by Fritz Leiber
The outlaw laughed boisterously, as if the idea of his being too sick to eat was very humorous indeed. His arm was in a sling and the feline springiness had returned to his stride. Seafor accompanied him back along the gloomy corridor.
“It is your intention to become the accomplice of a kidnaper?” Amine asked in amused tones a moment later. He showed no embarrassment at his previous lie having been uncovered.
“The boy claimed refuge,” Seafor said.
“They’d have found him soon enough, and that would have satisfied Ayarten. But the way it is now—Well, you’re lucky that the border war with Levensee of Wols is keeping Ayarten’s hands full. Still, even that may not be enough.” He shrugged his good shoulder.
An elderly man turned into the corridor some distance ahead of them. He wore a green uniform of archaic cut, faded and frayed but very neat. Disks of a greenish metal formed the chief insignia.
“The president of the Fourth Global Republic,” Seafor replied in answer to Arnine’s immediate question. “Been in refuge here for the past year.”
The outlaw expressed incredulity. “Why, if that were the case, he’d have to be two hundred… two hundred fifty years old.”
“Not at all. When the last elected president died, he exercised his power to appoint an emergency successor to serve until elections could be resumed. Several of his cabinet members held the office. When the last of those died, he handed on the executive authority to some faithful subordinate—perhaps a secretary or bodyguard. It’s gone on that way ever since.”
Amine roared with laughter. “Do you mean to say that that old chap still thinks of the state of the world as merely an emergency temporarily interrupting the majestic and tranquil course of the Fourth Global Republic? Is he grooming a secretary to succeed him?”
Seafor shook his head. “He was alone when he came here. He is a very old man. He has decided to sign over his authority to me, when he dies.”
Arnine’s laughter became gargantuan. “One more worthless tradition for you to guard! One more trinket tossed into the rubbage bag of the Great Heritage!” He looked at the man ahead more closely. “I see a blaster. Isn’t that against your rules?”
“As commander in chief of the Earth’s armed forces, we have granted him certain extraordinary privileges,” Seafor replied imperturbably.
Amine shrugged his shoulder, indicating that it was impossible to find a laugh big enough to do justice to that jest. They had caught up with the old man now, and Seafor introduced them.
“Your excellency—Amine the outlaw.”
The old man inclined his head politely. “It is always good to meet a fellow citizen. Though I warn you, sir, that when peace is restored I will have to proceed against you with the utmost severity.” There was a grave twinkle in his eyes. “Still, no need to dwell upon such subjects now. Perhaps you can give me news of what’s happening outside this little corner of the Republic. Surely an outlaw ought to get around.” His voice became thoughtful. “No one seems to travel any more—perhaps because it’s so easy.”
Amine seemed to derive amusement from replying in the same quaintly polite veins. Seafor left them talking amiably and returned to the infirmary.
A gray-robed doctor was setting the broken ankle. Unmindful of his sharp command the boy tried to sit up.
“Can I stay here, Seafor?” he called anxiously.
Seafor nodded. “For the present, at least. Now be quiet.”
He stood beside the bed until the doctor had finished. Then he looked down at the small damp face and asked, “Why do you want to stay here, Ayten? Why don’t you want to go home?” A faint smile touched his thin, pale lips.
The doctor went out.
The boy frowned, trying to find the right answer. A look of fear came into his eyes. “I don’t want to go home because… because they’re not human beings—not father or his women, or any of them. They’re—animals.”
“All human beings are animals,” said Seafor softly.
“When I was little, I thought they were gods,” said the boy. “I took it for granted we were all gods. Why shouldn’t I? Things that take you up in the sky at the touch of a finger, transformers that synthesize food and clothes and dwelling domes, weapons that annihilate, picture tapes that tell you how to do things—all that and more!
“But gradually I realized that something must be wrong. All those wonderful things didn’t square with our cramped lived, with the endless jealousies and quarrels and killings. Nobody ever had a new idea. Nobody ever seemed to think. Nobody could answer my real questions—neither could the picture tapes. They couldn’t tell me why the world seemed to end at the boundaries of Rossel, why we almost never saw strangers, except to kill them, why, with all those wonderful powers, we lived like beasts in a cave!”
His face was flushing with the excitement and relief of talking out his thoughts. Quietly Seafor laid his hand on the small shoulder.
“For a long time I told myself that it must be a kind of test,” the boy continued, “that they were seeing if I was worthy of the domain of Rossel, and that some day, when I had proved myself, a door would open and I would walk into the real world, the big friendly world I knew must exist somewhere.
“Now I know there is no door. The real world doesn’t exist—except for you outsiders, in some way that I don’t understand. And you’ve given up all the things that we possess.” He caught hold of Seafor’s wrist. “Why is that? And why, with all our powers, do we live like animals?”
Seafor waited a moment before he spoke. “There was a real world,” he said. “There’s still a little of it left, and some day it will all come back. Civilization came because men needed each other. They found that life was easier and better if they traded together—not only the necessities of life but also the things that can’t be weighed or measured and that haven’t a definite barter value, like the beauty of a song, or the joy of dancing, or the understanding of each other’s troubles and hopes.
“As civilization grew, that mutual dependency increased and became infinitely complicated. Each man’s life and happiness was the work of millions of his fellow workers.
“But there were forces working in the opposite direction. Man was learning to synthesize materials and make use of universal power sources. Wars accelerated this process, by periodically shutting off supplies of essential raw materials.
“That trend reached its ultimate development with the perfecting of atomic power and the invention of multipurpose transmutators capable of supplying all the necessities of life anywhere.
“At almost any other time that development would have been a great boon, freeing man’s energies for more intensive participation in the social quest. But the shadow of the Second Global Empire still darkened the Fourth Global Republic, and the interplanetary war with the Venusian and Martian colonies sapped its strength. The Great Migrations began. There was an endless, seemingly purposeless surging of populations between the three planets, attended by wanton massacres.
“The end product was stagnation. Distrust in the very forces that brought civilization into being. Humanity turned in upon itself, mentally and physically. Small communities came into existence, each built around some leader who had a little more energy and determination left than any of his fellows. The stragglers were killed, or they drifted into such communities—and stayed there. Men were tired. They wanted only to attach themselves to a single locality—to the soil. A vegetative cycle succeeded a cycle of movement.
“In any previous age, hunger and want would have broken that unwholesome equilibrium. But now each little community was independent of trade, so far as the necessities of life were concerned. And as for the things that have no definite barter value—disillusioned men could get along without them.
“The jealousies and rivalries and suspicions of small-community existence came to make up the whole of life. Strangers were persecuted. There was almost continual warfare between neighboring communities, but it remained a petty, spite
ful warfare, incapable of giving rise to widespread conquest and the establishment of nations, because it lacked any enduring economic motivation.
“That’s the sort of world you’ve been born into, Ayten.”
The boy said nothing. Seafor continued, “A few men realized what was being lost. They saw all of Earth’s cultural heritage sliding into oblivion, save the bare minimum needed for the new self-maintaining mode of life. Reading and writing, for example, were going into the discard—picture tapes were sufficient to transmit the necessary education.
“These men found that they could not change the small-community system of life from within. So long as they remained part of it, they would have to conform to its savage and inhospitable laws. So they got out of it. They gave up atomic power. They gave up all valued possessions. Only by paying that price could they purchase even the most shadowy immunity from attack. They formed small communities. They devoted themselves to preserving the cultural heritage and to maintaining the ideals of universal brotherhood and of individual honor and integrity. They became the outsiders.”
Ayten whispered, “I want to be an outsider.”
Seafor nodded with a frown. “I tell you what,” he said finally. “You can live with us as a novice, and work and study for a year. Then, if you’re still determined, we’ll talk it over again.”
Ayten smiled.
In the refectory, Arnine’s brown-and-gold tunic made a gaudy break in the long rows of gray, as did the clothing of the other refugees.
Seafor paused by Amine. “How does it taste after a diet of synthetics?”
The outlaw turned around. “Inferior, of course. But I’ve been in refuge before. Where do you get such garbage?” he inquired pleasantly.
“Most of it we grow in shallow tanks on the roof.”
“Swamp plants, I suppose?”
“No. They originally grew in dirt.”
Arnine’s long lips curled in mild and somewhat humorous disgust. There came the faint chiming of the bell over Bleaksmound’s door. “How’s the boy?” he asked suddenly. “Only slightly hurt? As I thought. You’ll be sending him back to his father, of course?”
“On the contrary. He has decided to become a novice.”
Amine stared at him through half-shut eyes. “You play a strange game,” he said finally. “Turning a kidnapping into a conversion! It turns out that I am your accomplice! Do you realize the trouble you’re brewing? Outsiders exist only on sufferance, you know.”
“You mean I should honor your claim of refuge, but not his?” Seafor’s eyes were enigmatic.
An outsider approached Seafor from the hall. “Ayarten of Rossel is at the door. He desires to speak to you.”
“You see?” said Amine sardonically. “The way things are going, neither claim of refuge is likely to amount to much. Let me know the terms of his ultimatum.”
Seafor went out. Swiftly the refectory emptied as the outsiders went off to their tasks. Two remained, ostensibly to converse with Amine. The outlaw, prowling restlessly between the empty benches, did not make their task any easier. His ears were cocked all right, but for noises outside the refectory rather than in it. His movements were aimless, seemingly, but when Seafor returned he was standing by the door.
Doij Darh, Night Bright
“He gives us until dawn,” said Seafor, “to give up the boy.”
“And if you refuse?”
“He threatens to make an example of Bleaksmound.”
“You see?” said Amine. “He didn’t let his border war with Levensee hold him back.”
“I was not counting on that,” said Seafor. “Though it strikes me that he is unwise in drawing off so many of his men for the cordon he is setting around Bleaksmound.”
“And you will refuse to give up the boy?” Arnine’s voice was edged with anger.
“I gave the boy my word that he could stay in refuge,” said Seafor. “In the days of the great civilizations, mankind could afford some weaknesses in the individual moral fiber, because the general progressive trends were strong enough to nullify individual treacheries. But now trust in a man’s word has become part of the almost forgotten heritage. If we cannot keep that alive, then all the outsiders’ work is vain.”
Amine laughed, but unpleasantly.
“Very well,” he said. “In that case I shall leave Bleaksmound, for obvious motives of self-preservation.”
“Ayarten has set too strong a cordon,” said Seafor. “You wouldn’t be able to.”
“That is for me to judge. Please give orders that my weapons be restored. I leave at once.”
Seafor shook his head. “You are our guest. We cannot let you go so soon.”
“You mean to hand me over to Ayarten?”
“No. You claimed refuge. You shall have it.”
Seafor’s sleep turned into a restless, rocking darkness, alive with menace. There was a hand at his shoulder. Someone was shaking him awake. He sat up.
“Ayarten has come?”
“No, but Amine has escaped. Knocked us down. Darted down a side corridor. Can’t be found.”
He recognized the voice of Hyousiks, one of the two outsiders he had set to guard the outlaw. He threw on his gray robe and hurried out.
Bleaksmound was alive with movement, like a nest of gray ants in which a spider is loose. Seafor made for the infirmary. It was as he expected. Young Ayten was gone.
From ahead came the hiss of a blaster. Seafor hurried to the entry hall.
Amine stood with his back to the outer door. In his good hand he held a blaster. The other was out of the sling and fresh blood stained the bandages. At his feet lay young Ayten, unconscious. Arnine’s face was racked with pain but he smiled tautly.
Seafor strode toward him. When there were only a few feet between them, Amine leveled the blaster.
“The first was only a warning,” he said. “This time it will be for business.”
Seafor stopped.
“I mean to bargain for my life with Ayarten,” continued. “Later you will realize that it was for your good, too.”
Behind Seafor the circle of silent gray-robed figures parted to make way for an old man in faded green.
“Who dares do violence in Bleaksmound Retreat?” The voice of the President of the Fourth Global Republic quavered, but a note of iron determination came through. “My authority holds here. Outlaw, put down your weapon.” He fumbled with trembling hand for the blaster at his hip.
A ray of blinding light touched the old man, pierced him. Amine laughed.
In that instant, Seafor lunged forward. The ray shifted, nicked the gray robe, sizzled against the stone floor. Then Amine was down, grunting with pain because Seafor had thrown him so that he fell on his wounded arm. With both hands Seafor gripped the blaster, wrested it from him, sent it spinning across the floor.
Amine stopped struggling. “You’ve wrecked your own last chance of safety,” he said.
Seafor knelt on his chest. “And you have murdered. We have law here, although it holds good only within these walls. Our penalty for murder is lifelong imprisonment.”
The bell began to clang deafeningly.
Through his weakness and pain, Amine smiled.
“I think that penalty has been commuted to sudden death—likely for all of us. You know who that is. Dawn has come.”
The door opened. It was Ayarten of Rossel, burly, mean-visaged, clad in cloth of gold. But he staggered, his face was chalk-white, the cloth of gold was torn.
He did not see his son lying at his feet.
“Refuge!” he cried. “Levensee of Wols has struck. He has seized my domain. Those of my men that remained have gone over to him. I claim refuge!”
BUSINESS OF KILLING
The room was small and undistinguished, yet there was the indelible impression that power radiated to and from it, that it was the focal point of vast, far-flung, tension-fraught, and crucial activities. Its general appearance—that of a hastily stripped living room—clashed with the l
arge, efficient, and centrally located desk from which radiated a number of ribbons sheathing conductors and adhering unobtrusively to the floor. A strong possibility: that it was the temporary headquarters of an organization engaged in a critical enterprise.
The man who had said they might call him Whitlow sat in a corner. His face was long, bony, and big-jawed, but the effect was of fanaticism and obstinacy, even sulkiness, rather than strength. He rubbed his hands in a way that was meant to be amiable, very much the master of the situation although it was he who was being interviewed. His gaze wandered inquisitively. He looked, despite his pseudogeniality, as if he could make his expression go all stern in a moment, and he wore high-mindedness like an admiral’s uniform. Yet behind it all lurked a hint of the brat who knows where thecandy is hidden and who knows, furthermore, that he is immune from interference.
Saturnly and Neddar sat behind the desk. Or, rather, Saturnly sat behind most of it, while Neddar was tucked in at a corner, his nimble fingers poised above the noiseless keys of a hidden lightwriter, which was at present hooked up with a little panel that stared slantwise at Saturnly from the center of the desk.
Saturnly was obviously all appetite and will power. Heavy-jowled bullethead set on a torso that had expanded with its owner’s enterprises. Eyes in which there was little subtlety but worlds of dogged power. A man who lived to outshout, outpound, outorganize, and outwit. A great driving voraciousness, joyously dedicated to the task of making men and money work.
Yet deep underneath was the suggestion of an iron and admirable integrity; one felt that in a pinch the man would unfailingly stand up for the things he believed in and lived by, whatever the cost and no matter how tawdry they might be.
Neddar just as obviously had no appetite at all except for his own peculiar whims, and subtlety fairly danced a jig in his liquid brown eyes. Yet he was Saturnly’s equal in energy and tireless competence, but based on intellectual rather than emotional drives. A small, lithe man, very quick in all ways, young, but with a full black beard. Lips brimming with humor and mockery, though now carefully composed. A human catalyst, a court jester turned private secretary, a superassistant.