar was deserted save for a rotund barkeep with a laughter-scarred face and a paunch. He and Willis went through an elaborate ritual of greeting before the two men sat at a small table. The bartender wiped its spotless plastic top with an immaculate cloth and said:

  “Gentlemen, I know you’re visitors, but I like the set of you. Tell you what. I’m the only bar owner in the country with a little Scotch. Would you like a drink of it?”

  Cameron had heard of the liquor from his grandfather, who had boasted that the Camerons had once made it, so long ago in Scotland that the date was forgotten. His dark face lighted with remembered excitement.

  Willis likewise signified his acceptance, and two small glasses of amber liquid presently sat before them, each ringed with a necklace of tiny bubbles. Cameron sipped.

  “Tastes like smoke.”

  Willis closed his red-rimmed eyes after a taste. “That, friend Cameron, is a drink with character. It’s warplanes slipping grimly through the night, it’s a storm with sand in its teeth, it’s a pardon from the High Court. I like.”

  The liquid was filled with an intimate flame, warming Cameron’s stomach. He relaxed and seemed to view with great clarity his own situation. He tossed the remainder into his throat and looked at Willis with determination.

  “I’m a coward,” he announced. “I’m running away. Me, a Cameron. I’m not running any longer, though. I’m going back.”

  “To what?” Willis asked sardonically. “I’ll tell you. Death.”

  Cameron flung up his head, nostrils flaring. “I can take ‘em on, one at a time, or all together. I’ll use strategy, cunning, and finesse. I’ll expose the spy. I’ll prove I had nothing to do with the dirty outlaws. They can’t do this to me! Then, when I’m chief again, I’ll deal with the outlaws. You’ll see, you’ll—”

  He slumped forward on the table and the bartender came across the room.

  “You haven’t killed him?” Willis asked.

  The bartender’s paunch jiggled and his big face creased along worn lines. He chuckled.

  “Lord, no! Hell have a head big as a pylon dome when he comes to, but he’ll live.”

  “What did you give him, for heavens’ sake ? It took him almost as quickly as a coagulator. Speaking of which—”

  Willis took Cameron’s weapon, questioning eyes on the bartender.

  “A long time ago, Mr. Willis, it was called a Mickey Finn. People used to drink ‘em.” He shook his head sadly. “Those must have been the good old days, when men were really men.”

  “Is everything all set?”

  “The boys ought to be here in a couple of minutes. You did all right, Mr. Willis. Pier is going to be pleased.”

  Willis shrugged. “Did Ann call in?”

  “Yup. I wrote down the Shield combination. Says she’s got a sore jaw. He must’ve slugged her.”

  “I don’t know. She called me at the last minute, said to take the Luxury plane and capture Cameron. What were all the soldiers doing tonight?”

  “Rumor that Pier’s in town, I guess. We get ‘em every few days. A couple were in here. Gave me six credits to tip them off before anybody else.”

  They were still chuckling when a quartet of men came in silently from the rear. With quiet, unhurried efficiency, they carried Cameron away. They accommodated their pace to Willis until they reached a large power canoe. They piloted this at normal speed along the canal to a dark, deserted stretch. Here they hid the canoe and carried Cameron across a field to a long, rakish craft which was rising slowly from an underground hangar.

  When Cameron opened his eyes, some time later, one fact registered before vast aches and pains invaded his consciousness. The face of the pilot was that of the dark stranger who had robbed Fleetfin of her precious Baltex.

  ~ * ~

  Somewhere in the Pacific. That was all Cameron knew about the island to which they took him.

  It was broad and long and green. He could see all this as they circled high above it at dawn of the following morning. It was apparently deserted. Bright-green vistas, craggy brown hills and curved white beaches met his eye through the observation port of the outlaw craft.

  That was all he knew, aside from the fact that the dark lean pilot was Pier Duvain, outlaw chieftain, and that Harvey Willis was also a personage among the outlaws. They told him nothing except to be quiet.

  He found this command easy to obey for his head was filled with pain and each movement brought a myriad stabs to his joints. Even thinking was agony.

  So he took what restless slumber came his way, and in the foggy dawn looked down on the island. Were they going to drop him there, with no company save its native animals and insects? If so, why? What was he to them ?

  The lean plane knifed through the fog toward thick green trees and settled to earth in a small clearing. From the sides of this men came running with armloads of greenery, and before Cameron was ordered to disembark the craft was covered with an effective screen of leaves. From above it was surely undetectable.

  He was escorted without comment into the forest, expecting anything but what he saw.

  For here was a modern city, modele
d along the lines of those Cameron had know all his life, yet with subtle differences. The buildings were designed to blend into their surroundings and were protectively colored. The streets followed the natural contours of slopes and valleys, and looked like swaths of vegetation.

  The principal difference was a feel of camaraderie. Hundreds of persons were abroad, even at this early hour, and they looked at you. That was the keynote—their eyes met yours. They didn’t glance furtively at your costume, ready to salute if necessary, and quickly away. Their eyes were full of candor.

  They spoke, too, in casual greeting. They said, “Hello.”

  “Hello, Pier,” they called to the outlaw chief. And, “Hey, Harvey,” to Willis. “Haven’t seen you in a long time.”