Agent of the Unknown

by Margaret St. Clair

  "What do you do?" Don asked. He wished Francine would sit down. He liked her, and was moderately glad she'd taken time to stop off at Fyon to see him, but she was always so restless. It irritated him.

  "Well, these fabrics ... You see, Don, one of the worst emotional wounds a person can sustain is that of losing someone dear to him." Francine was speaking with her customary intensity, her small, bright head held slightly on one side. "It's always been a terribly traumatic experience. The psychologists in Emotional Health have been working on that problem—how to soften the blow of loss and death—for a long time.

  "About a year ago they sent in a group of provisional recommendations to Emotional Health. One of the chief suggestions was that, instead of trying to repress and ignore the death experience, we should dramatize it more. Make more of it, so to speak." Francine paused as if she expected an answer.

  "Yes, I see. But—"

  "As the Egyptians did, Don. All Egyptian culture was colored by the feeling for the dead. Their finest buildings were tombs and mortuary structures. Instead of repressing their emotions about death, they dramatized them. They brought them out in the open where they could look at them.

  "The dramatization was definitely conducive to mental health. The psychologists tell us that it is no accident that no other human culture has yet lasted as long as the Egyptian did." She nodded wisely at him.

  "Um. But what has that got to do with your new job?"

  "Oh, it's perfectly simple. Part of Solace and Assurance's campaign for dramatizing the death experience includes leaving the loved one with his deprived ones for a while. Not hustling him away underground, you see, as if there were something obscene in the very fact of death. That means a suitable setting for the loved one in his repose coffer. Of course, even with the best methods of preservation, there are bound to be some changes in coloring in six months or a year. My fabrics try to pick those changes up and harmonize with them."

  Don squeezed an imbedded dakdak spine from his forefinger. He could not raise his head to look at her. He said, "Then you design—?"

  "Fabrics for the lining of repose coffers. Yes, dear. Oh, and that reminds me." She was still moving about the room in her birdlike, restless way. "I've brought something for you, if I can find it. Do you remember Venable?"

  "Certainly. I always liked him. What's he doing now?"

  "Well, he—they sent you this." After some hunting, she produced a small object from the depths of her glossy almandine hand case and handed it to him. Don turned it over curiously.

  It was about as long as the first joint of his thumb, black on three sides, with the fourth made of something like glass. "What is it?" he asked.

  "Look through the top, dear," Francine said, bending over him. She was wearing some odd, flat perfume. "It's made so it will magnify."

  Don obeyed her. He almost dropped the trinket in his surprise. Inside the little black container, on a bed of livid bluish fabric, lay Venable. His tiny feet were side by side, his hands were folded neatly on his breast. He was wearing the conventional dark-blue evening dress. He looked smug and self-satisfied and thoroughly dead.

  Don put the thing down on the tabouret beside the bed. "What is it?" he asked.

  "We call it a memento mori," Francine answered. "Though that's not really a good name—the suggestions in it aren't right. We'll have to think of something else, ... It's a remembrance of the loved one for the deprived ones to keep. Venable's estate had them made up for his friends. They wanted you to have one."

  "Venable's dead, then?"

  "He's gone on ahead, yes."

  "What did he die of? When I knew him, he was an athlete, in perfect health."

  "Oh, he was killed in an accident," Francine replied with a touch of vagueness. "Although—" She halted, biting her lip.

  "Go on," Don said.

  "Well, I've heard—probably there's no truth in it—that there was something about the betrayal of cult secrets—that his death wasn't entirely an accident. But then, people always say things like that, when somebody dies suddenly."

  Don was silent. He had liked Venable, though he had not seen him for years. Francine stopped her pacing. She pushed the bolts of dead-colored fabrics aside and sat down on the bed. "I want to talk to you, Don," she said, leaning toward him. "About yourself."

  He had been expecting this. Francine probably felt it was her duty. "All right," he said.

  "Look here, Don, why don't you stop your drinking and come back to Terra? What keeps you here? I don't see how you can bear to live like this."

  "I told you, Fran, I have stopped drinking."

  "You've told me you've stopped drinking before," Fran said with a touch of humor. "There was a time, four or five years ago, when you didn't touch anything stronger than low-proof soma for months."

  "This time it's serious.'

  "Maybe. What's keeping you here on Fyon, anyway? a girl?"

  "Women always think it's a woman," Haig returned rather wearily. "No. Fran, I like Fyon. That's all."

  He got up and went over to the window. The sky was growing covered with darkly luminous clouds. It was almost time for Fyon's regular afternoon shower. In his hip pocket he could feel the faint warmth of Vulcan's weeping doll.

  Francine came to stand beside him. "It's such a selfish way to live," she said soberly. "Such a waste of yourself. You're not helping anyone."

  "Oh, I don't know," Don replied perversely. "I pit and stem a lot of dakdak pods, which is certainly useful. And I'm not hurting anyone."

  "I know, but—look here, Don, I could get you a good job on Terra. Designing the sort of thing Venable's estate sent you. You always had the most wonderful taste."

  Haig made an involuntary gesture of repugnance.

  "Or I could get you something else," Francine said quickly. "I know a lot of people. Let me try."

  "I like Fyon."

  "It's only an artificial planetoid."

  "Sometimes I can forget that."

  There was a pause. "Do you ever use your little communion mirror any more, Don?" Francine asked suddenly.

  "My—? Oh. No. I don't."

  "Perhaps that's it," Francine said sagaciously. "We do need something outside ourselves—call it religion—the psychologists are always telling us so. I think you ought to start using the mirror again, dear."

  "The mirrors are a wonderful help. Of course"—her tone altered so oddly that Don, who had been looking absently out the window at the cloudscape, turned to stare at her—"of course, it's possible to go too far with them. These paschein harnesses, I mean. What if you can see wonderful, unbelievable things with them? It isn't normal, it can't be good for you, to do things like that to yourself. It's going too far." She sounded as if she were talking to herself.

  "No, I don't believe in the harnesses, Don," Francine shook her head. "But the mirrors themselves—that's religion. It's wholesome, normal. I wish you'd begin using yours."

  "I've never been able to see anything in one," Don answered. "Why don't you let me alone, Francine? It isn't any of your business. It's my life."

  After a moment, his foster sister smiled up at him. "All right," she said. "I've always liked you, Don. I'm fonder of you than I am of my real brothers, I think." She laid her light, thin hand over his.

  Before he could return the caress, there came a knock at the door. "I'll go," Haig said.

  "No, let me. It's probably for me." Quickly she moved toward the port.

  It was one of the robot bellhops, gay in its glossy green paint. It made a clucking, apologetic noise, and then held out one of its upper appendages toward Francine. She extended her hand.

  Haig, at the window, did not know what warned him. He ran across the room, he caught Francine by the waist and threw her to the floor. The darts from the sliver gun in the robot's hand thudded harmlessly into the wall. Then the robot had turned and was gliding away on noiseless wheels down the hall.

  Haig and the girl, sprawled on the deep soft floor covering, star
ed at each other. Francine, under the enamel smoothness of her maquillage, had turned a rather greenish white. "Are they—! Oh, dear!" Her voice was coming out in a high half crow. "Oh, dear. Don, somebody's trying to kill me. It's—why?"

  "I don't think it was meant for you," Haig answered stiffly. "The robot was shooting at me, Fran. It was an accident that you answered the door."

  Francine got to her feet. She was shaking with nervousness. She had to hold on to the bedpost to keep upright. "I—I didn't mean—" And then, blinking, "Oh, Don, what is it? What kind of a mess have you got into here on Fyon?"

  Haig was already regretting that he had spoken. He tried to think of something to tell Fran, something that would quiet her. "It's not a mess," he said finally.

  "Not a mess? When a robot shoots at you with a sliver gun?" Fran gave a shaky laugh. "Oh, Don, you've got to leave Fyon now. It isn't safe for you to stay here, after this."

  Haig compressed his lips. "It wouldn't do any good." he said. "Believe me, Fran, I wouldn't be any safer away from Fyon than I am here." He thought, "as long as I keep the doll ..." He walked over to where the darts had fallen and examined them very cautiously.

  "Be careful," Francine said, shivering. She sank down limply on the bed. "That's s-such a n-n-nasty way to get hurt ... You w-won't leave Fyon?"

  "No." He was growing excited. "Look here, Fran, where the darts fell. Even if I hadn't thrown you down, I don't believe you'd have been struck. They were aimed wide of you."

  "Why?" his foster sister asked dazedly.

  "As a warning, I suppose. To frighten me."

  "Oh." Francine's color was a little better than it had been, but she sounded as if she were on the edge of hysteria. She plucked at the folds of her stiff black skirt for a moment. "You've got to stop drinking, Don," she said suddenly.

  "What?" Haig had chucked the darts into the disposer. Now he looked at her incredulously. "What are you talking about?"

  "That's the cause of everything," she said. She licked her lips. "I'm sure of it, Don, absolutely sure of it. If you stopped drinking you could get out of this mess, leave Fyon. I'm sure of it. Don't argue with me."

  "I'm not drinking. You've had a shock, Fran, of course, but you needn't be so unreasonable."

  "I told you not to argue with me!" She sounded as if she were going to start screaming. Her eyes had an odd, blank look. "Listen, Don. You've got to do this for me. I insist on it. Before I left earth ..."

  "Well?"

  "Before I left earth," she resumed with what seemed to be a considerable effort, "I went to one of the best group doctors and told him about you. And he gave me these."

  She opened her hand case with trembling fingers. She fumbled through several compartments and dumped a dozen glowing little glassite bottles on the bed cover before she found what she wanted. It was a small, russet-colored box.

  "He gave me these," Francine said. She would stop trembling for a moment and then begin again. "He said they were something new for alcoholism, something wonderful. He said they'd be sure to cure you. Here." She held out the box on her shaking palm to him.

  The rain had begun to beat against the window irises. The room darkened for a moment and then grew light again as the phosotat came on. Don looked at the box without accepting it.

  "I don't need it, Fran," he said, raising his voice so she could hear him above the noise of the rain. "What's the matter with you?"

  She began to beat against the gold-threaded coverlet with her free hand. "Take them, Don, take them," she said desperately. "Don't you see? I wouldn't dare leave Fyon after this if you didn't? How could I go back to my job if I knew you might be injured, killed? But if I know you've stopped your drinking ...

  "Oh, I know you say you have. And you do look a little better. But at the same time, Don, you don't look like yourself. You look harder and thinner than you did. I'm worried about you. I'm afraid.

  "Take the pills. They can't possibly hurt you. I asked him twice about that. He said they did something to the temporal sense. But if you don't need them, they won't have any effect. Won't you, please?" In sheer pity, Don nodded.

  Francine kept looking at him. "Promise you'll take them," she said beseechingly. "You always keep your promises, Don. Promise you'll take them. The directions are in the box."

  Haig made a harassed gesture. "All right. I promise. All right."

  He took the box from her. He put it in his pocket, the opposite one from that which held the weeping doll.

  Francine gave a deep sigh. For a moment she covered her face with her hands. Then she groped among the litter from her case until she found a slender emerald-green cylinder. She rubbed the stimulant it contained over her face and hands lavishly. Don watched her, a little puzzled. But of course the narrow escape had upset her. It would have upset anyone.

  "I feel better," she said in a moment. "I should have used the stimulant before. About the pills, I'm so glad you promised. What time is it, Don?"

  He told her. She jumped to her feet in alarm. "I've got to start packing. If I miss the lighter, I'll have to stay over until tomorrow, and that will teredo everything. Help me with my cases, won't you, dear?"

  Don obeyed. Ordinarily, Fran would simply have clicked for the robot, but under the circumstances he could see she would hardly want to summon it. He pulled the case support out of the wall and began to move the cases on to it. Fran's room, as might be expected in a small provincial hotel, was none too well equipped.

  The first two cases, small musettes, had normal weight. The third, a huge affair, had a partial anti-grav. The fourth, a small, scalloped thing, had true weight, like the first. Don picked up the fifth case, which was globular, expecting it, too, to be full weight. In his surprise at its feather lightness, he swung it involuntarily high.

  At the same time, quite by accident, his thumb twisted and came down hard on the latch. The case split open. Don looked into it.

  There was a communion mirror, an unusually large one. And beside it, neatly coiled, was a bundle of metallic straps.

  It was a paschein harness, no doubt of it. It must be Fran's own harness; they were fantastically expensive, since they had to be fitted with great exactness to the user's individual anatomy; she would hardly be carrying someone else's harness about with her. The harness had been used, used many times, Haig thought. The tips of its metal barbs were stained and rust-colored with dried blood.

  He looked around the room, his heart thumping. Fran had stepped out on the balcony. She called something back to him in a gay voice. He was almost sure she hadn't seen the case come open.

  He shut it again quietly. He was feeling a little sick. Agonizing self-torture, as an aid to spiritual insight—the idea revolted him. Had Fran spoken against the harnesses as a subterfuge, or was she really disgusted with herself for using one? Fran! He'd know her as far back as he could remember. He stood with his shoulders hunched, thinking. But perhaps it was all right. A lot of people used the harnesses. After all, they weren't illegal.

  Fran came back from the balcony, smiling. She seemed almost like her normal self. "What's the matter, Don?" she asked as she moved toward the highboy. "You're looking pretty depressed. Are you sorry you promised me about the pills?"

  "No." He hunted for an excuse. "I suppose it's a delayed nervous reaction to being shot at by the robot with the gun."

  "Oh, you poor fellow! Yes, of course," She rubbed the stick stimulant in the emerald container lightly over his forehead. "That's better, isn't it? Now I'll have to pack my fabrics and coat my face."

  She rolled up the bolts of strange, livid fabric expertly and put them in the big weightless case. With the cosmetics from the scalloped container she created a charming mask. "All done," she said finally. "Sure you can carry everything, Don?"

  "Of course."

  In the hotel lobby, she signed chits for her accommodation. The clerk, a human being, was polite; Haig felt he was gaining prestige in Baade by being seen with Francine.

  They walked
along the square to the lighter landing. The perfumes of Fyon floated gently around them in the still-moist air. Haig said little, but his foster sister chattered almost continually. She was amusing, she was inconsequential, she was gay. She seemed to have quite recovered from her recent fright.

  The lighter was waiting for passengers. Francine kissed him on both cheeks. "Remember, dear," she said, "and be careful. I do hope you'll be all right. Good-by."

  "Good-by, Fran." He gave her cases to a robot porter.

  She stepped on to the anti-grav and moved slowly upward. At the top she halted and waved at him. "Good-by, dear," she called. The light fell full on her face. Her skin was dazzlingly white.

  Bone white. Don sucked in his breath incredulously. For a second he saw a fleshless face and empty eye-sockets. Francine's slender neck was topped by a sphere of bleached bone. She was turning on him the grinning cordiality of a skull.

  The hallucination, so painfully vivid, passed. He managed to wave at her. With a profound sense of relief, he turned away.

  Chapter Seven — The Cocks of Hades

  Haig WORRIED about Francine off and on all next day. The thing he had found in her luggage, the attack on him by the robot, her peculiarly nervous manner, even the hallucination he had had—all these blended into a large and unresolvable uneasiness. He did not sleep well.

  Late the next day he got a 'gram from Francine. It was delivered to the restaurant by a robot, along with an isotype translation, in case the addressee wasn't literate. Don pulled the tape on the message rather apprehensively.

  "So worried about you," it ran. "Are you taking your pills? You promised. Dearest love. Francine."

  Don began to smile. The style of the missive, thoroughly characteristic of Fran as it was, heartened him. For the first time since she had left, he began to see things in what he thought was a normal perspective.