“You just flashed back to a year ago.”
“A year ago,” the lion murmured. “Yes, yes. It’s all coming back to me now.” The creature’s whiskers quivered as it shook its head. “No. No, it wasn’t a year ago that I felt Ort Eath. It was recently ... in limbo.”
“Limbo?”
“Yes. I woke ... thought I was in Heaven. Saw him.”
“Heaven, huh? That’s right, Amber. I heard you donned sackcloth and ashes and joined a convent.”
“A monastic order,” Amber corrected. “I still was choked with guilt.” The beast’s golden eyes grew distant with thought.
“What was the last thing you remember of Earth, Brother Philip?”
“I recall some creature, coming for me. I thought it was an hallucination. I was on acid at the time.”
“What an interesting religious order,” the unicorn commented dryly.
“No. Just an experiment, you understand. No, this thing looked like a giant robot spider or something. I remember ... I remember it shot me.” The lion shivered with the thought. Then he gazed up at the donkey-unicorn. “My goodness, don’t you look ridiculous, Angharad. How did you get here? Where is this place?”
“A long story, Philip,” she returned. “Right now I think some of the answers can be found in this castle. Just exactly what were you supposed to be guarding, anyway?”
Amber shrugged. “I truly don’t know. I was just fed regularly and evidently imprinted with the instructions not to allow anyone through that chained door yonder.”
Angharad walked over to the indicated double door, festooned with link chains centered by a huge old-fashioned padlock.
“I don’t suppose you have a key, do you?”
“Yes. I believe it’s underneath the altar.” Enthusiastically, Amber in his lion form pounded to the wooden structure at the far end of the chamber. With some reverence, he pushed it over easily and picked something up with his teeth.
“Here you go,” Amber mumbled, the key bobbing as he spoke.
“Don’t give it to me,” Angharad said. “I think that paws are a little easier to manipulate than these clumsy things.” She held up a hoof.
“Ooops, Sorry. Of course. Let me see what I can do.” Amber jumped up to the door and tried to insert one end of the key into the proper hole. After several false moves, the metal slid in, clicked the lock open. Angharad helped to clear away the clanking chains as best she could. With some difficulty, they managed to push back one wing of the double doors.
The antechamber they entered was small. Their entrance puffed up dust which clogged Angharad’s nostrils, making her sneeze. The room smelled of old manuscripts and general antiquity. From a small window a sunbeam speared down to illuminate a podium upon which a rolled-up scroll rested.
The room held no other significant objects.
“That must be what we’re looking for,” Amber said. He hopped up onto the dais and carefully stood on his hind feet, balancing himself on the podium. Flicking a faded green ribbon off the scroll, he carefully unrolled it.
“Here you go, Angharad. What do you make of this?”
The donkey-unicorn stuck her nose over the single curled sheet of parchment. At the top of the paper, lettered in gothic-style English, were the words:
INGENIOUS MS. SHEPHERD, STALWART MR. AMBER.
WELCOME TO THE LAND OF MYTH AND SYMBOL.
YOUR ASSIGNMENT, SHOULD YOU CARE TO ACCEPT IT,
IS TO SEEK THE HOLY GRAIL.
Beneath the lettering was a map.
A RED light zapped across the screen’s periphery.
Purple letters to one side flashed a single word:
EMERGENCY.
A single drop of perspiration slipped down Todd Spigot’s brow.
Here he was, second day on the job, and he had a problem on his hands. He didn’t know a thing about operating a maintenance sweep computer. Oh, sure, he could do basic stuff. That much he knew from his experience with basic econ-comps and accounter models, like he’d used back on Deadrock. This knowledge, plus what he’d learned on Earth, had thus far carried him along in Charley Haversham’s chores. Press a few buttons, twist a few dials: that was all it had been.
STOPPAGE, the screen spelled out quickly. SECTOR A, Z PIPE. COORDINATES, X27, Y84, Z97.
Hands shaking a bit, Todd swiveled his chair to see if any of the other operators might be tackling this problem. The only other maintenance attendant snored on his console. The others were off in a corner, playing cards. Blithely, they all ignored him, emergency or no emergency.
Clearly, this was the sort of difficulty that came up every day, and could be dealt with by a single person. Today it was “Charley Haversham.”
A.K.A. Todd Spigot.
There was a sewage blockage and Todd had to deal with it without Roto-Rooter. He took a deep breath. Exhaled. What had Cog said to do?
Relax. Remember when you were in the MacGuffin and I had control? Just pretend your body is a MacGuffin, and hand over the wheel. The residual personality matrix of Charley Haversham is programmed into your brain in such a fashion that his training has been placed to the forefront of your automatic responses. Like riding a bike, without personally having taken the falls.
Right. Nothing to do but give it a try.
Todd Spigot rested his hand in front of him, exhaled ...
... And let go.
His hands lifted. His fingers rapidly typed things into the computer console. Complex equations registered across the screen. Specialized machines were engaged. Pressures redistributed in the pipes. The tricky gravity problems that had been snarled were quickly solved.
The EMERGENCY light snapped off, replaced by a glowing blue signal of mechanical relief.
Todd blinked. My goodness, he thought. Cog was right ... though he didn’t like to think of himself as a good laxative.
Also, Todd didn’t like having another personality riding around inside him, however dormant; not after his consternating experiences with Philip Amber’s MacGuffin Mark XII, which had gotten him into trouble to begin with.
Todd Spigot sighed and sipped his cup of genuine coffee, savoring it even though it had long since gone cold, since he was used to the synthetic sort. Kaff. His mother used to serve him kaff. “Don’t drink too much, Todd,” she would say, dumping steaming water onto the brown pellet at the bottom of his cup. “Even though I get the low-caffeine type for you, sweetheart, it still packs a wallop.”
His mother. A warped person. Yet, at her core, Todd had come to realize, there was something like love, however possessively expressed.
Everyone else had just used him. Even now he was being used. Exactly how he wasn’t sure, but there was no doubt about the fact that, again, he was just some pawn in the game Cog played, however big, however important.
Todd Spigot watched the computer screen’s numerals and letters exercise their gymnastics, hop their pogo dances through the quirky trails and tunnels of the Star Fall’s corridors and water and sewage pipes. Apparently, Charley Haversham had received a crash course in the tricky business of overseeing maintenance operations on this star liner. The Star Fall was essentially a cluster of interconnected environments—worlds, rather—in a complex arrangement of null-gravs and odd interface systems. When he had designed this boat, Ort Eath (bless his burned-out brain) had gone in big for spectacular effects and had left the plumbing and cleaning arrangements to lesser minds. Biospheres abounded, containing water worlds, deserts, lush forests and gardens, earthly paradises and alien hells. Unbelievable beauty in wide varieties were found in these habitats—but the cost had been an awkward and complicated system for maintaining homeostasis within each section and harmony between them all.
Hence the numerous computer screens here in maintenance engineering, the large number of cleaning and servicing robots. If things went wrong, there would be serio
us consequences for the Star Fall. Apparently, Todd had quickly learned from various personnel in the section, Earnest Evers Hurt had been more interested in tacking on additional computer hardware and software than in refurbishing the clumsy plumbing and cleaning systems. In fact, the rumor was that he’d cleaned out the entire Aslasi world section, native alien creatures and all, to fill it entirely with the most modern cybernetic equipment available. Exactly why, no one really knew, though rumors abounded.
A crew-cut young man tapped Todd on the shoulder. “Hey, Haversham. I’m ducking out of the game. Wanna take my place?” Todd recognized the man as one Ab Snorz.
Todd shook his head. Hard to get used to being called Haversham. “No. I’d better stick this out. Just had a blockup.”
“Damn! Really? Where?” Snorz said. He was second-in-command of the section.
Remembering the recall button, Todd touched it. The screen built a color-coded schematic of the Star Fall. Quickly, the focus centered on the necessary section. Flowing dots of magenta, pearl and blue representing respectively Sewage, Water and Atmosphere shunted smoothly within the highly detailed representation. Todd checked the coordinates and pushed a finger toward where the blockage occurred.
“Holy cow. Again!” Snorz squinted closer.
“You often have problems in that sector?”
“Yeah. Right near the center of the ship, too. The Core. You say you had no problem clearing it up?”
“Uhmm ... No. Once I figured out what to do.” Or rather, Todd thought, once Charley Haversham’s skill automatically came into play.
“You’re pretty good, pal. I was stuck in the hot seat with that sector just a couple days ago, and it took me ten minutes to equalize pressure, get the chemical busters spraying, call in the right machines. And I’m no slouch at this business, believe me.” Staring at the cross-section of the area, Ab Snorz shook his head. “Wish I could get some mechanics in there and fix that place up.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Gonna have to report this,” Snorz said, leaning over the keyboard, tapping out the code for memory photostats of the condition. “Maybe this will convince the high mucky-mucks to let me and the crew down there.”
“Off-limits?”
“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Sorry. The boss—old Earnie, you know—had the whole thing sealed up. Far as I can tell, it’s just another section of computer memory storage. Damnable thing is that the pipes and valves and stuff in the older sections of the ship have got to be repaired or replaced regularly. God knows when the thing’s going to spring a leak or bust, and then we’ll have a real mopping-up to do, and get blamed too, most like.”
With a whirring sound, two color copies of the picture on the screen slipped from a slot on the side of the machine’s cabinet. Snorz ripped them off along perforated lines, separated one, and slapped it down in front of Spigot.
“Here you go. A memento of the day’s activities. Frame it or something.” Todd stared down, recognizing a frozen replica of the situation that had caused the emergency lights to flash.
“Uhm, thanks,” he mumbled as Snorz hustled away, copy in hand. He picked up the sheet of paper and was about to chuck it into the trash when he reconsidered. A memento, Snorz had said. Not a bad idea, really. Todd folded the paper several times, then tucked it into the back pocket of his tan coveralls. Maybe Cog would be able to explain it to him. Maybe he’d actually come to understand exactly what he was doing here in front of this computer console.
The rest of the shift passed uneventfully. As Norald Marmles took his place, he said, “Hey, Haversham. Going to catch the Insertion into Underspace tonight?”
“I didn’t realize that we were past Pluto yet, out of Sol’s gravity well,” Todd said, getting up and allowing the older man to slide into the chair.
“We’re not. We’ve shot out of the ecliptic. New development in the Mattin Drive. Can deal with higher-gravity areas. Apparently old Hurt is hot to get under way.”
“Sounds worthwhile,” Todd said, noncommittally.
“See you there, then. Bring a girl. It’s very romantic. Gets the hormones shuffling, don’t you know.”
A girl. Not likely, Todd thought, punching his exit code into the work machine. He just didn’t get along with women from Earth. From anywhere. Angharad had been a fluke. She really didn’t count.
Besides, she’d just been using their romance for her own purposes. To say nothing of the fact that most of it had taken place utilizing the superior male characteristics and virility of Philip Amber’s MacGuffin.
Images, physical sensations, scenes flowed back through Todd, haunting him. Funny stuff, love, he thought. Joyous and carefree in its career, full of all the electricity the songs celebrate; afterward, in its absence, a hollow ache resides. Todd’s innocence and naiveté had been drained away with Angharad, and he had not been sorry to see them go. But what would take their place?
Angharad. Who was probably dead now. These feelings were so lingering, so ambiguous ...
Without much success, he tried to shrug off the melancholy as he walked to his cabin. He was back on a pleasure cruise. Star Fall. The fun ship. His shift of responsibility had ended for the day. He had hours to while away as he chose.
Gritting his teeth as he placed his personal magnetic key to the door, Todd determined that he’d spend the rest of the day having a bloody good time.
Waiting for him on his bed was a note from Cog.
URGENT. MEET ME AT THE STAR BAR, SECTION H, AT SHIP’S MIDNIGHT.
What was the little bastard up to now, anyway? He’d slipped back into his omnicleaner and claimed to be using that guise to explore the ship.
Todd wondered what he was looking for.
He crumpled the note, tossed it in a disposal unit.
God knew what to expect at midnight, but that was a long time away. It was only 2:15 in the afternoon.
Todd took off his coveralls. He let the molecular shower in the toilet compartment sluice away whatever grime had accumulated during the day, and let its zinging sensation buoy his spirits. With his laser shaver, he mowed his stubble away, and afterward applied bracing pheromone-full ointment. Freshly pressed pants assumed, he shrugged on a pseudo-silk white shirt and a mod set of farce-tux/tails which he’d bought in the ship’s department store. Brightly polished black shoes were next. He could look down and see his reflection in their gleaming tips.
He stuck the floss-brush machine into his mouth for a full minute. He adjusted the hair-style machine to Perm and fitted it to his skull. He trimmed his nails in the appropriate device, feeling pressure, heat and curling activating over his scalp.
When all his preparations were complete, he had to admit that he didn’t look bad. He felt much better now. Much better.
Last amenities taken care of, he examined the roster of activities available for the day by flicking on the screen of the cabin computer.
The feature program appeared to be the opening of the art display. How different the array of entertainment was on this cruise! Before, Ort Eath had merely allowed his associates to develop wide-appeal entertainment systems. This cruise, however, seemed to specialize in cultural achievements.
Instead of a showboat, the Star Fall had been refurbished into a culture ship, bearing not only artifacts of human and alien creativity in the arts and sciences, but actual living artists and scientists pried from their jobs by the romance of an interstellar cruise—and a healthy stipend from the coffers of Earnest Evers Hurt’s plentitude.
A celebration of the Universe the journey was called. Todd had seen ads for it on the news-fax and sandwiched between Fic-Kicks shows. There had been a brief scandal concerning the recruitment, in fact. Certain wealthy individuals who wished to board the Star Fall for its interstellar trek were turned away while others, with every little to offer in the way of cash or credit but much in IQ or Creativity Gradient, were gift
ed with tickets. Mysteriously, their passports and other legal arrangements for the trips were expedited.
HURT’S EGGHEAD BOAT mastheads had trumpeted. THE HIP TRIP: NORMAL CITIZENS SCORNED, IQ DISCRIMINATION! Suits were filed. However, since the vessel was, after all, a private enterprise, legal machinations availed undesirables naught. The rule was hard and fast. A battery of tests had to be taken before admission was acquired. Flunk the test? No Star Fall cruise.
Sorry.
The sleazier tabloid beamers had run a story to the effect that Hurt was recruiting not merely the intellectual and creative cream of Earth, but also the screwball psychics, yogis, Zen masters and shamans, to say nothing of emotionally malformed espers. Investigations in this matter by the authorities proved fruitless. Besides, it was common governmental knowledge that Hurt delved into “bugga-bugga” stuff as it was dubbed by the chic skeptics. As long as he kept to himself, counting his money or whatever, buying useless planets, and keeping his political nose clean, he was considered harmless.
Besides, a cultural carnival like this one was not only to disseminate knowledge but to help firm ties between the Federation of Colonies and to keep the peace with alien worlds. Hurt was performing a humanitarian task. Right?
Right. All the same to Todd Spigot.
He’d done his share, thought Todd as he jumped into an empty tube-car and dialed his direction into the computer. He’d helped to save Earth. He wasn’t sure how Cog thought he could be of further assistance. Well, whatever it was, it was better than rotting mentally back on Earth. At least he didn’t feel in need of a shrink up here. He had a purpose. All he had to do now was to wait and see just what that purpose was.
The car swooshed through its tube, thwipped through interchanges, twisted and turned along its null-grav way, finally depositing Todd on LEVEL C, BIOSPHERE THIRTEEN. AUDITORIUM.
Prominent banners announced in bold colors that he was in the right place.
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