Young Bleys - Childe Cycle 09

by Gordon R. Dickson

  After the meal, as ordered, they took their leave. Some came by his table to thank him for the meal, but there were not as many of these as he had feared might do so. Certainly it singled his table out, but it did not really lift the meal to the level of a formal affair—which Bleys had wanted to avoid at all costs. He had wanted to see the Hounds on their natural behavior; and that was largely what he was doing.

  He, himself, finally made his excuses to the Hounds still at his table, aware that they would not venture to leave until he made some move to do so himself, even though the rest of those who had made up their party had already left the dining room.

  They would all have some celebration in mind beyond the meal. A celebration which, in most cases, they would just as soon that neither Bleys nor Ahram knew about. Bleys returned to his room.

  He had left word with his pilot to be ready for a five a.m. takeoff. And so, once back in his suite, he went to bed himself, and fell almost instantly asleep. The next day he was in his office at six in the morning, and phoned to wake a Norton Brawley who was still groggy from sleep, and order him down to the office immediately.

  Brawley showed up within the time limit of forty minutes that Bleys had given him, with the mixed look of someone who is thoroughly outraged at being gotten out of bed unexpectedly and at the same time trying to show a polite exterior to the situation.

  "Sit down, sit down, Norton," said Bleys from behind his desk, as Brawley came in through the door.

  Brawley took a chair across the desk from Bleys. He was wearing a brown business suit that looked somewhat rumpled, as if it was one that he had worn yesterday, or possibly even a couple of days before. And his thin, graying hair was awry. He tried to smile at Bleys.

  "Well," he said, "we're up this morning early, aren't we, Bleys Ahrens?"

  "Yes, I think so," said Bleys, "but not too early considering the seriousness of the situation."

  "Do we have a serious situation?" asked Brawley.

  "Yes," said Bleys. "I was out at the Hounds' Kennel yesterday and watched them run through a rehearsal of their plan to handle the McKae affair. I didn't see any improvement at all. Meanwhile, I've been investigating McKae's security, and it's plain to me, at least, that any such attempt by us would be nothing but a disaster. So, I'm calling the whole thing off. We may look at it again sometime in the future."

  "Have you told Ahram Moro about this yet—calling it off, I mean?" asked Brawley.

  "No," answered Bleys, "I'm just about to. But I wanted you to know first, just in case you might be speaking to him yourself on the phone today."

  "I see," Brawley's face had gone quite pale—whether it was the paleness of anger or shock, Bleys could not tell. His voice remained calm—in fact, if anything it was calmer than it had been since he had walked in through the door and sat down.

  "In that case," said Brawley, getting to his feet, "Dahno left a paper with me, in case of just such an instance as this. It's in a folder down in my car which is parked in the basement garage of your building here. If you'll wait just a minute I'll bring it up to you."

  Bleys looked at him narrowly.

  "A paper Dahno gave you, but didn't tell me about? One you were to show me as you said—in an instance like this?" he said slowly, his eyes on Brawley's eyes.

  "Exactly," said the legalist. "I'll be right back."

  He went out the door. Bleys sat back in his chair with a sigh. He had expected, not specifically what Brawley had said to him, but an objection of some kind.

  The man was acting almost exactly as Bleys had thought he would act; once he was confronted with the fact that he was indeed Bleys' subordinate, and had no power over anyone including the Hounds, except with Bleys' authority behind him. This meeting would have to continue to its inevitable and unhappy conclusion. But it was a conclusion he could not dodge. It was part of his commitment to the plan of his life and the future he dreamed of for the whole race.

  Within a matter of minutes Brawley was back. But he was followed through the door by two large men, neither of them as tall as Bleys, but heavily built, and showing signs of past fights. The name of "musclemen" fitted them as neatly as their clothing, which was almost incongruously expensive in comparison with their physical appearance.

  They came through the door and stood on either side of Brawley.

  "Bleys," said the legalist—he held a folder in his hand but made no attempt to open it—"are you sure you won't change your mind about canceling the exercise by the Hounds?"

  "Absolutely certain," said Bleys. He had pushed his float a little back from the desk' so that his knees were out from under the desk.

  Brawley reached into the folder. What he brought out, however, was not a piece of paper, but a void pistol, which he pointed at Bleys from a distance of no more than ten feet.

  "Don't move," he said to Bleys. Then he spoke to the two men alongside him without looking at them. "Go get him. Don't damage him. We want to throw him unhurt off the roof."

  The two produced short, bulge-ended blackjacks from their pockets and moved around, one on each side of the desk.

  Bleys stayed where he was until they were both level with him and moving in toward him. His hands were grasping the edge of his float and he literally pushed it out from under him so he fell in a sitting position onto the floor, swiveling himself around so that his head was to one man, his legs another.

  Just as people tended to underestimate the reach of his arms, they always very much underestimated the reach of his legs. The flat soles of his shoes lashed out in a kick that literally lifted the blackjack-carrier on that side of him off the floor, and slammed him against the wall. He doubled up and lay still.

  The other man's blackjack whistled through the air where Bleys' head would have been if he had still been at the desk in his chair.

  Meanwhile, Bleys was pivoting once more so that now his feet faced in the opposite direction. One toe caught the blackjack and sent it flying, the other lashed into the man's crotch. He, too, folded.

  So swiftly had everything happened that Brawley got off his first shot only as the second man went down. But by now the desktop was between Bleys and the void pistol, which could not penetrate any sort of shield. The charge spent itself harmlessly against that thick and varnished surface.

  Bleys rolled around the desk and threw the blackjack he had picked up at Brawley's face. The man's hands instinctively went up but it slammed against his right upper temple hard enough to send him staggering back against the door, not unconscious but dazed.

  Then Bleys was on his feet and with two long strides reached him and ripped the void pistol from his hand.

  Bleys felt as if his heart moved in his chest. Brawley's eyes were directly on the void pistol, which was now pointing straight at him.

  "No—" he began. Bleys pressed the trigger button and Brawley crumpled, his eyes open and his face still fixed in a look of terrified reproach. Bleys drew a deep breath, looking at the dead man.

  He had expected a deep inner shock when this moment of killing came—but strangely, there was none.

  A part of him felt deep regret over Brawley; but a greater part told him that there had been no choice. Norton's death had been a necessity to cut all connections between the Hounds and himself. He turned back to find the two musclemen were now climbing groggily to their feet.

  "Both of you go around that side of the desk," said Bleys, pointing toward the back corner farthest from him. He kept the void pistol aimed at them and walked the other desk-side as they came around and backed up toward Brawley. They looked at the body and then looked back at the void pistol.

  "I assume now, he's the one that you better throw off a roof, someplace. Preferably not this roof," said Bleys. "What he planned for me will work equally well for him and as long as he goes off some other roof at this hour of the morning, preferably into an alley where his body won't be noticed for a few hours—the greater security you, as well as I, are going to have. He probably has the keys
to his car in his pocket. In any case, carry him down to his car, get in it, drive out of here, and find some other place, to throw him down from at least ten stories."

  He looked at them for a long second.

  "Oh," he said, still keeping the void pistol aimed at them. "And I hope never to see you again. If I do, something will have to be done about you, as well."

  They looked at him numbly for a second; then, still without a word, bent down and picked up the body of Norton Brawley between them and went out with it. From beginning to end, neither of them had said a word.

  Left alone, Bleys sat once more at the desk and leaned with his head in his hands and elbows on the desk. He was trembling inside. But he told himself that it was something that could not have been avoided. Now he must phone and cancel the assassination attempt.

  The void pistol still dangled loosely from his right finger, hooked in its trigger-button guard. He laid the weapon on the desk; and noticed that his hands were visibly trembling as well. If the two musclemen came back through the door right now, he thought, he might not have the will to defend himself against them.

  Looking again at the pistol, he saw it lay upon an unopened off-planet message, which must have come after he had talked to Arah on the phone yesterday. It was from Old Earth, which meant it had to be from Dahno. He picked it up and ripped it open. It was in code, but he had long since passed the point where he needed to actually decode such messages, letter by letter. He read it off as if it was written in plain Basic.

  Dear Mr. Vice-Chairman,

  Meet me at the hotel I mentioned in my last letter, in the Denver metropolitan area. I think, for business reasons you better bring along five of our tame Hounds. They may be needed.

  I'll look forward to seeing you in about thirteen days, on the interstellar calendar.

  The Chairman

  He put the letter aside and picked up the phone. He called through to Ahram Moro at the Kennel. At that end there was a small wait, while one of the Hounds currently on duty sent for the Hound Master.

  "Bleys Ahrens!" said Ahram, when he came on the line. "My Hounds are most grateful, most grateful indeed—I should say, your Hounds and Dahno's. But that dinner was a real treat for them."

  "I'm glad they liked it," said Bleys, "because I've some unfortunate news for them. We're going to hold off indefinitely using the maneuver your men have been working on. I got an interstellar message from Dahno."

  "Oh," said Ahram. There was a slight pause. Then his voice came on again, more cheerfully. "Yes, of course they'll be disappointed. But with your dinner to balance it off, I don't think any of them will be too upset."

  "Five of them needn't be," said Bleys. "You've got the address of our office in Ecumeny?"

  "In Ecumeny? Yes, Bleys Ahrens. I know it well."

  "All right. Send five of your best Hounds to me there immediately. You'll probably have to hire a private plane so they can leave without delay. Tell them I want them here within three hours. I've got to leave the office now. But I'll be back in three hours."

  "Three hours, Bleys Ahrens?"

  "Three hours," said Bleys, "or they'll be left behind. Tell them pack—lightly—for an off-world trip."

  "An off-world trip?" echoed Ahram, with a new note in his voice. "The ones who go will be the envy of all the rest!"

  "I need them here in three hours, remember. Rent a car, aircraft, anything you need, buy anything you need. You'll be reimbursed."

  "No need to worry about that, Bleys Ahrens," said Ahram.

  "We have more than adequate funds on hand. This is a red-letter day."

  "We'll hope so," said Bleys. "But—in any case, keep your mind on business. As I say, if those five Hounds aren't with me at the end of three hours, they'll be left behind. I'm going off-world myself and they're going with me."

  "You're leaving too?" asked Ahram, incredulously.

  "Only temporarily," said Bleys.

  He noticed that the other man had not mentioned Norton as a source of interim orders. No doubt he was counting on hearing as usual from the legalist.

  "But who will we get our orders from if you and Dahno are gone?"

  "The office will let you know," said Bleys. "Otherwise, just continue as usual. Good-bye for now, then."

  He hung up, not waiting for Ahram's answering good-bye.

  He got heavily to his feet. Then he remembered there was another phone call he had to make. He called the agency through which he had booked passage several days ago. The day staff not yet being there, he told the nightline that he required shipspace for five more travelers who would be going with him.

  There was some confusion, some delay, and finally the voice of a man he had not spoken to before came over the phone to him.

  "I'm sorry, Bleys Ahrens," the voice said regretfully, "but all space is booked. We couldn't find room for even one additional passenger, let alone five."

  "For five thousand interstellar—note, interstellar—credits," said Bleys, "could you find space for five more?"

  "I—" The voice broke off. "I'll have to call you back in a few minutes, Bleys Ahrens. What's your phone number at the moment?"

  Bleys gave him the number of his office. But it was less than two minutes before the phone rang again and the same voice spoke to him, almost jubilantly.

  "Five more spaces have been found, Bleys Ahrens," he said. "It seems that we overbooked, and I hadn't noticed it until just recently. So I had to tell five of the people who already had passage—the last five, that is—that we couldn't take them. Then I found out I'd miscounted. There's cabins available for five who are traveling with you."

  "Thank you," said Bleys.

  "Not at all, Bleys Ahrens, our pleasure."

  Bleys broke the connection and gave a short, bitter laugh in the silence of his office. He was about to leave for his own apartment to do what little packing he meant to do, when he noticed Dahno's message, again.

  His laugh came again; and it was only when he realized there was a slightly bitter note to it, that he forced himself to stop laughing abruptly. He went out the door.

  CHAPTER 37

  These days, with modern spaceship travel, what the passenger subjectively experienced was simply a going up into the star-filled darkness of space; then, to all the limits of perception, seeming to stand still there for a number of days, until finally descending at the world of their destination.

  Consequently, the spaceships carried as much as possible by way of entertainment, so long as it did not use up too much valuable space, since the cost of carriage was so high.

  There were approximately five meals available every day, all fixed by the best of chefs, and tailored to the tastes of whatever world the individual passenger had come from. There were unlimited alcoholic drinks. There was a small game room and a small gambling room, both jammed with almost every device people might want.

  Unfortunately, Bleys had never been greatly interested in food, except as a necessary fuel when his stomach felt empty; he could drink but intoxication was only an irritation to him—he wanted his mind clear to think at all times. Gambling bored him. He could imagine an addiction to alcohol more easily than he could imagine an addiction to games of chance.

  This caused no particular hardship for him, however, because his mind was always hungry, always busy; and he was perfectly content to sit for several days and simply work with what he knew. One reason for this was the fact that planning what he would need to do, to bring about the startling upheaval and change in the human race that he had originally dreamed of, was an immensely complicated arrangement of events. And there was no end to the planning that had to go into that, simply because he worked with a continually-shifting situation on the part of the human race.

  On the other hand, he could not see how he could fail if he simply decided to remain steadfast and committed to his goal. Things would have to be done that were repugnant. But they must be done when the time came.

  Norton Brawley had needed to be ta
ken out of the picture. He would have needed to be taken out of it eventually, no matter what else had happened. McKae's upcoming speech had simply precipitated matters.

  In the ship's lounge, he looked at the starscreen and once more felt the cold but peaceful comfort of being firmly on the outside of the race and its worlds, working toward an end that the human race must come to, or perish, in the long run. His killing of Brawley had finally put him, he felt, outside all other human society. Now where there had been the nerve-endings of ethics in him, there was nothing. No more uncertainties, only the never-ending test of his will.

  With this thought, he felt ready to go on. The next uncomfortable point would be acquainting Dahno with Brawley's death. But, that too must be done.

  His confidence about this did not waver, even when at last they landed on Old Earth. For, unlike Dahno, he had been fortunate enough to get a ship that was going directly from Association to the Mother World.

  He was also pleased to find that the prospect of his seeing Dahno again did not cause him to worry about that meeting, but simply made him more eager to reach it.

  The Shadow Hotel turned out to be about eighty miles west of the original site of the city of Denver. It was in some ways no more luxurious than some of the hotels he had been in before. But there was a difference there, a difference that it was hard to put your finger on. It was just a little taller and had, somehow, a more permanent feeling than any of the buildings he had been in on the New Worlds, including those that were the heart of governments, such as the Chamber on Association.

  Old Earth was not only the cradle of the human race; but the fact that those alive on it now knew this, made them—Bleys found the word a little odd, but it was the only one that described it—more solid in their own estimation, in what they built and what they did.